Who is an Authentic Jew?

Rosh Hashanah Day 1, 5765 (2004)

Now, where do you go to find authentic Jews? To Mr. Brenner, at the time, the answer was obvious: you go to Israel, and within Israel you go to Jerusalem, and within Jerusalem you go to the Ultra-Orthodox neighborhood of Meah Shearim. So he did. And there he found, and he photographed, the most authentic looking Jews he could find: men in long caftans, with peyot bouncing off the sides of their heads. He photographed Ultra-Orthodox women as well, with their sheitels and their long dresses, pushing baby carriages.

Mission—supposedly—accomplished.

But after that experience, Mr. Brenner’s interests took him elsewhere. He went to Calcutta. There, lo and behold, he also found Jews. They didn’t look like the Jews in Meah Shearim, but he photographed them anyway. He went to Tajikistan where he found and photographed a family of Jewish barbers. He went to Tunisia where he learned that Jews dressed differently from everyone else: All the men had black stripes on their trousers in memory of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. He photographed them as well. He went to New York City, to the Jewish Theological Seminary to photograph a group of women rabbis wearing tefillin. He traveled all around the world and photographed Jews practically everywhere. After all his travels, and all his experiences photographing Jews in so many places, he had a change of heart. “I was wrong!” he said. “There is no such thing as an authentic Jew.”

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In a similar vein, a recent survey found that 83% of American Jews agree with the statement, “It bothers me when people try to tell me that there’s a right way to be Jewish.” (The Jew Within, quoted in American Judaism, p. 370) Those 83% are on to something. It’s always been complicated to talk about a “right” way to be Jewish.

Rabbi Ber of Radoshitz once asked the Hozeh (the “Seer”) of Lublin: “Show me one general way to serve God.” His answer: “It is impossible to tell people what way they should take. For one way is through learning. Another is through prayer. Another is through fasting. And still another through eating. Everyone should carefully observe what way his heart draws him to, and then choose this way with all his strength.” (The Way of Man, by Martin Buber, p.15)

I’m sure all of us can remember the kidnapping and the brutal murder of Daniel Pearl two years ago. Daniel Pearl was a thirty-eight year old journalist, a husband and the father of an unborn child, pursuing a story in Pakistan for the Wall Street Journal when he was captured. His death at the hands of his captors was made public in the form of a videotape, which shows him making a statement shortly before he was killed. It isn’t clear whether the statement was coerced or voluntary, but in any event, Daniel Pearl looked into the camera and said, “My father is Jewish, my mother is Jewish, I am Jewish.”

In order to perpetuate Danel Pearl’s memory, his parents edited a volume in which over one hundred fifty contributors were asked what it meant to them to say, as Daniel Pearl had said, “I am Jewish.” (I Am Jewish: Personal Reflections Inspired by the Last Words of Daniel Pearl; Woodstock: 2004)

It’s a fascinating collection. I encourage you to read it. The contributors couldn’t be more different from one another. They include Lawrence Summers, the president of Harvard—and also Peter Yarrow, of “Peter, Paul and Mary.” Elie Wiesel—and also Vidal Sassoon. Dennis Prager, the outspoken columnist and talk show host—and also the equally outspoken Julius Lester. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg—and the actress Tovah Feldshuh.

What can we learn about Jewish authenticity from such a wide range of Jews?

First, all the respondents identify themselves, openly and willingly, as Jews. In the light of Daniel Pearl’s murder, that shouldn’t be taken for granted. As Amos Oz puts it, “A Jew is someone who acknowledges his Jewishness. If he acknowledges it publicly, he is a Jew by choice. If he acknowledges it only to his inner self, he is a Jew by the force of his destiny.” (I Am Jewish, p.131)

Michael Steinhardt reminds us that “Albert Einstein ... once said that he was sorry to be born a Jew because he was thus denied the opportunity and personal satisfaction of independently choosing Judaism.” (Id., p. 139) Whenever I counsel prospective Jews by Choice, I ask them, “Have you thought about what it will be like to be identified, unequivocally, as a Jew, even when it may be uncomfortable or worse to do so?” I find it so moving when someone who, quote unquote, doesn’t look Jewish, doesn’t have a Jewish name, doesn’t have to be so identified, says, “Yes, and I’m willing to become a Jew anyway.” How does that make those of us who’ve been born into the Jewish people and yet who may have felt some measure of ambivalence toward our Jewish identities—how does that make us feel?

Second, an authentic Jew knows that there’s more to being Jewish than being a Jew. Let me explain. Being a Jew means being identified as a member of the Jewish people. But what about Judaism—this amazing religious civilization that has flourished for well over twenty-five hundred years? Being an authentic Jew today should mean more than just being defined by others to be a member of this particular people, or even acknowledging that one is a Jew. It should mean having a mature understanding of our extraordinary tradition and having a sense where one stands with respect to it.

Judaism includes having a relationship with the wisdom that has been passed down from generation to generation. (We call that wisdom, “torah.”) It includes behavioral expectations, both moral and religious. (We call these mitzvot.) Authentic Jews today—whatever their denomination or lack thereof—understand that to be a Jew means to stand for certain principles. They may differ on what those are, but they associate them and their commitments to them, with being Jewish.

As Judy Feld Carr, a Canadian human rights activist puts it, “The recognition that one is Jewish automatically implies—unspoken and unheralded—the sense that one has obligations, as opposed to the demands of others that they have rights.” (Id., p.212) Zev Yaroslavsky, a Los Angeles political leader states, “We are a people of laws, not whim. We are a people of ethical principle, not convenience.” (Id., p. 231)

As Jews, we have to know something about and be prepared to articulate where we stand vis a vis the core issues of Judaism: Where do we stand on observance, on belief in God, on our duties to our fellow Jews? There aren’t single answers to these questions, but one thing is clear: “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” is just not an authentically Jewish response.

Finally, there’s something else which all of us should aspire to, something in the absence of which it would be hard to call ourselves authentic Jews.

In the book of Isaiah, in a stirring passage that we’ll read as the haftarah on Yom Kippur, we’re told, “krah b’garon, al tachsokh.” “Call out with your throat! Don’t hold back!” “Ka-shofar harem kolecha.” “Raise your voice like a shofar!” (Isaiah 58:1)

When it comes to injustice, when it comes to suffering, when it comes to the fate of another human being, we must not hold back. A Jew should be passionate. To be a Jew means—or should mean—that one is not complacent, one is not apathetic. One has to care and one has to show that one cares.

In the words of Rosalie Silberman Abella, a justice on the Ontario Court of Appeal in Canada, “What can we leave our children if not an intense loyalty to humanity and a passionate commitment to its civilized expansion?” (I Am Jewish, p. 227) To be Jewish, says Stephen Hoffman, CEO of United Jewish Communities, is to “identify with the yearning to see all people free—free from want, free from terror, free from dictatorships, free from modern-day slavery and injustice.” (Id., p. 204) And Elie Wiesel puts it this way: “As a Jew, I must be sensitive to the pain of all human beings. To remain indifferent to persecution and suffering anywhere, in Afghanistan or in Kiev, is to become an accomplice of the tormentor.” (Id., p. 169) Or, as Peter Yarrow puts it, “Don’t let the light go out!” (Id., p.220)

Authentic Jews care—and their caring overflows that divide between the parochial and the universal. They care about the Jewish People—and they care about all of humanity. They care about hunger and homelessness wherever it is: in their own communities, and beyond them as well. They care about famine and genocide—even if they’re taking place as far away as the Sudan. And they don’t just talk about these crises. They do something about them.

Our model in this regard, our model of the passionate Jew is an ancient one—about as ancient as they come: namely, Abraham. On the one hand, Abraham is the model of the obedient Jew. He is the one, as we’ll read tomorrow morning, of whom it is said that he got up early in the morning to fulfill God’s will. “Vayashkem Avraham ba-boker.” On the other hand, in the name of justice, he is willing to challenge even God Himself. When God tells him that the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah are to be destroyed, Abraham is concerned about the innocent victims, and cries out, “Will the judge of the entire earth not act justly?” “Ha-shofet kol ha-aretz lo ya-aseh mishpat?” (Genesis 18:25) That chutzpah, that willingness to speak truth to power, to challenge injustice, is authentically Jewish.

How do we measure up?

Are we willing to admit that we’re Jewish? If not, what’s holding us back?

Are we observing mitzvot? Which ones? Which ones are we not, and why not?

Do we have a decent grasp of Jewish history, of Jewish culture? If not, how can we acquire it? And if we do, are we committed to continuing to learn, to grow, to evolve?

Do we care when others are mistreated? Do we grieve when others suffer? What are we doing about it?

Are we offended by political or economic inequality? Do we speak out on behalf of those less fortunate than we? What’s holding us back?

We don’t have to move to Meah Shearim. Our minds can be open to the insights of modern thought and our wardrobes can evolve as well. We don’t have to—and shouldn’t—imitate others, expecting that somehow that will make us more authentic.

There’s a well-known Hasidic story about Rabbi Zusya who said: “When I die, I won’t be asked, ‘Why were you not more like Moses?’ but ‘Why weren’t you more like Zusya?’” (The Way of Man, p.17)

When we die, not only won’t we be asked “Why were you not more like Moses?” we’re not going to be asked, “Why were you not more like Zusya?”

Our task, during our lifetimes, is to recognize how much more we can and should be doing. As Leon Wieseltier puts it, “When I say that I am a Jew, I mean to say that a Jew is what I desire to become.” (I Am Jewish, p. 134)

Living where we are and being who we are, we can be as authentic as any other Jews on this planet. It takes work, of course. It takes study and commitment. It takes piety and perseverance and humility. Most of all, it takes passion.

Let’s live our lives in such a way that, if we should happen to encounter Frederic Brenner, with or without his camera, we could say to him, “You’re looking for authentic Jews? Come to our community! Look at the joy! Look at the passion here! Come to my place of business! Look at how I live out my Jewish values each and every day! Come to my home! Look at how I’m living my life!”

If someone comes knocking, looking for an authentic Jew, let’s live our lives so that we can honestly, with conviction and with passion, answer, “Hineini!—Here I am!”

Amen.