Most of us can remember where we were and what we were doing when something traumatic in the world or in our lives happened. For example, I remember exactly where I was when I heard that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, and I’m sure many of you do, too. The generation above me, I’m certain, knows where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news that President Kennedy was shot in Dallas. And I vividly remember my grandparents talking about what they were doing when they heard about the bombing of Pearl Harbor. When something happens in our lives that shakes us to our very core, we remember.
That is why I can still remember, down to every detail, my experience when I saw the news coming out of Charlottesville, Virginia, when I saw the pictures of neo-nazis— white supremacists—with torches in their hands, yelling and marching, proudly displaying more hatred towards me and my people than I had ever seen in my lifetime. I will forever remember this turn of the tide, when hatred of Jews, African Americans, Muslims, and Latinos became mainstream in our country. From where I was, I felt scared. I felt abandoned. I felt lost. I felt angry. But I was here, safe and sound in West Lafayette, just watching this occur on TV, like a movie.
For colleague, Rabbi Rachel Shmelkin, the Rabbi educator of Congregation Beth Israel in Charlottesville, it was an entirely different experience. She was watching the events unfold from the steps of the First United Methodist Church, just across the street from the rally. She, and faith leaders throughout the area, had a plan for that day: it was to drown out the sound of hate with music, peace, and love. As the day approached, however, she began to feel that understandable sense of trepidation. As she explained to her own congregation on Rosh Hashanah:
I was afraid to station myself so close to the park. My Muslim friend who initially planned to sing on the steps with me, decided that it would be too dangerous for her to be visible wearing her hijab, so she took another important, but less public role that day. I wondered if I should follow her lead, and get out of sight. What if neo-nazis or white supremacists attempted to enter the church? What if they stormed the steps where I would surely be standing in my tallis and kippah?
On the day of the rally, she shared these fears with the interfaith leaders around her, including the Reverend of the Sojourners Church, Phil Woodson, who responded to her saying exactly what we would have needed to hear: “I promise you I will not let anybody get near you on Saturday. In fact, I will stay on the steps with you as long as you are out there. I will not leave you alone.” In the face of fear, in response to tragedy, there are no more important words than these. “I will not leave you alone.” We will weather this storm b’yachad, together.
Rabbi Shmelkin exhaled, telling herself that important mantra, “I’m not alone, I’m not alone, I’m not alone.” It’s the mantra we all needed to say that day and in many of the days that have followed with the rise of the alt-right, the loud voice of the nazi and white supremacist movements, the blatant anti-semitism and racism disguised as patriotism. Because it is a sense of loneliness that we feel as Jews when these situations occur, and rightly so. We have felt alone for thousands of years, so many times in the face of danger. But what Rabbi Shmelkin reminds us of, through the words of her friend the Reverend, is that in dark times for our people, then and now, we have not been alone.
The day of the rally was much worse than Rabbi Shmelkin had imagined it would be. Indeed, it was much worse than any of us could have imagined, and as things became violent and dangerous, those who promised to protect her did so, and locked down the church with the Rabbi safely inside.
With all the terrible words and scenes on the news and around the country and world, it is this image that we should be focusing on. A Jew—a Rabbi—was protected by non-Jews, by Christians and Muslims, and b’yachad—together—they huddled for safety against hatred within the walls of a church. Rabbi Shmelkin goes on to tell us that at one point during the rally, she feared for those at Shabbat services at her synagogue, just one block away, and wished to get in touch with someone there, but had left her phone outside. She decided that she would have to go back outside and face the danger in order to warn her congregants to protect themselves. But as she started to go, a woman from the church refused to allow her to go outside, saying “You should stay inside,” and ran out herself to find the Rabbi’s phone.
So often we forget these images that have accompanied us throughout our history. During the Spanish Inquisition, when Jews were given the choice of exile, conversion, or death, it was the Muslim countries in the Mediterranean and Middle East that took us in as refugees, even though they knew the inquisitors and their armies would invade their countries next. During the Holocaust, we have countless stories from righteous Christian individuals who hid Jewish men, women, and children at the risk of their own lives. B’yachad, together, we have huddled, protecting each other from that hatred that arises from any faith, from any movement. And, as we discussed during our Rosh Hashanah services this year, we Jews have made it a hallmark of our movement to respond in kind to our protectors, marching with civil rights leaders, taking in Syrian refugees, and forming protective blockades with our bodies and our buildings around those in danger.
Reading Rabbi Shmelkin’s incredible story, I wondered what I would have done in that situation. Would I have been there? I’d like to think that I would have been. In fact, I like to think that so many of us would have been standing on the steps of that church across from a hate rally, singing songs of peace together, protecting each other, surrounded by Christian and Muslim friends, proudly wearing our keepot, our stars of David, showing our Jewish selves proudly and unafraid. Those are the moments when we find courage. When we realize that we are not alone. When, in life’s darkness, we reach out and feel another hand grabbing ours.
I have spoken a great deal, during this High Holy Day season, of togetherness. And up until today, my words on b’yachad have focused almost entirely on Jews, on the Jewish people, on the Reform Movement, on our community at Temple Israel. It is a beautiful, wondrous thing to be linked to so many throughout the world by thousands of years of history and tradition. And, in moments of darkness, it is only natural for us to look and move inwards. To reach out for those hands that are familiar, that know and understand us. But in moments of tragedy, when we become afraid and don’t know the path out, that is the moment when we should, when we must, reach outside of ourselves. Those are the moments when we must be b’yachad not just with each other, but with the world around us.
When we are willing to reach out instead of in, we can draw on the bravery of others to uplift us. When we put our love for one another first, and focus on the humanness that unites us, the lines that divide us pale, and we become stronger b’yachad, together. Of course, this is easier to do if we begin working towards it before tragedy or disaster strike. It is so much easier to be vulnerable, to ask for help, if the trust is already there. To do this, however, we must be willing to put aside any preconceived notions, any assumptions of right or wrong. We must be willing to listen.
Because Jews have such a long history of being let down by the communities that surrounded us, we have understandably become insular. This insulation can offer us a false sense of security, sure, but what it actually accomplishes is distrust and misunderstanding. People don’t learn who we are, and what we believe, and, likewise, we risk stunting our understanding of others. But this is the season of starting over. Of righting wrongs. Of being the people we know we should be. This is the season when, after we look inward, we are commended to look outward.
That is why, on this Yom Kippur morning, I want us to be brave like Rabbi Shmelkin and Reverend Woodson. I want us to be inviting our neighbors to our homes for Shabbat, so that they may break challah with us. I want us to greet non-Jews in our services with audacious hospitality. I don’t want us, at first, to educate them. I want us to welcome them. I want them to feel safe here, and I would hope they would make us feel safe in their homes, and in their places of worship. I want us to build trust. Because when we build trust, it means we do not have to worry. We don’t have to wonder what will happen if one of us is targeted. We will already know. We will know that we are all in this b’yachad, together.
Yom Kippur is, arguably, our most vulnerable time. We have to look those we have hurt in the eyes and genuinely express our remorse. Likewise, we have to be willing to forgive, even if the wound is still open. But if we can do that—and I believe we can—then perhaps inviting a new friend over for dinner doesn’t have to be so hard. Because now, more than ever, we need all of us, Jew and non-Jew, in this life b’yachad, together.