Parshat Ki Tavo contains the phrase: "...come to the land I have given you... a land flowing with milk and honey."
Friends of mine who are older than me want to go to Israel. But not now; maybe some other time. It's too dangerous with all that craziness going on there.
Is going to Israel dangerous? Perhaps it is. But perhaps not as dangerous as not going.
The danger of going is that something might happen. Likely? No. Possible? Like anything else in life. The danger of not going is that nothing will happen. Nothing noticeable, nothing remarkable, nothing tangible will happen. Only a subtle, nearly imperceptible shift will happen. Subtle can be profound.
Abraham Twerski tells of the guy who finished a night of partying and came home to his twentieth-floor Manhattan apartment. He flopped into bed and kicked off a shoe. As he was about to kick off his other shoe, he remembered that someone was sleeping on the nineteenth floor beneath him; he carefully took off his other shoe and placed it on the floor. Ten minutes later, there was furious knocking on the door. It was the downstairs neighbor, shrieking, "Would you throw down the other shoe already!"
Waiting for the other shoe to drop is nerve racking. Once the chips fall though, you know where they are; they fall, they hit, they break and then they sit quietly.
A lot has been said about the ghetto Jew, most of it is pejorative, and undeservedly so. Ghettoes had walls, outside of which Jews could neither live nor be found after nightfall. Edicts barred Jews from most jobs, landed them with Jew-taxes and branded them with yellow stars and hats. Death was not the exception.
Ghetto Jews knew the price the outside exacted from them for being a Jew. Ghetto Jews paid the price and got on with being Jewish. For them, being Jewish meant spiritual grandeur, intellectual profundity, timeless legacy, optimistic future: how lucky to be a Jew. As Jonathan Sacks says, while much for the ghetto Jew was problematic, Jewish identity was not.
Not so for the Converso Jew ("Marrano"), the less-spoken-of side of the medieval coin. He, afraid of being rendered a penniless wanderer on a leaky boat, allowed the village priest to sprinkle him with water. He attended church; he adopted as best he could all the manners the outside demanded of his faithless conversion. But the outside was now in him, and the Marrano Jew lived his life looking over his shoulder. When will they find him out? When will the shoe drop? What will be the ultimate price of being a Jew? While much for the Marrano Jew was not problematic (above all finance and bodily safety), Jewish identity was.
In the end, the Marrano could not remain as a Jew. While a celebrated few died a martyr's death, most melted into Catholicism. That was his price. Not being a Jew. The Jew who chose the ghetto paid his price, too, but his Jewish grandchildren tell his story.
Whether one should go to Israel at this time or not has a personal component, possibly what is appropriate for one is not for another. But there is a component that must be addressed. Going has a price. Not going has a heftier price.
In the 1980s, ten of us yeshiva guys spent two years with the Jewish community of Morocco. We learned how to walk the streets. And how not to walk the streets. Don't walk on sidewalks; you can get too close to someone looking for trouble. Walk in the middle of the street, like you own it. Walk near parked cars. Cars are a status symbol and Arabs hesitate to throw rocks if they might hit a car. Don't walk the streets when the bars let out (11:00pm); a drunk coward is a stupid danger. And if ever you get hit, hit back twice as hard, fast, and, because within moments you'll be outnumbered 300 to 1, get lost quickly.
But don't ever, ever run.
With all the caution, one of us was hit with a rock in the eye. A well-meaning American, a visiting representative of a Jewish fund-raising organization, happened to be in Casablanca then. He had heard of our friend who was hit. Why don't you guys cover your yarmulkes with caps, he suggested. We answered him with polite, non-committal noises. If he's still listening, here is the best I can offer - some twenty years later:
If you want to run, you can -- but you can't just run a mile. You must run a hundred miles.
If you hide who you are, then you're never yourself. Your kids will never know who you once were -- or who they now are.
If you hide your yarmulke, then you'll hide your mezuzah necklace, and even hide your name.
If you hide, you may be safe. If you're safe, you'll be all the more scared to be unsafe. You'll be scared to be you.
If you don't hide, you may be hit; if you're hit, you may be hurt. You may die; many Jews have died for no other reason than who they were.
Is it worth it, to die for who you are? That's not even the question. The question is: is it worth it to live for who you are? If it is worth living for who you are, then there is nothing to fear.
Once the other shoe has dropped, safety and danger don't mean the same thing. You can enjoy the trip.
Friends of mine who are older than me want to go to Israel. But not now; maybe some other time. It's too dangerous with all that craziness going on there.
Is going to Israel dangerous? Perhaps it is. But perhaps not as dangerous as not going.
The danger of going is that something might happen. Likely? No. Possible? Like anything else in life. The danger of not going is that nothing will happen. Nothing noticeable, nothing remarkable, nothing tangible will happen. Only a subtle, nearly imperceptible shift will happen. Subtle can be profound.
Abraham Twerski tells of the guy who finished a night of partying and came home to his twentieth-floor Manhattan apartment. He flopped into bed and kicked off a shoe. As he was about to kick off his other shoe, he remembered that someone was sleeping on the nineteenth floor beneath him; he carefully took off his other shoe and placed it on the floor. Ten minutes later, there was furious knocking on the door. It was the downstairs neighbor, shrieking, "Would you throw down the other shoe already!"
Waiting for the other shoe to drop is nerve racking. Once the chips fall though, you know where they are; they fall, they hit, they break and then they sit quietly.
A lot has been said about the ghetto Jew, most of it is pejorative, and undeservedly so. Ghettoes had walls, outside of which Jews could neither live nor be found after nightfall. Edicts barred Jews from most jobs, landed them with Jew-taxes and branded them with yellow stars and hats. Death was not the exception.
Ghetto Jews knew the price the outside exacted from them for being a Jew. Ghetto Jews paid the price and got on with being Jewish. For them, being Jewish meant spiritual grandeur, intellectual profundity, timeless legacy, optimistic future: how lucky to be a Jew. As Jonathan Sacks says, while much for the ghetto Jew was problematic, Jewish identity was not.
Not so for the Converso Jew ("Marrano"), the less-spoken-of side of the medieval coin. He, afraid of being rendered a penniless wanderer on a leaky boat, allowed the village priest to sprinkle him with water. He attended church; he adopted as best he could all the manners the outside demanded of his faithless conversion. But the outside was now in him, and the Marrano Jew lived his life looking over his shoulder. When will they find him out? When will the shoe drop? What will be the ultimate price of being a Jew? While much for the Marrano Jew was not problematic (above all finance and bodily safety), Jewish identity was.
In the end, the Marrano could not remain as a Jew. While a celebrated few died a martyr's death, most melted into Catholicism. That was his price. Not being a Jew. The Jew who chose the ghetto paid his price, too, but his Jewish grandchildren tell his story.
Whether one should go to Israel at this time or not has a personal component, possibly what is appropriate for one is not for another. But there is a component that must be addressed. Going has a price. Not going has a heftier price.
In the 1980s, ten of us yeshiva guys spent two years with the Jewish community of Morocco. We learned how to walk the streets. And how not to walk the streets. Don't walk on sidewalks; you can get too close to someone looking for trouble. Walk in the middle of the street, like you own it. Walk near parked cars. Cars are a status symbol and Arabs hesitate to throw rocks if they might hit a car. Don't walk the streets when the bars let out (11:00pm); a drunk coward is a stupid danger. And if ever you get hit, hit back twice as hard, fast, and, because within moments you'll be outnumbered 300 to 1, get lost quickly.
But don't ever, ever run.
With all the caution, one of us was hit with a rock in the eye. A well-meaning American, a visiting representative of a Jewish fund-raising organization, happened to be in Casablanca then. He had heard of our friend who was hit. Why don't you guys cover your yarmulkes with caps, he suggested. We answered him with polite, non-committal noises. If he's still listening, here is the best I can offer - some twenty years later:
If you want to run, you can -- but you can't just run a mile. You must run a hundred miles.
If you hide who you are, then you're never yourself. Your kids will never know who you once were -- or who they now are.
If you hide your yarmulke, then you'll hide your mezuzah necklace, and even hide your name.
If you hide, you may be safe. If you're safe, you'll be all the more scared to be unsafe. You'll be scared to be you.
If you don't hide, you may be hit; if you're hit, you may be hurt. You may die; many Jews have died for no other reason than who they were.
Is it worth it, to die for who you are? That's not even the question. The question is: is it worth it to live for who you are? If it is worth living for who you are, then there is nothing to fear.
Once the other shoe has dropped, safety and danger don't mean the same thing. You can enjoy the trip.