From the Rabbi

Dear members and friends,

Let me begin my message this month by wishing our new president success in keeping America great. The atmosphere in which President Trump begins his term is challenging. The various camps in America clearly represent different views of social arrangement, but it is crucial to find the middle ground that brings us together. This seems to be lacking. So what is that middle that we are looking for?

Last month, I ended my message with the quote: “…the spiritual is political and the political is spiritual.” Even though I understand the concept internally, I have never tried to articulate it, as I believe every clergy should define the interface between politics and spiritually for himself or herself. However, in response to a question from one of our members, I will attempt to explain the relationship between the two. I welcome your perspectives and ideas.

The first thing that comes to mind is a joke I first heard at rabbinical school: “Rabbi, why did you choose to become a congregational rabbi?” Answer: “Because I don’t care for politics.” Every additional year in the pulpit, this joke becomes even funnier because I understand that it is impossible to separate the political from the spiritual. They are the two sides of the same coin. Politics is a way to manage human relationships on a small scale, and societies on the greater scale; spirituality is a basic need of humanity to see life beyond itself.

In practical terms, the broader idea is not to separate spirituality from society, but to use political tools to achieve spiritual goals. For example, how do we create a society where those who have wealth and power give to those who have neither? Charity is the key (from the Latin, “caritas,” to care is to love, in Hebrew to give). Charity brings us together, and coming together is the ultimate act of charity. Charity, as the ultimate spiritual act of looking beyond ourselves, opens us to infinite possibilities. Any organization that becomes too involved with itself, too internalized, is letting politics distract it from its spiritual mission. Eventually, that organization will collapse on itself. But through charity, what keeps us apart can keep us together.

Nevertheless, the tension between politics and spirituality is real. Politics too often benefits from separating people, while the mission of spirituality is to bring people together. Politics can encourage hate, while spirituality’s goal is to encourage love. As a result, politics can directly affect the goal of spirituality. The good news is that it can also go the other way; spirituality and charity can directly affect politics.

One of my most memorable experiences happened shortly after I moved to New York City in 1995. I was walking by Trump Tower, and I looked up. Coming from Israel, I had never seen so many tall buildings. Then, when I looked back down, my eyes were caught by something else I had not seen before: homelessness. (Unfortunately, Israel has much of both today.) In front of the golden tower, a homeless man was sleeping in a cardboard box.

On the Shabbat immediately following the inauguration, our synagogue began a new book, the Book of Exodus. The book begins with the verse: “…and a new king arose in Egypt, that did not know Joseph.” The king surely knew about Joseph, but he chose to ignore the charitable man who had saved Egypt from starvation. The new king, because he couldn’t see the suffering of the people, ultimately brought about Egypt’s destruction.

I hope the new administration will recognize that charity is the key to coming together and, ultimately, to keeping America strong. Dear president, you now have the highest office, even higher than the one at your tower. Do not be distracted by politics; remember that our mission is spiritual. What is the purpose of all the political power if you can’t or don’t have enough time to help those who are struggling? In 1967, at a conference in Atlanta titled “Where Do We Go From Here?” the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Power properly understood is nothing but the ability to achieve purpose. It is the strength required to bring about social, political, and economic change.”

The bottom line is this: we can never avoid politics, but we can make the political spiritual. At Tifereth Israel, for instance, we pray before each board meeting and before each congregation meeting. Let us carry that message to meetings at every level, from our own families to every aspect of government: “Loving and Gracious God, we come together this day to seek your wisdom, guidance, courage and strength. Be with us in our deliberations and help us to be wise in the decisions we make for the good of all those who have placed their trust and confidence in our leadership. Give us insight to lead with integrity that our decisions may reflect what is right and good. Keep us from shortsightedness and pettiness. Help us to make decisions that strive to be for the good of all, and guard us from blind self-interest. Finally, grant us the humility to always seek your will in all that we do and say. Amen.”

Chodesh Tov,

—Rabbi Gadi

All I was hoping for was an enjoyable post-High Holidays trip, driving through seven mostly Eastern European countries in three weeks. (Yes, I do find it relaxing.) The idea was to visit the countries, and to see some of the lesser-known sites. I was traveling with a WWII veteran, who is half a century ahead of me. That, of course, is our own gabbai, Stanley Rubin. But instead, what began as an innocent vacation became a deeply emotional and educational trip. After all, would God let a rabbi and a gabbai spend three weeks in Europe without a lesson?

We left New York five days after the American election, and we arrived Europe in the midst of elections in several countries there. All the major newspapers were running photos and articles on their front pages about President Obama and/or President-elect Trump. As it turned out, Obama was visiting Europe and Greece, the cradle of democracy, at the same time that we were traveling in Europe.

We started in Austria, where Stanley’s late wife, Eva, was born, and where they had visited many times. We enjoyed the beauty of Vienna and its delicious desserts. From there, we went to Salzburg and the Alps. While in Austria, we realized we were in Europe at an interesting time. Austria was going through a presidential election campaign. The outcome of the election was a slim victory for the Greens, the more liberal party. But as we discovered, that trend does not reflect the general spirit and the pendulum-swing to the right that is occurring throughout Europe. But this, in fact, was just the warm-up for what we experienced next.

It started when we drove to the Czech Republic, where we began to follow the trail of past totalitarian governments and their aftermaths. We arrived in Prague on the evening of Nov. 17. Many streets were blocked to allow the commemoration and celebration of the Lidska Prava — the U.N. Charter of Fundamental Rights and Freedoms that had passed in 1989, accompanying the domino fall of Communism 27 years ago. The main stage and vigil happened to be right in front of our hotel, so we were immediately drawn into the scene.

A vigil to celebrate freedom

Vigils accompany many celebrations of freedom, remembrances of all who had sacrificed their lives in the process. Later, I stood by the carpet of candles with many others who had assembled. We were strangers to each other, but together we experienced the camaraderie of the celebration. What surprised me, though, was the music. The scene was like a page out of ‘60s America: Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower,” Bob Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind,” The Rolling Stones’ “Angie,” The Beatles’ “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” and The Doors’ “Light my Fire.” There was definitely a lot of fire that night.

On our way north from Prague to Berlin, we stopped at the site of the Theresienstadt concentration camp, the only camp in the territory of the former Czechoslovakia. I had never been to one of the Nazi death camps, but having Holocaust survivors and many stories around me all my life, I didn’t think it would have such an impact. But the minute I walked in, I felt the people who were there: I saw their faces, and I shared their melancholy. The Talmud says that when you visit a sick person, you take one 60th of the burden of their sickness. One 60th symbolizes a very small, and at times, negligible portion. But this was a very sick place, and even one 60th was a heavy weight. I walked in as a tourist and left crying.

I felt much like Jacob, who had arrived at “the place” when he was leaving home on the way to Haran. The commentators debate whether or not Jacob knew this was “the place,” which the Talmud traces back to the binding of Isaac. Since Isaac was Jacob’s father and Abraham was his grandfather, it’s reasonable to believe that he knew of the place and its significance. What he didn’t know was how it would affect him. Having had the profound experience through the dream of the ladder with the angels going up and down from heaven, Jacob cries out: “How full of awe is this place!” (Gen. 28:17). Similar to Jacob, the profound experience of that place we had visited set the course for the rest of our trip.

When we arrived Berlin, we met our good friend, the Lutheran minister Fr. Christophe. With him, we walked along the whole remaining Berlin Wall. I always imagined this wall much higher. After all, it was this wall that for many years separated two sides of the world, each representing a different philosophy of life. It was the fall of the domino-like concrete panels of this wall in September 1989, two months before the Lidska Prava that caused the mental walls to fall like dominos throughout the rest of Eastern Europe. Now, imagine this: a German minister, an Israeli rabbi, and an American WWII veteran walking along the Berlin Wall…

The Polish ghetto

Next was Poland. The road directly east from Berlin to Warsaw is about a six-hour drive. The Communist architecture is still dominant, sending us back again to the ‘60s. Warsaw’s modernity camouflages the area that was once the largest ghetto; more than 400,000 Jews were crowded into an area there not much larger than one square mile. The remaining witnesses are a plaque, a monument, and a new museum. To think that before WWII, every third resident in Warsaw was Jewish. And now, we were walking on the ground where thousands upon thousands were brutally murdered. When we were looking for the center of the ghetto, I was happy to see a pharmacy identified with Hebrew lettering — Bet Merkahat. This was when I began to realize that in Poland, many businesses maintain a façade of Jewish identity, even incorporating Hebrew writing but, in fact, they are not remotely Jewish. Recently, the Jewish community of Warsaw has been responsible for recovering various Jewish properties and landmarks throughout the country. The big yeshiva in Lublin is one of them. That was our next stop.

In Lublin, we found ourselves hurrying to make it before the Majdanek death camp closed, and we found ourselves glad to have made it in time. Understanding the irony made the visit even more emotional. After a short visit at the camp, we were met by Fr. Mariusz, a Polish Catholic priest and our good friend, who spends summers with the Polish church on the East End of Long Island. He took us to visit Yeshivat Chachmei Lublin, the most famous Yeshiva in Europe, founded by Rabbi Meir Shapiro in 1930. It was Rabbi Shapiro who also came up with the idea of the Daf Yomi — learning one page of Gemara each day and completing all tractates in seven years.  Here too, the building was reclaimed and beautifully restored, but the Neshama — the soul — is no longer there. Sadly, a non-kosher restaurant now operates in what used to be one of the most important Jewish institutions of higher learning in the world. We toured the place with a man who was extremely enthusiastic about it. This is clearly a tourist’s destination and a moneymaker for the local population. Nevertheless, it is hard not to feel the sadness of the desolation. The same feeling continued in Krakow, a place that was once the crown jewel of Jewish life and learning, now mostly a relic.

The trajectory that started in Prague continued through Hungary, Slovakia, and Romania. Our attention focused in on the Jewish history there, and the trail of destruction and depression of the human spirit that Nazism and Communism left behind — dictators robbing the masses of their rights and freedom. And then, in the last days of our trip, Fidel Castro died and, with him, a whole era. The announcement of his death felt like the last chapter in the course we were taking through Europe, and what can happen when totalitarian states do not acknowledge the individual person and individual liberty. They seek to make the world in their own images and likenesses. When the state becomes the religion and the leader becomes the god, the pathway to killing dissenting millions is short. The Nazi regime did not invent the labor and death camps; it borrowed the idea from Communist regimes. Perhaps this was the big lesson we were supposed to learn, a lesson I once saw on a sticker: “Ignore your rights and they’ll go away!”

A Hanukkah message

As we celebrate Hanukkah this year, let’s have this message in mind. In the words of my friend and colleague, Rabbi Rachel Isaacs, who was chosen to light the Hanukkia with President and Mrs. Obama in the White House this year, “Hanukkah is a festival that teaches us that it is always darkest before the dawn, and it is not foolish or naive to hold onto hope. …Hanukkah also teaches us about the necessity of rebellion. The Maccabees refused to accept tyranny, and they were willing to sacrifice everything in order to retain their integrity as faithful Jews. They knew the injustice of dictatorship, and the danger of one human sovereign undermining the primacy of our laws. As Jews, our faith is rooted in a legal system based on the foundational belief that all human beings are created equal, and created equally in the Divine image. We know that the values and the example we inherited from the Maccabees are not so different from the legacy we inherited from the mothers and fathers of the American Revolution — those who fought for religious freedom in order to achieve the promise of a democratic republic that is free from tyranny. …as Jews we know the spiritual is political and the political is spiritual.”

Chag urim sameach and Happy New Year.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela