What the New Jewish Neighborhood Isn’t

The German novelist and dissident Thomas Mann wrote, “Everything is politics,” while screenwriter Aaron Sorkin offered, “Politics is perception.” Which is to say, so much of life hinges on the perception of those around us. All content-generators, from software engineers to journalists, must confront, in some fashion, the ways in which the words or images we put into the world are perceived.

Art is meant to be seen. Books are written to be read. A gift is not a gift until it’s received, and sometimes it’s received poorly.

In previous columns here and elsewhere, I’ve mused on the concept of a “New Jewish Neighborhood” which some Jews and non-Jews have understood differently than I intended. The time has come to better elucidate what the New Jewish Neighborhood is by clarifying what it is not.

  • The New Jewish Neighborhood is not a neighborhood for Jews. I’ve suggested (See: Make Baltimore Great Again) we should “… explore ways we might have deeper local impact by realizing Jewish values in heterogeneous context … To better inhabit our Jewishness we must be expansive in our concept of community.” I wish to challenge assumptions about Jewish neighborhoods whose measure has always been numbers of Jews and Jewish institutions. My hope is that a New Jewish Neighborhood is one measured by Jewish values lived, where the Jews of that neighborhood are concerned with the how’s and why’s of Jewish living. While I am thrilled to have Jewish neighbors in Reservoir Hill, and that number has grown some in the time that we’ve been here, I am under no illusion that our neighborhood will (or should) become a majority Jewish neighborhood again.
  • The philosopher George Steiner suggests the Jew’s mission is to be “the guest of humanity.” (See: He may be our greatest Jewish Thinker...) I differ with Steiner in that I believe it critical there be a national homeland for the Jewish people as we, like other nations of the world, exercise our right to self-determination. But Israel isn’t an excuse for Jewish parochialism or triumphalism. For generations, our people have been shaped by our minority presence in other people’s lands as, indeed, we have by our aspiration for political sovereignty.
  • The New Jewish Neighborhood is meant to articulate a new vision for Jews and Jewry, not to impose Jewishness on others. Save for a brief and regretful period during the Hasmonean dynasty, Jews have never been a proselytizing people. One need not believe in our God to be saved; we have no monopoly on virtue. Not long after I coined the phrase New Jewish Neighborhood, it became apparent that such a framing is useful as an invitation to (or quasi-polemic for) my fellow Jews. Once we began reaching out to our broader non-Jewish and largely non-white community in Reservoir Hill, we needed different nomenclature reflecting a shared set of aims and principles. Hence, IFO (See: inforof.org/)  ) (In, For, Of) was born.
  • The New Jewish Neighborhood is not only about race, but it is about race. We cannot appreciate Jewish urban/suburban migration without understanding racism and how Jews fit in. As neighborhoods transitioned from white to black, it was often Jews who played the relay. Understanding Jewishness in America today is to grasp the complex and evolving relationship between Jewishness and whiteness (at least for the 80 percent of Jews who are not black, brown or Sephardic). Race is a social construct, but those of us who look white cannot wish our whiteness away any more than African-Americans can their blackness. The New Jewish Neighborhood is where we stop wishing or pretending and start listening and doing.
  • The Neighborhood cannot be located (only) on a map. On one hand, it is a neighborhood, a place where actual Jews, with intention and self-awareness, live with majority non-Jewish neighbors. (This is not Philip Roth’s “Eli, the Fanatic,” in which assimilated Jews in a WASPy community feel ashamed of their Orthodox Jewish neighbors.) It is also my specific neighborhood of Reservoir Hill, a rare locale where a nearly 100-year-old synagogue building supports a thriving congregation in what has for decades been a black neighborhood.

But the New Jewish Neighborhood is also a state of mind. Or as I wrote a couple months ago in Jmore (See: A New Way to View Tzedakah), “The neighborhood is all about posture — how we are as much as who we are.” In this sense, any community with Jews can become a New Jewish Neighborhood and any Jew, no matter where s/he lives can be a New Jewish Neighbor, a better “guest of humanity.”

A version of this piece appears in Jmore.


Conservative Rabbis From Around the World Come to Reservoir Hill!

Photos by Greg Bowen, Human Being Productions

Pesach, which begins Monday evening April 10, is the most observed Jewish holiday on the calendar.   A staggeringly high percentage of American Jews hold or attend some version of the seder.  There’s much speculation as to why this is with theories including the robust and malleable nature of the ritual or the fact that the primary observance is home-centric and includes lots of good food!  Both of these rationales clearly hold sway, but I believe there is something more profound (and simpler) at play: Pesach provides that elusive thing religious traditions strive for but often miss: relevance.  It’s no accident the theme of the Hagaddah (that we were slaves in Egypt who left to serve a greater calling in a land of our own) constitutes a full four-fifths of the Torah’s story.  And the notion that our experience of suffering and marginalization ought to sensitize us to the needs of the marginal and maligned in our day is a message conveyed more frequently in Torah than any other. E.g. “You shall love the stranger for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deu. 10:18).

B. Cole, co-owner of Dovecote Cafe around the corner from Beth Am speaks to rabbis about the vitality of black neighborhoods.

It’s this fundamental urge and striving that animates the Jewish impulse to work for a more just society.  It’s also one at the core of my own Conservative movement.  Nevertheless, the prophetic voices of A.J. Heschel, Harold Schulweis, Brad Artson and others have at times been lost in the din of other often legitimate but sometimes less broadly compelling concerns.  The annual Rabbinical Assembly Convention has been a case in point.  While each convention is different, there has not always been a robust exploration of what I would call applied Torah.  To their credit, over the past several years this has begun to change, the most recent manifestation being the February RA here in Baltimore.

Spoken Word artist Mohamed Tall performs for the whole convention before rabbis head to 5 locations throughout Baltimore

I was invited to speak to my colleagues, hailing from across North America and around the world, about the history of Baltimore, its legacy of slavery and Jim Crow and the ways we as a city (and a nation) have struggled to reach our best potential.  I told them, “As someone who has lived [in Chicago] blocks from a Whole Foods and who now lives in a food desert, I promise you, there is as much brokenness in Roland Park as there is in Sandtown.  There are two Chicagos, two LA’s, two Detroits, two Philadelphias, two Baltimores – two Americas.  But these binaries are not just about rich and poor, they’re about how we see the world and whether we truly view every person as a reflection of God.  This is our goal for today,” I told them, “from our perch in Baltimore’s beautiful inner harbor, to introduce you to that other Baltimore.”

Rabbi Dina Shargel of Temple Israel Center in White Plains, N.Y., reads prayer book with IFO co-chair Amani Warren. (Coincidentally, this photo includes shots of Rabbi Paul Schneider, long time head of KSDS where my kids go to school and Rabbis Matt Futterman and Elliot Cosgrove with whom I was privileged to work during my time at Anshe Emet in Chicago)!

Then, at the request of convention chair and Gaithersburg colleague Rabbi Jacob Blumenthal, I introduced two award-winning spoken word poets who offered brilliant and provocative original compositions, and we sent the rabbis off to one of five different site-visits.  In addition to Beth Am, rabbis visited the Center for Urban Families, The 6th Branch, the Institute for Islamic, Christian and Jewish Studies, and Paul’s Place.  Some also heard presentations from Holistic Life Foundation and Wide Angle Youth Media.  Each of these organizations is doing important and impactful work in Baltimore City.  I encourage JMore readers to learn more and support them!

The thirty-five rabbis who came to Beth Am studied a text from Mishna, learned about our sister 501(C)3, In, For and Of, heard Baltimore stories from legendary Gil Sandler, met our new community resource specialist, and packed into the Dovecote Café as its visionary owners challenged assumptions about what makes a “good neighborhood.”  One 78-year-old rabbi told me of all the RA conventions he has attended over the years, his visit to Beth Am was the single most meaningful experience.

Beth Am’s Community Resource Specialist speaks to the group demonstrating our approach to tzedakah

Torah is equated to a “tree of life,” and just as life demands to be lived, torah demands to be learned.  The New Jewish Neighborhood is a place where we recalibrate Jewish souls, realigning our ancient wisdom with society’s most pressing concerns and its most demanding opportunities.

The inimitable Gil Sandler regales us with stories of the Old Jewish Neighborhood

A version of this piece can be found at Jmore




Why I Went to the Women’s March (But Not the Airport Protest)

National protests and local person-to-person legislative advocacy are mutually reinforcing.

The Women’s March on Washington was an extraordinary affair, and I was honored to be part of it. I was not planning to attend. As someone who is shomer Shabbos, I didn’t see how to make it work.  And as much as I felt called to the moment (and knew many of my congregants would be there), my first responsibility is to my shul. Our monthly Kesher L’Neshama (soulful Shabbat) service was planned for that day, and I was already to be in Israel the following week due to a long-scheduled trip to continue my studies as a Shalom Hartman Institute’s Rabbinic Leadership Initiative fellow.

As the day of the march drew near, my resolve to speak out against the incoming administration’s demeanor and approach was reinforced by the then-president-elect’s choices of Cabinet members and advisers. While the march highlighted a number of significant societal challenges, I was and am increasingly worried that (very legitimate) concerns about refugees/immigrants, racism, Islamophobia and more are overshadowing pervasive misogyny laid bare in this past election. What’s more, living where I do, I am cognizant of the recent Department of Justice report that identifies “serious concerns of gender-biased policing” — a reminder that from pay inequity to police brutality, women of color are disproportionately affected by gender bias.

As a man, and particularly a white man, I felt called to bring my 9-year-old son to march with my wife and 11-year-old daughter. So I decided to join Miriam and our children in Washington. It would not be easy. We had a room lined up within walking distance of Independence Boulevard, one of many in D.C. homes made available free to strangers by their owners in support of the effort. Then Friday, we got a call from our would-be-host; in tears, he explained he had a family emergency and could no longer have us.  Plan B was to crash at a cousin’s place near the zoo, but that was a full three miles from the Mall. So our first stop as we entered the District before Shabbat was to buy prepaid Metro passes — an imperfect but manageable solution.

Friday night and Saturday morning, we joined hundreds at the Sixth & I Synagogue for uplifting services and poignant words of Torah. And we marched. We navigated the sea of 500,000 bodies, positioning the children where they could see and hear some of the speeches. We crossed the Mall and marched past the new African-American museum to the Ellipse. By the end of the day, our legs were weary but our hearts were full.

We resolved to fight. Which is why when the Trump administration saw fit to ban refugees and immigrants from seven primarily Muslim countries, and protesters converged on BWI, I was not there. You see, that evening was a long-scheduled meeting with newly appointed State Sen. Barbara Robinson at the home of a congregant and neighbor.

Marches galvanize support for causes. They foster a sense of shared responsibility. Perhaps most importantly, they are the embodiment of one of our most precious rights: the “right of the people peaceably to assemble.” The next line of the First Amendment, however, is even more important: “[The right] to petition the government for a redress of grievances.” Representative democracies are only as strong as the extent to which we the people hold our elected officials accountable — and local politics are where most of the impactful work can be done.

The meeting that evening was convened by Jews United for Justice to address a number of local concerns including police accountability, paid sick leave and rent court reform. The senator heard us out as we sat in my neighbor’s living room and shared stories of brokenness. Our bodies were stationary. Our stories and concerns were true, and our truth goes marching on.

A version of this post can be found at JMore


Thinking Differently About Tzedakah

Jewish commitment to supporting the poor is about meeting them where they’re at.

The “New Jewish Neighborhood” concept is one where proximity creates possibility, where being Jewish is more than what we are (in a tribal sense), what we do (religious observance) or even what we believe (about God or our responsibilities in the world). The neighborhood is all about posture — how we are as much as who we are.
This question of posture toward the other is addressed in a fascinating Mishnah (a third-century text of Jewish law and lore). The rabbis ask since transferring objects (like food) from one domain to another on Shabbat is forbidden, does that effectively mean one cannot provide assistance to the needy on the Sabbath? Is there a way to achieve the Torah’s mandate to feed the hungry short of inviting a stranger into your home for a Shabbat meal?
The answer is about sharing responsibility. If the owner takes something from inside the house and hands it through the door or window to a poor person outside, the owner is in violation of Shabbat. Conversely, if the poor person reaches inside the house and takes something being supplied by the owner, the beggar is now in violation. To be patur (“nonculpable” for Shabbat violation), each party must play both an active and passive role. Either the needy person must reach into the house but receive the food or the owner must reach outside the home for the beggar to take the food. The simple positioning of hands, the angle of a gesture, makes all the difference!
Conceding that the letter of Halachah doesn’t strictly apply when both parties aren’t Jewish, the Mishnah’s articulation of posture can be helpful in thinking about how to establish a mutually beneficial relationship between two people with differing access to resources. Take Beth Am, for example. Our synagogue is located in Reservoir Hill, which includes residents with plenty and others with little. It’s fairly common to have neighbors ring our bell during office hours and ask for financial assistance. For years, we have done what we thought was our best: giving food vouchers or bus tokens or even cash handouts, and for years, we’ve struggled to come up with a system that works. Knowing we have finite resources, we’ve asked neighbors for ID so we can track how often they’re coming. Our giving is fairly arbitrary, based on a calendar, not a fair assessment of need.
This is why I’m excited to begin work this month with a peer recovery specialist. “Peers” are required to complete 500 hours with a trained supervisor and 46 hours of training and education. These individuals often are recovering addicts who, by virtue of their training as well as their own experience, are well-versed in resources available to the underprivileged. They know where to find food distribution, drug treatment, resource fairs, job training and help with literacy. They can do a needs assessment and help someone navigate the system. So far, well over 300 peers have been trained during a 10-year period. As Monica Scott, recovery services manager for Behavioral Health System Baltimore, told me, “Peer-to-peer works best because it’s individuals coming from lived experience, not a case worker or official dictating to you.”
Having a peer will allow us to meet people where they’re at, in a nonjudgmental, nonthreatening way. Our peer will alternate between engaging neighbors at community meetings or local school events and holding “office hours” at Beth Am, where she can do assessments, make referrals and provide guidance. “People know what they need,” says Scott, “[but] they don’t know where to start.”
Like the poor person knocking on Shabbat, it’s about shared responsibility. Jewish institutions can think about applying the wisdom of our sources to our heterogeneous society. If those who give also can receive those in need with compassion and dignity, if we extend a hand while empowering others to take for themselves, then we’ve managed to take the best of the Old Jewish Neighborhood and apply it to the New.
This column can also be found at http://www.jmoreliving.com/2017/01/31/new-way-view-tzedakah/ Each month in Jmore, Rabbi Burg explores a difference facet of The New Jewish Neighborhood, a place where Jewish community is reclaimed and Jewish values reimagined in Baltimore.

A New Mayflower Compact for 2020

A just and equitable future for Baltimore (and other American cities) requires a plan long before the next election.


The first 2017 issue of Jmore arrives in the afterglow of the Menorah’s full brilliance – New Years Eve this year was also the eighth night of Chanukah!  The word Chanukah means “rededication.” On the precipice of a new year and the new presidential administration, our country is in need of a chanukat habayit, a reintegration of our “house-divided.”  Lincoln borrowed this New Testament phrase to describe America of the late 1850’s, a country so shaken by racial and ideological disunity it soon devolved into civil war.  How America of 2017 will withstand the deep divisions running through it remains to be seen.  2016 laid bare troubling signs of wide-spread misogyny, racism, Islamophobia, general xenophobia and antisemitism the Anti-Defamation League says rival the 1930’s.

The wisdom of our rabbinic sages has always been to help us see the hugeness and seeming intractability of society’s problems through the lens of achievable goodness.  “Love your neighbor as yourself,” says Rabbi Akiva, is a klal gadol, a foundational principle of Torah – if we can focus first on the internal and interpersonal, perhaps we can make progress toward broader communal and societal healing.  In that sense, it’s been a good year here in the “New Jewish Neighborhood.”  Last January, we hosted 450 people for an extraordinary concert by Shades of Yale, A Capella featuring music of “The African Diaspora and the African American experience.”  The Yale University group arrived days prior to do several workshops in local schools.  In February, we celebrated transformational leadership with Marin Alsop, Ron Shapiro and a performance by the OrchKids (plus a successful musical instrument drive).  In fall, we engaged neighbors through the Reservoir Hill Improvement Council’s annual “Greens and Kugel cook-off” and on election day with IFO volunteers serving food and giving tours of our historic sanctuary.

Each of these events can serve as positive examples of effective community engagement work, but such programs need not be limited to our neighborhood nor to Baltimore.  It’s all about a willingness to encounter the other, to see synagogue or Jewish institutional walls as membranes, permeable and fluid.  Several other Jewish organizations, including synagogues here and around the country, are doing the work of culture-sharing and boundary-crossing, all of which should be celebrated.

But it’s not enough to lift up discretely positive examples.  Achieving a more just society means thinking strategically.  So, I want to offer a possible frame for our thinking over the coming four years.  The next presidential election will occur just eight days before the 400th anniversary of the Mayflower Compact.  This legal instrument, singular in import, was also quite narrow in scope.  Written by Puritan Separatists on November 11, 1620, as their ship entered Cape Cod, the Compact focused exclusively on the needs of the 102 souls who made that arduous transatlantic voyage.   The group pledged to “…Covenant and Combine ourselves together in a Civil Body Politic…to enact, constitute and frame such just and equal Laws, Ordinances, Acts, Constitutions and Offices…for the general good of the Colony….”

The values of the document form the bedrock of American society – collective responsibility, democracy, the rule of law, submission to a higher authority be it God or the will of the people.  Absent, however, is concern for non-Christians, Native Americans and people of Color (just to name a few).  My questions are these: What Mayflower Compact must we write?  To what collective aims must we strive?  How can we engage more people of differing perspectives in identifying those aims?  The seduction of populism notwithstanding, we cannot start over; we must reorder society by doing the hard work of affirming priorities and then working together toward constructive goals.  That’s the spirit with which the Pilgrims rededicated themselves in first setting foot on this land.  How might the spirit of Chanukah illuminate our path toward a house-united in 2020?

Each month in JMore, Rav Daniel explores a different facet of The New Jewish Neighborhood – a place where Jewish community is reclaimed and Jewish values reimagined in Baltimore.

Make Baltimore Great Again? (Revisiting the New Jewish Neighborhood)

Each month, in partnership with Jmore, I’ll explore a different facet of The New Jewish Neighborhood – a place where Jewish community is reclaimed and Jewish values reimagined in Baltimore.  A version of this also appears here. Or you can find it in the print version on P. 80.

A century ago, Reservoir Hill (though it was called something else) was the crown jewel of Baltimore’s Jewish community. The Whitelock Urban Farm sits on land that once housed sundry Jewish-owned businesses – a humming commercial hub bounded by dozens of Jewish institutions and a short walk from exquisitely verdant Druid Hill Park. Those who know the history (and those who don’t but notice the undulating topography and exceptional housing stock) will often ask me how things are going in Beth Am’s neighborhood. “I hear the neighborhood’s coming back” some will say. Or they’ll ask: “Are people moving back in?” These questions seem innocuous and are most definitely posed with good intentions – I’m sure the questioners don’t meant to imply the non-existence of people who live and have lived in this neighborhood for decades. But the underlying assumption seems to be: Reservoir Hill was once great, and they’re anxious to hear when it will be again.

How is my neighborhood doing? It’s cleaner, safer and more vital all the time. The award winning Dovecote Café (recently voted “best café” by Baltimore City Paper) is a vibrant gathering spot. John Eager Howard (some readers may remember it as School 61) renovations are underway. There are exciting new development projects in the works on North Avenue and Druid Park Lake Drive, and Beth Am is now in the design phase for our own renovation and construction project.

To keep this excitement in context, however, two things to keep in mind. First, neighborhood improvements are happening because of advocacy and engagement by Reservoir Hill Residents – not in spite of them. And our community is constantly contending with real questions of how best to rise together; Reservoir Hill is multicultural, multivalent and multi-vocal. We count among our neighbors impoverished families in affordable rental properties, affluent home-owners, artists, educators and working class renters; we are Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist; we are black, white and brown. Our diversity is our strength when our flourishing is diverse. Second, Reservoir Hill’s past greatness should be examined within its historical context. Which is to say, narratives of Jewish or African American past and current thriving cannot be divorced from Baltimore’s legacy of block-busting and red-lining, troubling features of twentieth century urban development. Jewish migration to/from/to this neighborhood is part of a complex and ever-unfolding story

Key questions for healthy urban revitalization are these: What is the highest and best use of space and resources? How do we benefit more people? Which people? What is right? What is just? What would God want? There’s no lack of need and injustice in the world. Why should we care about Baltimore?

In a provocative piece, author Courtney Martin considers whether we Americans have become too caught up in what she calls “The Reductive Seduction of Other People’s Problems?” Martin highlights the many thousands of U.S. organizations doing charitable work in foreign countries. From gap-year service programs to alternative spring breaks, there is broad attraction to donating to and working in developing nations. “If you’re young, privileged, and interested in creating a life of meaning,” she writes, “of course you’d be attracted to solving problems that seem urgent and readily solvable…. Of course you’d want to fly on planes to exotic locations with, importantly, exotic problems.”

But while most Americans’ attempts to “save the world” are well-intentioned, Martin points out two fundamental problems: First, she says, there’s risk for those whose problems we believe easy to solve. “There is real fallout when well-intentioned people attempt to solve problems without acknowledging the underlying complexity.” Second, there is plenty of domestic need which goes largely unmet when our compassionate instincts are directed toward distant lands. “…The reductive seduction of other people’s problems is dangerous for the people whose problems you’ve avoided.” Rashi, the eleventh century Torah commentator, cites the Talmud’s protocol for triaging need: “Ani-ei ircha kodmim, the poor of your city first” (Bava Metzia 71a).

My plan for this column is to explore ways we might have deeper local impact by realizing Jewish values in heterogeneous contexts. My thesis? To better inhabit our Jewishness we must be expansive in our concept of community. Baltimore’s greatness, like America’s greatness, is in its people. We Jews have flourished in this country and city because, despite real obstacles, here we have found a place to call home. So let’s start at home. Making the world better requires making our neighborhoods better. And, wherever you live, city or county, making your neighborhood better requires making mine better too – and vice versa. Why? Because making Baltimore great means also identifying the parts of it that never were.

An Election Season of Anger and Idolatry

Yom Kippur Day Sermon 5777 

Here’s what I remember from that spring day.  I can tell you because I witnessed it happen.  The young people had gathered for ostensibly peaceful reasons, but things quickly got out of hand.  Pretty soon a group of them, a few “bad apples,” were lighting fire to a parked car and, when the fire engine arrived to extinguish the blaze, they began to throw bottles at the truck and the firefighters – simply for trying to do their job.  Rage quickly became vandalism and violence.  For the first time in decades, police in riot gear were called in, and the young rioters were dispersed or arrested.  A small consolation is that no one was killed, but the property damage was extensive.

This is my firsthand account of the Mifflin Street Block Party in Madison, WI, my sophomore year of college.  The block party began in 1969 as a protest against the Vietnam War.  By the 80’s it had become a community gathering for various political or social causes and by the 90’s it was an excuse, while police looked the other way, for thousands of college students, to party largely uninhibited outdoors. (I was just walking by, of course). Anyway, after the rioting, the city shut down the event.  It didn’t happen again for several years, and it’s now a shadow of its former self.  People remember the Watts riots and the LA Riots, the Crown Heights Riots, the Baltimore Riots of ’68 and 2015.  Few people recall Madison’s Mifflin Street riots from ‘96 perhaps because its perpetrators were almost exclusively white, or perhaps because there was no cause, not societal issue for which they were fighting.  It wasn’t a civil rights battle.  It wasn’t a reaction to police brutality.  It was a bunch of drunk and high kids, doing stupid stuff right?  Just like the two young white guys, Raider’s fans who came from New York to last Sunday’s Raven’s game and pummeled a 55-year old ex-marine, putting him in the hospital – they were just inebriated and lost their cool, right?  Will they be held accountable for their crime?  Maybe.  But is anyone looking beyond that stadium brawl, beyond the Mifflin street block party, beyond the ubiquitous rise in spiteful and hateful online comments? Beyond licentiousness and demagoguery. Could it be that all of these are part of something larger, something more insidious going on in our society?  Have we noticed there seems to be an epidemic of fear and anger in our country, not exclusively but certainly among white men?  The Talmud (Shabbat 105b) says, kol hakoeis k’ilu oved avodah zarah, anger is the equivalent of idol worship.”

On Rosh Hashanah I spoke about the shofar as an analogue for sacred space.  Today is Yom Kippur, and I want to talk with you about t’shuvah and trust – and about anger.  But to do so, I want to share one more shofar story: One Rosh Hashanah the Chozeh of Lublin was unable to leave his study for t’ekiat hashofar.  He was embarrassed and heartbroken, he felt utterly unqualified believing himself not to have even one zechut, one meritorious act, to his credit that year.  Who was he to fulfill such a mitzvah of blowing the shofar!  He thought and thought.  Is there anything for which I deserve to stand before the community and sound the horn? 

Finally, it occurred to him; during the course of the year, the Chozeh had not spoken one word in anger.  He had been tempted. On one occasion an attendant had forgotten to prepare a vessel of water next to his bed so he was unable to wash his hands for netilat yadayim in the morning.  He was about the scold the man when he recalled the warning of the Sages: “kol hakoeis k’ilu oved avodah zarah, anger is the equivalent of idol worship.”  The Chozeh said to himself: “For the sake of washing my hands in the morning, I’m going to make myself (God-Forbid) an idol worshipper? So he held his tongue.  And recalling that incident and other times throughout the year when he felt angry but didn’t lash out, the Chozeh felt sufficiently qualified to stand before the community and sound the shofar.

Some of you, no doubt, have been wondering what if anything I will say about the election this year.  Articles have been circulating about how difficult the decision for rabbis has been.  This election cycle, I’m sure you’d agree, is like no other, perhaps in American history.  And, yet, we as a congregation are bound, I am bound, to certain restrictions and respecting them is essential.  So let me just put it out there.  The decision of what not to say has been easy for me.  I will endorse no candidate from this bima.  The law exists for good reason, and I am a fierce believer in the wall of separation between church and state, and that value is much bigger than any election, even this one.  But I also believe in the values of our congregation, and it’s always been my contention – as it was our founders’ – that Beth Am is a big-tent community.  Shul doesn’t always need to be easy.  Here, we can “afflict the comfortable even as we comfort the afflicted.”  We can talk about 800 pound gorillas, and I’ve been honored for over six years now to have been able to raise hard questions and share my perspective with you, Shabbos and Yuntif, on relevant topics like marriage equality, structural racism, Anti-Semitism and the demonization of Israel, Interfaith family synagogue membership, the Iran deal and much much more.  But, no matter what policies or legislation we might discuss in this room, we must strive, I must strive, to maintain its sanctity and a sense of safety – for Democrats, Republicans, Independents.  Whatever your political convictions, you are a part of this eclectic and wonderful Beth Am family, and we are grateful for each of you in your totality.

And having said that, I believe if we get through the holiday cycle and don’t address, in any way, the thing that is on all of our minds, that would be a disservice to you and an abrogation of my rabbinate, my role as your teacher.  As Parker Palmer, one of my favorite educational philosophers puts it, “The highest form of love [is the] love that allows for intimacy without the annihilation of difference…. good teaching comes from the identity and integrity of the teacher” (The Courage to Teach, p. 57, 13).  The minute I can no longer be me; the moment I no longer create space for you to be you is the moment we have a relationship in name only.  That’s not what I want and I hope it’s not what you want either.

So, today I will not talk about the election, but I would like to offer some thoughts about the American electorate, our society.  Because this cycle has revealed a profound ugliness in our country.  The depth and breadth of hatred, the cavalier dismissal of difference, the erosion of mores and brazen mockery of civility are reaching epidemic levels.  There is so much anger and so much despair.  So, we must talk about anger, and to honor Palmer’s challenge I want to make it personal, start with my own identity.  Because I really don’t know how it feels to be black or brown.  I don’t know what it feels like to be gay or trans.  I’ve never been a woman.  But I do know what it is to be a Jew and how it feels to be a white man, and I am concerned with what far too many white men think about black, brown, Jewish or queer people, and how so many of us think about and treat women.  Anger is a normal human emotion, It’s ok to feel angry.  Even God gets angry in the Torah.  But our rage, white rage, male rage, by virtue of its being anchored in power and privilege, is wreaking havoc on our country, and I as someone who happens to have been born white and male have been struggling to figure out why.

The problem isn’t being unaware; we know bias gets wielded as a cudgel against the weak or vulnerable, but we so often shrug it off, chalk it up to ignorance.  We lost Gene Wilder this year.  Blazing Saddles is one of my favorite movies.  You remember what Wilder’s Jim says to Cleavon Little’s character?  Sheriff Bart has been appointed head law-man of this small town in the Old West which is not surprisingly pretty racist.  Bart is, also not surprisingly, slow to be accepted by the townspeople, all of whom seemed to be named Johnson.  And trying to console him, Jim says, “What did you expect? ‘Welcome, sonny’? ‘Make yourself at home’? ‘Marry my daughter’? You’ve got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the new West. You know… morons.”

But (brilliant) comedy aside, when we do this in real life, when we’re dismissive of statements and attitudes, even moronic ones, when we don’t sufficiently grapple with their prevalence and pervasiveness, we miss opportunities for societal growth.  And then we slip back into the same vicious cycles of action and reaction, thesis and antitheses without arriving at any useful synthesis.  One of the better opinion pieces last year was Andrew Sullivan’s in New York Magazine (“Democracies End When they are too Democratic”).  There have been real achievements of late for those who want a more equitable society – legal same-sex marriage in fifty states, the first African-American president, three women (two Jews and a Latina) on the Supreme Court.  And some people, a lot of people it seems, are mad as hell.  Good old fashioned bigotry is no one’s fault but the bigots – But the anger? Sullivan thinks some of that is due to lack of graciousness and empathy by the victors for the vanquished. “For the white working class,” he says, “having had their morals roundly mocked, their religion deemed primitive, and their economic prospects decimated, now find their very gender and race, indeed the very way they talk about reality, described as a kind of problem for the nation to overcome.”

Is it fair?  Is it people of color who should placate racists when blacks are given their due – especially because really they haven’t been, and the gap between actual and perceived progress is gargantuan.  Is it women’s role to pacify angry white men?  What about someone who lost his job to a woman he deems inferior when women in America are still making 78 cents on the dollar and black women 68 cents?  No.  It’s not fair at all.  But justice can’t be achieved in the heat of passion; it requires reconciliation which requires patience.  Rabbi Shimon ben Eleazar taught: al ter’atzeh et chaveirach bish’at ka’aso, Do not placate your friend when he’s angry… v’al tishtadel lir’oto bish’at kalkalato, and don’t intrude upon him at the time of his disgrace” (Pirkei Avot 4:23).  The morons are having their moment, and they would really appreciate it if we stop thinking of them as morons or worse and notice, in their acting out, that most of them aren’t evil; they’re flawed and foolish and scared to death, just like everyone else.  Sullivan writes, “Much of the newly energized left has come to see the white working class not as allies but primarily as bigots, misogynists, racists, and homophobes, thereby condemning those often at the near-bottom rung of the economy to the bottom rung of the culture as well.”

It says in Mishlei (24:17-18), “binfol oyiv’kha lo tismach, do not rejoice at your enemy’s downfall.  Why? “Lest God see it and be displeased and lash out at you [next].”  When achievement only comes at the expense of another, when every win necessitates a loss we end up with a society of losers.  That’s what I learned from my good friend Ron Shapiro: good negotiators anticipate and consider the other party’s needs along with their own.  Because, as we all know, the agony of defeat is infinitely more powerful and longer lasting than the thrill of victory.  Wounds are slow to heal, and they always leave a scar.  As author Brene Brown points out: “We live in a world where most people still subscribe to the belief that shame is a good tool for keeping people in line. Not only is this wrong, but it’s dangerous. Shame is highly correlated,” she points out, “with addiction, violence, aggression, depression, eating disorders, and bullying” (Daring Greatly).  And this is exactly what’s happening with white, male America today – more drug use, more depression, higher suicide rates.  We’re a mess!

And what happens when shame is synecdoche, when enough individual Americans feel collectively abused or misunderstood?  Democracies trend toward tyranny over time; that’s the point Sullivan is making and what Plato taught 2400 years ago (The Republic): that hyper-democratization weakens the intelligentsia and leads to what Tocqueville would later call the “tyranny of the majority.”  The masses become the mob.  Which is perhaps why so many white guys, feeling both threatened by women and minorities and collectively ashamed of their own failures, are so very angry.

This is the point Carol Anderson makes in her new book White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of our Racial Divide (2016).  While many opined about black rage after Freddie Gray was killed or Trayvon Martin or, more recently Keith Lamont Scott and Terence Crutcher, Anderson argues that white rage is a much bigger problem for American society.  White people are perfectly capable of rioting, of course – I learned that on Mifflin Street in ‘96 – but, more often white anger is more insidious, simmering beneath the surface, latching on to policies and embedding itself within the legal system.  In Anderson’s telling, black advancement has been the single greatest reason for collective white rage over hundreds of years of American history.  From rolling back reconstruction after the Civil War and instituting Jim Crow, to preventing African American migration from the South, to emasculating Brown v. Board and continuing school segregation, to upending civil rights achievements by eviscerating the Voting Rights act, among other things, to propagating a libelous claim of non-citizenship (and therefore illegitimacy) against the first black president, powerful white men, men who look like me, have lashed out against scapegoats.  African Americans, other people of color, LGBT people, sometimes Jews and plenty of other group have, like the Yom Kippur scapegoat of old, been exiled to some wilderness in order to appease those of us who, by dint of our appearance alone, enjoy some measure of privilege and power.

Anderson speaks mostly about race, not gender, but I feel obliged today to touch not just on white anger and its progeny– racism, xenophobia, nativism, but also male anger and the way it undergirds structural, institutional and pervasive sexism.  If I hear one more pundit, athlete, politician-dad talk about how he’s concerned for his daughters… gentlemen, we need to be concerned for our sons.  Misogyny is a men’s problem.  Violence against women is a men’s problem.  We are responsible for judging women differently by what they wear, or how they walk or talk or their body type.  We subject them to double-standards and objectify and degrade them.  The degree of misogyny apparent in our society today, forty-five years after Gloria Steinem started Ms. Magazine, ninety-six years after suffrage, is to my mind unconscionable.  And… no doubt, we as a society will no sooner overcome the stain of sexism by shaming men, than we will the scourge of racism by shaming whites.

There was a group deeply appreciative of men’s capacity for shame and retribution, and while making some great strides toward female advancement, as Judith Hauptman has shown, still used this awareness to keep women in their place for centuries. They were our Sages.  The Talmud is clear: there is no halakhic reason, for example, why women should be banned from reading Torah.  Why, then, have they traditionally been forbidden to do so? Meshum kevod hatzibur. “For the dignity of the community” (Megillah 23a).  That is to say, if a woman gets up and reads from the Torah, how will that feel for men in the room who can’t?  Were the Rabbis wrong?  Yes, I believe they were wrong.  Were the Rabbis pragmatic; did they understand the tyranny of the majority, even as they were to party to it?  Also, yes.

What, then, should we do?  Do we say white supremacists were right to take back 40 acres and a mule during Reconstruction because it helped America heal?  Do we say Chazal were right to keep women off the bima?  Or much worse, do we say Kristallnacht was inevitable because Germany was smarting from post-war depression?  Of course not.  Real healing is not done at the expense of the vulnerable, on the backs of broken.  But if possible it should be done with some consideration for those who must begin to relinquish their power.  This is Yom Kippur, a time for t’shuvah, and t’shuvah is about “turning.”  We turn toward God.  We turn toward those we have hurt.  But there can be no healing unless, somehow, we find the courage and strength to pivot toward those who have hurt us as well, and to recognize that they too are broken and ailing and so consumed with their own pain as to be devoured by anger approaching idolatry.  Avinu Malkeinu, sh’lakh refuah shelaymah l’cholei amekha, God, grant a full healing to your ailing people.”

But that’s really hard: to turn our face toward someone when his face represents persecution, marginalization or even violence, when our completely justifiable fantasy would be, at a minimum, to turn a cold shoulder. And in this moment, we should remember that our tradition does not necessarily demand forgiveness, at least not for those who have truly wronged us with sins of commission not omission.  For the latter, perhaps we should find a way to move through our own biases.  But for those who curse and maim, who belittle and berate, for those who commit violence, forgiveness without t’shuvah feels hollow and may even exacerbate our problems.

But, my friends, while we may not have to forgive, it is upon us to try to understand.  Remember the church shooting in Charleston, NC?  How could we forget?  When a young white man murdered nine African Americans, men and women, young and old, at Bible study, simply for the crime of being black.  “I have to do it,” he said. “You rape our women and you’re taking over our country. And you have to go.”  He reloaded five times. I don’t know about you, but when I heard the families of several victims forgive the shooter, I was at once in awe and deeply unsettled – because I couldn’t do that.  And without judgment of those who could forgive, I would suggest that’s not our job.  But if we stop there, if we pretend Dylann Roof is an animal and not a real person or just chalk his behavior up to mental illness without examining the culture that put hate in his head and a Glock in his hand.  If we don’t try to understand his rage, we as a country will struggle for generations more to heal and to grow.  Anyone who’s ever experienced trauma knows there’s no getting over it, no moving past it, there’s only moving through it.

Cain killed his brother Abel and so we learn hashomer achi anochi, we are our brother’s protectors.  We are our sister’s keepers.  But more, we are the keepers of their narratives, their stories.  We must turn toward one another this year, especially after the election is over.  We must listen to each other’s concerns and grant them the dignity of being heard – not abided, surely not every moronic opinion accepted or laughed off, but heard and responded to with, whenever possible, patience and kindness and grace.  And I can say this: I’ll be trying right along with you, because it doesn’t come naturally to me either.

So let me pivot for a moment, and ask this final question because, for all of our problems, there is so much good in this world and, despite it all, I do love this country.  So here’s my question: how many of you have taken an Uber or stayed in an Airbnb?  One of the things I love about 5777 and recent years is the advent of the sharing economy.  Who would have thought, just a few years ago, that complete strangers would be stepping into each other’s cars or sleeping in each other’s homes?  Nevertheless, as Airbnb’s founder likes to point out, tonight almost 800,000 people in nearly 200 countries will be sleeping in a stranger’s home or welcoming a stranger into theirs.  That’s extraordinary.  We look around the country this election season and it seems like people are more divided than ever before, and in some ways that’s true.  But, simultaneously, we have an emerging culture that reclaims the best of an ancient and nearly forgotten world – a world before stranger-danger and Halloween candy scares, a world where hospitality somehow trumped fear of the unknown.  That was Abraham’s world, Sarah’s world.  The Midrash says Abraham and Sarah’s tent was open on all four sides so that they could see guests coming from a distance.  Hachnasat Orchim, welcoming.  That’s what we do at Beth Am.  That’s what we strive for when new-comers enter our walls.  That’s the world we’re trying to create here in Reservoir Hill, where people of different backgrounds and perspectives find common ground and develop trust through shared interest and increased understanding.  That world isn’t a fantasy.  In fact it’s more real than the boogeymen that are scaring so many American’s into a posture of self-preservation and sometimes rage.  But we don’t have to be so angry.  And when we feel angry, we can choose to act otherwise.

How did Airbnb do it?  How did they get random strangers to cohabitate?  Two key things: they designed an effective system for reviews and, in doing so, they were honest about social biases that exist.  They understood that it’s completely normal to trust someone who is more like you – same race, same gender, similar age or faith tradition.  But they also understood that my not trusting you doesn’t make you less trustworthy.  I just need help working through my prejudice and giving you space to work through yours.  So, if you go on Uber or Lyft or Airbnb you’ll see reviews.  And a Stanford study showed that if someone has at least ten good reviews, people are significantly more likely to stay at his or her home despite their differences.  Abraham and Sarah had a reputation, not just a well-designed tent, but their well-designed tent allowed them to live out their reputation.  This afternoon, after Martyrology and the Open Forum and before Mincha, we will be hosting here in the sanctuary our neighbors B. Cole and Aisha Pew of the Dovecote Café.  Anyone been there?  (Hopefully, not today…I asked them to send me a list)… Dovecote just celebrated their first anniversary, and I’m happy to say just won City Paper’s award for best café in all of Baltimore, and I do feel a little guilty for doing this on Yom Kippur when they can’t bring treats.  But if you read the review, the food and coffee are praised but secondary.  The first line reads as follows: “There is absolutely no way you can walk into Dovecote Café, located in Reservoir Hill, and not feel welcomed.”  Aisha and Cole are black and New Yorkers by way of Northern California and they’re women and Queer, and I’m none of those things – and they’re my friends.  And I don’t say that because I want you to think I’m cool.  (I do want you to think I’m cool, but that’s not why).  I say they’re my friends simply because it’s true, and we need fewer people to say “some my best friends are fill in the blank” and more people to say this is my friend Shirley or Kiara or Mahmed, or Deyvon or Dave.  Because there is great capacity in this country for shared vision and purpose, for understanding another’s stories and perspectives and for inviting others to understand ours, for hospitality, compassion and love.

And when this election is over, and the dust settles, we, all of us, will have to begin to pick up the pieces and move forward.  Every conversation we have and don’t have, every tweet or social media post we make or don’t, every email we send or think better of and then delete, every true but needling thing we say or refrain from saying will either add a thread to the fabric of this country or help in some small way to unravel it further.  We, each of us, is the Chozeh of Lublin and must demonstrate our worthiness.  We, each of us, will have a thousand thousand opportunities in the coming months to act with pettiness or magnanimity. And between the moment when the shofar sounds this evening and the moment it sounds again on Rosh Hashanah 5778, we as a nation will decide to be more worthy or less.  May we, each of us and all of us, be more.