Principles, Not Politics

Of all the reactions to my congregational letter in response to the President’s executive order on immigration, there is one that I have yet to hear. Not in the dozens of emails, not in the phone calls, not in the staff discussions or conversations with synagogue leadership, not in the hallways of this building or check-out lines at the supermarket have I heard one particular response that I expected.

For those of you not on our congregational mailing list, this past week I sent the community a strongly worded letter joining the arms of the Conservative Movement in condemning President Trump’s executive order banning immigration from seven countries, suspending refugee admissions from all countries, and dramatically reducing the number of refugees that the US will ultimately accept. I began the letter as follows:

To be an American Jew is to stand heir to the two greatest immigrant traditions on record. From our ancient migrations to the pogrom-induced tenements of the Lower East Side, from the exodus of Soviet Jewry to the rescue of Ethiopian Jewry, we know ourselves to be a people of displaced immigrants. Our self-awareness serves not merely for the purpose of self-knowledge, but is meant to be leveraged toward an impact beyond the boundaries of our people. To be a Jew is to have a reflexive empathy, so that no matter what our own comfort level may be, when we see another in the displaced condition that was once ours, muscle memory kicks in, we identify with that “other,” we are prompted to compassion, and most importantly, we are impelled toward acts of welcoming and hospitality.

And, I went on to explain, it is because these values lie at the very foundation of our self-understanding, that this executive order stands in conflict with our value system both as Americans and as Jews.

The fact that so many responded so warmly to the letter, expressing pride in the synagogue and readiness to act – while not a surprise, I must admit – was altogether heartening. The fact that more than a few responded with thoughtful, but thankfully never ad hominem criticism was also to be expected. Some objections were on matters of substance: “Rabbi, in this day and age, knowing what is going on in Europe and here in the States, what about the security risks, what about ISIS, what about the terrorists? Is there not a moral imperative to keep our country safe?” Other objections were on matters of style: “Rabbi, the synagogue is no place to get political. To call on congregants to speak out, advocate, commit their resources toward political causes is beyond the purview of your pulpit.” While time has not permitted me to respond to all the comments and emails – of support or dissent – I am grateful for the dignified conversation that has begun, to be continued today at 1:00 pm after kiddush .

But what nobody picked up, not even my wife, was that the argument I made, the words I used, I had written long before this week’s letter. Nobody said: “Rabbi, you said that already!” The entire first paragraph, with only minor emendation for the sake of clarity, I had said verbatim on November 21, 2015. The values stated in the letter, the moral imperative to be drawn from the Jewish historical experience, the policy implications I advocated for in regard to refugees – none of it, not one word, was either novel or new.

And it is because my words in 2015 came and went without comment, and it is because my recent letter was greeted with such comment that I am compelled to share with you two inescapable conclusions. First, and most painfully: apparently you people don’t read my sermons as closely as I would hope! I deliver my sermons in shul, we livestream every week, we put them on the web, on emails, on Facebook and podcast, even publish a book of them every year. And yet, like a tree that falls in the woods when nobody is around, the innermost yearnings of my soul and hopes for the Jewish world appear to be just another casualty of our information age.

The second and more simple and more serious conclusion, and the point on which I want to focus, is that because my views, quite literally, have not changed one iota from that moment to this, from the prior administration to the present one, I can say with clarity of mind and peace at heart that it is not I who have changed but the world that has changed. I am reminded of Groucho Marx’s famous quip “Those are my principles, and if you don’t like them, well, I have others.” If being political means to hold views that are in sync with one administration but not in sync with another administration, then yes, I stand guilty as charged: I am political – though I would rather choose to use the word “principled.” You may agree or disagree with my principles, but they are not, if you follow my logic, politically motivated. They are principles made interesting of late, in the last two weeks to be precise, because they have been brought into relief by an administration that would ask us to hold otherwise.

At risk of repeating what I have already said and delivering a “Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid” pastiche cobbled from earlier sermons, allow me to restate my principles. First, as an American. On July 5, 2008 – my first Shabbat at Park Avenue Synagogue – in a sermon devoted to Independence Day weekend, I explained how our Puritan predecessors, that ragtag group of religious dissenters, went on their “errand into the wilderness” crossing the ocean, literally and figuratively like ancient Israel itself, in order to worship God as they saw fit. From John Winthrop’s stated hope on the Arabella to establish a “City on the Hill” to the second paragraph of the Declaration affirming all men to be created equal; from Emma Lazarus’s words of welcome inscribed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty to the letters etched on every penny, E Pluribus Unum (out of many, one); from Horace Kallen’s symphonic vision of American pluralism to Oscar Handlin’s characterization of American history as a history of immigrants – our national identity, our collective imagination, the premise and promise of America is to be a haven for those seeking refuge and the unalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The arc is not smooth, it has come in fits and starts. More than once (the turning back of the St. Louis, internment camps), we have fallen short of this American dream. But the hope that not only is this land my land, but also your land – a land made for you and me – that is the song, dream, and vision at the very foundation of our country.

And as for being Jewish and welcoming the stranger, well – I don’t even know where to begin. Not once, not twice, but no fewer than thirty-six times does the Torah teach us of our obligation to the stranger, to welcome, love, and protect the stranger. Why? Because we were once strangers in a strange land. This morning’s Torah reading not only relates the narrative of our own Exodus, but legislates how that experience is to be encoded into our ongoing Jewish DNA. The hurried manner in which the paschal sacrifice must be eaten, staff in hand, the matzah that did not have time to rise –remember that you left Egypt with little more than the clothes on your back. We were the very first refugees! An experience for all time, the memory passed down from generation to generation – so that no matter a Jew’s present station in life, one never forgets, all the more so given the last 2000 years of Jewish history, to act with empathy and compassion for those similarly seeking refuge.

And it is because these values lie the core of who we are both as Americans and as Jews that I believe the Presidential order stands in conflict with our values. Do I have concerns about the safety and security of Americans? Of course I do – the first duty of government is the protection of its citizens. But to suggest that such concerns preclude one from the objecting to a policy that stands in such open breach with a host of other values is to abdicate our rightful voice in the public square. Am I concerned that some on the political left protesting most loudly at airports and otherwise are drawing intellectually empty and morally spurious equivalences between Israel’s security needs and this administration’s policies? Of course I am. But then again, choosing not to speak out because my coalition partners share only some, but not all of my views strikes me as lacking in a certain moral courage and creativity. Jews must reject the false choice between advocating for our parochial interests and speaking out on behalf of the needs of the other. Be it Abraham arguing with God on behalf of Sodom and Gemorrah or Jonah pleading with the Ninevites to repent their ways, our spiritual heroes have always been committed to both the well-being of our people and the condition of our wider humanity. It is not either/or, it is both/and. As the motto of the HIAS, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, goes, “We used to take refugees because they were Jewish. Now we take them because we are Jewish.”

There is a story, a true story, told of a turn-of-the century rabbi of some small fame, Rabbi Henry Cohen of Galveston Texas. As many of you may know, Galveston was a principal port of entry for the flood of immigration into the United States from Russia and Eastern Europe. Among the immigrants was a certain Russian who, immediately upon arrival to the US was arrested. An extradition order had been issued at the request of the Czarist government. Hearing of the man’s predicament, Rabbi Cohen visited the prisoner and became convinced that he was not a criminal but entitled to political asylum. He intervened with the authorities but lost his initial appeal on the man’s behalf. Making the man’s case his own, Cohen took the case to the Supreme Court of Texas and to the Governor of Texas, each time with the same negative result. Finally, he sought an interview with President William Howard Taft. After many frustrations, he was granted an appointment with the president in which he pleaded the cause of the prisoner. Taft listened and then shook his head.

“I am sorry, Rabbi . . . much as I admire the way you Jews stick together . . . try to help one another, I cannot see any reason for intervening.” “Jew?” said the rabbi. “Who said he was a Jew? He’s a Russian Christian.” “A Christian?” echoed the president. “But why are you concerning yourself with him?” “He’s a human being, isn’t he?” replied the Rabbi. And so it happened that the president ordered the cancellation of the extradition order. (Original source unknown)

“To be an American Jew is to stand heir to the two greatest immigrant traditions on record . . . when we see another in the displaced condition that was once ours, muscle memory kicks in, we identify with that ‘other,’ we are prompted to compassion, and most importantly, we are impelled toward acts of welcoming and hospitality.” Those are my principles and I am sticking with them. The measure of our principles is never found in moments of repose, but rather the degree to which we hold fast to them when they are tested. Ours is a time of such testing. So let us hold fast to who we are, reaching out to those in need, and never, ever forgetting the founding premise and enduring promise of what it means to have once been a stranger in a strange land.