You’ve probably seen the famous Rev. Martin Niemöller quote:
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
What many don’t know is just who Niemöller was: a prominent Lutheran pastor in Germany, who, in the 1920s and early 1930s, was a passionate Christian nationalist and antisemite. He not only sympathized with many Nazi ideas and supported radically right-wing political movements, he gladly voted for Hitler in 1933. But after Adolf Hitler came to power, Niemöller became an outspoken critic of Hitler’s interference in the Protestant Church. Not, mind you, because of what they were doing to Jews or others, not because he was morally opposed to Nazism, but because they were trying to impose doctrines on his Lutheran Church. Many of his fellow ministers were just fine with that too — after all, they were just trying to remove corrupting Jewish influences from Christianity by, for example, teaching that Jesus was Aryan and not Jewish. But Niemöller could not abide by this interference. He opposed these changes and was jailed from 1937 to the end of the war.
It’s not entirely clear exactly when he started to become appalled at what the Nazis were doing to others — shortly before his arrest, or only after he had been jailed. What is clear is that by the end of the war, he not only vigorously opposed all that the Nazis had stood for, but also was one of the most prominent critics of the passivity, the acquiescence, of ordinary Germans in the face of the Nazi horrors. And he started his criticism by critiquing his own actions. He felt that it was particularly egregious that he and other German Protestant church leaders, people in positions of moral authority, chose to remain silent. And so he devoted his life to speaking up about the perils of not speaking up.
So, here’s my question. When was he being courageous— was it when he was actually risking his life, but only thinking about himself and his own church, or was it when he was not being physically threatened but was willing to admit he was wrong and that people needed to face up to the consequences of their self-interested blindness? It’s not just an idle query. I believe that rethinking how we define courage by understanding what the Jewish tradition teaches about it could be a huge first step in dealing with the divisions plaguing our world.
How so? Well, let’s take a quick look at how Niemöller’s quote is being used nowadays. Everybody feels under siege. People on opposite sides of just about any spectrum you can name feel that they are the ones “others” are coming for, and that no-one is speaking up for them. At the same time, we dismiss the fears of our opponents — we would never do something like that, it’s you folks who do. Even when faced with concrete examples of problematic let alone violent behavior by someone on our side, we wave it off as a rare exception — but when “they” do something wrong? “Aha, see, I told you they are ALL like that. No use even trying to reason with them.” We are all on red alert all the time, certain that it is never safe to stand down. If courage means self-defense, especially when you are in peril, we all think whatever we do is justified as being courageous.
No objective, outside referee is going to come and say, “your fears are 73% accurate, yours 35%, yours 17%” — but even if such a referee existed, we wouldn’t believe them. And yet we know that humans have a built in negativity bias, a bias toward seeing threats even when they don’t exist, a trait that for millennia stood us in good evolutionary stead. You see, if you think there’s a lion behind that bush and it turns out there isn’t, not so bad. But if you don’t think there’s a lion and there is, you probably aren’t going to pass your genes on to the next generation.
Which makes it really hard to know what to do next. I was on a webinar recently with a bunch of rabbinical colleagues, and to a person, we were all dreading giving High Holy Day sermons this year. One person went so far as to say that he felt like he was trying to dance on razor blades. I’m not a betting person, but I’d be willing to bet that there are some people here who really want me to speak about, say, Israel and Gaza — or immigration, or trans issues or Charlie Kirk. And others for whom that is the last thing they want to hear about. What’s more, at least in some congregations if not here, there are people on both sides who will loudly and repeatedly let everyone know just how upset they are about whichever decision that rabbi makes — how dare you not speak up! How dare you ruin my high holy days by speaking up! — and some who are, at least unconsciously, eagerly waiting for the chance to be upset. As Rabbi Jay Michaelson wrote in The Forward, “Rabbis are afraid to say anything, but also afraid to say nothing.”
That’s why I was so impressed with the example of my friend Taylor, who is trans. Taylor feels in the crosshairs of the culture wars. But at the same time, Taylor is curious about how much of that is real and how much is the over-amplification of a small number of voices. As Taylor puts it, “On the one hand, trans people are more accepted and have better resources and support than ever before in history. On the other hand, there is a vocal backlash by a very loud minority that wants us all gone, whether peacefully or not. And that loud minority has a lot of power that they successfully leveraged against other vulnerable groups they don’t like.” And this statement I found particularly relevant to my topic this morning: “I can’t even get a solid idea of how many people truly care about the issue in a negative way. It’s an odd tension.”
What if true courage is recognizing that perhaps we’re not right, or at least not entirely so? Understanding that, in our reflexive reaction to a perceived threat, we might be squandering moral authority, that we may have lost sight of others around us, who might just be more vulnerable than us, fellow humans who need us? What if what we had thought of as courage is actually being stiff-necked, obstinate, hard-hearted, foolish, destructive?
This is where I think Jewish tradition can be helpful. In the Tanach, courage is typically referred to as “ometz lev,” a strong heart, or brave heart, or my personal favorite, a heart on fire. (By the way, as I learned from the poet David Whyte, courage also comes from heart — coeur.) But it is a very short step from ometz lev to two terms Pharaoh epitomized: cavayd lev, proud hearted, arrogant, or kashe lev, hard-hearted, obstinate and cruel. How do we prevent that, how do we find a balance between passion and humility, readiness to act and willingness to be proven wrong?
As Rabbi Amy Eilberg points out, “For ometz lev, the key to such balance lies in the term itself. Ometz … is … ‘strength,’ power, and willingness to speak truth to power and to defy community expectations. But … lev is … ‘heart’: [and so we have] strength tempered by love, gentleness, and desire for the well-being of all. We can easily err by leaning toward one extreme or the other. On the one hand, timidity in the face of moral challenge means that we miss opportunities to partner with God in the work of perfecting the world,… [even making] us complicit in the evils perpetrated all around us… On the other hand, the call for justice can be an adrenaline surge, a rush of angry energy born of [internal] psychological components, disconnected from the people on whose behalf we wish to act… Discerning the path of ometz lev, courage born of love and devotion, is a delicate dance for us, especially in times when moral challenges surround us.”
Rabbi Mark Margolis teaches, “As we grow in awareness of our inner strength, we also realize this strength can be directed towards both positive and harmful ends. Jewish tradition teaches us to connect ometz lev with the quality of chesed or lovingkindness, concern for others. According to a Midrash, there is no real courage in using one’s strength to push someone into a pit or off a roof. True courage consists of seizing the hand of one about to fall or lifting someone who has already fallen.”
What can aid us in combining strength and fire with heart and chesed? I’ll share six stepping stones along that path — and I’m happy to hear of more from you and to share them in a blog on our website. For starters, Taylor’s curiosity, sakranut, is a good first step. Curiosity can often disarm fear and lead us in new, more helpful directions. As Isaac Asimov said, “The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not ‘Eureka’ but ‘That’s funny…’” But even curiosity can be misinterpreted. More and more, our opinions are becoming our core identity. Not, I believe such and such, but I AM such and such. And when it comes to our core identity, questioning it, even from curiosity, can feel like a threat.
The second is a subject I’ve talked about many times, but it’s still worth thinking about in this context — caf zechut, judging people on the side of merit or giving people the benefit of the doubt. It’s important to recognize that intent and impact are often misaligned — that even something that really, really hits you the wrong way may not have been meant to do so. That’s why I try to be willing to talk with anyone no matter what they’ve said in the past. I’ve talked with people who didn’t realize that saying this is a Christian nation in need of Christian governance might not sit well with Jews. While that might not make sense to me, if someone says that is so, why not try to understand where they are coming from and see if they can understand where I am. Similarly, I’m open to talking with anyone about Israel and Gaza, even if they’ve said things that sound naive or downright awful. It’s important to remember that empathy does not imply endorsement, nor does understanding equal agreement. Indeed, I can’t think of any situation where trying to understand is a negative. At the same time, I also have to realize that, even with sincere efforts, we might never understand each other.
Third, compassion, rachmanes, on ourselves and on others. This is hard, exhausting, scary. We are not going to get it right all the time, and let’s face it, not only may we be attacked each time we don’t get it right, we might be attacked even if we do. I understand why so many people just don’t want to hear about it or even think about it. So try to be gentle with yourself and others.
Another way to tend to yourself is my fourth step, Shabbat. Not literally the Sabbath, but the idea of pauses, of the importance of not-doing. Yes, these are problems we need to face, and we don’t do ourselves or the world any favors if ignore it all or if we act like Charlie Brown and just lie there on the pitcher’s mound, defeated. But neither can we try, or even tune in, all the time. I am very happy that I have some politics-free zones in my life. At the Abington Community Garden, we may drive up in cars with bumper stickers on them — but inside the garden gate, we’re helping each other prevent garlic rot or cucumber wilt. And it feels wonderful.
Fifth, like Governor Spencer Cox of Utah, we can try to disagree better, or as our sages would say, vikuach l’shem ha-shamayim, try to argue for the sake of heaven. It took me at least into my thirties to even begin to realize how destructive “winning” can be — but now I know that fairly often I have only two options: try to be right, or try to be in a relationship; I can’t have both. If I enter into a conversation not with my enemy but with another person, not trying to convince but to hear and be heard, to seek to understand and be understood, it’s night and day different. Don’t abandon principles or pretend to agree when you don’t. But do grant respect, even when we don’t expect it in return. And who knows, maybe they’ll surprise us — being treated with respect does tend to bring out the better side of most people.
My sixth step is a little harder to describe, let alone give a brief label to, but it has something to do with recognizing the kedusha, the holiness, that surround us at all times and yet that we so rarely connect to, the holy fire at the heart of true courage. David Whyte imagines God telling Moses to take off his sandals by the burning bush not just as a sign of respect, but so that Moses can feel the fire through his feet. Here’s his poem, “Fire in the Earth”:
And we know, when Moses was told/in the way he was told, “Take off your shoes!” He grew pale from that simple/reminder of fire in the dusty earth. He never recovered his complicated way of loving again /and was free to love in the same way he felt the fire licking at his heels loved him. As if the lion earth could roar/and take him in one movement. Every step he took/from there was carefully placed. Everything he said mattered as if he knew/the constant witness of the ground and remembered his own face in the dust/the moment before revelation. Since then thousands have felt the same immobile tongue with which/he tried to speak. Like the moment you too saw, for the first time, your own house turned to ashes. Everything consumed so the road could open again. Your entire presence in your eyes and the world turning slowly into a single branch of flame.
“Every step he took from there was carefully placed. Everything he said mattered.” Imagine if you lived that way, if you saw that fire of holiness everywhere and in everything and everyone. Turns out, that’s part of what Rosh Hashanah is all about. Not just to hear the earthy yet unearthly sound of the shofar as the air vibrates with its call. But to keep hearing it: in the silence after, when you leave here today, when the High Holy Days have concluded for the year. To understand that each of us can courageously feel both strength and heart, fire and gentleness, passion and humility — and that, simply because they are human, everyone deserves to be treated that with courage, that heart fire. It can be so. May we have the courage to help make it so. Shanah tovah!
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