When Afraid, Be A Blessing

Today’s episode is a Shabbat Replay of our Saturday morning service on June 7th, when Rabbi Steven delivered a drash on how we can productively respond to violent antisemitism. Dwelling on our fear and succumbing to paranoia may not be a healthy reaction to hatred and violence, but there is no point in pretending that we are not afraid right now. So how can we live out God’s call to be a blessing, especially when we are scared?

Mishkan’s New Arrivals Support Team is holding a Food & Supplies Drive at our service this Friday, June 13th. Help us welcome migrant families to our city by bringing these items: We are looking for: 2lb bags of oatmeal, 64oz bottles of cooking oil (or smaller), chicken noodle soup 10.5 oz (with pop tabs preferred), brand new women’s and men’s underwear (sizes small and medium most requested), and wet cat food. Bring your supplies to Northcenter Town Square this Friday before services which begin at 6:30 pm.

https://www.mishkanchicago.org/event/friday-night-shabbat-061325/

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Produced by Mishkan Chicago. Music composed, produced, and performed by Kalman Strauss.

Transcript

Transcript

This sermon was delivered at our Saturday morning service on June 7th. You can listen to this drash on Contact Chai podcast or watch it on our YouTube channel.

On Sunday, hundreds of people gathered in the sanctuary of Anshe Emet to celebrate Shavuot. In mimesis of the Israelites standing at the foot of Mount Sinai, breathlessly waiting for Moses to descend, we were there to experience revelation. Shavuot is called z’man matan torateinu, the time we were given our Torah — and so we celebrate this holiday by coming together and plumbing the rich depths of our tradition, to see it and claim it as our own. It is a time when we embrace and lift up all those who have chosen Judaism, whether they were born into our people or came to us later in life. But before we began our celebration, and by way of welcoming us into his community, Rabbi Michael Siegel acknowledged that we had arrived at this holiday having just heard the terrible news out of Boulder, CO – an attack on people marching to raise awareness about the hostages still being held in Gaza. And this act of terrorism (which could have been and was intended to be much worse), coming only a week after two young people were murdered outside the Jewish Museum in Washington, DC having just attended an event about how we might bring humanitarian aid to people in need (including Palestinians). He recognized that we had come into the sanctuary of Anshe Emet past high walls, security guards, and locked doors. Such are the times we live in, Rabbi Siegel noted.

And of course, we had come together in defiance of these times: to embrace (and perhaps, find joy in) our Jewishness, even as it feels like a liability in an increasingly dangerous and hostile world. But there was no way, sitting in that sanctuary, that any of us could ignore the reality of the brokenness that existed outside Anshe Emet’s walls — a brokenness that many of us carried inside of us, in the broken pieces of our hearts. The rabbis of the Talmud teach that a synagogue must always have windows, because what we do in here cannot ignore what happens out there.

It is easy, and in some ways necessary for our survival, to become inured to the violence that is happening around us. But even as we continue to try and live our lives, doing our best to move through a world that is not as it should be, there are tragedies that break through the walls that we have built around our hearts, finding a window into that inner sanctum where we hide our fears about the future — so terrible, that we try not to speak them aloud. And then suddenly, something happens that confirms that what we had hoped against might be the reality in which we live.

There are countless things that have broken my heart over the past few years. I have been shaken, but it has been my commitment (and luckily, it’s in my disposition) to meet tragedy with resilience and hate with joy. But there was something about the murder of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky, the young couple who worked for the Israeli Embassy, that got me. There was a TikTok influencer — who does not deserve to have more said about him, beyond knowing that he has nearly 3.5 million followers — who commented after the attack: “This was not because they were Jewish; it was because they were Zionists.” It feels inane for me to have to say this, but I will say it anyway because the world seems to have forgotten this moral imperative: no one deserves to be killed. I don’t care who you are, what you believe, or what you have done; the only justice that can bring us closer to a redeemed world is restorative, because history has proven that violence often begets, but rarely ends, violence. We can hold people accountable for their actions, while also allowing for the possibility of repair.

https://youtu.be/W7WIBRCs2O8

One expression of antisemitism is blaming all Jews for the actions of some Jews. When we make broad generalizations, when we reduce people to names and labels, when we refuse to listen to the texture and nuance of their stories — we deny their humanity (and I would daresay, lose a part of our own as well). Perhaps Sarah and Yaron identified as Zionists. But Zionism, which is by definition the belief that Jews deserve to live safely in our historic homeland of Israel, can look a lot of different ways — many of them compatible with the desire of Palestinians to live with dignity and self-determination in the same land. (This is a digression, but an important one because it bears repeating at a time we have become enamored with dangerously simplistic binaries). Being a Jew does not necessarily mean you’re a Zionist, and identifying as a Zionist does not mean you condone the actions of the State of Israel. In fact, most Zionists I know support Palestinian statehood, oppose the war, want to see an end to inequality and occupation, and dream of an Israel that actualizes the promise it was founded on — to be a place of peace and coexistence for peoples of many cultures and religions. This is certainly the future I believe in and will continue to work toward.

And in the case of what happened in DC: it is unclear whether the perpetrator knew the identities of Sarah and Yaron, or that they worked for the Israeli Embassy, and regardless there was no way he could have known their hearts or minds. In fact, both were advocates for interfaith dialogue; Sarah, in particular, was active in efforts to build bridges between Israelis and Palestinians. She and the shooter might have had something to talk about, if he had chosen words instead of bullets. Instead, he saw a Jewish event happening at a Jewish place and decided that anyone leaving must have been a Jew and therefore culpable in this ongoing conflict.

The day after this tragedy, I saw a production of Cabaret. The play follows the staff and patrons of an underground club as they watch the Weimar Republic give way to the Third Reich. There is a moment near the finale when the Jewish character, Herr Schultz, is standing amid the broken glass of his fruit shop. It cannot possibly get worse than this, he insists. “After all, what am I? A German.” His protest is heartbreaking, because we know the conclusion of his story. As a Jew, it doesn’t matter that he is also a German. The broken glass of his shop windows is a prelude to the secret fear that Herr Schultz dared not say aloud, that his citizenship is a paper shield quickly consumed by the fires of hatred. And thinking about Sarah and Yaron, thinking about that stupid TikTok video that tried to justify their murder (and the many thousands of posts and comments online just like it), thinking about the ways in which we are constantly tested to prove that we are good Jews, nice Jews, or the right kind of Jews, and thinking about how in the end none of that matters because to be a Jew walking out of a Jewish event held in a Jewish space is enough to put you in the crosshairs of stochastic violence — I was scared.

I am still scared. And as much as we might want to put our heads down and keep moving forward, we need to stop and we need to look within that dark place in our hearts to acknowledge the fear that has taken root there because it is real and it is reasonable given all that is happening around us. As Rabbi Deborah Waxman recently wrote, “More and more, Jews in America, no matter our beliefs about the war in Gaza, are being treated with suspicion in ways that threaten our ability to express our Jewishness.” It is not always safe to be a Jew right now. And because of this fact, it is okay to be afraid.

There are, of course, reasonable and just ways that we can keep our communities as safe as possible. Rest assured, we work with intelligence analysts and security consultants — but I am not one of them. I am a rabbi. And so what I want to offer is how we might hold our fear, but not allow it to consume us.

This Shabbat, the Torah gives us one of our most sacred and precious blessings. It reads: Y’varech’cha Adonai v’yishmarecha; may God bless you and keep you safe. Ya’er Adonai panav elecha vi’hunecha; may God’s face light up when you stand before Them and may you know grace. Yisa Adonai panav elecha va’yasem lecha shalom, may God turn Their face toward you and in this way, may you find peace. Given to Aaron and his sons, we commonly refer to this text as the Priestly Blessing. Yet rather than being reserved for priestly duties, this blessing is woven into our daily liturgy and throughout our lives. It is a blessing invoked under the chuppah. It is a blessing we use to honor our b’nai mitzvah. It is a blessing that parents have offered their children at the Shabbat table for thousands of years.

And remarkably, it is a blessing given to the ancient Israelites by (the character of) God — but not one for God to use. Rather, it is a blessing for people to offer each other — one that, in the words of Rabbi Zohar Atkins, “waits on human voices to take effect.” The Priestly Blessing is the culmination of revelation, coming at the end of our ancestors’ encampment at the foot of Mount Sinai. I imagine Aaron and his sons walking from tent to tent, teaching them these words so that they might bless each other. Soon the Israelites will consecrate the mishkan, pack it up, and begin their journey across the wilderness toward the Promised Land. It is a moment of incredible blessing, yes — but it is also a time of fear.

Just before receiving the Priestly Blessing, the Israelites are asked to conduct a census. And so Moses goes around the camp and counts every man who is old enough and able to bear arms. The singling out of men of fighting age is a frightening indication of what is to come. By identifying who is able to go to war, our ancestors know that war lies ahead of them (and as the readers of this story, we know that this prediction will come true; many Israelites will die on their way to the Promised Land, and even when they cross the Jordan River decades of conflict will follow). There was good reason to be afraid. And I can imagine that many of the Israelites, gathered safely at the foot of Mount Sinai, might have wanted to stay there rather than face whatever was lurking in the wilderness beyond.

Yet instead of telling them to not fear, God says: be a blessing. Be a blessing, in a world so desperately in need of blessing. V’samu et-sh’mi al b’nai Yisrael, and in this way My name will be set upon the children of Israel; it is through people, not divine intervention, that help and healing will come. There are many times when the Israelites will face acute threats to their survival — and in those moments, God tells them to be bold and take action. Not to be fearless. But how to act when afraid. What God offers is a posture, not a prescription: in all that you do, be a blessing. And so they march into the wilderness, not only bearing the tools of war but also words to bless each other and those they encounter along the way, a way of building a different kind of world than the one that requires shields and swords.

It is true, there is much to be afraid of. Such are the times we live in. And it is okay to be afraid. But fear does not mitigate our ability to bless one another; in fact, the many reasons that we are afraid right now make the act of blessing that much more necessary. For when we are scared, the temptation is to curl into a ball; it is a defensive posture, meant to keep out everything that would harm us. But when we are in this position, we can only see ourselves — and so we face the world alone. Yet when we bless another person, we are forced to turn toward each other. Through the act of blessing, we say I see you; even though I am scared, I am here with you; and even though there is much to fear, I refuse to turn away from you. It is, in a way, a rejoinder to fear; to meet the brokenness of the world by coming together, rather than pulling apart.

And so I want you to find someone close to you and (with their consent) rest a hand on their head or their shoulder. Or you can hold your hand near them, like this. Let’s bless each other. Repeat after me: Y’varech’cha Adonai v’yishmarecha; may God bless you and keep you safe. Ya’er Adonai panav elecha vi’hunecha; may God’s face light up when you stand before Them and may you know grace. Yisa Adonai panav elecha va’yasem lecha shalom, may God turn Their face toward you and in this way, may you find peace.