The right not to remain silent - Rosh Hashanah 5786

©Rabbi Daniel Gropper, Community Synagogue of Rye

וַיַּשְׁכֵּ֨ם אַבְרָהָ֜ם בַּבֹּ֗קֶר וַֽיַּחֲבֹשׁ֙ אֶת־חֲמֹר֔וֹ וַיִּקַּ֞ח אֶת־שְׁנֵ֤י נְעָרָיו֙ אִתּ֔וֹ וְאֵ֖ת יִצְחָ֣ק בְּנ֑וֹ וַיְבַקַּע֙ עֲצֵ֣י עֹלָ֔ה וַיָּ֣קׇם וַיֵּ֔לֶךְ אֶל־הַמָּק֖וֹם אֲשֶׁר־אָֽמַר־ל֥וֹ הָאֱלֹהִֽים׃

Early the next morning, Abraham saddled his ass and took with him two of his servants and his son Isaac. He split the wood for the burnt offering, and he set out for the place of which God had told him.

בַּיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁלִישִׁ֗י וַיִּשָּׂ֨א אַבְרָהָ֧ם אֶת־עֵינָ֛יו וַיַּ֥רְא אֶת־הַמָּק֖וֹם מֵרָחֹֽק׃

On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place from afar.

Three days. Just silence. Not a word spoken. Three days. If you don't drink water for three days, you'll die. What happens if you don't speak for three days? What would that do to your soul?

Imagine the discomfort. Imagine the inner-monologues. Imagine the inner torture. No words. What would they say? What could they? V'yalchu sheneichem yachdav - And they walked, together, alone. Silent.

Fast forward a number of centuries. The ark of the covenant is at Shiloh, in a tent, three generations before Solomon will build God's Temple in Jerusalem. Once a year, a man from Ephraim took his family and their entourage to this place of worship, about a day's journey from where they lived.

All the children were born to one wife, Peninah. The other wife, Hannah, was barren. Peninah teased her because of her barrenness. It caused Hannah to cry. It made her lose her appetite.

In her distress Hannah prayed to God. Her prayer came from the depths of her soul. We are told, "Her lips moved but her voice was silent."

Eli the priest saw this. He thought she was drunk. He scolded her. He told her, "Sober up. Stop mumbling."

Imagine the embarrassment. Imagine the shame. The High Priest tells you to stop praying!? At the moment she needed to feel seen, Hannah was silenced.

I wonder how many of us can relate. This is an unforgiving time, a time of miscommunication or of no communication at all. Of silence and silencing. Too many of us are retreating into our silos, talking only to those who think like us, listening only to those who tell us what we already believe, keeping our mouths shut like Abraham when, like Hannah, we want to pour out our hearts.

The war in Gaza has silenced discourse in families, college roommates, and among neighbors. Even the entire movie industry, which is based entirely on free expression, is affected. Anyone who speaks up on behalf of Israel is hounded into silence by those on the progressive left. Hollywood types who want to speak on behalf of the Palestinians are finding themselves dropped from their agencies.

It's a tough time to be a Jew, especially one who supports Israel. And let’s be honest. In the oppression olympics we are not alone atop the podium. It's also a tough time to be a Muslim, to be a person of color, to be LGBTQIA, to be an immigrant or a refugee, to be rural or working class, to be an Evangelical Christian, a conservative Catholic, or a Mormon. Even Protestant, straight, cis, male, white, able-bodied, middle-/upper-class, U.S. citizens feel they have been silenced by identity politics, what some might refer to as wokism. And so, instead of finding a way to say what we need to say, we are just shutting up.

When we took Noa up to college in Montreal, we went for brunch at a wonderful old diner called Beauty's. It's been in the same family for three generations. Now Ilana Skolnick runs the place. Beauty’s isn’t Kosher but it's Jewish - you know what I mean. As we were waiting for our table, Ilana and I struck up a conversation. She mentioned that her son was doing a summer apprenticeship in Toronto at a very fine restaurant. I mentioned that our oldest had gone to the Culinary Institute of America. "Where is he now?" she asked. I paused. Then I said, "Israel." "And what is he doing there?" I paused a second time. Then I said, "he's a lone soldier in the IDF." Ilana then took out her phone, and showed me a picture of her daughter who is also a lone soldier and the conversation totally changed.

We returned the following Sunday. On the way out Ilana said, "You know, after we met last week, I reflected on the fact that when I asked you what your son was doing and where he was, you paused. I recognized that I am also doing the same thing when I speak about my daughter, especially if I don't know the other person. It was brave of you to say that he's in Israel and is serving in the IDF. But I understand. We are all so guarded these days. The Jewish community, especially in Montreal, is so small and there is so much antisemitism. We're an institution here. I don't need the world knowing my business."

It was author Zora Neale Hurston who said, "When you are silent about your pain, they'll kill you and say you enjoyed it." We are being silenced, we are silencing ourselves, and it is killing our individual souls and our collective spirit.

It wasn't always this way. It is famously known that in the 1980s, the Speaker of the House, Tip O'Neill, and then-President Ronald Reagan would disagree vociferously. At one point, Reagan summoned O'Neill to the Oval Office to ask him why he was being so mean. "Mr. President, until 6 PM, It's just politics." Afterwards, Reagan often answered O'Neill's calls, "Tip, is it after 6?" Neither was silenced and neither silenced the other.

All this political silencing, as Amanda Litman, president of the left-leaning group Run for Something, tweeted after Charlie Kirk’s muder, "Is meant to scare and silence… We don't have to agree with someone to affirm they have a right to speak their mind without fearing for their life or safety." Otherwise we are all in deep deep deep trouble.

And in the wake of Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension by ABC, some who, in the past, would happily advocate for silencing those with whom they disagreed are now calling out the loss of democratic norms.  Last week, Tucker Carlson explained why a government must not be able to limit speech, saying, “If they can tell you what to say, they're telling you what to think. If that’s the case,, there’s nothing they can't do to you. A human being with a soul, a free man, has a right to say what he believes, not to hurt other people, but to express his views.”

Let me tell you about a rabbi who refused to be silenced. His name was Stephen Samuel Wise. In 1905, he was serving Congregation Beth Israel in Portland, Oregon when he received a call to serve as co-rabbi with Dr. Joseph Silverman at Temple Emanu-El in New York City. Yes. THAT Temple Emanu-El. The leadership of the congregation invited Wise to come east to deliver three trial sermons. What happened next is something of legend.

Wise accepted the invitation, but with one stipulation: "If I am to accept the call to the pulpit of Temple Emanu-El," he said, "I do so with the understanding that I am to be free, and that my pulpit is not to be muzzled." He knew there was a precedent at Emanuel for censoring the rabbi's sermons.

The committee's response was chilling: "The pulpit shall always be subject to and under the control of the Board of Trustees." Wise rejected their job offer and he chose to go public.

In an open letter to Emanuel's Board of Trustees, Wise declared: "The chief office of the minister [that's what they called Reform rabbis back then!]…is not to represent the views of the congregation, but to proclaim the truth as he sees it…. How can a man be vital and independent and helpful, if he is tethered and muzzled? A free pulpit, worthily filled, must command respect and influence; a pulpit that is not free, howsoever filled, is sure to be without potency and honor…The minister is not to be the spokesman of the congregation, not the message bearer of the congregation, but the bearer of a message to the congregation." All this was published in the New York Times. Three columns in the Sunday paper. Page 5!

Wise then went across the park and founded what became known as the Free Synagogue. Now, when we hear about a free synagogue, we get very excited - but it didn't mean free in that way. To Wise, a Free synagogue meant two basic things: congregants would be free to sit where they chose and the rabbi would speak freely from the pulpit, without limitation. Today, these values are still upheld throughout Reform Judaism. It is one more reason why I love being your rabbi. It is among the reasons that I'm so happy that my service here will continue for the foreseeable future. 

More and more, I'm told that people don't want politics from the bima - or social media, or the board room or the classroom, or from celebrities, or from anywhere for that matter. As Wise put it a century ago, "[They want a] pulpit which never provokes dissent because it is cautious rather than courageous, peace loving rather than prophetic, time serving rather than right serving." In other words, more and more people want us, want me, to keep silent. A few have voted with their feet. In some cases it's because of a single sermon, or a single article or an off-hand remark. If you get a haircut you don't love from your longtime stylist, or eat a mediocre meal at your favorite restaurant, do you never go back? Besides, if we can't talk about tough issues here, in shul, among family, in a place whose core mission is to care, then where else can we speak of them? If anything, this place should be precisely where we can discuss tough issues, wrestle with them, engage in what the rabbis call, "machlokhet l'shem shamayim," values-driven debate. Let us remember that a taste for disagreement is a virtue in a democracy. If you don't like something I say, let's talk about it, ideally over a drink or a meal to remind us that like O’Neil and Reagan, we can disagree and still break bread together. 

Judaism has always involved itself in the messiness of the world, whether it was because our very survival required it or because our people's history of oppression at the hands of others has never lost its resonance. As Wise wrote in his autobiography, "Religion is a vision or an ideal of life. Politics is a method or a means. To say that the minister should not discuss politics is to imply that ideals and reality are separate and alien. Politics is what it is, because too often religion stays out of it."

There are moments when we need our houses of worship to offer us sanctuary from the challenges of the world outside - and yes, the primary role of the rabbi is that of a pastor. We clergy care about and respect every one of you — and want you all to feel at home within our walls. We accept that when we have made anyone feel unwelcome, the fault was ours, by failing to express our views in a fashion that engaged you without pushing you away. And yet, the Talmud requires that synagogues have windows, because as Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, the first Chief Rabbi of Israel taught, we must never hide from the challenges of the world outside.

This congregation contains a beautiful diversity of perspectives and experiences. I wouldn't want it any other way. At the same time, the rabbinate calls me to be a voice of morality and to use Jewish values and teachings to illuminate the challenges of our time and how to respond to them Jewishly. Whether addressing issues within our Jewish community or the broader society, I try to ground my words in our tradition's wisdom rather than partisan politics. Sometimes this means wrestling with difficult questions about Israel's future, about justice, about how we treat the stranger, or protect the vulnerable. And whenever I've witnessed policies or actions that seem to contradict the Jewish values we hold dear - values like justice, compassion, and human dignity - I have felt compelled to speak to those tensions as well.

But the choice of whether to speak or remain silent feels more fraught now than at any other time in my rabbinate, and I'm not the only one who feels this way. My colleagues, every last one of them, struggled mightily with this year's high holiday sermons for exactly these reasons. They are concerned that many of our congregants are walking in, dukes up. We are worried about how we are going to hold everyone together. Instead of welcoming these days for reunion and renewal, we fear division and cancellation. This isn't what these Days of Awe are for. Unfortunately, far too many - out of fear of consequences - have silenced themselves. Far too many - out of fear of retribution - have stopped speaking about what matters. Far too many - out of fear of being cancelled - have closed their mouths. And far too many - out of fear of being labeled - feel muzzled.

My friends, this is not why our ancestors fled the Czar or Hitler or Stalin. They came for freedom. Freedom to speak, freedom to act, freedom to be Jewish in public, loudly and proudly. What if Abraham chose to speak back? What might he say? 

And what of Hannah? If you were to pray like her, what would you say? And when the High Priest misunderstood you, accused you of being drunk, told you to sober up and to stop praying, how would you respond? If you could have the courage of a Rabbi Stephen Wise, what would you say without fear, without worrying about the consequences?

There's a powerful way for how we might do this that neither cancels nor demeans the humanity of those who frustrate and anger us. It is an approach pioneered by Civil Rights activist Loretta Ross that holds people accountable with love; one that respects their humanity and invites dialogue rather than shames or alienates. It's the opposite of calling someone out. She calls it "Calling In." 

Ross tells of a family gathering where "Uncle Frank" decided to share his views about Mexican Americans "stealing jobs." Most family members buried their faces in their plates. You know the feeling. You've probably been there.

But Ross chose a different path. She said: "Uncle Frank, I know you. I love you. I respect you. And what I know about you is that you'd run into a burning building and save somebody if you could. And you wouldn't care what race that person is. You wouldn't care whether they were gay or an immigrant. So tell me; how can I reconcile that good Uncle Frank I know you are with the words that just came out of your mouth?"

At that moment, Ross didn't call him out. She didn't attack him or overturn the tables. Instead, she called him in. She invited him to decide which Uncle Frank he wanted to be. He was less likely to be defensive because she didn't attack him. Nor did she let his bigotry go unchallenged. By calling him in, she disarmed him. Over time, Ross found that Uncle Frank didn't double down the way he used to. He would usually pause, laugh a little, or back off, because she was appealing to his better self.

Over time, he stopped making certain remarks altogether in her presence. He wanted to be seen as "the good Uncle Frank," and Ross gave him a face-saving way to choose that identity. Now, this approach is not just for making family gatherings more comfortable. Ross has used Calling In with convicted rapists, white supremacists and her students at Smith College who sometimes say things that are offensive or misinformed. So stop calling people out. Stop cancelling them. Stop silencing them. Instead, call them in.

Over the coming year, our board of trustees is going to lean into learning how to have difficult conversations. As you heard earlier from Michael Foreman, we are taking seriously the Prophet Isaiah's notion that, "This house of prayer should be a house for all people." This is not merely lip service. Using the URJ's "Talk for a Change" curriculum and working with the wonderful organization "Resetting the Table," we're going to learn and practice and model Calling In.

There might not be ways to fix it "out there," but we can begin to fix it "in here." Houses of worship are among the last truly intergenerational spaces in America. They can be the places where the hard conversations and the real conversations can take place. At the very least, houses of worship can be the place where no one needs to be silent, where no one is silenced by others, and where no one needs to silence themselves.

One last story. For three years, we are told, the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai argued with one another. Each side insisted, "The law follows us." Back and forth they went, neither yielding.

Finally, a heavenly voice broke through the dispute and declared: "Both sides speak the words of the living God—but in practice, the law follows the House of Hillel."

The Rabbis then asked: If both Hillel and Shammai are speaking God's truth, why is Hillel's teaching the one we follow?

The answer: Because the students of Hillel were kind and humble. They didn't just argue their own case—they also made sure to understand Shammai's view, and they even taught their rivals' words before their own.

And here's the remarkable part: despite their fundamental disagreements about Jewish law, the houses of Hillel and Shammai were no Montagues and Capulets. Their children married one another, perhaps the ultimate indication of people with differences getting along.  

This New Year, may we be like the students of Hillel, kind and gracious, teaching our own views while honoring the opinions of others. And this year, may our synagogue be a place where voices are never muzzled, where sacred speech flourishes, and where the ancient Jewish principle of machloket l'shem shamayim guides our conversations toward truth, justice, and peace.

This Rosh Hashanah, I invite you to break your silence and find your voice. Not the voice of anger or accusation, but the voice of Rabbi Wise speaking truth to power, the voice of Loretta Ross calling in instead of calling out. And above all, in this New Year remember this: You have the right to remain silent, but you don't have to.

Shana tova u'metuka. 

To Learn More:

Calling In, Watch Loretta Ross’ Ted Talk, or visit her webpage. 

Read the full letter of Rabbi Stephen Wise on NY Times Time Machine

URJ's "Talk for a Change

ReSetting the Table