Nancy Fuchs Kreimer

A Rabbi's Perspective on 'A New New Testament'

2013-05-06T17:27:24-04:00

When my friend and colleague Rev. Hal Taussig told me about his plans for "a new New Testament," the idea instantly made perfect sense to me.

Hal is a scholar and professor of New Testament, most recently at Union Theological Seminary in New York and a founding member of the Jesus Seminar. He has spent decades studying texts from the first two centuries of the Common Era that did not become part of the official canon. Hal has also been Professor of Early Christianity at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College for almost 20 years. Not unlike the way Reconstuctionists view Judaism, Hal views all of Christian tradition as a vibrant, often contested, evolving conversation. Once one embraces the idea of the historical nature of our human efforts to record our spiritual experiences, one wants to hear from as many voices as possible, especially those Barbara Brown Taylor calls "our first forbearers in faith."

Hal asked: Why not revisit texts that were revered by at least some early communities who followed Jesus, even if those documents did not make it onto the final list of 27 books? After all, canonization was a very human process, not completed until the fourth century. I had not realized the New Testament was canonized that late, nor did I know much about the over 75 texts that have been discovered in the last two centuries, most famously in 1945 at Nag Hamadi in Egypt. It turns out that there are other gospels besides the four, other letters than Paul's, a secret John and psalms about Jesus. I never knew that the Ethiopian and Syriac churches made different choices. It seemed obvious that the whole question of Christian sacred Scripture could be opened again, with potential to reinvigorate Christian theology, liturgy and spiritual practice.

Also obvious to me was Hal's reason for doing so. Hal has spent his entire professional life as bi-vocational, a scholar who continuously served churches as a pastor. So it made sense that Hal's primary motive in undertaking this project was to expand the scope of spiritually compelling resources available to religious seekers. Less obvious, although wonderfully exciting, was Hal's plan. Rather than decide himself which documents to include in a new new testament, he would convene a council of scholars and practitioners who would make the decision in a communal, democratic process. The piety and humility of this project struck a chord. Tradition would be honored for its accrued sacred quality -- none of the official 27 books would be dismissed. The resulting volume -- the old interspersed with selected new -- would be titled "A New New Testament." As Phyllis Tickle has written, "Every five hundred years, the church needs a rummage sale. Others are now free, indeed encouraged, to offer their own versions."

There was only one detail of the plan that struck me as surprising. Hal was not only sharing with me his excitement about this huge undertaking, he was inviting me to be a member of the council. What business was it of mine, or of Rabbi Arthur Waskow, the other Jew involved, what Christians might find spiritually meaningful? How would I know? I have to confess that my "evil impulse" wondered if I really wanted their New Testament to be any richer than it was. After all, as a rabbi, shouldn't I be playing for a different team? Having squelched that idea as last century thinking, I listened to Hal's wisdom on this matter. He wanted to learn what people today might find meaningful, and he did not want to hear just from Christians. He would also have a yoga scholar on board.

I ended up serving on the executive committee that culled from 40 documents the 20 that the council would consider. I then took part in the February 2012 council that selected the 10 documents that ultimately made it into "A New New Testament." It meant a lot of reading. Some of it was fabulous, like the poem Thunder: A Perfect Mind, the kind of text one might chose to tattoo a verse from on one's body. (I learned that one of Hal's research assistants had, indeed, done just that.) The Gospel of Mary provided exciting reading. I loved The Gospel of Truth with its lush, sensual imagery and its joy. Some of the work, however, was a slog. I found the martyrdom texts rough going. I tried to rouse my enthusiasm for a text about Perpetua, a nursing mother, who met a martyr's death at the age of 22, along with her slave Felicity. Some of the scholars on the Council, in particular women, thought it good to remind Christians of the passion and zeal of the first centuries of their faith, the life or death consequences of living out the message of Jesus. Fascinating as I found the story, it did not qualify as Scripture for me. Simplistically perhaps, it seemed to me that there is too much martyrdom and death going on in the name of religion these days.

The texts we examined are far from perfect, just like the ones in the New Testament itself, or the Hebrew Bible for that matter. The Christians on the Council took utterly seriously their responsibility to bring to people an expanded understanding of their faith, even as they would not airbrush the picture for 21st century political correctness. As Hal writes, "the traditional New Testament binding has broken open." One can try to paste it back together or one can revel in the opportunity -- rereading the old in light of the new, rethinking, reimaging and reconstructing. All of it human and flawed, flawed and human. The intention makes it holy work.

Leviticus 9:1-11:47: Aaron's Sons, Ben Azzai and Marriage Equality

2013-04-02T08:37:21-04:00

Last week, as the Supreme Court heard arguments regarding marriage equality for same-sex couples, I returned, as I do each year, to the Torah portion Shemini, with its cryptic report of the tragic fate of two sons of Aaron, Nadav and Avihu. This year, a chain of textual associations took shape in my mind, linking the mysterious story of these brothers in Leviticus to a contemporary issue of justice.

I invite you to join me on an interpretive journey from the Torah to the Talmud to the New York Times...

It was the big day for Aaron, the High Priest: the official dedication of the Tabernacle. Out of the blue, catastrophe struck. Before the entire community, a "fire came forth from the Lord" (Leviticus 10:2), consuming Nadav and Avihu, Aaron's eldest sons. An occasion for celebration turned into one of mourning. Why?

Some commentators insist upon the simple explanation of the text itself. The brothers, newly ordained as priests, had brought "strange fire" (Leviticus 10:1). They earned their fate by, as it were, "going rogue." Other readers, however, are not satisfied. They have tried to uncover a crime that more aptly fits the punishment. Searching textual references, however scant, generations of interpreters have applied their creativity to understanding the seemingly unjust killing of Nadav and Avihu.

Some have suggested that we see the young men's deaths not as punishment, but as consequence. As explained in next week's portion, Nadav and Avihu simply "drew too close to the presence of the Lord" (Leviticus 16:1). Their wish to be united with God was fulfilled, entailing the separation of their souls from their bodies.

Going back hundreds of years, some Jewish commentators have made a connection between this reading of the story and a famous legend involving the second-century rabbinic figure Simeon ben Azzai. The legend reports that Ben Azzai was one of four spiritual masters who "entered Paradise." Ben Azzai was the one who "gazed (peeked) at the Divine Presence and died" (BT Hagigah 14b). Like Nadav and Avihu, he got too close.

This is not the only parallel between the two brothers and Ben Azzai.

Leviticus 10:1 says of Nadav and Avihu that "each of them" took his censor. From this, a rabbinic commentator, Bar Kappara, concluded that Nadav and Avihu "had not taken counsel from each other" (Levitcus Rabbah 20:10). Although they were engaged in an exalted service to the Lord, they failed the very first step of brotherly cooperation. Bar Kappara offers this failure as one of four reasons why Nadav and Avihu merited their fate.

Ben Azzai's famous debate with Rabbi Akiba seems relevant here. These sages asked: What is the "greatest principle of the Torah?" Akiba responded with a verse from Leviticus: "Love your fellow as yourself." Ben Azzai countered with a verse from Genesis: "When God created humans, God made them in God's image (Genesis Rabbah 2:6-7; cf Yerushalmi Nedarim 9:41; Sifra, Kedoshim 4).

For Ben Azzai, Akiba's principle risked being too narrowly conceived. "Your neighbor" might be thought to refer just to your fellow Jew. What about the stranger? How about the enemy? Ben Azzai grounded his principle in the story of creation itself, leaving no room for exceptions. All must be treated as the image of God. His concern for human rights was rooted in the principle of universal human dignity.

If Bar Kappara was right, Nadav and Avihu were, like Ben Azzai, "big-picture" guys. Their gaze was so big, in fact, that they each missed the brother standing next to him.

Akiba would have reminded them to start with their own brother, then move on to their community, to all Israelites and so on. Ben Azzai, on the other hand, would have emphasized the need to continue to enlarge the circle, reaching to the most inclusive vision of humanity.

Last week, as the Supreme Court heard arguments involving equal rights to marriage for all citizens, I remembered yet a third parallel between Aaron's sons and Ben Azzai. While Ben Azzai never married, he made it clear that he did not recommend this path for others (BT Ketubot 63a). Similarly, one of the many alleged transgressions traditional interpreters have pinned on Nadav and Avihu is that they remained (due to their arrogance) unmarried (Midrash Rabbah 20:10).

These texts, like so many others within Jewish tradition, clearly reflect a preference for the married state. For many Jews, extending the reach of the institution of marriage seems in keeping with enhancing "traditional family values."

More importantly, as the conversation in and out of the Court unfolded last week, I heard the voices of both Ben Azzai and Akiba. Ben Azzai was there, touting the "image of God" as something that applies to everyone. Thus, human rights must be similarly applied. The law must take account of the big picture. It should not accommodate itself to the limitations of our powers of empathy. Our particular prejudices, even those enshrined in tradition, must give way to principles of justice that transcend our own experience.

But Akiba was there, as well, reminding us that it was precisely through experience -- through knowing gay and lesbian brothers, sisters and co-workers -- that so many Americans have seen their own views on this issue evolve. Abstract ideas about the definition of marriage gave way before the reality of the human beings in front of them, neighbors who wanted to make a commitment to their life partners, just as they did.

We need Rabbis Akiba and Ben Azzai. Together, they teach neighborly love and universal dignity, and all the levels in between. No skipping steps.

ON Scripture -- The Torah is a weekly Jewish scriptural commentary, produced in collaboration with Odyssey Networks and Hebrew College. Thought leaders from the United States and beyond offer their insights into the weekly Torah portion and contemporary social, political, and spiritual life.

The Huppah and the Supreme Court: A New Year's Resolution

2013-01-09T12:07:32-05:00

Back in1982, a young couple came to me with an unusual request. They wanted a Jewish wedding that included a public statement acknowledging what they referred to as their "heterosexual privilege." They felt it was important while under the huppah to recognize that they were invoking a right denied gay people by every state in the union.

Just a few years before, I had been married with the blessing of the State of Connecticut and two Reform rabbis. Not a word was said about gays, lesbians or injustice. I knew only one person who had celebrated her same sex union with a "wedding ceremony," but my cousin Frances Fuchs was ahead of the curve, even for California. In fact, Frances recalls that her friends, gay and straight, thought it was "a little weird." In those days, no movement in Judaism, including my own, knowingly ordained gay people, much less sanctioned their marriages.

I told the couple that I would marry them, and that they were free to say whatever they wanted about this issue. But I would stay out of it. The truth is: I had nothing to say. In my encounter with that couple, they were the religious leaders, I, the follower.

Today, I have something to say. Hence, my (secular) New Year's Resolution: to challenge others as that couple challenged me. Weddings are celebrations, not only of personal milestones, but also of communal values. I will no longer squander the opportunity to lead. Over the years, what once seemed to me an incongruous addition to the wedding ritual began to feel increasingly appropriate. At the start of 2013 it has become -- for me -- imperative.

Why imperative? Haven't we come far enough already? Indeed, in some segments of our society, we have witnessed an astounding transformation. All the non-Orthodox rabbinical seminaries now ordain men and women regardless of their sexual orientation, and many rabbis perform Jewish weddings for straight and gay couples. Even the stodgy New York Times marriage section now announces same sex weddings. A growing number of citizens live in states that recognize gay marriage. And this year, for the first time, the United States Supreme Court has agreed to hear two cases involving the constitutionality of denying gay people access to the same protections and privileges accorded straight people who commit their lives to one another.

Which brings us to why establishing gay marriage as a social norm is imperative.

First, most states still do not allow gay people to marry. Where I live, my gay rabbinic colleagues routinely perform weddings by "the power vested in them by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania," a state that will not recognize their own marriages. Furthermore, our federal law lags behind and takes precedence over the laws in states that have gay marriage. Significantly, this spring the justices will rule on a case in which the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) will come under scrutiny. That Act defines marriage as between a man and a woman for purposes of federal law. Until DOMA is overturned, same sex couples marrying in one of the states in which it is legal still do not have the rights of a spouse to access federal benefits ranging from social security to treatment of their children to immigration status to inheritance taxes to health insurance. The list goes on for eight pages.

Consider the analogy to interracial marriage. In 1966, Gallup polls showed only 20 percent of the U.S. population approved of interracial marriages. There were still 17 states in which such unions were prohibited. In 1967, the Supreme Court declared those laws unconstitutional in Loving v. Virginia. The struggle for a racially just society required the legal breakthroughs of the civil rights era. It also required -- and still requires -- changing hearts and minds. As we await the Supreme Court's decision, one that may well take its place beside Loving v. Virginia as a landmark of justice, I want to move toward that landmark on the ground, one conversation at a time, one ritual at a time, until gay marriage becomes a legal right and a social norm.

My New Year's Resolution: Each time I plan a wedding with a heterosexual couple, I will initiate a conversation about marriage equality. To be specific, I will suggest that they include in their service a prayer for change. The particular prayer is not important, acknowledging the issue publically is. I will also challenge my rabbinic colleagues who do not already do so to include something similar in their own wedding planning routine. Here is my version, also posted on Ritualwell.org:

As we stand under the huppah today, we give thanks that we can marry with the blessings of our rabbi, our community, our state and our federal government.

At this moment, we turn our gratitude to concern. We pray for the day when our country recognizes and honors the marriages of our gay brothers and sisters just as it recognizes and honors our own.

We pledge to contribute to _______ (fill in organization) that is working toward that end.

May there soon be heard in our land the sound of gladness and joy as loving couples -- all loving couples -- dance and sing and celebrate.

May that time come speedily and in our days.

Amen.

'Life of Pi': Can a Movie Make You Believe in God?

2012-12-12T14:34:44-05:00

While there are many new films in the theaters this holiday season, "Life of Pi" seemed to be required viewing for me. As an interfaith educator, how could I not see a film, whose protagonist, a boy named Pi, is born a Hindu, loves Jesus and practices Islam? While Pi's co-star is a 450-pound carnivorous Bengal Tiger, and I am not a fan of animal movies, the theme of interspirituality intrigued me. And as a person of faith, how could I pass up the opportunity to see a story that claims it will "make you believe in God"?

The reviewers seem to agree that Ang Lee's gorgeous film, based on Yann Martel's 1991 novel, is a stunning technological achievement. No argument there. The more sophisticated ones, however, refuse to be taken in by its alleged theology. The film "invites you to believe in all kinds of marvelous things," says the New York Times, but "leaves you wondering if you saw anything at all." Or to put it as Salon did, it is "radioactive hokum."

I went with my daughter and returned a week later to see it again with my husband. I will gladly go back a third time with anyone who will come along, if only for the magnificence of Ang Lee's visuals, the brilliance of first-time actor Suraj Sharm and the opportunity to hear if my companion agrees with the critics. I do not.

I think the critics are missing something. The film tells a single story in two versions, only one of which is shown on the screen. At the end, it poses a question: "Which version do you prefer?" followed by the comment: "So it goes with God." The New Yorker reviewer called that, "the most howlingly presumptuous and vapid line of dialogue I've heard in a movie this year." If I saw that exchange as the key to the meaning of the film, I might agree. And though I would not say it so arrogantly, I might also agree with the one line Twitter comment: "Ang Lee's Life of Pi brings you closer to God the way Skittles bring you closer to rainbows." Fortunately, I do not think that is the point.

No doubt, the film does want to contrast, as Pi puts it, "dry, yeastless factuality" with the power of the imagination. On one level, the movie is -- as some critics have noted -- about believing in art. It is not incidental that the overall frame of the screenplay has the adult Pi telling his story to a novelist who is in search of a new plot. But the ability of stories to create transcendent meaning is just the start. I do think the movie is about God, but not the kind of God one chooses to "believe in" or not, who is featured in lush stories with animals rather than in dryer, flatter, more prosaic accounts. It is certainly not about a God who explains why people suffer and redeems all evil. This is not a God whose story one necessarily would "prefer."

I understood the movie to be about living in relationship with the mystery at the heart of all life. Some call that mystery God, others use different names. But as the film itself reminds us, names are a tricky business. (Due to a clerical error, the tiger, Richard Parker, has a human name.) From an early age, Pi is drawn to the mystery. He reaches out to God in every language he can find, while his father, a rationalist of the New India, tries to impress upon him the value of cold, hard science. The young Pi also wants to connect with Richard Parker, at this point still a caged animal in Pi's father's zoo. Pi's father does succeed in teaching him the danger of that particular longing. In the version of the story we see on film, as a result of a shipwreck, Pi finds himself on a life boat with the very tiger he both loves and fears. In awe of what soon becomes his only companion, Pi must figure out how to survive.

Richard Parker is magnificent, terrifying and inscrutable. Often, he is hiding. Pi soon despairs of ever fully taming Richard Parker, but, as Pi puts it, he tries to at least "train him." At one point, Pi has the option to be rid of the tiger forever, but he chooses to take him back, knowing that his struggle with Richard Parker is keeping him alive. Pi wants more than to simply triumph over his companion or even to reach a détente, to endure. Pi wants a relationship.

Later in the film, Pi narrates another version of the story, not shown on the screen, one that is quite horrifying and lacks any wondrous animals. But, as Pi says, neither version of the story explains why the boat sank in the first place; neither version is without its terror. The story with the animals, presumably the "God" story, is no sweet pie-in-the-sky theology, as the critics seem to assume. The Slate critic asks: "If the tiger isn't just a tiger but a stand-in for God or nature or the universal Other, do we still need to worry about him chomping off Pi's arm?" I don't know about you, but my God takes arms, not to mention whole persons, frighteningly often. This is not a simple story of the value of enchantment, a "sugar coated revelation."

In one of the last scenes in the movie, Richard Parker reveals that Pi's love for him is not reciprocated. In fact, he apparently has no interest in Pi at all. It is an absolutely devastating moment, one so powerfully realized that I completely forgot the tiger was only an animal, and a computer generated image at that. I wept. In the end, it is not about preferring one version or another, of "believing" in God or not believing in God. Like Pi, some people simply can't help but see the universe as Thou, even if that Thou -- at once gorgeous and terrifying -- is largely indifferent to us. Nevertheless, the effort to connect sustains us.

To Bigotry No Sanction

2012-10-03T11:37:35-04:00

This post was coauthored by Seth F. Kreimer, Kenneth W. Gemmill Professor, University of Pennsylvania School of Law.

Pamela Geller's "Support Israel, Defeat Jihad" ad campaign arrived in New York subway stations this month. The campaign strives to be as clever as it is malevolent. Geller claims it is simply a pro-Israel political statement. But the ad's text is a calculated echo of Ayn Rand's slur that Israel's opponents, and indeed all Arabs, are "primitive ... savages."

Not missing the point, the New York City transit authority first rejected the ad as demeaning, only to be forced by a Federal District judge to accept it because of the First Amendment right of free speech.

The issue of free speech is, however, a red herring. The campaign aims to distract and confuse Americans. Geller has played that game before. Concern for sensitivity to victims' families served as a cover for the anti-Muslim agenda in Geller's last major initiative, the controversy she helped create around what she misnamed the "mosque at Ground Zero." This time, Geller wants to link her ad campaign and its legal battles with free speech in America and backlash in the Middle East. She claims opponents of the ads are un-American. She is wrong. Opposition to bigotry is as much a core American value as freedom of speech. It is Geller's effort to set the two at odds that flies in the face of our ideals.

Geller's ads seek to provoke the behavior she claims to fear, and to provoke enough of it to create fear in others. Like Geller's other pet project, "Stop Islamization of America," the campaign is designed to stoke anxiety that American Muslims do not understand and support America's freedoms. Geller posts provocative ads. She then reports on her blog -- with great satisfaction -- any examples of Muslim Americans reacting in ways that fail to appreciate the complex, messy business of freedom of speech in this country. At this, she cries, "The sharia-ization is beginning!"

In fact, major Muslim American spokesmen responded to the ad altogether appropriately. CAIR national communications director Ibrahim Hooper said, "The First Amendment grants everybody rights, including to be a racist and a bigot." But you won't find that statement reported on Geller's blog. Nor will you find the picture of an orthodox rabbi and a Muslim protesting the ad with a sign stating "Fanatics from my faith do not represent me!"

As Jews, we regularly expect Muslim and Christian friends to denounce anti-Semitism and terrorism within their own communities. In fairness, it is our duty to join others in stepping up when Jews are the ones promulgating hate. Geller knows well that apparent support for Israel is one way to package an anti-Muslim message that makes it tricky for Jewish leaders to offer unequivocal and unified denunciations. Her tactic, however, does not seem to be paying off across the board. Even Jews who do not usually agree on matters related to Israel are refusing to be distracted. The Anti-Defamation League carries on its website a condemnation of Geller for "consistently vilifying the Islamic faith under the guise of fighting radical Islam." On Sept. 21, the Jewish Voice for Peace, Jews for Racial and Economic Justice and Say No! issued a statement condemning Geller's ad. The same day, the Jewish Council for Public Affairs decried Geller's ads as "Bigoted, Divisive and Unhelpful." Rabbi Rachel Troster of Rabbis for Human Rights North America has spoken out, as has the president of the Union of Reform Judaism, Rabbi Rick Jacobs.

In his famous letter to the first Jewish synagogue in America, George Washington wrote that the United States government grants "to bigotry no sanction." But because our government does grant to all its citizens freedom of speech, it will protect the right of Pamela Geller to post her bigotry, just as it allows over 900 hate groups, including anti-Semitic groups, to operate. In America, the work of giving bigotry no sanction devolves on citizens. We are the ones with the liberty -- and the obligation -- to speak our own truths in the face of hate mongering. And Geller isn't clever enough to stop us.

My Neighbor's Faith: Trouble Praying

2012-05-11T07:10:12-04:00

"I envy you Jews," said the young German as he poured my morning coffee.

The year was 1980. I was the guest of a graduate student at Heidelberg University. My stay in his home was part of a month-long trip through Germany with Jews and Christians engaged in "post-Holocaust interfaith dialogue."

My host's statement surprised and bewildered me. I was just beginning my dissertation on the topic of anti-Judaism in Protestant "Old Testament" theology and I thought I knew a lot about the relationship between Jews and Christians. In fact, I was planning to devote my career to helping Christians see their complicity in the suffering of the Jews and to transcend the flaws in their theology. I could understand my host feeling sorry for us Jews. I could understand him apologizing to us. But I could not understand him envying us.

"Why in the world would you envy Jews?" I asked.

His reply changed my life.

"I envy you because it is easier for you to pray. You see, we young Germans carry the weight of what our parents and grandparents did -- or did not do -- during the war. It is hard for us to talk to God. We feel a little embarrassed." Although the conversation took place 30 years ago, I can conjure it up in an instant: the earnestness in my fellow student's voice, the clarity in his blue eyes.

I had thought, until then, that it was we Jews, the victims, who had trouble praying! There was something about the way he said it -- perhaps the phrase "a little embarrassed" -- that made it feel completely genuine. This conversation clarified for me my core belief, a very useful thing to discover at the age of 27. After that morning, I possessed an orienting idea, a place to check in regularly to see if my plans were aligned with what I believed.

I believe that we should live our lives so that our children won't be "a little embarrassed" if they want to pray. Until that morning, I thought that meant being a good daughter, a compassionate friend and a dutiful citizen. But now I saw something new: taking responsibility for the group from which I derive my identity, the group whose actions will lead my children to be proud or embarrassed before God. For me, that group was and is the Jewish people.

The immediate result of this revelation was that I changed my dissertation topic. Rather than looking at problematic Christian texts, I would study problematic Jewish writings. I would investigate the ways in which my own tradition misunderstands others rather than point a finger at the others for misunderstanding us.

That can be challenging. For example, today, when I choose to speak out about certain policies pursued by the State of Israel, colleagues -- including good friends -- e-mail me to say they disagree with my action. "You ought to be criticizing Hamas," they say. "There are enough non-Jews jumping on the bandwagon to condemn Israeli actions; we don't need rabbis doing it too!" "Besides," they often add, "however bad Israel's actions, many other countries have done much worse."

They are right, of course. But what can I do? I can learn as much as possible, consult Israelis I trust who know more than I do, and try to speak with humility. My commitment to Middle East work, like the interfaith work to which I devote most of my time, grows from my core belief to which I have tried to stay true. Being part of a community means being ready to argue with it, to critique it, to ask it to live up to its best self.

I say I do it for tikkun olam, to make the world more whole. But the deeper truth is that I do it for my daughters. They are now in their 20s, still figuring out their relationship to their Jewish heritage and to God. I want them to be able to pray without embarrassment. Although there is much to lament in the way some Christians and some Muslims have treated and continue to treat Jews, that is not my issue. My job as a Jew, as a mother, is to scrutinize my own faith tradition and my own community. Given that I have uncertain knowledge and limited power, all I can do is my best. But thanks to an encounter 30 years ago, I know what I am trying to accomplish.

This column is an excerpt from 'My Neighbor's Faith: Stories of Interreligious Encounter, Growth, and Transformation.'

Shabbat HaGadol: Setting The Table For Passover

2012-03-27T11:04:34-04:00

Earlier this month, French Prime Minister Francois Fillon, in the midst of a difficult election season, attacked both Muslim and Jewish slaughter practices, halal and kashrut. He called for Muslims and Jews to give up their "ancestral traditions" of religious slaughter, saying they "no longer have much to do with today's state of science, with the state of technology, with health problems."

Fillon's statements were part of a larger effort to appeal to anti-immigrant sentiment in the French electorate, and he ultimately backed off after visits from a rabbi and an imam. Fillon's intentions were suspect, but he raised some worthwhile questions. What is the value of seemingly antiquated religious dietary laws? Why declare some foods forbidden and others required? Why delineate feasts and fasts? Why make a religious issue out of how we fuel our bodies and feed our families?

Those questions are especially relevant as we approach the Sabbath before Passover, known as Shabbat HaGadol, "the Great Sabbath." Traditionally, this has been a day for lengthy rabbinic sermons, often devoted to the food regulations connected to the coming festival. While Jewish law sacralizes food throughout the year, Passover brings eating to a new level of complexity. Sometimes the details threaten to overwhelm and obscure the meaning. Returning to the story of the Exodus helps the message assert itself. As poet Linda Pastan says about her Passover preparations, "I set my table with metaphors."

Let me focus on one important feature -- the lamb.

The story begins in Exodus 12:3. As a final preparation before the redemption in Egypt, the Israelites are told to "take for yourselves lambs." Four days later, we learn, those lambs were to be slaughtered, roasted and eaten in family groups as a final meal on the night of the Exodus. Even before the escape is executed, God provides instructions about how the deliverance will be commemorated: "You will remember this and tell it to your children. And when the children ask what the holiday is all about, you will say, it is the pesach sacrifice of the Lord" (Exodus 12:27).

The Hebrew word pesach has two possible meanings, both of which come into play. It can mean leap or skip, giving us the English name for the holiday, Passover. It can also mean hover or protect. The slaves smear the blood of the paschal lambs on their doorposts, to protect their lives: the 10th plague brings death to the land's first born, but passes over the homes of the Israelites.

That night, the Israelites go free, but their victory is not without a cost. There is not a house in all of Egypt, however innocent, that does not lose a child. God tells the Israelites: you have been spared the fate of the Egyptians; now, you owe. Place a lamb on the altar. Acknowledge, if only symbolically, that your own first born must be turned over to God.

This year, I am struck by the connection of this story to the ongoing conflict in Israel and Palestine. While I celebrate the return of my people to our ancestral homeland, I also know that others have paid a heavy price for this dream to come true, in particular the Palestinians who were there when we came home. Tragically, both Palestinians and Israelis continue to pay dearly, inflicting great suffering on one another and offering far too many young people up as sacrifices. My obligation, especially acute as a first born, is to acknowledge the shadow side of the seder and, similarly, that of the Jewish state.

In biblical times, Jews marked the Passover festival by the sacrifice and communal eating of lambs. (Today, we place a shank bone on the seder plate and tell the story.) Later, rabbis recalled the 10th plague by establishing an annual fast for first-borns on the day before the holiday. Had we eldest children been in Egypt, our lives would have been at risk on that fateful night, hence our obligation to sacrifice. Over the years, participation in sacred study has become a way to exempt oneself from the fast. I observe the "fast of the first born" each year by engaging in the study of a religious text with fellow eldest children in the synagogue, having a quick breakfast, and heading home to complete my preparations for the seder.

The option to study instead of fast has often seemed to me at best a non sequitur, at worst a legal subterfuge. I wonder: Do I really give up anything when I study -- and eat -- in place of fasting? How can learning be, even metaphorically, a form of sacrifice?

In engaging in conversation about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, I get a glimmer of an answer. What I give up when I study is my cherished belief that I know everything. After many years of engaging in impassioned discussion and debate about Israel-Palestine with Jews and non-Jews alike, I recognize how hard it can be to listen -- to really listen -- to the opinions of people with whom I disagree. But when I do open myself to being taught by others, I create my own altar -- so to speak -- and place upon it the illusion that I already have all the information I need to be right.

As Shabbat HaGadol approaches this year, I hear the command to humbly go and learn: about the narratives of both Israelis and Palestinians, about the complexities of this devastating conflict, and about the pragmatics of working to end the bloodshed.

ON Scripture -- The Torah is a weekly Jewish scriptural commentary, produced in collaboration with Odyssey Networks and Hebrew College. Thought leaders from the United States and beyond offer their insights into the weekly Torah portion and contemporary social, political, and spiritual life.

A Tale of One Mosque and Two News Stories

2011-10-10T11:51:01-04:00

This is the tale of one city, one Islamic Center and two news stories. An iconic photo, taken a year and a half ago, represents the first story: a plywood sign announcing "Future Site of the Islamic Center of Murfreesboro," spray painted over with the words, "Not Welcome." That story put the town on the map. CNN produced a 43-minute documentary that aired this past April. The Daily Show featured it in a segment "Tennessee No Evil." Faiz Zhakir, vice president of the Center for American Progress and one of the researchers behind Fear, Inc., called it "ground zero of Muslim bashing in America."

The second story, garnering almost no national attention, is represented by a picture taken last week of 10 individuals with shovels, a classic American groundbreaking scene. Even CNN gave only a brief notice to The Islamic Center of Murfreesboro's breaking of ground on Sept. 29. The stories belong together and they deserve to be widely told.

In the spring of 2008, Imam Ossama Bahloul, Ph.D., a graduate of the prestigious Al-Azhar University in Cairo, chose to turn down bigger job offer and opt for a quiet life in the city of Murfreesboro, Tenn., 35 miles south of Nashville. With a population of 100,000, Murfreesboro, according to its website, is the fastest growing city in the state, as well as the most livable. The 250 Muslim families, some having lived there for almost 30 years, were outgrowing their small meeting space; Friday prayers were spilling into the parking lot. In 2009 the group purchased a 15-acre plot and in May, 2010 Rutherford County Regional Planning Commission approved plans for an Islamic Center whose eventual size might reach 52,960 square feet.

As soon as the sign announcing the future site of the Islamic Center went up, spray paint defaced it. Vandals tore down a second sign. In July, several hundred residents marched in protest against the mosque. In August, things got worse. Police deemed a fire on the site as arson, and gunshots were heard nearby. The same month, Lt. Gov. Ron Ramsey, then running for governor, spoke against the mosque. "You could even argue whether being a Muslim is actually a religion, or is it a nationality, way of life, a cult, whatever you want to call it."

In September, 17 land owners sued Rutherford County, claiming that the county should have investigated the substantive beliefs of the Islamic Center before approving its plans. During the trial, plaintiffs called to the stand Frank Gaffney, Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense under President Ronald Reagan, as an expert on sharia. "I don't hold myself out as an expert on sharia law," Gaffney told the court. "But I have talked a lot about that as a threat." Gaffney testified that "Sharia is the enemy-threat doctrine we face today." They asked the court to consider Islam as a political system or ideology, not just a religion.

The U.S. Justice Department disagreed. It filed a friend of the court brief in which it explained that "every U.S. court addressing the question has treated Islam as a religion for purposes of the First Amendment and other federal laws. ... Islam falls plainly within the understanding of a religion for constitutional and other federal legal purposes, and qualifies as a religion under the various tests courts have developed." The brief even quoted a dissenting opinion by Justice Scalia (joined by Justices Relmquist, Thomas and Kennedy) in favor of a public display of the Ten Commandments that noted that Islam, along with Christianity and Judaism, is one of "the three most popular religions in the United States," and that "these three monotheistic faiths account for 97.7% of all believers."

The Justice Department also argued that the county would be in danger of violating the Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act that Congress passed in 2000 in response to findings that "religious institutions in general, and minority faiths in particular, frequently face overt and subtle discrimination in the application of land use and zoning regulations."

In May of this year, after the CNN documentary was aired, the judge ruled against the plaintiffs and on Aug. 30, the judge upheld his decision: "Those who are adherents to Islam are entitled to pursue their worship in the United States just as are those who are adherents to more universally established faiths (in our community)" the judge wrote. He continued, "The plaintiffs have established that there may be extremist members within the group of worshipers even here in Rutherford County, but that does not change the fact that Islam exists as a religion apart from the extremist philosophies."

Last month, I visited Murfreesboro as part of Clergy Beyond Borders' caravan that included two imams, an evangelical minister and another rabbi. We were invited to speak at Middle Tennessee State University, the largest undergraduate institution in the state, by the Muslim Students Association, the Jewish Student Union and the Wesley Student Association. The local NBC news carried a two-minute segment about the event. We were heartened that the friendly audience we met considered themselves the mainstream of their community. The protestors who had made the news, they told us, were a small, if vocal, minority.

Despite initial difficulty finding a contractor and a recent bomb threat, the Muslims we met in Murfreesboro seemed confident and optimistic. Lema Sbenaty, a 20-year-old pre-med student at MTSU who grew up in the town, was featured in the CNN documentary. Articulate, self possessed and beautiful, Lema organized our visit with her fellow students. She told us that she attended every day of the six week trial, eventually laughing at the absurdity of some of the attacks. Lema was happy with the court's decision, but not surprised, having received hundreds of emails from non-Muslims she never met, telling her they were her allies. She was looking forward to celebrating the ground breaking.

Like Lema, Imam Bahloul also looked to the future with hope. He too received messages of solidarity from around the country. Many included contributions for the proposed Islamic Center, sometimes in the form of a $10 bill. One well-meaning Christian in Texas offered the imam land on his ranch to build the mosque. "I had to explain to him that we could not accept his generous offer. The families in our congregation live here in Murfreesboro. And we are not planning to move."

The Good News About American Islamophobia

2011-09-16T12:00:33-04:00

While meeting to prepare my taxes, my accountant asked me, "What's new and good in your line of work?" She knows that I am a long time interfaith educator and that in the last few years I have been working in coalitions with members of other faith communities to combat religious prejudice against Muslims in this country.

Despite much to deplore and enormous challenges ahead, I could answer that there is some good news about Islamophobia. Obviously, the good news needs to be heard in the context of the bad news, bad both for Muslims and for the rest of us who care about America. Recent reports by the Pew Research Center (August), the Center for American Progress (August) and the Brookings Institution and the Public Religion Research institute (September) all document the bad news. More than half of all Muslims under the age of 30 report being the victims of religious intolerance in the last year (Pew). In the last decade, seven foundations have poured more than $40 million into efforts to drum up fear of Muslims in America (CAP). Forty-seven percent of Americans believe Islam is incompatible with American values (Brookings). Clearly, religious prejudice against Muslims continues to be a concern -- a serious concern. At the same time, each report also includes the seeds of some good news.

First, the Brookings study, "What It Means to be an American: Attitudes in an Increasingly Diverse America Ten Years after 9/11," reveals that most Americans have very little direct experience of Muslims. The majority have no opportunity to speak to a Muslim, even occasionally. What's good about that? In fact, it helps explain findings such as the Gallup Poll that placed Muslims as the most disliked religious group in America. We tend to dislike what we do not know. Robert Putnam describes the opposite situation as the "Aunt Susan effect." In his book "American Grace," Putnam observes how positive feelings develop as people get to know the "other" as friends and eventually family members.

With the exception of African American Muslims, Muslims are part of a recent immigrant community. The Pew study, "Muslim Americans: No Sign of Growth in Alienation or Extremism," reports that 63 percent of Muslim Americans are first-generation immigrants to the U.S., with 45 percent having arrived since 1990. (Strikingly, 81 percent of Muslim Americans are citizens of the U.S., including 70 percent of those born outside the U.S., a higher percentage than most other immigrant groups.) Muslims simply have not had the time to integrate into American society, but there is evidence, also in that study, that the process is well under way.

The Brookings report broke down responses by age of the informants. Americans ages 18-29 were twice as likely as those ages 65 and older to know Muslims personally. In each category, the young are moving in the direction Robert Putnam would predict will lead to better news. The future looks more promising than the past.

Second, most Americans do not know much about Islam. Once again, this can be the good news. In the Brookings study, people were asked how much they believe they know about Islam. Fourteen percent said they know a lot about the religious beliefs and practices of Muslims, 57 percent said they know a little, and 29 percent said they know nothing at all. The group that was most likely to say they know a lot about Muslims was, interestingly, Americans who identify with the Tea Party movement (21 percent).

What they know, unfortunately, was provided by a small cadre of well funded scholars, bloggers and media personalities, in particular, those on Fox News. The Center for American Progress recently documented the effort to shape the perception of Americans about Islam through an "echo chamber" of recycled information and misinformation. "Fear, Inc.: The Roots of the Islamophobia Network in America," shows how movements like the one to ban so-called "Sharia law" are created. A "solution in search of a problem," state legislation proposing to keep Islamic law from superseding American law did not emerge out of spontaneous grassroots concern. In fact, according to a recent article in the New York Times, one of the chief authors of this legislation confessed that "if this law passed in every state it would not have served its purpose." The purpose is to stir up suspicion and controversy, not to actually pass legislation that the author himself knows is unconstitutional as well as unnecessary.

As people learn more about the work of this small group and their funders, we will be in a better position to offer a counter narrative. The good news lies in the more than 80 percent of Americans who know little or nothing about Islam and know that they know little or nothing about it. Americans are evenly divided over the question of whether Islam and democracy are congenial, but the question is flawed. It presumes a static entity called "Islam." Like other great religious traditions, Islam is evolving and multidimensional. Neither Roman Catholicism nor Judaism were, in essence, "democratic," but American versions of both of those traditions became part of the fabric of American religious life, as will American Islam. Again, this has already begun to happen.

This brings us to the third piece of good news, the outpouring of support for Muslims by their sisters and brothers in other religious communities in America. On Sept. 8, I stood proudly, shoulder-to-shoulder, with representatives of 26 national religious organizations, organized by the Islamic Society of North America. We said we refused to allow our communities to be victims of campaigns of misinformation. We can also use the Internet. Around the country, people commemorated 9/11 with formal programs and through simple acts of friendship.

Could I tell a darker story today? Of course. Should we be complacent? Far from it. The bad news is that there are people waking up early in the morning to take advantage of Americans' ignorance about Islam and to fill the void with fear. The good news is that others are determined to wake up earlier still and help Americans live the best of our country's values.

Jewish Heresies, Then and Now

2011-08-17T12:00:38-04:00

What is a rabbi to do?

My inbox this morning includes a petition from my local Jewish Community Relations Council opposing the Palestinian bid for statehood at the United Nations, a request from a Jewish lobby that supports a two state solution and a message from a colleague asking me to endorse a Jewish organization that promotes "democracy, equality and self determination" for both Jews and Palestinians. My husband suggests that I ignore all my emails and write about some topic other than Israel.

I am reminded of my earliest encounters within the Jewish world. In 1974, a year after the Yom Kippur War, I joined a newly founded group called Breira (Alternative). It was the first organization in the Jewish community to publicly criticize Israel's continued occupation of land captured in the Six Day War; the first to question the claim that circumstances left Israel no alternative ("ain breira"). At a time when there were between 10,000 and 20,000 Jewish settlers living in the territories, Breira was committed to the safety and security of the Jewish state but also supported self-determination of the Palestinian people, talks with the Palestinian Liberation Organization and, later, a Palestinian state. Although I was just out of college at the time, I found myself serving on the first governing board.

In the beginning, a number of prominent Jewish professionals signed on to Breira's larger "advisory board," only to drop off within the next year or two. Some of the departing members feared for their jobs. Ira Eisenstein, then the president of the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, had other reasons for leaving. While he had joined to support a challenge to "Israel right or wrong" thinking, Rabbi Eisenstein had come to feel that Breira extended "greater sympathy to the Palestinians than to the Israelis," as he explained in an editorial in the movement's periodical in February 1977.

The next month, he followed up with another editorial, "Needed: An Alternative to Breira." If Israel did not want to talk to the PLO and America was prepared to support them, Eisenstein wrote, who were we as American Jews to disagree?

As an applicant to RRC at the time, I read those editorials with some trepidation. Would my career be over before it began?

But while Rabbi Eisenstein opposed Breira's positions, he defended its members' right to hold them. He saw the importance of level-headed discussion among those who wanted to "establish Zion with justice." His second editorial deplored the attacks against the organization's leaders, specifically Hillel directors whose jobs were threatened. He added that "punitive measures ... are wrong, propelled by panic."

Fortunately for me, the rabbinical school reflected its president's principles: Just a few weeks after those editorials appeared, I was admitted. During my years at RRC, Rabbi Eisenstein and I continued to disagree strongly on that issue, among others, but always with respect. Other parts of the organized Jewish world were not so open minded, and Breira folded within five years of its founding.

Today, according to the petition from the JCRC, I should oppose the unilateral declaration of Palestinian statehood because the official position of the Jewish community is "two states based on negotiations" -- the very position considered outside the pale by Breira's opponents. But now there are close to half a million Jews living in the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Rabbi Eisenstein's hope for establishing "Zion with justice" looks increasingly shaky.

In retrospect, perhaps Breira's position was sympathetic to both Palestinians and Israelis. Perhaps it was not a zero sum game.

The current "heresy" involves questioning whether two states are still possible. Some Jews recall Zionist visions from the years before 1948 that included skepticism and even opposition to a Jewish state, positions advocated by leading Jewish thinkers such as Martin Buber and Rabbi Judah Magnes. Some who care deeply about being Jewish no longer define themselves as Zionist.

I can understand why Rabbi Eisenstein worried about Breira in 1977. But my experience reminds me that ideas considered unacceptable then look sensible, if not timid, now. As I listen to Jews discuss which positions on Israel are now kosher or treif, I realize how quickly those borders can and do change, and I admire even more Rabbi Eisenstein's visionary commitment to keep the conversation open.

Rabbi Eisenstein understood that the philosophical pragmatism at the base of his Reconstructionist approach to Judaism required humility. Writing about pragmatism, Louis Menand said,

"Beliefs are just bets on the future. ... There is always the possibility that some other set of truths might be the case. In the end, we have to act on what we believe ... but the moral justification for our actions comes from the tolerance we have shown for other ways of being in the world, other ways of considering the case."

I am grateful to be part of a Jewish movement that values respectful and compassionate Jewish peoplehood, that understands beliefs as bets on the future and that welcomes new voices, even those that make others uncomfortable -- perhaps especially those.

Religious Hatred is American Treason: Peter King Hearings and a Lesson from 1921

2011-03-15T13:12:41-04:00

In the weeks leading up to the House hearings on "the radicalization of American Muslims," anti-Muslim rhetoric continued apace in some segments of the media. At an Islamic Society of North America dinner in Arlington, Virginia last month, over 200 Muslims shared their concerns as panelists discussed the challenges facing the Muslim community. Professor Ingrid Mattson, the immediate past president of the organization, began the program by reminding the audience, "We are not alone -- our interfaith family has our back."

This is not the first time Americans of faith have stood behind a religious group singled out for suspicion. In 1921, at a time of widespread, virulent defamation of Jews, John Spargo, a lay Methodist minister, social critic and activist, said "It should not be left to men and women of the Jewish faith to fight this evil ... Anti-Semitism commands our special attention today ... but my plea is not for pro-Semitism." Rather, he opposed efforts to "divide our citizenship on religious lines." He did so out of "loyalty to American ideals." In a lecture later that year, Spargo called religious hatred "American treason." In his eyes, the "Jews' problem" was actually an American problem.

In the years immediately following the First World War, more than half the Jews in America were foreign born. As Spargo noted, "It is always difficult to avoid suspicion of the different groups we have drawn from other countries where there has been a barrier of language, creed or customs." Efforts were underway that would, by 1924, radically restrict immigration. A revived Ku Klux Klan, dormant since 1870, gathered force. Within the context of rising racism and xenophobia, Spargo was particularly outraged by the level of bigotry directed at Jews.

In February, 1920, Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer published a report entitled, "The Case Against the Reds," in which he asserted that the Department of Justice had discovered "upwards of 60,000 ... organized agitators ... in the United States," while broadly hinting that many were Jews. That same year, Henry Ford, the leading industrialist in the country, introduced the Protocols of the Elders of Zion to American readers, printing the first of a series of articles titled "The International Jew: The World's Problem," in newspapers that he owned and widely distributed. Never before (or since) have Jews in America felt so vulnerable.

Not unlike Muslim Americans today, Jews were a diverse community that sometimes disagreed over strategies and tactics. The American Jewish Committee, founded in 1906 by American Jewish lawyers and businessmen concerned for the fate of Jews in Russia, debated how to respond to their own situation, as did the more recently created Anti-Defamation League, begun in 1913 in response to the Leo Frank trial in Georgia. Should they consider litigation? Was a boycott of Ford cars too radical a response? Perhaps, some suggested, the recently published "Jewish Contributions to Civilization" should be widely distributed. Others thought to counter, point by point, the lies in the anti-Semitic literature.

What the Jews themselves could not have hoped to make happen, John Spargo did. The New York Times reported on Jan. 16, 1921 that, "A protest against anti-Semitic propaganda in the United States, bearing the signatures of President Wilson, William H. Taft, Cardinal O'Connell and 116 other widely known men and women of Christian faith, was made public here tonight by John Spargo, Socialist author." Signers included church leaders, secretaries of state, and university presidents. Among those who lent their names were William Jennings Bryan, Clarence Darrow, and W.E.B. Dubois.

Ninety years later, we find ourselves at another moment that calls for interfaith solidarity. After Congressman King announced his plans, 51 organizations, including Christian, Muslim, Unitarian and Sikh groups, signed a letter to the House leadership strongly objecting to the hearings. On Sunday, March 6, Jewish and Christian leaders spoke alongside Muslims at a rally in Times Square; some 300 people stood in the rain that Sunday bearing signs reading "Today, I am a Muslim Too." As the first day of hearings ended, an interfaith coalition held a press conference, announcing the official launch of Shoulder to Shoulder: Standing with American Muslims; Upholding American Values, a campaign of national faith-based organizations and religious denominations to promote tolerance and put an end to anti-Muslim bigotry.

John Webster Spargo would approve. He would also urge us to expand our ranks and make our witness stronger and more visible. Our interfaith family should assure Muslim Americans that we do, indeed, "have their back." That said, Spargo would remind us that the problem we are facing is not the "Muslim's problem." It is a problem for Americans. And we will address it ... shoulder to shoulder.

Rabbi Nancy Fuchs Kreimer is a member of the Steering Committee of "Shoulder-to-Shoulder".

In the Spittin' Image of God

2010-12-20T17:14:01-05:00

When I was a child in the late 1950s, before I was able to read, there was a book in my home called The Family of Man, a compilation of photographs that had recently been exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. The collection was, as I found out later, a "photo-biography of the human race."

I recall poring over that book during long evenings. I marveled over the fact that two eyes, a nose and a mouth could take on such variety. These pictures were wondrous, but the awe they evoked was not entirely comfortable. I struggled to reconcile the deep sense of kinship I felt with those faces with the estrangement of being a lonely child. The conundrum of separateness and connection was bewildering, a bit uncanny.

I had a voracious thirst to learn what other people did with their deepest fears and hopes: with their solitude, their sense of connection, their awe. My family was not big on spiritual practice. Study, however, was a sacred endeavor. So, as soon as I could choose my own books, I began reading about the religions of the world.

When I was about 15, I learned something that changed my life. It happened, of all places, in synagogue school. We were exploring a passage from the Mishnah, a Jewish law code from the 200 C.E. At one point, it says, "An earthly king stamps his image on a coin and they all look the same. But the King of Kings, God, puts His image on every human being, and every one is different."

That felt exactly right: I was a unique coin, but stamped from the very same "image" as every other. Until that moment, I had not known if I believed in God. But that text made sense to me. No person is more holy than any other. This messy reality with all its wild diversity was actually also a unity, a sacred oneness.

Now I work in a rabbinical college, creating programs that prepare students for a world of religious diversity. I am lucky enough to get to spend every day honoring my core belief.

I believe that no matter who you are -- a bearded orthodox rabbi or a hijab-wearing Muslim woman -- you are, simply by virtue of being human, the spittin' image of the one and only God. My work is to bring together people whose looks, experiences and beliefs are different, people who first encounter each other as strangers, perhaps even foes, and leave having seen the holy in each other's faces. It doesn't always happen.

Truth is, sometimes it is hard for me to see the image of God, even in people close to me. This is not such an easy belief to maintain. But I know it is worth trying.

This essay was aired on Philadelphia public radio "This I Believe," on Dec. 10. Visit the WHYY website and hear the audio version.

September 11, 2010: A Time for Turning

2010-09-10T19:58:52-04:00

This post was co-written with Hussein Rashid.

September 11. The date, the words are still so evocative. Hate, anger, fear, sorrow, loss. Nine years after the event, emotions can still be as intense as they were in 2001. For some Americans, September 11 is the anniversary of their loved one's death. Along with the annual memorials, this year the day will also include public demonstrations both in support of and in opposition to Park51, misnamed the "Ground Zero Mosque."

Both of us will be marking that day as part of our holy season. For Jews, the 11th is Shabbat Shuva, literally the Sabbath of turning, or repentance, wedged between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur. For Muslims, it is Eid al-Fitr, marking the end of fasting during the month of Ramadan, the month when Muslims are spiritually reborn. Each year, we see this time, each in our own way, as one of deep inner work whose result, God willing, is the making of new commitments.

This year, it feels important that our religious soul-searching include addressing what is going on in the public square, the larger issues that the controversy about Park51 highlights. Our country's pluralistic ideals often are at odds with the messier reality on the ground. The volume and intensity of the debate around this particular proposal has felt overwhelming at times, the escalation of hate speech frightening. At the same time, there has been a reaching out across boundaries and a growing recognition by many fair-minded Americans that we all have a lot of work to do to help our society live up to its best self.

Whatever gets decided regarding the proposed Islamic community center, the anniversary of the attacks will continue to be a challenging one. We believe that our religions themselves offer us a vehicle to bring clarity and purpose to our observance of September 11. Last year President Obama instituted a National Day of Service and Remembrance to honor the date of September 11. For us, the greatest service we can offer is addressing our ignorance about the religions of others. The rawness of the day will take longer to fade if we do not know how to talk about it with one another, if we do not, in fact, know one another to talk at all. Can we use this September 11 to ask ourselves and our communities what we do not know about each other and how we might learn more?

At the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, our course on Islam includes classroom learning and the opportunity to partner with a Muslim graduate student to visit a mosque, study and teach together. Jewish students are surprised to find the complex and diverse reality of their own community mirrored in the Muslims of America. Similarly, Muslims with whom we have worked have been fascinated to learn of the varieties of Judaism. Both Jews and Muslims appreciate the insights they gain from sharing their experiences as a religious minority. One thing becomes very clear: we cannot rely on the popular media to understand who the "other " is. The reality is more complicated, and much more rewarding.

A group of Jewish interfaith educators has encouraged rabbis to use September 11 and the period surrounding it to help their communities reflect on their own fears and prejudices, on ways to learn more about Islam and on the role they might play in creating a more just and inclusive society. Resources to help are posted at www.multifaithworld.org. Muslim Americans increasingly are engaging in multifaith learning and encounters. They understand in a visceral way that for Muslims, "Abrahamic traditions" is more than a multi-cultural buzzword. It is the definition of what means to be Muslim, because Muslims draw on the texts, literature, and law of Jews.

It is eye-opening to follow some of the lively conversations at Huffington Post Religion, Religion Dispatches, or On Faith at The Washington Post. Another great resource is the growing archive of Krista Tippett's radio show Speaking of Faith.

It is stories, above all, that help us to connect. The best stories, of course, are those we hear from the people themselves. There are many ways to seek out those encounters, from inviting a neighbor you don't know over for tea, to joining an interfaith women's book group, to partnering with a synagogue or mosque to plan a meal, exchange visits and prayers, and arrange for your youth to engage in service together. You can even call on people like us, academics at your local college or university. Many of us enjoy addressing groups about the faith traditions we know best.

As we approach September 11, the noise and heat level is likely to continue to rise, particularly as the debate over Park51 unfolds. Our hope is that amidst the memorials and the demonstrations, people might also take some time to reflect on how our country's religious diversity is both a challenge and an opportunity. September 11 could be a day of spiritual reorientation, a part of the call to service and remembrance, a day of turning toward knowledge and understanding. We invite you to share in the comments below what you are doing in your community.

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Hussein Rashid is a visiting professor of Religion at Hofstra University. He teaches at Park Avenue Christian Church's Quest Center for Spiritual Inquiry. As an Associate Editor at Religion Dispatches he is also a frequent writer and commentator on religion in America. You can find out more about his work on his website.

Nancy Kreimer directs the department of Multifaith Studies at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, funded in part by the Henry Luce Foundation. She edits the blog Multifaithworld.org.

Park51 Should Not Be Complicated for Jews

2010-08-24T03:27:13-04:00

"It's very complex at this point," a Muslim American told the New York Times. The controversy swirling around Park51, the proposed Islamic community center in lower Manhattan is, for some, a difficult issue. But as a Jew, I find the question of my own response simple. The most apt analogies from American Jewish history help me understand why thoughtful Muslim Americans might be conflicted in their response. These analogies suggest that Jews, on the other hand, should unambiguously support Park51. Our role is to stand with the people of good will who want to build the center.

In situating ourselves in this conversation, analogies from other societies seem particularly unhelpful. The ADL's statement claims to find a connection to the Carmelite convent at Auschwitz. I would look closer to home, to the history of Jews in America . We have experience finding our place as a religious minority in this society, one whose ideals would include us but whose reality sometimes falls short.

An episode involving "sacred ground" from World War II seems particularly illuminating. The year was 1945. Rabbi Roland Gittelsohn, as he reports in his autobiography, had been serving with the fighting men on Iwo Jima as the very first Jewish chaplain in the United States Marines. At the end of 35 hellish days of massive losses, the Protestant chaplain in charge of the division planned an interfaith service to dedicate a cemetery on the island for the fallen troops. He asked Rabbi Gittelsohn to preach.

While some of the Protestant chaplains supported the idea, a majority felt that a Jew ought not be praying over Christian dead. It was a time of deep grief and high emotions. Rabbi Gittelsohn ultimately asked his supporters to back down, and three separate services were held: Jewish, Catholic and Protestant.

Several of the Protestant chaplains decided to boycott their own service and attended the small Jewish one to show support for Rabbi Gittelsohn. They were so taken with his words on that occasion that they asked him for a copy of the sermon. Even without the internet, the text soon went "viral," and ended up becoming a famous document of the war , inserted into the Congressional Record and reprinted, replayed and remembered. Deborah Dash Moore in her book GI Jews: How World War II Changed a Generation reports how interfaith services eventually became standard operating procedure in the military.

This story helps me to understand how a Muslim might see the current situation as complicated. Sometimes there can be a victory lurking in a compromise.

As a Jew, however, I hear one question. Which side would you have been on?

Were I a Christian in 1945, I like to think I would have been in the group that supported the choice to have Rabbi Gittelsohn's speak. I might even have been one of the Protestant chaplains who chose to attend the Jewish service, or at least I hope so. Knowing what we do now, we can see that the chaplains opposing the interfaith service were voicing the parochialism of the past; the visionary chaplain in charge was moving, too quickly for some, toward the future.

The sermon still inspires.

Here lie officers and men, Negroes and Whites, rich men and poor, together. Here are Protestants, Catholics, and Jews together. Here no man prefers another because of his faith or despises him because of his color. Here there are no quotas of how many from each group are admitted or allowed...

When I look at the forces in our society gathering against this project and those in favor of it, it is crystal clear on which side I want to be. I cannot align myself with the forces that have chosen to actively oppose an effort to build a Muslim community center. Others may fail to support Park51 for a variety of reasons, including a genuine sense of the complexity of the situation. But we Jews have too much at stake to risk siding with those who would 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.

While individual cases are always full of nuance, the American trajectory is easier to grasp. The story of religious minorities in America is a story of one group after another moving from maligned outsider to part of the multifaith fabric of our country. As Jews, we know about the stumbles along the way. But we also believe that the arc of history is inclined toward a more respectful, unified and accepting society. I want to be on the side of the future.

Proposed Muslim Community Center Near Ground Zero: 'A Slap in the Face' or 'Repairing the Breach?'

2010-05-21T03:24:00-04:00

Two blocks from Ground Zero -- around the corner from the Glad Tidings Tabernacle and up the street from the Christian Science Reading Room -- stands a former Burlington Coat Factory outlet damaged on September 11th . If all goes as planned, it will soon house Cordoba House, a community center and mosque open to people of all faiths.

At the heart of the project are the American Society for Muslim Advancement (ASMA) and its sister organization, the Cordoba Initiative led by Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf and his wife, Daisy Khan. Supporters of the initiative include hundreds of Muslims, Jews, and Christians who have known this couple and their work for decades and share their dream of a place to house a vibrant, pluralistic American Islam.

On May 12, the Community Board of Lower Manhattan unanimously voted to support the project. According to a New York Times article, "The location was precisely a key selling point for the group of Muslims who bought the building in July. A presence so close to the World Trade Center ... 'sends the opposite statement to what happened on 9/11.'"

As Daisy Khan put it: "For us it is a symbol, a platform that will give voice to the silent majority of Muslims who suffer at the hands of extremists. A center will show that Muslims will be part of rebuilding lower Manhattan."

The Reverend Dr. Joan Brown Campbell, former General Secretary of the National Council of Churches of Christ, agrees: "Building so close is owning the tragedy. It's a way of saying: 'This is something done by people who call themselves Muslims. We want to be here to repair the breach, as the Bible says.'"

But not everyone sees it that way.

In an article in the New York Daily News on Thursday, Rosemary Cain of Massapequa, Long Island, whose son was killed in the 2001 attacks, called the project a slap in the face. "That's sacred ground," she said. Retired FDNY Deputy Chief Jim Riches opined, "I realize it's not all of them, but I don't want to have to go down to a memorial where my son died on 9/11 and look at a mosque."

I understand those reactions; loss and profound pain leave a residue, and these are emotionally honest responses. Men and women of good will may differ on how to redeem that which has been sullied in the past. Symbols are powerful and multivalent, and they will be experienced differently by different people.

I have no patience, however, for the self-appointed watchdogs who have responded to the proposed project with a smear campaign in the blogosphere. For them, any Muslim building in that space is a symbol of Islamic triumphalism. In order to keep the community center from being built, they change the conversation to one about the alleged background and intentions of Imam Rauf. Their attempts to tarnish his credentials are so strained that a fair reading of their rants would lead an intelligent person to seek more credible sources of information.

In fact, these opponents do have a problem, which is why their tactics smack of the red baiting of the McCarthy-era paranoia.. There is simply no support for their claims in Imam Rauf's own words or work. An Egyptian American , Feisal Abdul Rauf has been Imam of Masjid al-Farah in New York City's Tribeca district since 1983. In 1997 he founded the American Society for Muslim Advancement, a civil society organization aimed at promoting positive engagement between American society and American Muslims. In many books, articles, and public initiatives, he and his wife Daisy Khan have been tireless in their efforts to help create and represent an Islam that understands and incorporates what is best about America.

To my sensibility, the image of a Muslim community center going up in lower Manhattan is a sign of hope, a very real manifestation of faith in the future of America and of Islam. As a rabbi, I look forward to finding ways for American Jews to partner with American Muslims in building the kind of pluralistic society in which we all can flourish. If you disagree, let's talk about what it means to build positive messages on complicated sacred ground. But let's keep the character assassination out of it.