Sermon by Betsy Davis
Preached at Unity Temple Unitarian Universalist Congregation
October 3, 2004
Sermon:
If I speak in the tongues of
mortals and of angels but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or clanging
cymbal.
If I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries
and knowledge, and if I have faith so as to remove mountains but do not have
love, I am nothing.
If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my
body to be burned, but do not have love, I gain nothing.
If I come up with the best solution ever to the conflict
between the Palestinians and the Israelis, but do have not love, I will go
nowhere.
I start this sermon with this strong reminder to myself and
a pledge to you that I will do my very best to try to keep this in mind
throughout. Enormous humility is necessary for anyone who dares to talk about
this issue, though you don’t often find it. Humility is also called for when
displaying or wearing these flags [the two states: Palestine and Israel].
Humility is the only ethical posture to take in a situation that represents so
much pain.
Another word for humility, at least in this context, is
love.
Humility is patient and kind and not jealous or boastful or
arrogant. Or even rude. And patience and kindness are needed, more than anything
else I think, in a situation where it is so easy to surrender to jealousy,
arrogance, and goodness knows, rudeness.
This service has been the most difficult writing that I
have ever done, in large part because I know that the odds are overwhelming that
no matter how careful I am, my words will hurt someone, somehow, perhaps a great
deal. I came very near giving up doing this because I spent so much time trying
to carefully avoid that. But it can’t be done. I can only present my own view of
things, trying all along to keep myself as clear as I can of arrogance and fear.
If I hurt you, or if you disagree with me, please tell me. But please try also
to speak the truth in love.
I am neither Palestinian nor Israeli, nor do I, to the best
of my knowledge, have relatives who are, or who are Arab or Jewish. So perhaps
it is surprising that I should be so absorbed by this part of the world or by
its conflicts. I do have dear and long time friends who have dedicated their
lives to improving the lives of Palestinians living in and near the West Bank,
so through them I have gained some insights and caught some passion for trying
to understand, as David Shipler says, the “human dimension of the Arab-Israeli
confrontation. And within that human dimension the question of how Arabs and
Jews [see] each other begin[s] to emerge as the central issue [...and] the
target of my search for understanding...”
What is the opposite of love? I think that it is fear. Not
the healthy and truly protective kind of fear but the kind of fear that takes a
kernel of reality and makes it huge; the kind of fear that can’t trust anyone.
Here is a little scene from our bus, traveling through a
checkpoint leaving Hebron:
We had just cleared the checkpoint and were still driving
slowly. George our guide pointed out a scene by the side of the road saying,
“She isn’t where she is supposed to be.” He was indicating a Palestinian woman
who had left the queue and was walking all alone toward an Israeli soldier, also
standing by himself. So the two of them were alone. Together. Through the
windows of the bus we saw these two people come to a complete stop about thirty
feet from each other. Too far to converse, though we realized that they might
very well not have a language in common anyway. So there was the scene - an
Israeli soldier, probably very recently out of high school, armed and in an
awesome uniform, gun pointed toward the ground, but certainly ready, facing a
woman in a flowing dress - shapeless enough to have just about anything
underneath it.
Now the odds were very very great that neither person was a
real danger to the other - probably neither of them wished the other any harm at
all. But neither of them knew that for sure. We speculated about what was in the
minds of those two people - a young and probably terrified soldier who was armed
but not certain what to do? - a Palestinian woman facing a heavily armed and
fearful young man with the power to do almost anything? - or maybe an angry
young man just looking for a target, facing a desperate and angry young, old,
whatever, woman? girl? or, probably most likely, just a person confused about
where she was supposed to be. Our bus drove away before they started moving
again.
There is another kind of fear that is more tied to ego. It
is the kind of narcissistic fear that can’t look clearly into another person’s
eyes and see the pain that is there without feeling diminished oneself.
The opposite of love and humility is the kind of fear and
grandiosity that says that it is important that my pain be greater than yours -
if my pain and my troubles aren’t greater than your pain and your trouble, then
somehow my pain doesn’t count. or vice versa.
I have some questions:
-
Is it really necessary to deny or to minimize the pain of
one side in this or in any conflict in order to feel or to express or to
appreciate the pain of the other side?
-
Is it possible to be both pro-Palestine and pro-Israel in
any meaningful way?
For many years I have sought a way to express my
convictions and concerns for this issue and for these people.
I am not a person who easily jumps to conclusions. As a
matter of fact I never jump to conclusions; instead I tend to creep very slowly
toward conclusions, and especially about political activism, usually arguing all
the way with myself and with everyone who would affect my thinking or help me
make up my mind.
And I am very afraid of becoming involved in causes where I
think I might be doing something actually counter-productive to the aims that I
have adopted with so much difficulty.
Once in a while though, an idea, a perspective, a way of
making sense of things, comes along that makes such sense to me, brings several
important ideas together, that I can’t resist its pull. And, even less often, a
concept becomes so compelling to me that it takes me over and I must learn more,
read more, study more, listen more, and, eventually talk about it.
I had such an experience at last year’s General Assembly. I
sat in on a lecture and discussion session on issues of Palestine/ Israel
relations by Rabbi Michael Lerner, and I learned that there is an organized
Jewish group - called Tikkun - Hebrew for “repair” or “renewal” - that
enthusiastically welcomes non-Jews of various philosophies - and that is working
to raise consciousness about and to improve the terrible situation of the
Palestinians, and that does so while also being emphatically dedicated to the
continuation of Israel as a Jewish state. I have since learned that there are
other such groups that do that, but they are relatively rare.
Tikkun calls its philosophical and political posture a
“progressive middle path” - a middle path because like my friend Jim walking
along the wall in his poem, [previously read poem, also at the end of this
sermon] holding that equipoise is useful, humane, and, I believe, more likely to
be lasting, because it is more likely to reflect truth. They use the term
“Progressive” because progress only happens when all members of a situation are
engaged in the walk down that path. A path that doesn’t at least try to keep
somewhat to the middle does not encourage progress.
Some more questions:
-
When did we who are not Jewish lose the awe over 6 million
dead?
-
What happens when such a traumatized people obtains power
over another people?
-
and, incidentally, what happens when such a traumatized
people obtains nuclear weapons?
Earlier I read a section of an article by Holocaust
survivor and psychotherapist Miriam Greenspan. Here are two of her own
encounters:
I learned that my elderly father had just had a massive
heart attack and was lying in a hospital in Queens. Speaking to the ICU nurse, I
wanted to let her know that my father would need to be sedated, since being
hospitalized caused him to relive his Holocaust trauma. I got as far as “You
need to know that my father is a Holocaust survivor,” before she interrupted me,
screaming: “So what? Don’t talk to me about being a victim and don’t expect that
you people are going to get any special treatment here.” The next day,
addressing a group of graduate students about grief, fear, and despair in an age
of global threat, I cited Israel/Palestine as an area in which repeated cycles
of traumatic grief turned to rageful acts of vengeance that undermined the
prospects of peace. A woman approached me at the end of my talk, a palpable
hatred radiating from her eyes, and launched in to an anti-Israel rant. “The
Holocaust justifies absolutely nothing,” she spat out (though I hadn’t mentioned
the Holocaust).- let alone the idea that it might justify anything] “The Jews
are not entitled to anger or grief. Only the Palestinians are justified in their
anger.”
When did we non-Jews presume to decide that it was time for
Jews to “get over” the Holocaust? It is beyond me to imagine how any Jew, coming
from and living in any part of the world who is old enough to remember World War
II can not feel terrified at many of the things that are said not just in the
Middle East, but elsewhere too. And that level of trauma is not going to die out
in one generation. I know that there are people who can rise and have risen
above those feelings, but while I appreciate that, I don’t think that it is
reasonable to expect such sophistication from everyone without a lot of
understanding and support and time.
After two or three days in the West Bank, watching the
terrible abuses of power that Israel gets away with, I wrote this in my journal:
Israel's abuses are huge - so dramatically so that I think
that they just demonstrate how terrified many Jews are. They are doing all sorts
of horrible things to fight back - mostly counterproductive, but
fear-out-of-control is like that. I am reminded often on this trip of... an
Israeli rabbi who contends that after the Holocaust it is necessary for Jews to
strike back harder than other people when they are threatened. That may be so,
but if that is the case, then that is an even stronger argument that Israel is
not an appropriate nation to have power over another people - certainly not
until they recover from the trauma that would lead an entire people - in general
peaceful and civilized - to this degree of cruelty.
This is part of a letter to the Jerusalem Post written by
that Jerusalem rabbi about Jews after the Holocaust:
One of the most important gains consequent to the
establishment of the State of Israel has been the change in the traditional
image of the Jew from the passive weakling who could be kicked about, robbed,
and murdered almost at will. Jewish blood has been cheap for hundreds of
years... Not any longer. If someone hits us in the stomach, we will smash his
head, perhaps those of his abettors too... I am not altogether displeased that
the Jew is viewed as actually dangerous, that even a small provocation will
engender a massive reaction. We need the luxury of that image for at least a
generation.1
I hope that it is clear that I’m not saying for a moment
that there is some sort of justice in an oppressed people “getting their turn”
in oppressing another people. But I do believe in affirmative action in some
situations. And I do believe that the existence of a Jewish state at this time
in history is vital as a place of refuge for a people whose history gives them
every reason to believe that they might need it.
I’m going to introduce you now to one more member of our
West Bank traveling group. Benjamin is twenty-one years old and a college
student from Seattle. He is spending this year studying in Israel at the
University in Haifa. He is a religious and observant Jew, a life long supporter
of Israel, and found this trip very enlightening and disturbing. A couple of
weeks ago he wrote a letter to our group, which is still in frequent email
touch:
Two days ago, my class shimmied down into the caves of
Hebrew revolutionaries against the Romans. For a minute, we blew out our
candles, doused our flashlights and sat silently in absolute darkness, meters
underground. We thought about the Judean revolutionaries who lived for months
below ground with families in these cramped rooms and tunnels that require
belly-crawling to traverse. We thought about the victims of the Warsaw ghetto,
some of whom hid from the soldiers liquidating the ghetto in sewers and attics.
We thought about the many wars in Israel where civilians stayed inside and
prayed that the Israeli military would come out on top. And when we came out, we
felt stronger about the sacrifices that were made by our ancestors to protect
their future: us.
But I know I was different from the others. For when we
clamoured out of the caves covered in dust and soot, grinning at our
adventurousness and blinking into the bright Mediterranean sun, I kept thinking
about the darkness: the people around the world who still sit in darkness and
hide. I kept thinking that this message isn't a message for the Jews alone but
for our brothers among the nations.
And I thought immediately of Palestinian families under
Israeli administration and know that they fear the Israeli tanks as much as the
Hebrews feared Roman chariots. Because of a few fundamentalists, these families
sit in fear at night, wondering who in their neighborhood will be arrested this
night, whose house will be bulldozed in the morning, and which of their children
will put their lives on the line by taking out their anger on checkpoint guards.
These people also sit in the dark.
I thought secondly of the Jews around the world, and
others, who (with good intentions) sit safely at home, read the news briefs and
recommend more punitive measures against those same families. They too are
victim to the fundamentalists, including those among their own ranks who have
hijacked the concept of "security" and "Zionism" to override every sense of
morality and justice that Judaism and the Jewish people should hold so dear.
They too sit in the dark, wondering how many Jews will die tomorrow on buses,
how many more years the Zionism dream will flounder, and how many children will
die fighting for life. These people also sit in the dark, in a different kind of
darkness.
For us Americans, we sit in the dark. What moments of
insight hit us when we lounge in largesse, so far from the poverty and the pain?
Nobody told me about all this when growing up - this broken world of pain and
poverty is not the world you promised me!
But how much is expected of us? Is it enough just to
think good thoughts, wish good intentions, pray for peace from home? And can we
live a life of justice without self-righteousness? I have no answers; if you do,
please share.
My response to Ben could - and will - start with the
quotation on the front of this bulletin.
from Rabbi Akiva - "Ours is not to complete the task, but
neither is it ours to set it aside."
It's tempting to become so overwhelmed by the enormity of
the pain and the complexity of the problem that we decide that there’s nothing
we can do. But Rabbi Akiva reminds us that that’s really a cop-out. We can leave
this world at least a little better than it would have been without us - if we
act out of knowledge informed by humility and love.
I fully believe that any advocacy for healing
Israel/Palestine needs to be based on two goals: to end the oppression of the
Palestinian people, and to ensure Israel’s survival and security. A first step
towards both is an end to the Israeli occupation. But it must also be
accompanied by a recognition that at this time in history a Jewish state is not
only inevitable but necessary. There are some gymnastics required for a majority
Jewish state to continue, and they often run counter to democratic principles,
but this is the world we live in. The United States is an imperfect democracy;
Israel is a more imperfect democracy.
Supporting a two state solution to the Israel Palestine
conflict, it must be clear now, is neither simple nor uncontroversial. But if
the idea makes sense to you, you can pursue the idea in several ways - you can
learn more by reading the book The Geneva Accord and other paths to Middle East
Peace - available at our Ex Libris bookstore - and/ or by buying and wearing a
“two state” pin - available at the social mission table. It looks like this
[Palestinian and Israeli flags] If you wear it, you must be willing to face the
consequences, which can be frustrating, a little scary, and inevitably
interesting.
But even if the two state solution does not sound right to
you, you can add to the level of peace in the world by trying to live a life
that does not demonize other people -- any other people -- no matter how
difficult that is at times.
All of these things are examples of taking that progressive
middle path, of balancing along that wall without falling into the temptation of
a tribal embrace. Even if once in a while as happened metaphorically to Jim the
poet, your feet bleed.
I’m going to read Jim’s poem once more, after which we will
sit in silence for a while before the offering is collected.
Hebron, 2004 2
I am walking on the wall,
Dizzy from the soft breeze of orange blossom and rubble.
It would be easy to fall.
The wall is narrower than expected.
And the wind now whips up a cocktail of
Distantly remembered acrid smoke and today’s tear-gassed olives.
On the honed edge of the wall’s capstone my feet begin to bleed;
It would be so much simpler just to dive
into the certain comfort of a tribal embrace.
But there are others up here along the wall
working to hold this equipoise.
Perhaps if ten of us achieved perfect balance
at the same moment,
The wall would vanish.
1Letter to
The Jerusalem Post by Rabbi David Spritzer, as
quoted in Arab and Jew: Wounded Spirits in a Promised Land, by David Shipler,
Penguin Books, 1986, p. 158.
2Mervis,
Jim, "Hebron, 2004", member of the Tikkun Delegation to Peacemakers in Jerusalem
and the West Bank, August 16, 2004; unpublished poem, used with permission.
© Copyright 2004 Betsy
Davis, All Rights Reserved.
