Shabbat Korach/Why be a Liberal Jew?
Dear Members and Friends,
Recently, I attended a talk by Dame Melinda Simmons, the former British ambassador to Ukraine and soon-to-be ambassador to Poland. She is a proud member of a progressive synagogue and a very good speaker. One of the most potent messages she conveyed was simple yet particularly important: a progressive, liberal, and democratic way of life requires individuals to defend it. In our world, she said, Jewish progressive communities can and should remind people of liberal and progressive values.
What are our values? What does it mean to be a Liberal or Progressive Jew? How can Progressive Jewish values help the world? Let us look at the vision that the founders of the LJS and Liberal Judaism have set for us.
Claude Montefiore was a professor of theology and a pioneer of Jewish-Christian dialogue in the UK. He was inspired by early German Liberal Judaism. He first encountered this movement whilst studying in Berlin in 1882. Here is how he describes it in one of his early articles:
It represents the…universalism…which the progressive advance of Jewish liberalism has attained…It believes that Judaism is capable of growth and development. (Diamond, Bryan. Claude Montefiore, Jewish Scholar, Communal Leader, Philanthropist, p. 67)
Another founder of The LJS and LJ, Lily Montagu, published her historical article ‘Spiritual Possibilities of Judaism To-day.’ In 1899. Montagu concluded it with this reflection about younger generations of Jewish people:
Judaism is strong enough and wide enough to inspire them (young Jews) and their children for ever; let us ask them to make progressive demands upon it. Let us tell them indeed that they can only be [Jewish] if they do live up to the ideals of truth and morality expounded by the best teachers of their age.
In other words, the founders of Liberal Judaism deeply believed in the pursuit of truth, universal values, and morality. They stood on principles of continuous development, being relevant to the modern world, and commitment to the highest ideals and standards. I want to argue that this vision not only applies to Liberal Judaism, but to Judaism in general.
What does it mean to adhere to this vision and these values? Truth needs time, experts, and resources. Truth is often complex, nuanced and sometimes unpleasant. It is much easier to produce simple answers and speak in populist slogans. Universalism means looking not only at Jewish interests but also considering the interests and rights of others. It is very tempting to close our hearts and doors, and only consider our own well-being, pretending that others do not exist. Morality implies speaking against oppression and defending the most vulnerable. A religious worldview is about humility and order, ensuring that you know your blessings and consider the needs of others.
What does it mean to be Jewish today? What is our role, as Jewish people, in a world that tries to answer today’s big questions with populism? Is there anything that we, Jewish people, can offer to the society we live in?
We have an unprecedented history and a unique perspective on this world. Following the example of our founders, our role and responsibility are to take pride in who we are and what we stand for. As Jews, it is our duty to apply the lessons of our history, wisdom, and tradition, and make our community, our society, our country, and our planet the place we want to leave for next generations. It is to speak out when other people – Jews or non-Jews - behave immorally. It is to actively engage in building bridges with different communities. It is to include those Jewish people who no longer identify with the mainstream Jewish institutions. It is to remain true to the principle of inclusivity and have ‘yes’ as a default answer. It is to put ethics above ritual. It is to stand for what is right, even if you are a minority. It is to spend time reading and listening to independent and diverse experts, not social media influencers. It is to believe that truth matters even if it is unpleasant. Our task is too important to be satisfied with mediocracy; therefore, we must not be satisfied with average results, but always aspire to be better, to set the bar as high as we can.
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Igor
Dear Members and Friends,
A close friend rang me this week to share the sad news that one of the women who had been killed by an Iranian ballistic missile in the town of Tamra, twenty-year old Palestinian Arab Israeli Shada Khatib, was due to travel to Germany for a Jewish-Christian-Muslim conference. In the days of being a rabbinic student, I attended these annual conferences, when we would come together every morning for a period of shared meditation, song and worship, when we would listen to the fine scholarship of women and men whose passion for dialogue and conversation inspired all those who attended, or when we simply sat around the dining table breaking bread together.
One cannot begin to imagine the harrowing anguish and pain suffered by surviving members of this family, their community and the village in which they lived, as they mourn the death of Shada, her mother, Manar, and thirteen-year- old sister, Hala, as well as Manar’s sister-in-law, also called Manar. In Germany, the mood will sombre, a sense of helplessness and despair affecting the sense of achievement one gains from bringing together people from different faiths and different parts of the world.
It is surely in these small and precious spaces, in conference rooms and around dining tables, that the real conversations begin – when one speaks and others listen, without cutting across them, without judging, just being open, generous-hearted and curious about each other.
Which way do we turn? What are we thinking, feeling, saying, doing? In Israel, the population is spending their days and nights running between home and concrete walled bomb shelters – that is, if they have them. Abir Abu Siam, a Bedouin PhD student studying in London, who joined us at the LJS last week and will be our guest speaker at the end of August, was worrying endlessly about her family in Rahat, in southern Israel without anywhere to protect them from falling missiles or debris. Soroka Hospital, which was hit by a missile this week, is the town’s nearest and largest medical facility for her family.
As the world’s eyes turn to the war between Israel and Iran, what of Gaza? What of the two million, whose towns, villages, fields, orchards and infrastructure have been devastated in a war that has now lasted for more than a year and a half. What of Dr Alaa al-Najjar, the Palestinian paediatrician, nine of whose ten children and her husband were killed in an Israeli airstrike that hit their home in Khan Younis?
I ask myself, how was it possible for the prophet Jeremiah living through the destruction of Jerusalem, the exile of his people to Babylon, his own imprisonment below ground in a pit, the threat to his life, famine and one disaster after another, still to cherish a tiny vision of hope. How did he imagine in the midst of the darkness in which he existed and his deep despair, that people would once again seek their God and attach themselves to a covenant of faithfulness, love and peace?
‘My people were lost sheep: their shepherds led them astray, they drove them out to the mountains, they roamed from mount to hill, they forgot their own resting place.’
Where are the shepherds – the leaders – who should care for their own people? They abandon the most vulnerable – the children, the women; they forget that people are born into this world to be part of the future, to build that future hope.
In these texts of atrocity and love, of violence and beauty, we must extract our hope for the future, as a precious mineral is mined from the depths of the earth’s rocks. I think of the empty seat at the table of the Jewish-Christian-Muslim conference in Germany, Shada’s seat, and pray that our days of lamentation and weeping will soon come to an end.
Shabbat Shalom,
Alexandra Wright
Dear Members and Friends,
Jewish people are very good at…complaining.
This remains true today, and it was also true in biblical times. The Torah has many examples of Jewish people speaking out against leaders, demanding change or better conditions.
Not long after the Israelites were freed from slavery in Egypt, they turned to Moses with worries about food and water. Then Moses brought their concerns to God. The response was generous - manna appeared each morning, just enough for the day, with a double portion given on Fridays so they could rest on Shabbat. Water flowed freely, too, and according to rabbinic legends, there was a miraculous well that travelled with people wherever they went.
Fast forward two years. A lot has happened. Since the Exodus, people have stood at Mount Sinai, received the Ten Commandments, and built the Mishkan, the mobile sanctuary with a clear organisational structure around it. Their life seems to have more certainty and order. And yet, in this week’s Torah portion, the complaints return. Life in the desert is hard, they say; the food is the same every day. Back in Egypt, they had more variety.
This time, the Torah focuses not just on the complaints and solutions, but on how Moses responds. This time, he turns to God and opens his heart: “Why are You doing this to me? Why have I not found favour in Your eyes, that I should carry the burden of all these people?... I can no longer carry all this people by myself. It is too much for me.” (based on Numbers 11:11-15)
That feeling is familiar to many of us. Whether we’re parents, teachers, carers, or team leaders, there are times we reach our limit. Sometimes the weight of responsibility feels too heavy. Moses’ monologue is a raw, honest, and profoundly human reaction from a person who is tired and burned out. Moses is overwhelmed. He’s done everything he possibly could, and still, it feels like he’s failing.
And what does God do? God reminds him that he is not alone, that he has people around him who could support him. Seventy wise and trusted individuals were appointed to assist Moses. This was not a new idea. Moses’ father-in-law, Jethro, had suggested something similar earlier on, and it worked. However, as time passed, the burdens and responsibilities once again fell on Moses’ shoulders.
The Torah offers a gentle but powerful message. Leadership isn’t about doing everything yourself. Facing problems isn’t about collapsing under the pressure, nor about pretending you are fine when you are not. It is about recognising when you need help and having the humility and wisdom to ask for it.
We’re not meant to carry everything alone, not in families, not in communities, not in life. Even Moses couldn’t do it on his own. Why should we think we can? Some find strength in family, friends, and community. Others turn to God. God does not intervene to prevent pain, but God stays with us as a sourse of support in any hardship. This way, people are never alone. Even when we cannot rely on our friends, our families, our communities, there is always God. But God is not something supernatural, not a person-like creature who we can train to do our will. God is much deeper and more complicated. As Jack Riemer beautifully wrote:
We cannot merely pray to You, O God, to end despair,
For You have already given us the power
To clear away slums and to give hope
If we would only use our power justly.
We cannot merely pray to You, O God, to end disease,
For you have already given us great minds with which
To search out cures and healing,
If we would only use them constructively.
Therefore we pray to You instead, O God,
For strength, determination, and willpower,
To do instead of just to pray,
To become instead of merely to wish.
It is that quiet conversation with the deepest parts of ourselves, that we call God, that is the source of strength, determination, and willpower. Such conversation, such prayer might come as comfort, clarity, resilience, or simply the sense that we are not alone. Moses wasn’t. And neither are we.
Best wishes,
Igor
Dear Members and Friends,
I spent part of this week accompanying a delegation of Israeli Rabbis from Rabbis for Human Rights (RHR) to meetings at the House of Lords and the Board of Deputies. The four Rabbis, Avi Dabush, Executive Director of RHR, orthodox ordained Rabbanit Leah Shakdiel from Yerucham, a development town in the Negev, Rabbi Dahlia Shaham from Haifa and Rabbi Dana Sharon, Director of the Rabbis Network for RHR, were in the UK to address congregations over Shavuot and meet up with individuals from different organisations.
With the evening sun shimmering against the Jerusalem stone in our Sanctuary, Rabbi Avi connected our visit to the London Central Mosque and St John’s Wood Church, which took place before our Erev Shavuot service, to an interfaith march that had taken place earlier on in the week in Jerusalem as a counter-narrative to the Jerusalem Day flag parade which often involves large groups of Jewish Israelis marching through the Muslim Quarter of the Old City. You can listen to Rabbi Avi’s D’var Torah here.
After they had addressed around ten synagogues throughout Shavuot, I joined the Rabbis at the House of Lords where we met with the Bishops of Southwark, Gloucester and Chelmsford. All had recently returned from Israel and the West Bank. On Wednesday, the Rabbis met with the President of the Board of Deputies, Phil Rosenberg and invited him to be part of their work when he was next in Israel.
RHR’s membership is drawn from across the denominations – orthodox, conservative, progressive rabbis – all of whom see Judaism, our religious heritage, as inseparable from morality. Their work is driven by profound Jewish values of justice, dignity and equality. Human rights lie at the heart of their day-to-day advocacy, education and direct action.
They provide a ‘protective presence’ in areas of conflict, particularly during the harvest season, by accompanying Palestinian farmers, helping them with their olive harvest. While in London, Rabbi Avi described how a group from RHR had gone to help farmers pick apricots. While with them, the army had approached them and told them to move away as they were 200 metres from a settlement. No, they said, you need a warrant. In this way, they fended off the army and Palestinian farmers were able to glean their harvest.
In Israel, RHR advocates for the rights of asylum seekers, migrant workers and other marginalised populations; they provide significant education in schools and synagogues, and particularly in pre-army preparation programmes, before recruits begin their training.
Their visit was a heartfelt plea to all of us to urge for an end to the war, for the release of the hostages, for the delivery of humanitarian aid to Palestinians in Gaza. The gap between war and peace, said Rabbi Avi, is much smaller than the gap between the status quo of ‘managing the conflict’ and peace. And in those words, and many of the words that were spoken by the Rabbis this week, I drew hope and inspiration.
Managing our own conflicts here in the UK, dealing with the anger and sometimes hatred that have been directed against our own communities have resulted in exhaustion and highly defensive reactions. Sometimes it feels as though Israel is in the midst of its 100-year war. And sometimes, I ask myself, is this the darkest time of the night before dawn comes?
As I think of that tiny gap between the destruction and devastation of war on the one hand, and peace on the other, I pray that Rabbi Avi is right. That our prayers and the determination and action of our colleagues in Israel, can extinguish the burning hatred, revenge and terror and bring what R.S. Thomas describes in his poem of hope the ‘warm rain/That brings the sun and afterwards flowers/On the raw graves and throbbing of bells.’
Shabbat Shalom,
Alexandra Wright
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