With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility (Talk given at the induction of newest members of Boise Police Department)

Note: I gave this talk to the newest members of the Boise Police Department at the invitation of Police Chief Bill Bones.  The setting was the Idaho Anne Frank Human Rights Memorial.  Other speakers were Chief Bones, who gave a powerful charge to his department, and Steve Martin, the director of the LGBTQ Pride Foundation.

Thank you, Chief Bones.

I am honored to be present as we celebrate the first class of police officers to be inducted under your tenure. 

It is a special privilege for me to be present with you in this place, which I take as holy ground.  This Anne Frank Human Rights Memorial is at the heart of our city—and not just geographically.  For our newest policemen and women to begin their service here is a remarkable and powerful thing.  I pray that the words of the courageous people of all races, creeds, nationalities, backgrounds, and origins will always be at the heart of your own mission as civil servants, as you strive to secure the safety and the general welfare of all of Boise’s residents.

I’d like to briefly share with you two charges today.  I offer them from a dual perspective, as a rabbi and as a father.

My first charge is straight off a poster that hangs on my son’s bedroom wall.  Its wisdom comes from Stan Lee, the creator of Spiderman.  Like most of the comic artists who invented our modern pantheon of superheroes, Mr. Lee is a Jew who drew on the teachings of my tradition. 

He reminds us: With great power, comes great responsibility.   

My friends, this is both your burden and your blessing.  For you to be able to protect us, we, the citizens, vest you with great power.  I urge you, now and always, to never forget from whence that power comes and why it is given to you.  I pray that you never use your badge and your force of arms to bully.  May your always remember that they are bestowed upon you by the people that you serve so that you can ably protect the vulnerable and make our community a kinder and more peaceful place to live.

This brings me to my second charge, which is really just a corollary of the first.

Once, while gazing at this poster on his wall, my son Jonah asked me, “Dad, are you afraid of bad guys?”

I told him, then, what I reiterate to you: that while there are, on rare occasions, real bad guys in this world, that’s not what we usually encounter.  What we see, far more often, are decent people who sometimes do bad things.

In the work that you do, you will see a lot of good people doing bad things.  And given the incredible stress that you will labor under, it can be all too easy to harden yourself and start to see your calling as an endless effort to contain the bad guys.  I pray that you never give reign to this impulse to see those you struggle against as evil.  Remember that even the people you are called to stop and contain and sometimes arrest are mostly not bad guys but decent people doing indecent things—even when they are acting very badly, indeed.  Deal with them justly and be firm as you must in order to do your duty—but do not write them off them as evil.  Do not let the hardships you will surely face wear away your compassion and empathy.  Do not harden your hearts.  For when you stop thinking of the people that you patrol—even the ones acting out in insidious and ugly ways—as fully human, then you lose your own soul.

With great power comes great responsibility. 

And with great responsibility comes the tremendous challenge of maintaining your humanity, your empathy and your compassion even when it seems undeserved.

May you serve and protect us all. 

And I thank you, with all of my heart, for your commitment to doing just that.

Tomorrow Begins Today (Portion Terumah)

Speak to the Israelites, so that they will bring for me an offering. . . This is the offering that you shall receive from them: gold and silver and brass, blue and purple and scarlet and fine linen. . . and cedar wood. (Exodus 25:2-5)

The seeds that we plant through our actions today largely determine the landscape that we will leave for future generations.

In this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, God asks the Israelites for free-will gifts of materials to be used in the building of the portable sanctuary they will carry through the wilderness.  Many of the items on the list are surprising; they are not things we’d expect to find in the possession of newly-freed Egyptian slaves.   

Perhaps the most unexpected of all is cedar wood.  Cedar (or by some translations, acacia) trees do not grow in the middle of the very barren Sinai desert.  Thus in his commentary, Rashi asks: “From where did they obtain this in the wilderness?”  He then provides an answer drawn from the fifth-century collection Midrash Tanchuma: “Our father Jacob foresaw by means of the Holy Spirit that Israel was destined to build a tabernacle in the desert, so he brought cedars to Egypt and planted them and commanded his children to take them along when they would leave.”

In other words, for the Israelites to accomplish their religious duties, they needed foresight. 

This message is timely for us, in both ecological and Jewish contexts.  By way of the former, let there be no doubt: we are living in critical days.  Even as we are enjoying the warmest February on record here in Idaho, new NASA data shows that by 2050, most of the western United States will enter a mega-drought, lasting up to forty years.  If we do not begin to deal with the forthcoming affects of climate change, the results will be disastrous for our children and grandchildren.

And in the Jewish world, we are witnessing enormous demographic shifts.  Our ability to sustain vibrant progressive Jewish life depends upon our capacity to act with foresight and creativity.  I heard much talk of this last week as I attended a conference of the Covenant Foundation, a leading source of innovation in the Jewish world and the source of our grant to hire a music educator this year.  Here at CABI, we are striving to act in this spirit, charting our course in a manner that we hope will lay a strong foundation for future generations. Our music educator will be a big part of this.   And I believe that our ongoing initiative toward a partnership with the Cooperative Pre-school is also a very significant step in this direction, and therefore core to our organizational mission of building enduring Jewish community.

In his commentary on Mishpatim, Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson concludes: “As with our ancestor Jacob, we too must rely. . . on insight, then translate that insight into action.  Tomorrow begins the moment today is finished.  And the work we do today will shape our children’s tomorrows.”

Our CABI community has a lot of sacred work to do.  It starts today—please join us.

Love is All You Need--NOT (Portion Mishpatim)

If you see your enemy’s ass sagging under its burden, you shall not pass by.  You shall surely release it with him.  (Exodus 23:5)

In his “Sermon on the Mount”, Jesus got something very wrong. 

He preached: “You have heard it said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I say to you, ‘Love your enemy also.’”  In fact, Judaism never teaches us to hate our enemies.  To the contrary, Moses commands us: “Do not hate an Edomite, because he is your brother.  Do not hate an Egyptian, for you were strangers in his land.”  We are, it turns out, explicitly forbidden by Torah from loathing the very people who enslaved us for hundreds of years.

That said, it is worth noting that, unlike Jesus, Judaism does not ask us to love our enemies.  Our tradition views such a request as impractical and, ultimately, unhelpful.  As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks notes: “Torah is realistic rather than utopian.  Saints apart, we cannot love our enemies, and if we try to, we will eventually pay a high psychological price: we will eventually hate those who ought to be our friends.  What the Torah says instead is: when your enemy is in trouble, come to his assistance.  That way, part of the hatred will be dissipated. Who knows whether help given may not turn hostility to gratitude and from there to friendship.”

Thus the commandment in this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, which obligates us to help our enemy raise his donkey sagging under its heavy burden.  What Torah offers, instead of the mere sentiment of love, is the obligation of loving law.  Why?  Because while you cannot legislate feelings, you can legislate behavior—and this is precisely what Torah strives to do, in every aspect of our lives, through mitzvot.

Two weeks ago, in the aftermath of the party-line vote against the bill to add the words “sexual orientation” and “gender identity” to Idaho’s Human Rights Act, I wrote a piece on my Facebook page on love, law, and social justice that touches on this core difference between Jewish and Christian thought.  I’ve posted that essay on my blog, here: http://rabbidanfink.blogspot.com/

Our portion for this week drives home this difference.  The Jewish path is one in which behavior drives belief rather than the other way around.  As Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson teaches, “The mitzvot speak to that deeper part of our personalities, summoning us to a life of holiness and belonging, shaping our communities to reflect God’s love and concern for all of creation.  Rather than being shackled by (our tradition’s) laws, we Jews have celebrated the opportunity to use them to infuse our lives with spirit, passion, and depth.  They remain our pathway to our truer selves.  And to God.”

In this month that our secular culture gives over to Valentines Day, it is worth remembering that in our tradition, loving feelings are nice--but justice is essential.  And in living justice, we pave the way for real love that goes beyond mere words to compassionate deeds.

Love, Law, and Social Justice--A Countercultural Jewish Response to the Add the Words Discussion, Hearing, and Vote

Before voting down our amendment to add the words to Idaho's Human Rights Act, most of the Republican lawmakers argued that we cannot legislate morality, quoting biblical verses such as the "Golden Rule."

While some of this is, I believe, just hypocrisy and rationalization for the moral failure implicit in their "no" votes, this attitude also reflects one strand of the Christian tradition, which has often derided Judaism as "legalistic" (as opposed to the New Testament's supposed emphasis on love). This notion of love over law, rooted in some aspects of Christianity, liberal and conservative alike, has also become part of our secular culture. Just consider the famous teaching of the Beatles, heard at so many of the anti-war protests of the 1960s: "All you need is love."

Judaism does NOT believe that all you need is love. For love is essential, but it does not always translate into justice. In Judaism, we celebrate law.

But our embrace of law is not the dry legalism that some falsely portray it to be. For us, law is the primary vehicle for social change. We realize that changing the law will not immediately change the hearts of those legally bound to follow it. But we have an important talmudic principle that applies here: "Mi-tokh she lo lishma, ba lishma--what is done at first with the wrong intention or for the wrong reason, can, in the process, take on the right intention, and eventually be done for the right reason." In other words, behavior precedes, rather than follows, belief. No, you cannot legislate kindness. But you CAN and MUST legislate justice--and then live with the faith that, over time, kindness will follow.

Besides, quite frankly, justice matters more than kindness. As a Jew, I do not care if my landlord, employer and public accommodations providers (yes, including my florists and cake bakers) love me or are even kind to me. I don't need their love, because I have more than enough love from my own family, friends, and community. What I need from those who hire, house, and serve me is simple: fairness. Nothing more, and nothing less. And how do we change their behavior, to bring it in line with fairness? We make fairness the law. I believe this is true for my friends in the LGBT community as well. They don't need their bosses and landlords to love them. What they need are jobs and business transactions and places to live that are free of fear of unjust firing, eviction, and harassment.

While he was not Jewish, Rev. Martin Luther King understood this very well. This is not surprising, for as his friend and fellow activist, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel noted, Dr. King practiced a version of Christianity that was deeply rooted in the Jewish traditions of the Hebrew Scriptures (aka "Old Testament"). And so, in response to those who argued that one cannot legislate morality, Dr. King famously preached the following in 1963:

"Certainly, if the problem is to be solved then in the final sense, hearts must be changed. Religion and education must play a great role in changing the heart. But we must go on to say that while it may be true that morality cannot be legislated, behavior can be regulated. It may be true that the law cannot change the heart but it can restrain the heartless. It may be true that the law cannot make a man love me but it can keep him from lynching me and I think that is pretty important, also."

So yes, Republican policy makers, we can and should legislate morality. Because all of your talk about the Golden Rule, unaccompanied by the teeth of the law, is a bunch of empty platitudes.

For three days, members of the LGBT community shared their gut-wrenching stories of harm. Their job was to change hearts. They succeeded.

Then Republican legislators, without exception, refused to recognize that their job is to align the law with what is fair. When you serve the people in the Statehouse, "loving your neighbor as yourself" means extending legal protection to those neighbors. Period. That is your job.

By failing to make law, you fail to do that job and prove that your ethical platitudes are bankrupt.

Between Amalek and Jethro: Portion Yitro

In recent weeks, much has been written about the rise in anti-Semitism, particularly in Europe.  Last week, the world marked the 70^th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, and, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks noted in his Wall Street Journal essay, “The Return of Anti-Semitism”, the fear at that memorial was as much about the future as the past.  In the wake of the murders in Paris, and a wave of violence against Jews across Europe, Rabbi Sacks concludes: “An ancient hatred has been reborn.”

I believe that we should eye this trend with utmost seriousness.  We know, all too well, the peril of ignoring of anti-Semitism.  At the same time, we must also be wary of becoming overly cynical and seeing all of our neighbors as adversaries.  For all of the fears roused by recent events, 2015 is not 1939.  Seventy years ago, it would have been unimaginable for a French leader to declare, as Prime Minister Manuel Valls repeatedly has, “France without Jews is not France.” 

To be ignore anti-Semitism is to be naïve, and such naiveté can be fatal.  To allow anti-Semitism to blind us to the real benevolence that many demonstrate towards us, in their words and deeds, is to harden our hearts.  Our challenge, then, is to find a middle way.

Not surprisingly, the Torah offers us some important guidance here.  Last week’s portion ended with its account of Amalek, the paradigm of the anti-Semitic enemy who will always strive, ruthlessly, to destroy us.   But without missing a beat, we pick up this week with the story of Yitro, Moses’ non-Jewish father-in-law.  He delights in all that God has done for the Israelites and offers Moses some invaluable advice on how to govern them more efficiently by delegating authority.  Rabbi Shai Held notes that this juxtaposition is no coincidence; Amalek tries to ravage Israel but Yitro rejoices in our deliverance and offers guidance as to how we can best function as a nation in our newfound freedom.  As the eleventh century commentator, Abraham Ibn Ezra, teaches: “Since Scripture has just mentioned the evil that Amalek did to Israel, it mentions the good that Yitro did as a contrast.”

Life is rarely a matter of black and white.  There are dangerous anti-Semitic trends at work in our world—and, at the same time, strong countervailing tendencies.  As we wrestle with how to confront radical Islam, we must also remember Lassana Bathily, the Muslim clerk who risked his life to protect Jewish customers in the kosher market.  We live with both Amalek and Yitro, and everyone and everything in between.