What Does Respect Really Mean?
Written by Rabbi Dr. Tony Bayfield Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Rabbi Bayfield's sermon for Erev Rosh Hashanah 5770, Friday 18th September 2009 at Southgate And District Reform Synagogue.I’ve always assumed that my task on Erev Rosh Hashanah is to provide a bit of light entertainment (remember the stuffed puffin) and also something that you might care to think about on those rare moments over the next ten days when you aren’t fully absorbed by the services themselves.
This year I’ll try and fulfil the brief but I’d would appreciate a bit of help from you. Relations between the United Synagogue and the Reform, Liberal and Masorti Movements have improved considerably over the last twelve months. A lot of the improvement is down to the President of the United Synagogue Simon Hochhauser who is a remarkable man. All four Movements are committed to mutual respect. Now, respect clearly means not saying hurtful or unpleasant things about each other in public and not trying to dish each other in private. But what I’ve been worrying away at is whether respect means anything more than that. And, if it does, whether I can really sustain it. I’ve no trouble at all respecting Mr Hochhauser, whatever definition of respect you care to offer. But... let me explain.
I had an absolutely wonderful summer holiday. I know you’re all glad to hear that. I went with my elder daughter, son-in-law and two oldest grandchildren, Francesca who’s eight and a half, and Oliver who’s five and a half, to Israel. I’ve been to Israel countless times but it must be a quarter of a century since I’ve been as a tourist. It was brilliant and there can be few greater privileges than being allowed to introduce your grandchildren to the land of milk, honey and schwarma (the schwarma reference is for Colin).
But I made a mistake, I suggested that we started off in Tsfat – Safed if you go with Holy Land Tours. My memory of Tsfat was of a beautiful little town in the hills above Kinneret (the Sea of Galilee if you go with Holy Land Tours), the home of artists and craftsmen, full of pomegranate trees, the place where that great Jewish mystic Isaac Luria once lived, where the kabbalists walked in from the fields on Friday evening singing Lecha Dodi to welcome the Sabbath bride.
It had changed. It was horrible. As our friend Ann who’s lived in Jerusalem for more than thirty-five years said, “It’s disgusting. Why didn’t you ask me? I’d have told you not to go there.”
Now, it starts to get difficult. We need to start thinking about that word “respect”.
Why has Tsfat changed? Because it has been taken over completely by the Haredim. It is depressed, shabby, dirty even. It was almost impossible to find a restaurant. It was full of people in late-eighteenth century Polish costume with more children than the old woman who lived in a shoe.
Matthew, my son-in-law, a Hampstead Garden Suburb Jewish Prince (and Arsenal supporter) had what I can only term a strong visceral reaction. It’s a lovely term visceral reaction! He was overwhelmed by inner, gut feelings of acute discomfort and loathing. I must admit that I wasn’t very happy either.
I’m not sure quite what was going on in me and I guess there was stuff of which I should be ashamed. But there was a more rational objection as well.
As we left to go on to Ramot, then the Dead Sea, then Jerusalem I confessed that if one more man had come up to me and asked me whether I was Jewish and whether I had laid teffilin that morning, I would have strangled him with his own tzitzit. There is something smug and self-righteous – not ‘this is my way and I would like you to respect it’ but ‘this is the only right way and I’m here not to respect you but to correct you and put you on the right path.’ I not only dislike it and see it as a Jewish aberration but as precisely the fundamentalism which is so disturbing in any faith today.
But what really got me was this. We drove down to Tiveria (Tiberias to the Holy Land Tours brigade) where I hadn’t been since I was there on honeymoon 40 years ago. The going down refers not just to the level of the water in Kinneret. What a tip.
There are a large number of Jewish sages buried or alleged to be buried in Tiberias. Maimonides is the most famous. But we wanted to go and see the tomb of Rabbi Akiva, allegedly named after my grandchildren’s primary school but actually a great second-century Jewish teacher who was murdered by the Romans and who died saying the Shema. When, after considerable difficulty, we finally found Akiva’s burial place, the site had been turned into a cross between the new section of Carterhatch Lane and a Catholic Saint’s shrine. Matthew was appalled and repelled. Lucy was turned back for being disrespectfully dressed because she didn’t have a shmutter on her head. But I pressed forward with Francesca and Oliver. We got close to the tomb, seemingly in a cave with the small entrance shut off by metal bars. I was able to read to the children the first half of the passage of Talmud engraved on one side of the entrance which told of Akiva’s death. But we couldn’t get to stand in front of the tomb itself because a large, endlessly schockling Chassid barred the way. I wanted to take a picture of the children by the inscription for them to take back to Akiva School. But they were too scared – and Francesca, like her Auntie Miriam, is no shrinking violet. All they wanted to do was to leave. They felt intimidated and alienated.
I was very upset and angry. “He isn’t their Rabbi Akiva. He’s our Rabbi Akiva too. How dare they appropriate Judaism, monopolise Judaism”.
For the first time in many visits, I was not in Israel as part of the World Union for Progressive Judaism. I was not there as an advocate for Reform. In Jerusalem, we didn’t go in to Beit Shmuel. We didn’t mix with members of the Israel Movement for Progressive Judaism. For the first time I was exposed to the stark fact that the key story of modern day Israel is one of Haredi Judaism versus secularism and the more we discussed the experience with the many people we met up with or simply met over the following ten or eleven days, the more I became aware of just how divided Israel has become. And of the anger and disgust. It’s not just Matthew – or me – who has a strong, visceral reaction.
I can see that Haredi Judaism represents a viable Jewish survival strategy in a world where Jewish survival is far from guaranteed. If you insulate yourself from the modern world, reject its values and have large families, your chances of survival are really quite high. It may well be that, certainly in Britain, the majority of our community in 2050 will be Haredim.
But not only can’t I do what they do but I don’t want to do what they do. And I don’t believe that it’s a creative, rewarding, globally-contributing place to be. Nor do I believe that it’s spiritually or intellectually credible. Nor do I believe that it’s where Judaism should be leading us.
I’m co-editing a book which is about Jews, Christians and Muslims in this country and the need to reassert religion as moderate, liberal, progressive, with the three Abrahamic faiths collaborating on shared values in the context of a modern, western democratic state. In my own particular chapter I actually found the need to say that I’m an enthusiastic, religious Jew, just as enthusiastic and religious as the chaps and chapesses who wander around Sfat or darkest Golders Green dressed as if they’re living in late-eighteenth century Poland.
The need to say it, I thought, reflected particularly British-Jewish neuroses. I’ll never forget a conversation from many years ago involving my late and much missed mother-in-law. “What does your son-in-law do?” “He’s a rabbi.” “Oh, he must be very religious then.” “No, he’s Reform.” In Israel there is the same exclusive equation of a certain kind of observance with religiosity. One is either dati (religious, strictly observant) or chiloni (secular). As a tourist, I saw it much more clearly than I do when I go as a card carrying member of the World Union for Progressive Judaism.
What surprised me was how many of the Christian and Muslim contributors to the book I just mentioned could understand and identify. Because actually all moderate, liberal, progressive members of faith traditions today are under pressure from the evangelicals, fundamentalists, extremists in their ranks.
I believe, passionately believe, that we are where it’s at. You, me, Chessy and Oli, the Muslim and Christian contributors to my book. We are the people who are right at the cutting edge of the encounter with the modern world. We are precisely at the exciting and challenging point where religion engages with secularity, where faith grapples with the world of the 21st century, where religious traditions are confronted by the staggering problems of contemporary life, where faith is required to offer meaning and purpose in a world where so many people are struggling to find meaning and purpose. It’s a terrifying place to be but it’s also a wonderful place to be.
I’m prepared to admit – and it’s a good time of the year to admit it – that part of my reaction to those Haredi families walking through the streets of Tsfat is pretty shameful and says much more about me and my Jewish insecurities than it says about them. I can respect their survival strategy and I have little doubt that they’re statistically more likely to have Jewish great grandchildren than we are. But the certainty of their own rightness and the evangelism really disturb me. Above all, the failure to engage with the modern world and address the issues of living together, making common cause in the pursuit of ethical values, finding meaning, purpose and a faith that is sustainable and credible in the 21st century – of all that I am deeply critical. I really do believe that we, not they are where Judaism needs to be.
Is to say so to be as disrespectful of them as they are of me? Once Rosh Hashanah is over, I’d really welcome your thoughts: Email me.
Shanah Tovah
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
