As a rabbi, politics can be a very dangerous subject. On the one hand, ignoring America’s political landscape risks rendering the work we do in the synagogue tone-deaf and oblivious. At the same time, centering politics in our congregations can alienate those who either hold different beliefs or upset those who want a respite from the inundation they get beyond the walls of our building. It leaves many clergy with a Catch-22: damned if we do, damned if we don’t.
A typical result is to speak about Tikkun Olam, repairing our world, in the most general and agreeable sense. Everyone wants to be the hero of their own story, so we can be delightfully uplifting by telling people to “be a good person” and to “pursue holiness,” allowing them to fill in the blanks for themselves about how to actually make that happen.
Our current legislative climate, though, has pushed us to a place where we can no longer hide behind platitudes and pleasantries. The costs of health insurance and groceries demand a massive re-evaluation of how medical companies and the broader economy are evaluated. Racism, sexism, and transphobia have made it impossible for far too many Americans to feel at home in their own country. The systems of government accountability have been pushed to their limits, and those who are footing the bill are often the ones most at risk. These are all political issues, but they are all built upon the foundational understanding of our moral obligation to one another in a structured society.
To complicate matters, religious institutions are bound by the Johnson Amendment, a provision of the tax code that prevents faith leaders from endorsing particular candidates or parties from the pulpit. It is not hard to imagine that an administration known for its petty litigiousness would go hunting for organizations that speak out against their policies, regardless of the actual legality of the statements made. The inevitable result is the avoidance of many important issues altogether, for fear that speaking out against this administration and its wanton abandonment of morality and conscience will have consequences that we cannot foresee.
Yet, at what point do we lose our souls in favor of keeping our safety? In his book Moral Ambition, Rutger Bergman examines the Netherlands, a country that, during World War II, remained problematically uninvolved amid atrocities and catastrophe. He explains, “Dutch historians speak of the resistance myth, the fiction that this brave little land rose up as one to challenge the Germans…most Dutch people weren’t Nazis or members of the Dutch National Socialist party. The majority didn’t approve of how Jews and other minorities were treated and hoped Germany would be defeated. But when it came down to it, most Dutch people remained passive under occupation.” At our moment in history, we have to decide who we want to be. Do we want to fall into the same trap as the Dutch, hoping that the outcome will work out without our need to speak up? Or do we want to be those who stand up and say, “This is wrong, and my Judaism demands that I cannot stand idly by?”
There is a generation of Germans who have had to answer for their role in the Nazi regime. There is a generation of Americans who have had to answer for their role in the racial justice movements of the 1960s. And I know that one day, my own grandchildren will wonder what role I played in the realities of our situation today. I want to live according to my values and speak with pride about how I used my power and influence to make a difference. But in order to do that, I am going to have to leave the comfort of playing it safe, the easy obscurity of just getting along.
Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav taught us that the whole world is a narrow bridge, that the most important part is not to be afraid. We have an obligation to continue to navigate the narrow places in our world, not with the timidity of those who are afraid to get our hands dirty, but with the conviction of those who know our values and demand that our nation live up to its mandate to create liberty and justice for all. Judaism is not silent about how we should confront injustice and abuse of power, so we cannot be either.
Austin Zoot is the Rabbi Educator at Valley Temple in Wyoming, Ohio.
