Rosh HaShanah Sermon 5771, Rabbi Lauren Grabelle Herrmann

 

Shana Tova.  I would like to begin with a story and a verse:

 One: A group of people would like to build a place of worship.  A prominent politician objects to their desires, calling them “repugnant” and naming them as “blasphemers.”  They are denied the right to build a place to worship in public.

 Two: “Btselem Elohim Barah oto.” “In the Divine image, God created humankind.

 The first is a story of Jewish immigrants in America, in the mid-1600s.  The politician was Peter Stuyvesant, Mayor of New Amsterdam – what is now New York City. Under his governance and for many decades after, Jews were not allowed to build synagogues.  In fact, Stuyvesant not only tried to block Jews from worshiping, but from entering the city altogether.

 The second, “Btselem Elohim Barah oto” is a verse from the torah that informs Jewish ethics and values about the treatment of the other.  It is a principle that reminds us of our obligation to honor and respect those with whom we inhabit the earth.

 I bring these two pieces – one, a story from Jewish history and the second, a sacred text-- to shed light on the controversy that has emerged in recent weeks regarding a proposed Islamic Cultural Center (of which a mosque and interfaith center would be a part) a few blocks from Ground Zero.

 Initially a conversation about religious freedom, the discourse has shifted sharply, revealing a disheartening and worrisome current of ignorance, fear, and distrust of Muslims.  While I continue to believe that most people are not hateful and do not mean harm, I am sadly aware that many people in this country are at best, confused and ambivalent about Muslims and at worst, hostile toward them.  As the conversation and rhetoric turns more suspicious and distancing, American Muslims have begun articulating feelings of insecurity, doubting their place in the country they have called home. 

 On this Rosh HaShanah – a time when people threaten the freedoms that make this country great, a time when people are turning away from their neighbors out of ignorance and fear -- the work of [these Days of Awe] is especially critical.  This is the season of heshbon hanefesh – soul searching and teshuvah --returning, repairing, healing.  Jewish tradition teaches: we are to engage in these spiritual tasks not for our sake alone, but also for the sake of our society, and the world at large. 

 This is the challenge and the invitation of this Season of Awe: to consider what we can do to facilitate the teshuvah, the returning of ourselves, our communities, and our nation to our highest ideals and values.  Admittedly, this task is daunting and certainly more difficult than the alternative of standing by and complaining about others’ behavior. 

 But this is, in my understanding, what it means to be a Jew (in this season and all year round): to engage, to take responsibility, to respond.  And as a Jewish community, we can look to the Jewish experience as a minority group in America and to the rich sources of tradition to find the strength and the courage to speak out and respond to this current controversy.  God willing, an understanding of this history and this sense of values can inspire us and others in the direction of achava, brotherhood/sisterhood and shivyon, equality.

 First, let us understand what the debate over the mosque’s location is and is not. In the current controversy over The Cordoba House, there are some who argue that they have no problems with Muslims—they just do not understand why they have to build there.  I have great empathy and compassion for those whose loved ones perished on 9-11 and tremendous respect and admiration for those heroes who risked their lives to save others.  But as my teacher, Rabbi Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer, pointed out to me—this is not a controversy about what constitutes “hallowed ground,” this is about the constitutional guarantee of freedom of religion and whether America is going to extend its promise of religious liberty to American Muslims.

 Looking to history, we understand that the same question was being asked not too long ago about us.  Jonathan Sarna, scholar of American Judaism, recently wrote an op-ed in the Jewish paper The Forward aptly titled “When Shuls Were Banned in America”[1] in which he recounts the days—and many were not so long ago—in which Jewish communities were barred from creating their own houses of worship. I already mentioned one of these stories at the start.  In other places, Sarna says, Jews fared equally poorly, being denied the rights to worship in public “long after the Bill of Rights mandated religious liberty for all on the federal level.” 

 State by state, Jews struggled and waited for courts determine their fate. When Jews wanted to open the first synagogue in the District of Columbia, as Sarna recounts, the opposition was so strong that it literally “took an act of Congress to resolve the question” – in 1856, a congressional legislation extended the rights Christians were guaranteed to Jews.

 Problems with Jews building places of worship and community centers, Sarna says, persisted even until the 1950s, when new suburban synagogues “had to face down angry neighbors and change-averse zoning boards.  Sarna chillingly reminds us: “If today’s target is the mosque, yesterday’s target was most assuredly the synagogue.”  As a minority group who has been denied and also benefitted from the fundamental right to practice our religion, I believe it is incumbent upon us to support the right of any group of any religion to worship anywhere.

To those who argue that Muslims should be subject to greater scrutiny because of the terrorist ambitions of some of their faith, I respond with the words of Mayor Michael Bloomberg who said in a recent interview, “There is no middle ground when it comes to issues of religious liberty.”  There are many churches and yes, synagogues too, in this country, whose leaders preach hatred based on race, sexual orientation, and political outlook. These religious institutions are not subject to financial inspection or obscure zoning laws.  Jews know from our own experience that this is about much more than honoring or dishonoring hallowed ground. 

 As Rabbi Fuchs-Kreimer wrote in a recent article on Park51[2], “We Jews have too much at stake to risk siding with those who prefer some and despise others.  Our history tells us such people are not our allies.  Our hope tells us that they will ultimately not prevail.”  (pause)

 As Jews, of course, we are more than just the history of our persecution.  We are a people whose values, whose sacred texts command us to treat others with respect and dignity and to stand up against those who dishonor and disrespect any person. 

The fundamental principle of respect and honor for God’s creatures derives from the principle of Btselem Elohim, which I began with today.  This is an especially fitting verse and concept for Rosh HaShanah—because according to the midrash, (or: textual interpretation), humanity was created on the 1^st day of Tishrei— which is today, Rosh HaShanah! 

According to the story, after a few days and other created luminaries and beings, God turns the Divine attention toward the creation of humanity.  After the first human, adam, who at this moment an embodiment of both male and female, is created, the torah says:  “Vayivrah elohim et ha’adam b’tsalmo -- btselem elohim Barah oto.” “And God created adam in his image, in the image of the Divine, God created him.”  

Understanding that God does not have a physical image, rabbis and scholars have always interpreted this verse metaphorically rather than literally.  They explain that btselem elohim is an indication that each person has a Divine spark -- that each life is of infinite value. 

The idea that humanity is created btselem elohim is not simply a proclamation; it is a core Jewish value which informs a worldview bent on equality and dignity for all people.  It is the basis for several ethical commands, including the mandate of giving kavod la briyot, honor to all creatures; of pikuach nefesh, the duty to save a life even if one needs to break religious law to do so; the command not to embarrass another, because if you do “it is as if you have shed blood.”  It is the inspiration for “Ve’ahavta L’re’acha Kamocha” “Loving our neighbors as ourselves.”  Btselem Elohim teaches: the denigration and devaluing of any human being is a threat and an affront to all of us.

The concept of “Btselem Elohim” stands in sharp contrast to the sentiments being expressed by the most vocal anti-Mosque activists, many of whom conflate all segments of Islam -- a religion practiced by 1.5 billion people-- with radical Islam, scapegoat Muslims for American’s problems at home and abroad, and use fear of Muslims as a wedge issue for political gain. 

As we have seen in recent weeks, hateful rhetoric can inspire hateful action.  Several crimes have been committed out of hate.  Mosques in various parts of the country are reporting incidents and threats. Just over a week ago, a brick was thrown at the window of a California Islamic Center.  Outside was the warning, “No Temple for the God of Terrorism at Ground Zero.”[3]

As Jews, we are obligated, even commanded, to speak out against the tide of bigotry and discrimination that we are seeing in America today.  Granted, this is not an easy task: the media privileges the most provocative and polarizing voices and currently, the most extreme in our society have the floor and the megaphone.  At the same time, there are things we can do. 

This past week, in the midst of all the discouraging news reports, I took heart from one story of how a small group of people came together to make a difference.  Last week in Queens, New York, a man entered a mosque and urinated on the prayer rugs.  Feeling enraged by this news—and the overall anti-Islamic rhetoric and discrimination going on around the country— Rachel Barenblatt, a blogger and rabbi, used her blog and twitter account to raise money for the cleaning of the rugs.  She initially set out to raise a few hundred dollars as a “gesture of interfaith good will.”[4]  Over the course of just two days, $1175 was donated, from sixty five people of all different faiths (Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Pagan) from all across the United States.  Many people left notes saying, “Please tell the mosque that this man does not represent me” and “Thank you for giving me something I could do.”      

Like this group of ordinary individuals, we can find small and big ways to make a difference, to build interfaith bridges, and to let Muslims in this country know that those who speak out against them or stand apart from them from fear do not represent us.  To name a few examples of things we can do: writing op-eds, joining together in rallies supporting the building of the mosque, getting involved with interfaith initiatives including the Philadelphia Interfaith Peace Walk, which formed as a response to the anti-Muslim sentiment that arose in the wake of 9-11 and has been building bridges between people of all faiths since. 

As for our own Kol Tzedek community, I have begun reaching out to local Imams, in the hopes that we can find ways to support our Muslim neighbors and build relationships between our faith communities.  And this Saturday, on the ninth anniversary of September 11, when extreme activists gather at Ground Zero to protest the Mosque in particularly and seemingly, Islam in general and when, God forbid, Korans are being burned in Florida, Kol Tzedek will hold a “Havdallah of Hope, Not Hate.”  While it may not bring hateful rhetoric to a halt, gathering in community on that night can help alleviate our despair and strengthen us for the work ahead. 

Every time we dispel a myth, build a bridge, support organizations working toward justice and equality, share our spiritually-motivated vision of tolerance, we bring our society and our world that much closer to recognizing that every person is created “bstelem elohim.” 

I began with the story of the new immigrant Jews trying to build a place of worship to illuminate our connection to this controversy and the incredible stakes we have in it as minority group in America.  Having been in this situation, it is upon us to stand up for the rights that have made this country great, that have ultimately enabled us to thrive. 

I began also with the verse “bstelem elohim bara oto,” “in the Divine image God created humanity.”  This core Jewish value is a cornerstone of our spiritual tradition and a reminder of our religious obligation to honor all life.  In the words of the late Marshall T. Myer, an activist and rabbi, “For the religious Jew, the holiness of life is the sum of the Torah…I, as a Jew, must fight for human rights, decency, and human sanctity because God commanded me to do so regardless of whether or not society commands it.”[5]  Recognizing God’s diverse creation as “very good,” understanding the infinite value of human life helps us to craft an alternative vision for society, to steer our country back (shuv, turn) toward its highest ideals and aspirations. 

This is, as I articulated at the beginning, the challenge of this New Year, of this season of Awe: to seek teshuvah for ourselves, for our society, and for our world.  In this New Year, I hope and pray that we can allow the light of our tradition and the perspective our history to lead us into a brighter future – a future filled with the possibilities of tolerance, equality, and justice.  Let us be inspired to do our part to further that vision.  And b’ezrat hashem, with God’s help, our earnest turning will inspire a turning of our community, and our society, and our world, so that one day, all will be free to pray -- so that one day, all will be treated as the Divine Likeness of which they were made. 

Ken Yehi Ratzon, May this be God’s will. Shana Tova.