September 18, 2021
Author(s): Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger,
Parshat Ha’Azinu
September 18, 2021 – 12 Tishrei 5782
Love your Neighbor
with Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger
Temple Emanuel, Newton, MA
In my synagogue growing up, we had a vibrant tradition of journaling and reflection during services. On the high holidays, they would assemble four tents in the four corners of the sanctuary and during services, it was common for community members to duck into a tent for a moment of quiet meditation or to jot down some ideas in a journal. I always thought that writing was an integral part of Jewish practice.
When I got to college, I was so lonely. I missed home and missed the Judaism I had grown up with. When I spoke to my rabbi, she recommended that I try some of the synagogues off-campus. She thought multi-generational community might be a balm to my soul. So I got up my courage, found the nearest conservative synagogue, and headed there for shabbat morning services.
I was nervous. Uncomfortable. So worried about traffic that I left ridiculously early and got there with nearly a half an hour to spare before services. Those were the days before we had to have security, so I wandered into the sanctuary and found a seat near the back. I pulled out my journal and started writing a letter to God about how lonely I was, asking God to help me make this a good community, to help me feel at home.
Just then, a group of women walked up to me. “What do you think you’re doing?! We don’t write on shabbos! And in the sanctuary of all places?! How dare you!”
I was mortified. Alienated. Heart-broken. I managed to blurt out some hasty apology. The ladies started asking me questions about who I was and how I got there. I answered, trying to hold it together, and waited for services to start. As soon as they did, I fled to my car and cried all the way home.
As a young adult, I was already hyper-conscious of how other people perceived me. I was constantly searching people’s faces, trying to understand how I was coming across, trying to modulate my behavior so that people would like me. I worried that I wasn’t smart enough or good enough, and I really worried that I wouldn’t find my place in the world. I think that’s partly why that day shook me so much. I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong; I was just trying to be the best person I could be and to make the best choices available to me. But those ladies didn’t see my intention, they didn’t see my heart. They just saw the rule I was breaking.
For years thereafter, any time I entered a Jewish space, I did so with trepidation, sure that Jewish community was just waiting to catch me red-handed, waiting to punish me for a transgression I didn’t understand. It took years for me to rebuild my trust in Jewish community.
These past weeks, I keep thinking back to that moment in synagogue. In many ways, that moment was ridiculous. It was a silly interaction about a silly restriction—something that doesn’t even matter. Whether I wrote or not, that didn’t undermine the integrity of the community or reflect on my character. And what those ladies thought of me was of no consequence in the scheme of things. I needed to learn to have thicker skin. But at the time, it was profoundly painful and shattered my sense of belonging and my sense of safety in community. If I could feel so broken-hearted about a group of ladies chastising me for writing in synagogue, I cannot even begin to imagine what young people in Texas will feel if they are targeted by new legislation in Texas.
If you’re watching what’s happening in Texas, you know that they’ve just passed an extremely restrictive abortion bill known as the Texas Heartbeat Act, or SB8, that allows for anyone in the state to sue on the suspicion that someone has “aided or abetted the performance or inducement of an abortion” after 6 weeks. Instead of depending on the officials and officers who enforce every other law of the land, this law invites vigilantes to harass health practitioners, taxi drivers, friends, and teachers, and it makes doing so financially lucrative. For every suit that is won, the plaintiff recoups not only the cost of their legal fees but also a $10,000 bonus.
Whatever your politics and however you feel about abortion, the mechanism of this law is terrifying. This law incentivizes people to tear each other down, and there is no real consequence for false accusations even though those accusations could cost tens of thousands of dollars or more in legal expenses. Defendants under this law are not entitled to recoup legal fees if they win in court. And because this law is enforced by community members, teachers, potentially even friends, it has the power to undermine young people’s sense of belonging and community. The pain that I felt in that synagogue all those years ago—that’s nothing compared to what our children could experience as a result of this law and the copycat laws that are being put forth in other states.
To be clear, we already live in a world where people feel empowered to tear others down. We already live in a world where online trolls ruin lives by posting lies on the internet that cannot be deleted. We already live in a world where social media influencers earn thousands of dollars of sponsorships by mocking people publicly. And that is without laws codifying and inspiring such behavior.
What will happen if this law stays on the books? Will this enforcement mechanism remain limited to reproductive health? Or will we start to see a creep, a new generation of laws that empower every-day citizens to spy on their neighbors and report them to the government for a bounty? Will we start to worry, looking over our shoulders? Will we lose the ability to trust? Will we forget what community means?
I’m reminded of a famous story in the Talmud. Someone who is not Jewish goes to Shammai and asks to learn all of Torah while standing on one foot. It’s a preposterous proposition. Shammai gets angry, “how dare you! There are too many rules, too many laws, get away!” They go to Hillel and ask the same question. But Hillel doesn’t get angry. He simply responds, “that which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. All the rest is commentary. Now go and learn!”
This story reminds us that there are two ways of being in the world. One way is to be like Shammai, focused on all the rules and regulations. We can be critical of our neighbors; we can see it as our mission to keep others in line. And if that’s who we are, we drive people away. We make people feel unsafe. Maybe we even begin to feel unsafe ourselves. But the other way to be is like Hillel. We can focus on treating others with love and regard, we can focus on building people up, we can focus on creating a caring community.
Ultimately, we cannot control the world. We can’t fix the Texas Heartbeat Act, or change the cultural realities that are turning people against one another. But we can live Hillel’s Torah. We can treat our neighbors with love. We can treat our neighbors the way we want to be treated. All the rest really is commentary.