This year's commemoration of Yom Hashoah feels different.
We are still reeling from the murder of Lori Gilbert Kaye. Just as Pesach ended, celebrating the themes of freedom and redemption, a white supremecist went into the Chabad synagogue with only one motive: killing Jews. Lori was with her beloved community worshipping and observing the Yartzeit of a loved one, just as all of us are doing on this sacred night of Yom Hashoah.
Saturday's tragic shooting came six months after a white supremecist went into the Tree of Life synagogue and killed 11 Jews.
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In 2018, the ADL reported 1879 anti-Semetic incidents in the United States. Following a significant decline between 2012-2015, these past two years have seen a high increase of threats, harassment and violence. According to the ADL, White supremacists stepped up their activities, and the number of incidents of assault, harassment and vandalism remained at near-historic levels.
It seems that the arc of history is bending away from justice and righteousness, and not toward it. We may have marched through the parted waters of the Red Sea, but we are not yet free.
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Shortly after the shooting in San Diego last week, Rabbi Yisroel Goldstein wrote a piece in the New York Times:
I used to sing a song to my children, a song that my father sang to me when I was a child. “Hashem is here,” I would sing, using a Hebrew name for God, pointing with my right index finger to the sky. “Hashem is there,” I would sing, pointing to my right and left. “Hashem is truly everywhere.” That finger - was taken from me.
I pray that my missing finger serves as a constant reminder to me. A reminder that every single human being is created in the image of God; a reminder that I am part of a people that has survived the worst destruction and will always endure; a reminder that my ancestors gave their lives so that I can live in freedom in America; and a reminder, most of all, to never, ever, not ever be afraid to be Jewish.
From here on in I am going to be more brazen. I am going to be even more proud about walking down the street wearing my tzitzit and kippah, acknowledging God’s presence. And I’m going to use my voice until I am hoarse to urge my fellow Jews to do Jewish. To light candles before Shabbat. To put up mezuzas on their doorposts. To do acts of kindness.
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This is how we respond to tragedy, suffering, and terror. And since World War II, this is how Jews have responded to the Holocaust. By mourning our immeasurable loss, and also by living Jewish lives of substance and meaning, of doing good in the world, of recognizing that every human being is created in the image of God.
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The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, HIAS is interesting in that it is a Jewish agency that donates almost all of its resources to non-Jews. The story they tell themselves is this: We don't help non-Jewish refugees because they aren't Jewish, we help because we are Jewish.
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We know what it is like to be strangers in Egypt. We understand persecution and hatred. And like Moses who refused to stand idly by when an Israelite was beaten by an Egyptian taskmaster, we must combat all hatred, whether it be the growing acts of anti-Semetism or the growing violence and hatred against many other minorities. Why? Because we are jewish.
We are still slaves so long as anyone is enslaved. When there are attacks on the basic rights of refugees and immigrants, of trans-gender military officers, and on our Islamic neighbors, let us not be fooled into thinking that these are not attacks on us as well.
Martin Niemoller captured this sentiment in his famous poem, First they came for the Jews. He warns us that we can not be secluded into separate fiefdoms separated by culture or religion or wealth or political party - we are over here, they are there, and they are there. No, it is all we. We must stand up and stand for one another.
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Tomorrow morning, Margalit will connect our Torah portion, Achrei Mot, with Yom Kippur. Several times during Yom Kippur, we recite the vidui, the communal confession. One of Margalit's powerful teachings is that even if an individual is not guilty of a specific sin, we nonetheless say the prayer collectively, because all of us are responsible. One of the lessons of the Holocaust is that we can not be indifferent toward anti-Semitism, hate, racism or bigotry. Each of us must actively fight for justice. As Pirke Avot says, Lo alecha hamlacha ligmor v'lo atah ven chorin l'hibatel mimenah, It is not your duty to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it. Meaning, none of us can fix everything. But each of us can heal something. This is what it means to be a Jew, especially after the Holocaust.
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Six months ago, we had a memorial service following the terror attack in Pittsburgh. Over 30 Athens-area clergy came to be with us on that night. They stand with us and for us, and continue to do so. As they came up on the bima, I remarked, This is what holiness looks like. I hold that image in my head when I say resolutely, Never again.
