By Rabbi Carl M. Perkins:

Reflections on the Death of President Ronald Reagan
Shabbat Sh’lach L’cha
June 11, 2004 

The last few days have been described as days of “national mourning.” There are people who’ve lined up for hours to catch a glimpse of former President Ronald Reagan’s coffin. Eulogies have been delivered. Op-Ed pieces have been written.

And yet, there are plenty of people who would not have been willing to stand in line. Who were irritated by the saturation coverage. Who may not have the same memories of the Reagan era.

How is that? What does that mean?

I remember the Reagan era. Election night in 1980, I had invited a young woman, whom I’d recently met, to watch the returns with a group of friends. Unfortunately, it was over before it started. We went out to get some snack food; by the time we got back, Jimmy Carter had conceded and the election was over. There was no need to wait for the California returns. It was all over. (We had a good time anyway.)

I also remember the inauguration. The split-screen: on the one side, watching Ronald Reagan take the oath of office; on the other side, watching the release of the American hostages who’d been imprisoned in Iran for so long.

And I remember the Reagan presidency. The question is, “What do I remember?”—or, more precisely, “What do I choose to remember?” As anyone who reads the op-ed pages of the newspapers can testify, different observers choose to remember different things. Some of us might remember the Iran-Contra affair; others, the bombing of Col. Muammar Khaddafy in Libya. Some might remember the bombing of the U. S. Marines in Beirut; others, the invasion of Granada. What do we focus on?
This thought came to me as I reflected on the Torah portion today. Why did it take forty years for the Israelites to enter the Land? Why didn’t they simply walk right in and settle themselves?

In essence, it’s to answer that question that the story of the spies appears in our text. In that story, twelve chieftains, one from each tribe, spy out the Land. Ten come back with a negative report; only two see much positive there. The report of the majority is accepted and believed by the people, and they rebel against Moses and God.

“If only we’d died in the Land of Egypt!
If only we could die in this Wilderness!
Why is God taking us to that Land in order to fall by the sword?
It would be better for us to go back to Egypt!
Let’s head back for Egypt!” (14: 2-4)

Think how irritating that result must have been to Moses and to God. Is it surprising that, according to the narrative, God punishes them by giving them what they’d asked for: He lets them die in the Wilderness, as they’d requested. And so, the Children of Israel don’t enter the Land for another forty years.
Now, that’s one way of telling the story. There are other ways. The Torah could simply have said that it was too difficult for the people to conquer the native inhabitants. It took them forty years, but finally they triumphed.

But it doesn’t do that. Instead, the Torah makes a point it wants to make. An interesting point. A challenging point. Namely, that sometimes the majority isn’t right.
Now this is troubling, because in the Jewish tradition, we accept the notion of majority rule. It’s firmly established that, when judges sit in judgment, majority rules. When those entrusted with the dispersal of community funds make their decisions, majority rules.

This text doesn’t really challenge that principle. It just reminds us, that, though the majority, in a particular situation or in a particular era, may have the power to act on behalf of the entire people, that majority may be deluded. They may be wrong. They may not be doing what’s in the best interest of the people. (Of course, their will must be followed. Unless God happens to intervene, as we see in the text, even if the majority is wrong, its authority is firm.)

The lesson of our parashah, I believe, is that we should be willing to stick to our principles, and do what is right, even if we’re in the minority. Within one particular generation, our values, our principles, might not be respected. They might be despised. We might be despised. (Remember, that the people tried to attack Moses and Aaron, and I would imagine that Caleb and Joshua were not too popular.) Nonetheless, later generations might realize that we were right.

There’s a rabbi in the Mishnah by the name of Akaviah ben M’hal lelel. In tractate Eduyot (5:6), we’re told that, in the course of a rabbinic discussion, he testified regarding four things; that is, he held four different legal opinions that were contrary to those held by the majority of the sages.

And the story goes that some sages approached him and said, “Akaviah, change your mind. Come over to our side. If you do, we’ll make you Av Beit Din—second in command in our national legislature. How about it?”

He responded to them by saying, “Better for me to be called a fool all my days, than that I should be deemed wicked before God for even an hour. Let no one ever say, “He changed his mind in order to gain a benefit.”

Our tradition has—at least since the days of the Mishnah, if not much longer—always valued a multiplicity of opinions concerning what’s best for an individual, a community, a nation. The system of majority rule only works if people are willing to express, maintain and to defend minority views. In one generation they may be in the minority; in the next, in the majority.

How then can it be true, can it be appropriate, that these days are days of national mourning? Can it be that we abandon our political differences, our different viewpoints, concerning what’s best for the nation? Can it be that to honor Ronald Reagan today requires that we would vote for him were he alive and running for office today?

The answer is, of course, no. When we come together, as we do and as we must, when a former officer of our country dies, we honor the institution of government itself. We honor the system, which has worked, on the whole, so well during these past 200 plus years to safeguard our liberty.

Funerals are times of reconciliation. They are times for us to remember the good that people have done, to be inspired by that good, and to aspire to do good ourselves. Whatever our political views, we can and should be grateful to the men and women who serve our country, who bear the great responsibility that comes with power and authority, and we should re-commit ourselves to expressing our views and playing a part in shaping the destiny of our communities, our nation, and the world.