Hi again dear Megillah readers. Sorry I disappeared in October. Boy, was I wiped out after the High Holy Days! But I'm back to life now (actually just about to leave on a short vacation with Mickey, and then I'll really be alive...) with these thoughts on my mind:
Mina was reminiscing last week about the time we were at the CAJE (Coalition for the Advancement of Jewish Education) conference a few years ago on Long Island In the four days we were there, there was a hurricane and the Crown Heights riots began. There was a third big item as well, and I don't even remember what it was. What I do remember well is being among several thousand Jewish educators, running to great workshops through the most torrential rains I've ever been in, hearing snatches of the bad news from Brooklyn, the incident between a Hasid and an African American youth, the outrage and violence that followed, CAJE-niks passing on updates as we ran past each other in the downpour. Mostly I remember a strange dissonance between the joyous work of CAJE -- imbibing words of Torah from hundreds of teachers, wandering amidst the "town square" of the whole array of the Jewish people -- and the whispers of fear from the news happening one county away.
... which made me remember this very summer, at CAJE again (in Ohio this time, muggy and sweltering), hearing bits and pieces of the news of Buford Furrow's racist rampage against children in a Jewish Community Center in the San Fernando Valley and his subsequent murder of a Filipino mail carrier -- this happening shockingly soon after the burning of the synagogues in Sacramento. Again that strange dissonance, the news passing from mouth to mouth, contrasting so starkly with the learning and celebration and community of CAJE. Home again following the conference, and the juxtaposition was not so different -- the festivities of Neshama's bat mitzvah and plans for the High Holy Days and an undercurrent of fear that we, too, might be attacked.
In the aftermath of the Sacramento synagogue burnings we began to hear of outpourings of solidarity. Reform, Conservative and Orthodox Jews in Sacramento held services together. A "unity fund" was formed almost immediately, with Jews and non-Jews from all over the country contributing. Thousands of Methodist clergy, in town for a convention, came to one of the joint services to show their support. They backed it with a big financial contribution for rebuilding. There were smaller meaningful gestures as well. Some of us know Marsha Huggins from the women's retreat. Marsha, a glass blower, created a "tolerance" pin and has been selling them to raise funds to restock the Jewish library that was burned. A powerful written account of the burnings and the coming together in the aftermath has been circulated on the internet. I know I received many copies from concerned friends all over virtual reality. Here at home, the Methodist minister from Philo and her partner attended Rosh Hashana evening services with us to quietly demonstrate their connection with our Jewish community.
At the very same time, maybe coincidentally, there were a couple of uprisings between people here. Some people thought that the Board wasn't doing enough, or not the right things, to insure our security. Hot words were exchanged. People shouted and hung up the phone on each other. A few other old conflicts started bubbling up here and there. That intuitive anxiety level that you feel in your solar plexus began to rise a bit. Hopefully most of you reading this haven't felt any of this strain at all. It's been a few things, not overwhelming. But a few percentage points different than our usual haimish atmosphere, I think.
Thinking back on this season of discontent, I think it may well have something to do with the anti-Semitic attacks on our brother and sister communities elsewhere in California. Besides the material damage, the injuries and a death, the arsonists and the murderer created a climate of fear and anger for us all. In a climate of fear and anger, good people do lots of different things. Our higher selves turn towards each other. We realize what is at stake and treasure each other more than ever. We intensify our commitment to each of the people that constitute loving community. But fear and anger also make people lash out at each other, even if the source of fear and anger is an outside force. When we are embattled, we strike out, often at whatever is closest.
I will never forget that it was (at least in part) the Azevedo campaign a decade ago, with its hate list and lies about the holocaust, that motivated all of you to bring a rabbi to town, to strengthen the Jewish presence on the Coast. Obviously I am moved by that courageous positive response to anti-Semitism, because it has been my privilege to be that rabbi and to learn from all of you about the power of community -- how loving Jewish community can be the absolute opposite in the world of anti-Semitism and can greatly overwhelm it.
I wasn't here when Jack Azevedo ran his campaign with its component of anti-Semitism. I only saw the gracious outcome that ultimately involved me. I don't know if the other phenomenon reared its head as well. I don't know if conflicts between you flared up at that time, if people started seeing their friends as their enemies a bit, if people shouted at each other and hung up the phone on each other's ears. But I wouldn't be entirely surprised. When we feel embattled, it is a natural tendency to bunker in, to be on the watch for enemies and attacks, whatever their source. Still, when we attack each other, we give that outside force -- the real threat -- a further victory .
Our Jewish community is made up of a lot of different people, very different people (!) -- lots of different needs, passions, beliefs, situations, identities. It's amazing that we all love each other as much as we do, how often we rally for each other in times of happiness and times of need, pray together as connectively as we do, that we can celebrate so vividly, learn from each other so open-heartedly. That loving connection which I believe characterizes our community has been earned over several decades of rubbing together, working things out, compromising, apologizing, doing teshuvah, overcoming differences, enjoying differences. It is our greatest treasure --more than any building or possession or program or project. We are all so blessed to be growing up, to be growing old, in a community full of love. And we are all part of making it so.
So, when there are threats from the outside, we need to work things out with the Sheriff. We need to check the locks and keys and windows and work out physical security measures. We need to make sure our building is safe. All this has been done and, I believe, done as thoroughly as is possible. It is an ongoing process, and that process is well underway. But more importantly still, we need to safeguard the loving connections of our community. We need to go out of our way to be warm towards the people who rub us wrong. We need to be extra-vigilant about our tone of voice. We need to be extra careful to say thank you to each other, to greet each other gladly whenever we see each other. When there is danger of anti-Semitic violence we can bunker in -- and to some degree we have to. But we can do much more by girding and and strengthening and polishing and renewing our love and affection for each other. Then, whatever happens, we win.
Copyright 2000 Rabbi Margaret Holub
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Last updated 10/07/2000(rge)