Not Giving Up Our Seat at the Table

Today's episode is a Shabbat Replay of our service on Friday, May 30th. Rabbi Steven delivered a passionate, vulnerable sermon on how it can feel to be Jewish in public at times — unwelcome and misunderstood. How can we boldly show up as our whole selves when even progressive interfaith spaces can sometimes harbor real, if less explicit, antisemitism?

Mark your calendars for our Pre-Shavuot Shabbat Pizza Picnic at Northcenter Town Square on May 30th featuring, pizza, lawn games, an ice cream truck, and a performance by the Teen Davening Team. Register now to enjoy all that dairy goodness in community. 

https://www.mishkanchicago.org/event/shavuot-shabbat-pizza-picnic-ft-teen-davening-team/

Transcript

For a while, I have wondered if my friends secretly hate me. Not my closest friends. But people I am friendly with, people I see at the bar or work out next to at the gym or play with on my kickball team. It has become a sneaking suspicion with some of my interfaith colleagues, especially those who I regularly see at actions and protests. To be clear, they are all perfectly nice to my face. But then I see them post a story on Instagram, for example, about the evils of “Israel” (always in scare quotes) or the problem with Zionists – and the complicating factor is that, in this moment, it’s become hard to discern what is a gross generalization and what is meant to be a dog whistle. When an acquaintance shared that he is unfollowing all Zionists, did he mean “Zionists” or did he actually mean Jews? When another recently posted that Israel is the shadow force behind global oppression, did he mean “Israel” or did he actually mean Jews?

Maybe you’ve had this feeling, at some point over the past year and a half – unsure if you were still welcome in spaces where you once felt comfortable, or could show up for causes that you care about. I’ve spoken to many of you who have shared a sense of unease around friends and family, coworkers and colleagues – as if they were holding you at arms length or talking about you when you were no longer in the room. To be sure, some of these ruptures have been explicit. I know people who have been told to check their Judaism at the door, at least if they want to take part in whatever is happening inside.

And let’s be clear: many of us have also had this experience in Jewish spaces, as those who oppose this endless war and its terrible consequences have been accused of being insufficiently loyal to our people – ignorant at best; at worst, traitors. And so we find ourselves pushed out of spaces because we are Jews, but also not always welcome because of how we express our Judaism.

I have sat down with so many of you who feel caught in between, who wonder where it is safe to be a Jew. And I hear the question that has been weighing on my heart, echoed by the people around me: where am I welcome, where do I belong?

If this is something you’ve wondered, at any point since October 7, you are not alone. The national conversation around antisemitism has largely focused on the explicit: cases of violence or vandalism. These incidents are serious (and should be taken seriously) – but they are also, thankfully, rare. The larger problem, where the experience of discrimination is more likely to be felt, is in the implicit. In a new report from Harvard, which investigated antisemitism on campus, they found that the primary obstacle faced by students is social alienation. The authors write, “Perhaps the best way to describe the existence of many Jewish and Israeli students at Harvard… is that their presence had become triggering, or the subject of political controversy.” This prejudice is more subtle, but it is no less damaging. And more tellingly, it affected students regardless of their stance on the war. Writing for The Forward, Arno Rosenfeld noted that Jews, given our historic connection to the people and land of Israel, are more likely to have what he calls “a textured view” of the modern state. Yet, he explained: “Expressing that, even in mild ways, marked some Jewish students with a scarlet letter.”

The experience of social alienation has consequences. Eshel, an organization that works for LGBTQ+ inclusion in Orthodox Jewish communities, just released a report about how the rise of antisemitism after October 7 has reshaped the lives of queer Jews. 67% reported that wearing visible signs of Jewishness has led to harassment or exclusion. And whether they were disinvited, asked to leave, or made to feel unwelcome, the authors found that 41% of respondents no longer engage in queer spaces like bars, clubs, and social gatherings. One participant shared, “[The past year] made me realize that I’d rather be uncomfortable in Jewish spaces as a queer Jew than uncomfortable in a queer space as a Jewish person.” I want us to understand how serious this choice is. Right now, LGBTQ+ people are extremely vulnerable. We have found ourselves in the crosshairs of the current administration; our rights are under attack, our resources are being dismantled. It is precisely, in times like these, that queer community can be an essential lifeline. Yet seven out of ten LGBTQ+ Jews have been told they don’t belong in these spaces, and four out of ten LGBTQ+ Jews no longer show up at all.

Jews are increasingly feeling that, no matter our opinions or our politics, we are no longer welcome in the spaces where we have worked so hard to belong.

The fact that antisemitism is increasingly expressed through social alienation makes it much harder to address (as one graduate student noted, “What can Harvard Law School do about dirty looks?”). It also means that this administration’s strongman approach to tackling antisemitism – through arrests, deportations, and funding freezes – will likely exacerbate the problem, rather than solve it. Rosenfeld observes that this is not a “reincarnation of ancient hatred” – but a political phenomenon, informed of course by what is happening in Israel and Palestine but also tied to broader trends of polarization and binary thinking. The weaponization of Jewish safety to achieve Trump’s antidemocratic and anti-intellectual agenda plays into these dynamics, rather than confronting them. When essential funding is cut in the name of protecting Jews, guess who will be blamed? This is not the first time that people with ill-intent have used us as a means to deflect recrimination. We know all too well what happens next.

With the seeming impossibility of this moment, pushed out of places where we once belonged and given good reason to be suspicious of those around us – of course the natural instinct is to turn inward. We’re safest with each other, right? I have watched as more Jews have shown up in Jewish spaces (which I’m not mad about, I’m glad you’re here) – but then as those Jewish spaces have built higher walls, figuratively and literally, between them and each other and the outside world. Whether we have been asked to leave or made to feel unwelcome, we have given up our seat at the table (just a few months ago, I was the only rabbi who attended a citywide interfaith event organized by Mayor Johnson). But we can’t give up our seat at the table – it will not make us safer, to retreat while the world falls apart. The rabbis teach that a synagogue must always have windows and doors, because what we do in here cannot afford to be unaffected by what is happening out there.

But what do we do, when we feel overwhelmed by the brokenness of the world and the broken places in our hearts, when we feel isolated and alone in a world we know we can’t fix by ourselves? The Torah offers some guidance.

Aaron has just lost his sons, Nadav and Avihu, in a horrible accident. We are told that they brought eish zarah, a strange fire, into the sanctuary of the mishkan. Everything goes wrong. It’s not what they had been instructed to do. It’s not what God had asked for. And in an instant, the fire consumes them and they are gone. Moses tries to make meaning of the tragedy, but Aaron is silent. He retreats into himself, grieving the death of his two sons. Who could blame him? He is the High Priest. The mishkan is where he belongs. Yet, now the place where he should have felt most safe has become dangerous.

But then God invites Aaron to show up, to come back into the sanctuary, and perform the rituals of the very first Yom Kippur. Where Moses tried to make sense of this tragedy, God simply notes that what was once whole has now been broken – and it is sad, and it is hard, and this is how we begin the process of repair. And it is not just repair for Aaron, but for the entire community. With the death of Nadav and Avihu, there must have been so much blame to go around. What were they thinking, bringing a strange fire into the sanctuary? Where was Aaron, who should have been supervising them? Why didn’t God give better instructions? Did everyone just watch this happen? Why did no one intervene?

This is kind of the point, isn’t it. It’s why, on Yom Kippur, we stand as a congregation and beat our chests for sins that we may have never committed – ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu – for all harm happens within societies that allow it. Who can we really blame for the evils of the world? There is no Tolkien-esque answer to this question, some dark force or shadowy figure that must be defeated. Whether we heal or we harm, each of us operates within systems that none of us control but all of us are part of. And since we are a part of these systems, when we see that they lead people to do bad things – it is in our power (and I would add, our responsibility) to change them.

I think about the young Palestinian or the Israeli teenager who picks up the gun, who chooses or is made to stand on the front lines of this terrible war. Who is to blame? The kid? Their parents? The organizations that recruited and enlisted them? The stories that shaped them or the society in which they were raised? The state of the world or the histories they inherit? Can we truly blame them for the strange fire they carry, as it threatens to consume them and burn that sacred land to the ground? If we are to hold them accountable for their actions, we must also hold accountable every person who made the decisions that led to this moment. When we point our finger at someone, we implicate the entire world.

This is not to say we do not hold people accountable for their actions. But this is also where our tradition makes a remarkable turn. Immediately following the description of that first Yom Kippur, the Torah offers a list of mitzvot. How do we respond to the harm people have caused? Here is our answer: we build a better world, one that gives people the resources and support they need to actualize the good that has been inside of them all along. This list (called the holiness code) forms the ethical foundation of Judaism and lays out our vision of a just society. Let me name a few:

Leave the edges of your field unharvested so the poor can eat what is left. Pay workers on time. Do not insult the deaf or place a stumbling block before the blind. Judge people fairly. Don’t be a bystander. Don’t hold a grudge. Do not oppress the stranger. And ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha, love your fellow as yourself – what the great sage Hillel teaches is the distillation of our entire tradition (the rest is commentary, go learn it).

And you’ll notice, none of these mitzvot are contingent on the actions of other people. None of them specify whether you like someone, or think they are deserving of your largesse. Regarding the mitzvah of leaving the edges of your field unharvested, the 19th-century scholar Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that the Torah does not care about the size of the field or its yield – and for a reason. It teaches us that even if you have a very small field and not much yield, even if you don’t get along with the poor of your town or don’t see them as your responsibility… you are still obligated to contribute to the means that will sustain them. The Shulchan Aruch teaches that all of us are responsible for each other’s care; even the person who receives charity must give to others from what they receive. Which is to say, none of us are allowed the luxury of thinking of ourselves as solely a victim, and therefore not an agent as well – even if we can only do a little.

This is our inheritance, and our sacred obligation, as Jews: we show up, even if no one else is showing up. Even if no one else is showing up for us. Our pain, however real, does not abrogate our responsibility toward the world. Fear is not a reason to turn away. Alienation cannot be cause for isolation. Scarcity is not an excuse for selfishness.

And trust me, I get it. It can be hard to show up in spaces where we have been made to feel like we are no longer welcome. On May Day, I attended an interfaith gathering in solidarity with immigrants and workers – who have been in grave peril since this administration took office. Most of the speakers offered messages of encouragement and action. And then someone stood up to talk about Israel, the occupation, and the ongoing war in Gaza. Some of what they said was true. Unacceptable harm is being inflicted on Palestinians, who at this moment are starving and dying en masse; we cannot afford to look away until something is done to help them. But some of what they said was deeply problematic, as they offered sweeping generalizations about the state and its citizens. Israel is not conceptual – for me, like for many of us, it is a real place filled with real people. Caring people. People who are doing their best. Hundreds of thousands of people, in fact, who have been protesting to end this war even as their government ignores them. Over 70% of Israelis want a ceasefire, a hostage deal, and to get out of Gaza. And let’s not forget the brave people, Israeli Jews who have committed their lives to the actual work of building a future of peaceful co-existence alongside their Palestinian neighbors despite incredible danger to themselves and their loved ones. They stand in the breach between two peoples who have many reasons to no longer believe in that future, yet they hold on to that vision because they recognize that there is no moral alternative. And so when this speaker railed about the “evil” of Israel – I had to wonder if I, as a Jew, with ties to that land and its people(s), belonged at this gathering. But I stayed.

It takes a degree of chutzpah to claim our seat at the table, especially after it’s been pulled out from under us. But we are called to show up, even if it means we’re knocking down the door to get in. Our absence will not build a better world.

In fact, our absence will only allow our voice to be co-opted by those who would use our concerns to further an agenda that, in the end, will harm us all. This week, more than three dozen former leaders of major Jewish organizations – including the ADL, Hillel International, and AIPAC – published an open letter in the New York Times rebuking current leadership of those very organizations for being “far too silent about the stunning assault on democratic norms.” Now is not the time to step away, they said. It is the time to lean in, in whatever way we can. Our tradition reminds us: no matter how little we have to give, we can give something – even if it’s just our presence, even if it’s just showing up.

It is scary. It’s hard. It might feel like you’re doing it alone. But in the words of my teacher Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum: “Be the one to help someone else believe in the goodness of humanity.” And when you do, when you show up… I guarantee you’ll find other people standing alongside you. I know I’ll be there. And the people in this room will be there. Every Jew who heeds the call of our tradition will be there. Our friends and loved ones, they will be there too.

Let’s remind people of the goodness that is possible, together.