Rabbi Janet Marder

Asilomar, July 27, 2008

The Place of Social Action in our Reform Jewish Identity

            Kissing the mezuzah is a double-faced mitzvah: it acts like a parentheses around the acts of entering and leaving your house. When you come in you pause, notice that there are words of Torah attached to your doorpost, and think about how you want to act inside your Jewish home. When you leave the house, before you lock the door, hop in your car and drive away, you pause again, take note of the mezuzah and think about how a Jew should behave in the world.

            Kissing the mezuzah is a Jewish way of entering and leaving your dwelling-place. This weekend Asilomar is our dwelling-place, and the teachings we share form the Jewish parentheses around all that we do here. We entered our dwelling on Friday night with the words of Rabbi Sarah Wolf , who set before us the challenge of creating a congregational culture of tzedek. On Shabbat morning Carol Kantor Douglas challenged us to consider elements of the tradition that do not reflect tzedek; and Rabbi Jennifer Clayman traced the evolution of tikkun olam, the Jewish mandate to repair the world. On Shabbat afternoon we explored many dimensions of the Jewish quest for justice.

            And this is Sunday morning, the time when we prepare to leave our shared sacred space and re-enter the world. Before driving off in our Priuses and Volvos we pause on the threshold to reflect together on how we live our lives “out there.”

Here’s my question for today: what role does “social action” play in our identity as Reform Jews?

            I’ll start by citing a couple of bumper stickers I’ve recently spotted on some of the vehicles in our very own parking lot. Here’s one, bearing the words of Thomas Paine: “My country is the world, and my religion is to do good” [from Rights of Man]. Here’s another one, this time quoting the Dalai Lama: “My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.”

            Different they certainly are: this 18^th century American Deist who had nothing but contempt for the Bible, this 21^st century Tibetan, devout practioner of Buddhism. But both of their sayings express the same reductionist impulse: the desire to cut away all the superfluous apparatus of churches and rituals and complicated doctrines in order to get to the core spiritual teaching, the universal message at the heart of all religions: Do good. Be kind. That’s really what life is all about, say the bumper stickers: that simple truth, those basic lessons that we learned back in kindergarten, as Unitarian minister Robert Fulghum reminded us all:

            “Share everything. Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody….Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together.” And so on, and so forth.

            One Jewish example of this reductionist impulse is the famous saying of Rabbi Akiba in the Talmud: “V’ahavta l’reicha kamocha -- Love your neighbor as yourself – zeh k’lal gadol batorah: this is the great principle of the Torah” [Sifra Kedoshim iv Palestinian Talmud, Nedarim 9:4).

            The prophet Micah made his own attempt: “[God] has told you, O man, what is good, and what Adonai requires of you: Only to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk modestly with your God” [6:8].

            A well-known passage in the Talmud [Makkot 23b-24a] describes well this effort to fit all of Judaism onto a bumper sticker. Rabbi Simlai, says the Talmud, taught that 613 mitzvot were given in the Torah – 365 negative and 248 positive commandments. The prophet Micah came and boiled these 613 down to just 3 – practice justice, kindness and humility. Then the prophet Isaiah cut them down further to 2, saying: “Shimru mishpat va’asu tzedaka: Observe what is right and do what is just” [56:1]. And finally, along came the prophet Habakkuk, who reduced all of Judaism to one single principle: “The righteous shall live by their faith” [2:4].

          This effort to distill Judaism down to its essence got its start in the Bible and Talmud, but it became the very hallmark of Reform Judaism. The Reform movement, you see, was based on the idea that there exists an eternal truth at the heart of Judaism, like a pearl at the heart of an oyster. Unfortunately, the theory goes, over the years our Jewish pearl has become encrusted with all sorts of muck that detracts from its pure and simple beauty. Centuries have passed; Jewish laws, customs and superstitions had proliferated, forming a vast and untidy mess -- but the radiant pearl remains intact within, if only we can search it out.

            The earliest Reformers, living in Germany in the first decades of the 19^th century, repeatedly focused on the need to extract this Jewish pearl, clean it off, get rid of the muck, and polish it up for the world to see. The metaphor they often used was separating “the wheat from the chaff “or “the kernel from the shell.” Endlessly they debated how one distinguishes wheat from chaff or kernel from shell: what were the  essential, eternal Jewish truths, those that hold spiritual meaning for all time; and what were the empty, meaningless husks that could and should be cast away.

            You will not be surprised, I think, to hear the answer our Reform forebears reached, The “husk,” the “shell,” the “chaff” worthy of being discarded, said the Reformers, were all Jewish teachings that they deemed irrational, irrelevant or immoral – including most of Jewish law and the Talmud -- as well as those distinctive Jewish rituals that set us apart from others – loosely known as the “ceremonial laws”: practices such as wearing tallis and tefillin and kippah, keeping kosher, going to the mikvah or building a Sukkah.

            These practices, perhaps once meaningful in ancient times when the Jewish nation dwelt in the land of Israel , have lost all power to elevate and inspire us today. Observing them, in fact, obstructs our spiritual growth. Hence the leaders of Reform actively discouraged or even forbade such behaviors in their synagogues.

            And what was the pearl to be cherished and preserved? The essence of our religion, Reform leaders taught, was a cluster of basic, universal moral principles – universal in the sense that they apply to all people, everywhere and always, and are embedded in each of us as the voice of conscience. Only these “moral laws,” they said, are binding on Jews today.

            This, at any rate, was the position arrived at by the most radical branch of Reform Judaism – the one that eventually prevailed in America , to be crystallized in the “Pittsburgh Platform” of 1885 and embodied, later, in the name “Classical Reform.”

            Which brings us to the heart of our discussion for today. For over the years, as the Reform movement continued to evolve in America , its leaders came to focus more and more on a particular aspect of the moral laws: the duty to create a better, more just society. Nowadays we call this  “social action.”  Back then they called it “Prophetic Judaism.”

            Abraham Geiger, who led the Reform movement in 19^th century Germany , seems to have been the first to identify Reform with the teachings of the biblical prophets. For Geiger, the prophets marked the high point in the development of biblical religion. They transcended narrow tribalism and primitive superstition, expressing the timeless ideals and the highest truths of Judaism.

            The prophets spoke up for justice -- defending the downtrodden, denouncing those who oppressed them, as in the words of Isaiah:

“God will bring a charge

against the elders and officers of the people:

It is you who have ravaged the vineyard

The spoil of the poor is in your houses.

How dare you crush My people

And grind the faces of the poor?” [Is.3:14-15].

            The prophets spoke up fearlessly to the rich and powerful, calling them to account before God. Nathan reprimanded King David for his adultery and murder. Elijah charged King Ahab and Queen Jezebel with murder and theft. Micah used graphic , even violent imagery to indict the ruling class:

“Listen, you rulers of Jacob,

You chiefs of the house of Israel ,

You, who ought to know what is just,

Who hate the good and love evil,

Who tear the skin off [the people]

And the flesh from their bones

Who eat the flesh of My people,

Flay the skin off them

And break their bones….[Micah3:1-3]

He attacked wealthy women for selfishly exploiting the vulnerable, seeking pleasure at others’ expense:

            “Hear this word, you cows of Bashan

            On the hills of Samaria –

            Who defraud the poor,

            Who rob the needy;

            Who say to your husbands,

            ‘Bring, and let’s carouse!’ “ [Micah 4:1].

The prophets held forth a vision of humanity united as one, as in the words of Isaiah:

“In the days to come,

the Mount of God’s house

shall stand firm above the mountains

And tower above the hills;

And all the nations

Shall gaze upon it with joy.

And many peoples shall go and say,

‘Come, let us go up to the Mount of the Lord,

To the House of the God of Jacob:

            That God may instruct us in His ways

            And that we may walk in God’s paths.’

            Ki mitziyon teitzei Torah

            For instruction shall come forth from Zion

            The word of Adonai from Jerusalem .”

            ….And they shall beat their swords into plowshares,

            and their spears into pruning hooks;

            nation shall not lift up sword against nation;

            neither shall they learn war any more.

            O House of Jacob, come – let us walk by the light of the Lord. [Is.2:2-5]

The prophets set forth the ideal of universal peace, a return to the harmony of Eden :

“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb,

the leopard lie down with the kid…[Is.11:6]

“They shall sit every one under his vine and under his fig tree,

and none shall make them afraid” [Micah 4:4].

Most important, for Geiger and other architects of Reform, was that the prophets seemed to express the Reformers’ own disdain for the ceremonies and rituals of Judaism, emphasizing universal ethics instead.  Listen to the words of Amos as he brings to the people the message of their God:

“I loathe, I spurn your festivals,

I am not appeased by your solemn assemblies.

If you offer Me burnt offerings – or your meal offerings –

I will not accept them;

I will pay no heed

To your gifts of fatlings.

Spare me the sound of Your hymns,

And let me not hear the music of your lutes.

But let justice well up like water,

Righteousness like an unfailing stream” [Amos 5:21-25].

The prophets, it seemed, spoke for a God who cared nothing for the trappings of organized religion – a God who valued only moral behavior and the pursuit of social justice. In the words of Isaiah:

            “What need have I of all your sacrifices?”

Says Adonai.

….“I have no delight

            in lambs and he-goats.

            That you come to appear before Me –

            Who asked that of you?       

            Trample My courts no more…

            New moon and Sabbath,

            Proclaiming of solemnities,

            Assemblies with iniquity,

            I cannot abide.

            Your new moons and fixed seasons

            Fill Me with loathing;

            ….I cannot endure them.

            ….Though you pray at length,

            I will not listen.

            Your hands are stained with crime –

            Wash yourselves clean;

            Put your evil doings

            Away from My sight.

            Cease to do evil;

            Learn to do good.

            Devote yourselves to justice;

            Aid the wronged.

            Uphold the rights of the orphan;

            Defend the cause of the widow.”  [Isaiah 1:11-17]

            If these passages sound familiar to us, if some of us have virtually memorized these words, it’s because they became a cherished part of Reform liturgy, were quoted in the sermons of countless Reform rabbis, became the proof-texts for generations of rabbinic causes and campaigns in the field of social action.

            Reform rabbis in the years after World War I cited the prophets as they assailed child labor, poor conditions in the slums and forced prostitution (then known as “white slavery”). Prophetic verses were the foundation of their calls for economic justice and a comprehensive program of progressive social legislation, including workmen’s compensation, health insurance, pensions, and the right of labor to organize and bargain collectively.

            Reform rabbis of the 1950s and 60s quoted the prophets as they immersed themselves in the fight for civil rights and integration. In the following decades prophetic texts buttressed rabbinic stands against the war in Vietnam , as well as rabbinic support for nuclear disarmament, the war on poverty, and the environmental movement.

            I think it’s fair to say that many of us who grew up as Reform Jews in that time came to believe that Judaism was the fight for social justice. Social action was the source of our Jewish identity and our Jewish passion. It was in social action, not synagogue worship, that we found inspiration and meaning. I first became aware that Judaism had something to say to me when I was 16 years old and my rabbi, a passionate activist, railed against racism in fiery sermons, and took a family of Vietnamese boat people into his own home.

            Social action was about doing, not believing – it didn’t involve us in confusing questions about faith and doubt. Social action brought us together with other Americans who shared our ideals to make a better world for all  – it didn’t require that we set ourselves apart. The Reform movement devoted significant resources to building a “ Religious Action Center ” in Washington , D.C. – and in so doing taught us that “religious action” meant feeding the hungry, marching for peace, and lobbying on Capital Hill for a range of progressive causes.

            The Judaism in which I was raised, the Judaism I received at home from my parents, conveyed a message that was not much different from Tom Paine’s bumper sticker.  Our religion was about doing good, trying to be a decent person, trying to make a better world. But times have changed in the Reform movement. Our focus and emphasis have steadily shifted over the past 30 years. Our hierarchy of values has been re-arranged.

            The most recent platform of Reform Judaism, approved 9 years ago in Pittsburgh, states:” We are obligated to pursue (tzedek), justice and righteousness, and to narrow the gap between the affluent and the poor, to act against discrimination and oppression, to pursue peace, to welcome the stranger, to protect the earth's biodiversity and natural resources, and to redeem those in physical, economic and spiritual bondage. In so doing, we reaffirm social action and social justice as a central prophetic focus of traditional Reform Jewish belief and practice.”

            But that emphatic statement is surrounded by many paragraphs describing other key principles of Reform Judaism, including devotion to Israel and Jews around the world, faith in God, striving for holiness, study of Torah, Hebrew and the “whole array of mitzvot,” private and public prayer, and a full range of ritual practices, including keeping the Sabbath and festivals. No one, reading this platform, could come away thinking that our religion is simply about doing good, or that social action is the heart and soul of our Judaism.

            Wrote Eugene Borowitz, Professor at the Hebrew Union College in New York : ”Ethics may be our highest priority, but the ethical is not all one needs to do as a Jew. Today if one asks, “Rabbi, if I do the right thing but don’t come to synagogue, I’m a good Jew, isn’t that so?” my answer must be, “No.” Ethics are indispensable to Jews, but they do not nearly exhaust Jewish duty. Rather our ethics need to be one part of our whole sense of Jewish responsibility.”  [Borowitz, Exploring Jewish Ethics: Papers on Covenant Responsibility, p.370].

            Some Reform Jews today still insist that social action must stand front and center, the defining essence of our Jewish life; and that ethics, not rituals, should constitute our Jewish practice. But according to the official statements of Reform Judaism, being a good person is not the same as being a good Jew. Rather, social action and ethics are significant elements in a balanced structure integrating worship, study, and the practice of righteous deeds.

            Almost three thousand years ago the leaders of ancient Israel carried on a similar debate. To explore this, let’s look at the tension between prophets and priests that occurred in the 8^th century B.C.E.

            The prophets’ attitude toward ritual – i.e. the sacrifical offerings brought to the Temple in Jerusalem – is a complicated subject. Many scholars today believe that the prophets did not actually denounce ritual or call for the abolition of Temple sacrifices. They merely castigated hypocrisy – insisting that the performance of religious rites as an empty formality, unaccompanied by ethical deeds, was an offense to God. Many of the later prophets – those who lived during the Babylonian exile or the building of the Second Temple , such as Ezekiel, Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi – clearly had a deep devotion to the sacrificial rites.

            But Israel Knohl, professor of Bible at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem , argues that the early prophets Amos and Isaiah did, in fact, speak against the Temple rituals of their time, asserting the primacy of ethics, arguing that God wants moral behavior and social justice, not sacrifice and burnt offerings.

            These prophets were strident social critics, decrying the abuses of their time. They also made a direct attack on the priesthood and the worship cult they supervised in Jerusalem . Professor Knohl argues that a circle of priests, stung by this prophetic critique, responded by creating a new body of literature in the Torah. We know if today as the Holiness Code.

            The Holiness code comprises the last half of the book of Leviticus, beginning with chapter 17. It is the priestly answer to the prophetic critique.The most famous passage in the Holiness Code begins with a stirring call to the whole Israelite nation: “Kedoshim tihiyu…You shall be holy, for I, Adonai your God, am holy” [Lev.19:2].

            What follows is a revolutionary attempt to re-define the meaning of holiness. Earlier priestly texts had taught that holiness was achieved only through cultic rituals of purity and sacrifice. The first half of the book of Leviticus describes these laws and rituals at length, in copious detail. We also find such ritual laws in the Holiness Code. But the Holiness Code presents something new. Alongside the ritual laws about the tabernacle, burnt offerings, keeping the Sabbath, and so forth, are a myriad of ethical laws – laws about honesty in business, caring for the poor and the vulnerable, honoring parents, working for justice, loving your neighbor as yourself. The two types of laws are seamlessly interwoven – as if, in fact, they are one and the same divine law.

            The Holiness Code, in other words, presents an integrated picture of a holy life: it is a life that includes both ritual and ethical demands. The priestly authors created a new vision of what it means to be a Jew, insisting that God gives us moral and ceremonial duties, and that both, together, make possible a holy community. By following these practices, all Israelites may attain the holiness of the priesthood.

            In a similar passage, Psalm 15 asks, “Lord, who may sojourn in Your tent? Who may dwell on Your holy mountain?” The old priestly answer, the one given in the first half of Leviticus, would have been: only the man in a state of ritual purity can enter the Temple , God’s holy place. Only a man who has dunked in the mikvah and avoided contact with any impure thing can come into the Temple .

            But Psalm 15, instead, gives a radically new answer, leaned from the teachings of the prophets: Who may stand in God’s holy place? “One who lives without blame, who does what is right, and in his heart acknowledges the truth; whose tongue is not given to evil, who has never done harm to his fellow….who stands by his oath even to his hurt; who has never lent money at interest or accepted a bribe against the innocent.”

            Here, too, the Levites, the priestly tribe of Israel , declare their loyalty both to the Temple , God’s holy place, with all the religious rituals performed there, and to the prophetic teachings of morality and social justice. They envision both as essential to a full Jewish life.

            This unified, holistic vision is expressed later by the Sages of the Talmud, in a famous passage from tractate Shabbat [127a] that has been incorporated into the morning liturgy:

            “There are six things, the fruit of which man eats in this world, while the principal remains for him in the world to come. They are: hospitality to wayfarers, visiting the sick, meditation in prayer, early attendance at the Beth Hamidrash (the study house), rearing one's son to the study of Torah, and judging one's neighbor in the scale of merit....”

            Here, as well, ethical and ritual mitzot – prayer, study and righteous deeds – are blended seamlessly in a single harmonious whole.

            Somehow, it seems, the founders of Reform Judaism got things wrong. In separating the wheat from the chaff, in treasuring the moral law and discarding everything else; in making social action the be-all and end-all of their religion, they did violence to the balanced, comprehensive religion created by our ancestors. To be fair, the same sort of distortion occurred in Orthodoxy, which focused almost exclusively on ritual punctiliousness, ignoring the universalistic moral teachings of the prophets.

            Our community is paying the price for such distortions today.

            In “The Jew Within,” Steven Cohen and Arnold Eisen’s influential study of what matters to today’s American Jews, the authors asked survey participants, “In your opinion, for a person to be a good Jew, which of the following items are essential, which are desirable, which do not matter, and which are undesirable?”

            67% of respondents said that “leading an ethical and moral life” was essential to being a good Jew. 7% said that “studying Jewish texts” was essential -- 54% said text study did not matter.  11% said that contributing to Jewish philanthropies was essential – 40% said it did not matter. 19% percent said that “celebrating the Sabbath in some way” was essential – 38% said it did not matter. 18% said that visiting Israel at some point in one’s life was essential – 38% said it did not matter.

            Should those statistics bother us? What is lost when our religion is reduced to universal teachings such as doing good and being kind? God knows the world could use more goodness and kindness – and isn’t Judaism ultimately about making better people and creating a better world?

            It is indeed – of that I am quite sure. But the Judaism created by our ancestors was more than a set of generic moral principles shared by all decent people. It is a particular vision of the world, conveyed in its own vivid and particular language and voice.

            The lessons of Judaism are encoded in law, embodied in history, embedded in stories, in song and celebration and symbolic action and food. Judaism inculcates moral and ethical principles through intensive, hands-on, multi-sensory education that touches the head, the heart and the hands

            Its revolutionary social vision – of justice, equality, the dignity of all people – is anchored in religious faith, the belief that all human beings carry the image of the Divine and are therefore of infinite, incalculable value; the conviction that the earth belongs to the Lord and we are merely the stewards of God’s wealth. Its notion of responsibility is communal and covenantal, binding all of us in a sacred partnership with God in which we patiently mend what is broken, generation after generation.

            The Jewish message of hope is based not in reason – there is nothing rational about hope – but on a stubborn and defiant faith that there is meaning in this world and a purpose to our lives.

            Take away the rituals and ceremonies from Judaism, strip away the color and the symbols and the taste of memory and imagination….and Judaism itself disappears. You can do justice at the ACLU. You can love kindness in the Unitarian Church ; you can protect the earth in the Sierra Club.

            But only in Judaism can you celebrate Shabbat in all its richness and beauty – with candles and challah and wine, with loved ones holding hands around your table; with songs of joy and prayers of peace and words of Torah – the whole intricate tapestry conveying a myriad of lessons – about family and community and learning, about harmony with others and oneself, about creation and recreation, the dignity of all persons, contentment, reflection, humility, humanity, and on and on and on.

            Could you learn the ethical lessons of Shabbat without the rituals of Shabbat? Could you learn to fight for freedom without the Passover Seder, or learn to light candles in the darkness without the Hanukah menorah? Could you empathize with the hungry without fasting on Yom Kippur, ponder the fragility of life without sitting in a sukkah, or learn to restrain your appetites without the dietary laws? Could you learn gratitude and humility without prayer, or reverence without putting on a tallis?

            I don’t think so – not in the same way. You couldn’t’ internalize these lessons so that they become part of the deep structure of your being, embedded in your sensual memory, attached to your most powerful emotions.

          Half a century ago the American Jewish writer Will Herberg wrote about the difficulty of creating a culture that transmits ethical and moral values, once you separate those values from the religions out of which they grew. These are his words:

            “The moral principles of Western civilization are, in fact, all derived from the tradition rooted in Scripture and have vital meaning only in the context of that tradition. The attempt made in recent decades by secularist thinkers to disengage these values from their religious context, in the assurance that they could live a life of their own, as a ‘humanistic’ ethic, has resulted in what one writer has called our ‘cut-flower’ culture.

            “Cut flowers retain their original beauty and fragrance, but only so long as they retain the vitality that they have drawn from their now severed roots; after that is exhausted, they wither and die. So [it is] with freedom, brotherhood, justice, and personal dignity – the values that form the foundation of our civilization. Without the life-giving power of the faith out of which they have sprung, they possess neither meaning nor vitality. Morality ungrounded in God is indeed a house built upon sand, unable to stand up against the vagaries of impulse and the brutal pressures of power and self-interest” [Judaism and Modern Man, pp.91-2].

            Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Chief Rabbi of the British Empire , puts it another way, arguing that we need both social action and religious ceremonies to maintain our vitality – the two reinforce one another in an ongoing dynamic.  Study, worship and ritual practice refresh us, giving us strength to persist in the challenging work of tzedek. He writes: “Our prayers, texts and rituals hold before us a vision of how the world might be. Our work, service to the community and social life take us into the world as it is, where we make a difference by mending some of its imperfections, righting wrongs, curing ills, healing wounds. The juxtaposition of the two creates moral energy, and when they are disconnected, the energy fails. The holy is where we enter the ideal; the good is how we make it real.”[To Heal a Fractured World, p.173].

            The holy is where we enter the ideal, the good is how we make it real. And so we return to the threshold, the doorstep, where we prepare to leave our shared space of Torah, prayer and sacred community and re-enter the challenging world out there. It is the mezuzah that takes us across the threshold. Not just the sacred teachings it contains but the container itself – a tangible object we can look at, touch and kiss, teaching ourselves with eyes and fingers and lips the lessons that form our identity as a Jew.

            This is my Jewish home, says the mezuzah. Within this place we act in a certain way – eating in a holy manner, honoring our holy days; welcoming guests, speaking words of Torah, listening with sensitivity, cherishing those we love.

            This is how a Jew goes out into the world, says the mezuzah: faithful to our heritage, performing honest and honorable deeds, standing up for those who have no advocate, sharing the fruits of our labor, refusing to stand by, indifferent, while a neighbor bleeds, seeking peace and pursuing justice.

            The ritual and the ethical, the good and the holy, the real and the ideal – together we weave them into Jewish lives of significance.

            Our religion is not simple: it is beautiful and deep, multifaceted, full of meaning,  infinitely rich.

            That is why, when the great Rabbi Hillel was asked by a pagan to summarize all of Judaism while standing on one foot, he gave an answer that went beyond a bumper sticker. In language concise and elegant, Rabbi Hillel opened a door to the stranger, offered a glimpse of the riches within, then invited him to come all the way inside. Hillel said: This is the essence of Judaism.  "What is hateful to you, do not do to others. All the rest is commentary -- now go and study" (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a).