January 22nd, 2022
21 Shevat 5782
Click here to listen to a recording of Rabbi Sarit's sermon for this Shabbat.
Shavua tov to all of you. I wish that I could’ve been with you over Shabbat, celebrating what I know was a beautiful bat mitzvah with the Shefsky family. I’m so appreciative for all of your concern about my health, and so grateful to be in such a loving community. Thank God, my babies are doing well and I am under excellent medical care, to ensure that that remains true. I don’t usually speak and offer a full sermon on the week of a bat mitzvah, But this week in the aftermath of the horrible incident in Texas last Shabbat, I wanted to share with you some of my reflections. In lieu of being with all of you earlier this morning, I offer you these words now and, as always, I welcome your feedback and reflections.
There are two times a year that we chant this section about the giving of the Torah, about Matan Torah at Mount Sinai. One is this morning, when we arrive at Parshat Yitro in our Torah reading cycle. It usually happens sometime in January, and it is part of the narrative of our history. The Israelites were a group of families, made their way to Egypt, were slaves, were liberated, got the torah, and journeyed for 40 years. We read about the giving of the Torah as the story unfolds.
We read this exact text one other time of year, on the holiday of Shavuot, in early summer, the holiday that celebrates and marks the giving of the Torah. And there is one other piece of specific Biblical text that we read that day as a compliment to the retelling of the giving of Torah, as if it has something to say about what it means to be a people who follow Torah.
On that day, of celebrating the giving of Torah, we read the book of Ruth, which outlines the story of a young woman, bereft, grieving, from the tribe of Moab. The Moabites, crucial to understanding the story of Ruth, were a tribe of people that our tradition describes as the ultimate other, the paradigmatic outsider who we are not to let into our community. We are prohibited from welcoming them or marrying them or living with them, and yet, on this day of receiving Torah we read about Ruth, who joins the Israelites. She came with her mother in law Naomi, despite Naomi’s discouragement, to be amongst the people.
In reading this biblical text on our holiday of giving Torah, we have to understand the book of Ruth as a commentary on shavuot’s message. We must understand it as a commentary on what it means to be a people that accept and embody Torah itself.
When Ruth and Naomi arrive at their destination,Ruth turns to Naomi and says, “I would like to go to the fields and glean among the ears of grain, behind someone who may show me kindness.”
Naomi tells her that she should find those people, and off she goes, finding her way behind Israelite reapers who do, in fact, show her kindness. We are the people that she seeks out. We, the Israelites, are those that she looks to for kindness.
This has, for so long, been the hallmark feature, the legacy of who we are as a people - those who show kindness. Those who, despite someone being an outsider, are a people that say, “I will let you glean with me. I will open my doors. Come, follow me.” Ruth wanted to go somewhere where she knew she would be accepted, where she knew she would be shown kindness. And I have tremendous pride in our people that we are the ones she chose.
Last Shabbat, we witnessed the pitfall of this trademark. We saw the devastating effect of what it means to be a people who show ultimate kindness, what it can mean for our embrace to be taken advantage of. We saw the tragedy and great trauma of what happens when one of our greatest strengths is turned against us. The Biblical character of Ruth is traditionally thought of as the ancestor to the Messiah, that is to say, despite her outsider status she is crucial to our future. And that is to say that the kindness that her character receives which enables that future progeny is also crucial to our future. It is crucial to the essence of who we are as a people.
The question, of course, is how we contend with that fundamental trait when it can lead to such pain, such trauma. How do we live into this component of who we are - who we should be as a people - and not endure this type of attack on our community. How do we retain this central trait of who we are as a people, without constant fear that we could be under attack?
The Torah reading specifically about the giving of the Torah, Matan Torah, speaks to this moment. There are two phrases that are used - two perhaps contradictory elements - that are used as instructions to the Israelite people as they prepare for this greatest, most awe-some moment of Revelation. First, they are told - heyu nechonim - prepare yourselves. Be ready. It is a statement that tells the people they must understand their surroundings, to be ready for anything that could happen. In some ways, it's a mandate for vigilance about the tremendous experience that is to come.
And then they are told, Al Tirau - don’t be afraid. The moment will be scary and intense and God knows that, and it could be frightening, but stay at the mountain. Don’t be afraid, don't turn away, don’t let the intensity and the fear of the moment - which there certainly was with intense sounds and lights, fire, and trembling - don’t let that push you away.
This week, and truthfully, any time our Jewish community is reeling from this type of antiSemitism, from attack on who we are as a people, I feel these two concepts come head to head. I feel, on the one hand, that we need to be prepared, that we need to double down on knowing our surroundings and being vigilant and ready.
And also, I deeply feel that we need to not be afraid. That we need to not let being prepared become our Judaism, particularly at the expense of not being afraid. We need to continue to celebrate, continue to come to shul together, continue to be proud of who we are - including the kindness that we exude as a community. Al tira’u, don’t be afraid, still approach the mountain, still connect to the essence of who you are as a people, has to be just as important as heyu nechonim, prepare yourselves, be ready for anything that could happen.
Our job is to create a balance between these concepts. As a community, heyu nechonim, be ready, and also, al tirau, don’t be afraid.
Especially as a rabbi, over the past week I have constantly had Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker on my mind. Of course, I think many of us have imagined the fear that he and his congregants must have endured for 11 excruciating hours while being held hostage, unsure if they would make it out alive. And I have thought about how in those hours that he was in his synagogue, his holy place, he embodied both of these characteristics in unbelievable ways.
The most important things that Rabbi Charlie did as a rabbi, as an ambassador of Judaism, was with the same person, on the same day, serve tea, and hours later, throw a chair. He embodied who the biblical Ruth knew we would be - with our compassion and our kindness, he wasn’t afraid to be true to who we are. And, he was also ready, prepared. He had the training to know what to do and he seized a moment to quite literally free his people. They were not released, they did not secretly escape while their hostage taker and attacker was not looking, they found freedom because of Rabbi Charlie being willing, being prepared and ready, to quite literally save their lives. I can only hope that in those moments of intensity I would have the same bravery and the same love that he did.
There are two ways that a hostage taker can gain entrance into a synagogue. One is through force and shooting, with violence, and one is where they come in asking if this is a place of shelter.
So we have to ask ourselves this very existential question. Because it’s a given that the charitable and compassionate character that we’ve tried to create for ourselves over millennia can bring the great blessing of Ruths into our midst.
But it can also, on fewer and more tragic occasions, bring a violent hater into our midst.
So which path shall we choose? Shall we call ourselves suckers and give up the compassion because it could be manipulated and used against us? Or shall we remain vigilant for sure for our safety and the safety of our community, but never give up the reflex to invite the poor reapers into our fields? The simple truth is that compassion always makes us vulnerable.
And please understand that I am not claiming that this is an easy choice. But it is a fateful choice. And an inevitable choice. It is not easy to try and strike the balance, upholding both the need to be ready, to be vigilant, to be prepared, with the necessity to not be afraid, to remain compassionate, and to live up to the kindness that is our essence. But yet, that is what we must do. That is our spiritual challenge as Jews, this is who we must strive to be as a community. I pray that our Jewish community knows no more violence, and no more hatred. And I pray that our community is one where we accept the mandate to be prepared, and where we have the great privilege to embrace the profound blessing of not being afraid.
Ken Yehi Ratzon.
