Rabbi XXXX

July 2, 2010

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Shabbat Shalom.

I was raised in a household that believed, implicitly, in the worth of every human being, in equality, and in the right of every person to be treated with dignity and fairness. My parents were strong supporters of labor, the First Amendment, civil liberties, and peace (in no specific order). Social justice was in the water I drank. Judaism not so much. While my parents considered themselves cultural Jews, my brother and I attended Sunday School at the Ethical Culture Society.

I learned how to march in high school by going to Washington twice on youth marches for integration. These were demonstrations led by the late Bayard Rustin, who went on to help organize the famous March on Washington at which Martin Luther King made his famous "I Have a Dream" speech. (I missed that one.)

During college, I organized a freedom ride, and, as a young adult, I counseled conscientious objectors and marched again on Washington in protest of the Vietnam War. I was a county organizer for George McGovern in upstate New York during that doomed campaign. And, when I went to law school I seriously considered becoming a First Amendment scholar. I settled for concentrating on landlord-tenant and fair-housing law, areas that were guaranteed to keep me in the lower economic ranks of the profession. But, the practice satisfied my inherent, perhaps genetic, need to help others.

My interest in social justice led to my appointment in 1997 to Palo Alto's Human Relations Commission, where I served for 9 years. And, when I closed my law practice, it also drew me to pursue a new career in non-profit.

I had no idea, until I began to explore my Jewish roots, about 10 years ago, that what I had been doing all my life was living core Jewish values. But, what I had realized was that trying to live by those values is not necessarily easy,

About 4 years ago, on a Christmas morning, I went to a 7-11 to get some milk. As I was about to leave, a store clerk came out carrying a large carton of doughnuts. He was about to put them in the dumpster when I stopped him and asked him to donate them to the homeless. He said he wasn’t allowed to do that, but he could leave the doughnuts on the dumpster, and I could then take them if I wanted them. I put them in the back of my car and called a good friend who was then the volunteer coordinator for a local homeless shelter. I was dismayed to learn the shelter couldn’t take the doughnuts, although I can’t recall why not. But, I was aware of a homeless man who had been hanging out on a bench on a patch of lawn where Alma Street passes over Embarcadero. Determined to donate at least some of the doughnuts, I drove to that slice of park, and there he was, deep in conversation with himself. I pulled up to the curb, got out of the car, waved, and started to reach into the back seat for the doughnuts when he began to shout at me to “keep away, stay away, don’t come near me…” I started to explain that I just wanted to give him some doughnuts, but he screamed even louder, flapping his arms wildly. Frightened and disappointed, I drove off and decided to take the doughnuts to the spot behind the Red Cross that was still the drop-in center for the community’s homeless (this was before the Opportunity Center opened). There was no one there this Christmas morning, but I knew they’d be back the next day, and I hoped that there might be something edible left in the box.

I was on the board of the Community Working Group, which developed the Opportunity Center and got it built. During that period, I wrote a guest opinion for the Palo Alto Weekly, explaining my passion for social justice, and how it led me to that project. I urged others to get involved, to contribute to the capital campaign, and to work on issues they believed in. Most people who mentioned the column to me complimented me on it, or just noted that they’d seen it. One neighbor, though, pointedly sniped at me, accusing me of trying to make her feel guilty for not doing as much as I did. Her comment startled me, and left me wondering whether, perhaps for her at least, I lacked any moral authority, and just sounded self-righteous.

So, to add some moral authority to this discussion, how then, and when, should we try to ‘do good.’? What does our tradition tell us?

Deuteronomy tells us you must not turn away; you must not remain indifferent. “If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow… You shall do the same with his ass; you shall do the same with his garment; and so too shall you do with anything that your fellow loses and you find: you must not remain indifferent.”

But, how do we do that in this day and age? Do we insist on intervening any time we perceive injustice being done?

When my older daughter, was a two-year-old, 40 years ago, she threw a tantrum on a crowded pier on Cape Ann, filled with milling Sunday summer tourists. She dropped to the ground, kicking and screaming, for a reason long forgotten. What I do remember is that she kept yelling “don’t hit me, don’t hit me again!” No one had touched her, but that’s what she kept yelling. I’m sure that, if it happened today, I’d be reported for child abuse – or that some well-meaning person might start to offer me parenting tips. What do you do when you think you see a parent treating a child abusively? Or a senior? Or a dog? When are we supposed to intervene? And at what cost?

Leviticus tells us: "Do not stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds." What does this mean? In his "Laws of Murderers and the Protection of Life," Maimonides makes clear it is our responsibility to protect others.

Unlike our responsibilities under our American system of laws, as Jews we are required to actively intervene when a person’s life is in danger. The most widely known example of this is that of the pursuer, or rodef. It says that if someone is in danger of losing their life, then bystanders must intervene and prevent the murder, even if it means killing the pursuer.

So Maimonides (otherwise known as Rambam) instructs us that we have an absolute duty to intervene when someone’s life is in danger and we have the power to save his or her life. Clearly this does not require us to jump in when a child is being disciplined, much less having a tantrum. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t intervene, but there is no Jewish imperative to do something.

Nor are we required to risk our own lives in order to rescue another.

That same daughter grew up and went to UC Berkeley. Her boyfriend at the time, an otherwise pampered, but sane young man, intervened, one evening, when he perceived a young woman was being assaulted on Telegraph Avenue. For his troubles, he was beaten up himself – receiving injuries that he wore as a badge of honor, but injuries none-the-less.

Recently, I went out to walk my dog. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man who appeared to be a homeless person, standing, resting perhaps, in the middle of the path. I purposefully walked in the opposite direction. But I felt guilty for doing that and resolved to go to his aid if he was still there when I returned. I was quite relieved to find that he was gone. Even in my youth, I would never have done what my daughter’s boyfriend did. But, I might have offered some sort of assistance, if only to make a phone call, if I saw someone who needed physical help. Now, as I am starting to acknowledge that I actually qualify as a senior, I am more fearful and worried for my own safety. Does this mean I am deficient in the eyes of Torah?

Torah also teaches that we should see our less fortunate citizens as equals. Deuteronomy 24 states: “When you beat down the fruit of your olive trees, do not go over them again; that shall go to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow… Always remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore do I enjoin you to observe this commandment.” The implication is that, in caring for the stranger, the fatherless and the widow, we are affirming our common humanity.

When I was still practicing law, I took occasional pro bono referrals from what was then the Urban Ministry – which served Palo Alto’s homeless and at risk community. After consulting with one of Palo Alto’s more notorious homeless residents, I found I could no longer avoid eye contact with any of them. I had been forced to recognize their humanity. But, when I make eye contact, it’s harder to say ‘no’ to their panhandling, even though I know it makes better sense to give to the service providers that are there to assist them.

Finally, consider this not-so-hypothetical: You live in an area that includes a number of affluent cities, with large, beautiful homes, and great schools for the children; there is also one city of great poverty, with run-down, impoverished neighborhoods, crime-ridden, with inferior schools. Most people agree that there is insufficient affordable housing in the area. You belong to a group trying to build some work-force housing to accommodate the service workers – the Starbucks baristas, the supermarket clerks, the teachers, police and firefighters. The people in the affluent neighborhoods object to locating ‘affordable housing’ there because they fear it will negatively impact property values and overcrowd the schools. The people in the area with dilapidated housing object to building there because they fear they are becoming a ‘dumping ground’ for affordable housing. What they want is housing for the affluent, to increase their tax base and therefore services. What’s a housing advocate to do?

My late husband, no great Jewish scholar either, but a wry observer of group dynamics (and of his own wife), once watched a bunch of us wrestling with some thorny social justice issue – and then drily commented: ‘saving the world is hard work.’

Elie Wiesel’s words are a lot more powerful and lyrical: “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”

Shabbat Shalom.