September 20th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
Our Torah portion this week begins with an ancient prayer—one recited by our ancestors when they brought the first fruits of their harvests to God in thanksgiving. When God’s promises were fulfilled—once they had settled in The Promised Land, farmed it, and harvested their crops, they were instructed to remember that God is the source of their blessings—and recite the following:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and there and became a great and populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us, oppressing us and enslaving us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand, an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents. God brought us to this place and gave us this land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10)
The prayer presents a summary of our story—a ritual summary designed to remind us of our place in God’s world, but, as a summary, it does not include everything. A different ritual might have called for a different summary story—with perhaps something about Abraham’s faith or the awesomeness of hearing the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. Ours is a very rich history, and, since there is always more to say, the parts that match the occasion must be selected.
This rich history and multidimensional identity of our Jewish people is also true of our individual identities. Each has a distinct background as well as wide ranging interests and affiliations. We each have an ethnic and family heritage and, when we consider our professional duties, our cultural interests and hobbies and charitable endeavors and civic activities, we each possess what we could call “multiple identities”—or a multi-valent identity. We each “wear a lot of caps,” and, at various moments, different aspects of our identities come to the fore.
This variety makes our lives very rich, but it can also bring about some problems. I remember, for example, how, last October, an outspoken LGBT activist reported “losing dozens of friends” when her Zionism made her a pariah in some Progressive circles. For some, the conflict comes when their political party changes its position, and they find themselves in dissonance with longtime political allies. Sometimes, the conflict is in timing. What happens when a family event coincides with an important professional meeting—or when a big charitable project or sports event falls on Yom Kippur? It is like the old joke about the football fan who is stuck between the big game and Kol Nidre. His rabbi suggests that perhaps a VCR might provide relief. The man gets really excited and says, “Rabbi, you’d be willing to tape the service for me?!” Sometimes, we can get the conflicting events moved, but other times we are faced with making choices among our priorities—our identities.
Back in the early years of the Zionist movement, some Jews opposed the development of a Jewish State because they thought it would jeopardize our position as loyal Americans. Can one have multi-identities without having “dual loyalties?” Some—both Jewish and non-Jewish—have worried about a potential armed conflict between the U.S. and Israel. Would Jews be loyal to America or to our fellow Jews? Fortunately, this theoretical fear has never come to pass, and hopefully it never will. Though there are often policy disagreements among friends and allies—and within each nation (!), the fact is that the United States and Israel are united in purpose and goals. As historian Ellis Rivkin used to say, Israel is the “beachhead of Democracy and American Developmental Capitalism in a part of the world where it is badly needed.” Israel is essentially an American asset in international relations and, though an independent nation, works with us at every step of the way.
The more present conflict arises when our identity as Jews creates a dissonance with our identity as employees or students. What do we do when Rosh Hashanah falls on a weekday? Though our leaders have worked hard on this issue—and succeeded in getting laws and regulations that allow us to miss work on our Holy Days, still the conflict persists. Do we take off work and miss a big meeting or potential sale? Do we take off school and use up a “personal day” or miss a test or event? Freedom of religion means that we should be free to observe Judaism’s most holy days, but can we exercise this freedom without negative repercussions? Many of us feel pulled by our different identities and reluctant to miss work or school or services.
There are many stories about these choices, but perhaps the most famous involves baseball legend Hank Greenberg who took the day in the 1934 American League Playoffs. He was the star of his team, but he went to Yom Kippur services instead of the ball field. It was a hard decision for Greenberg, and the difficulty was reflected in the decision he made just ten days earlier. On Rosh Hashanah, he felt the pull of both his Judaism and his team, and he ended up finessing the situation. He played on Rosh Hashanah afternoon (hitting two home runs and giving his Detroit Tigers a 2-1 victory) —but only after attending synagogue services that morning. On Yom Kippur, however, he made a different decision, praying in synagogue and skipping the game. He chose his faith over other important values, and his courage and dedication inspired Jews all over the country.
When we live among non-Jews, there are so many questions to navigate. From singing Christmas carols in school to closing businesses on Yom Tov to participating in charitable work on Saturday mornings, we often find ourselves having to choose between our Judaism and our other important identities. It is just part of the territory, and we each learn to consider and decide and then sometimes redecide on our priorities.
A final story. For some seventy years, my Mother lived a very Jewish life in very Catholic Cajun Louisiana. She encountered many challenges, seeing many accommodations and making quite a few herself. Some she understood. Others, in her mind, went too far. Among them was the local funeral home’s custom of putting a kneeling bench in front of the coffin—so that friends and relatives could kneel and say prayers for the deceased. This was the Catholic custom, and, since there were always Catholic mourners at funerals—even Jewish funerals, the kneeling bench was de rigueur. This really rankled her, and many times, during her last few decades, my Mom would look me straight in the eyes and implore me, “Please, when I die, do not let them put a kneeling bench in front of my coffin.” To her, this was a step too far, and I can report that, when she passed away, there was no kneeling bench.
The High Holy Days are a good time to reflect on our multiple identities—and where we draw the line. Who are we? What do we represent? How can our actions express our highest values?