I like to think of myself as a good writer, a fast writer. But this particular sermon, the one that I am going to give tonight, I have been working on for nearly a year. I contemplate it when I'm driving in the car, on quiet evenings with my husband, while playing with my child, when I get dressed in the morning and before I go to sleep at night. Why you ask, have I spent so much time on a single sermon? Because, for the past year, ever since October 7th, it has consumed most of my waking thoughts. Eachbday, I find myself muddling my way through a cloud of information and misinformation, and feeling near constant emotional whiplash. These thoughts are accompanied by many emotions: fear, anger, disbelief, pain, outrage, guilt and confusion. I probably spend at least an hour every day, first reading news directly from Israel, and then the same news from American and International outlets, both on the right and left, to see how they spin it. I know that implicit bias is unavoidable, but I’m often shocked by how it moves from implicit to explicit in the blink of an eye.
Before I go any further I want to tell you a little bit about my biases. I am a Zionist. I love Israel. I consider it my second home. I've traveled there at least a dozen times, staying for stints as short as a month or living there for more than a year. I love the food, the vibrant culture, the political engagement, but most importantly, it is the only country on earth where I can simply be a Jew among Jews. But that isn't why I'm a Zionist. Tonight I'm going to tell you why Zionism is so deeply rooted in me and why I believe an existential threat to Israel is an existential threat to us all.
I'm the granddaughter of a Holocaust survivor. I never got to meet my grandmother. She died of breast cancer when she was just 52 years old. She learned that my mother was pregnant with me just weeks before she died. When she received her cancer diagnosis she revealed to her children a painful secret. At the age of 18 she and her parents were taken by the Nazis to a concentration camp. She spent four years in three different camps, forced to build the munitions that fueled the Nazi war machine. Both of her parents died in the camps just a few short months after their arrival. Her mother died during a Nazi medical experiment and her father, riddled with grief, committed suicide shortly thereafter. My grandmother was the lucky one. She witnessed some truly horrific events during those four years and only managed to survived because she escaped by jumping from a moving train headed to Auschwitz. She bit off the number tattoo on her arm to avoid recapture and wandered the woods with little to eat and no proper clothing as she made her way towards Dresden, where a sympathetic German soldier had arranged for a courier to smuggle her out of Europe. She arrived in Dresden the day the allies bombed. She was recaptured by the Nazis, tortured and left for dead in a field on the outskirts of town. She was discovered by a farmer and his wife, who nursed her back to health. Three weeks later, the war was over. She met my grandfather, a US army captain, in a displaced person's camp. It was love at first sight and just three short weeks later, they were married. My grandfather brought his new bride back to the states with him. Together, they both earned their PhD’s and spent their careers working for the National Laboratory in Albuquerque, New Mexico. They had three children, who all went on to have children of their own, who now have children of their own. And so my grandmother’s legacy continues.
As a child, I understood three things about my own Jewish identity. 1.) It was precious. 2.) I was an important link in the chain of my family’s Jewish tradition. 3.) My Jewish grandmother was a bad ass! But that was about all I understood. I didn't have any formal religious schooling. We didn't even have a Jewish day school in Albuquerque. I was the only Jewish kid in my elementary school and my parents didn't belong to the local synagogue. I was what you might call a DIY Jew. I read a lot of books, did my best to keep Shabbat at home, and sometimes even tried to rope my reluctant family members into holiday celebrations. It wasn't until I was a senior in college and my sister told me about the Birthright Israel program, a free ten-day trip to Israel for young adults, that I had ever considered doing something as part of a community. I was shy and reticent to formally engage with other Jews in a communal context. I was so worried about being judged for "not being Jewish enough" or doing or saying something "wrong."
But when I boarded that flight to Tel Aviv with forty other young Jewish adults, I knew that this was something different, something special. When we touched down at Ben Gurion airport and stepped out of that plane, we were all warmly welcomed “home.” That was the beginning of a whole new journey for me. The Birthright Israel trip is 10 days. I, however, stayed for over three months. I just wasn’t ready to go home. I had spent much of my Jewish life feeling like a square peg in a round hole, like an outsider looking in. Israel changed all of that. I was finally with my people; with my mishpacha, my family, and I could literally feel my grandmother's presence through the warm embrace I received from many of the Israelis that I met during this pivotal first trip. On many occasions I thought about how my grandmother and her family would never have had to suffer as they did if this strong and vibrant Jewish state had existed during World War II. Learning about how Israel had become a refuge for not only Holocaust survivors but Ethiopian Jews, Russian Jews, Jews from literally every country in the Arab world--this filled me with pride and hope. I believed (and even now after October 7th still believe) that what happened to my grandmother, her family and millions of other Jews during the Holocaust will never happen again as long as we have Israel.
I know some of you may not agree, and may even have the opposite opinion, but I do hope that we can all agree on a few important facts important fact: Israel has a right to exist and indeed needs to exist. Despite many false claims, Israel is not a colonialist country. It wasn’t seeded by any mother country. It isn't part of an empire seeking world hegemony. It's a refugee state for refugees like my grandmother. And few people on earth need a refugee state more than the Jewish people.
Now that you know why I am a Zionist, I want to explain what my Zionism is and what it isn’t: I want to assure you that my Zionism isn't “rah-rah”, or “Israel: right or wrong.” My Zionism is full of nuance and critique. I have many colorful things that I could say about the current political administration in Israel. Like many Israelis, I think Netanyahu has done many horrible things, has weakened Israel's image in the world, and must go. I see the growing state of religious zealotry, especially in Jerusalem, as deeply concerning. I know I, as a female patrilineal descent rabbi, do not garner a lot of respect from most Israelis. I know that there are deep divides in Israeli society between Arabs and Jews, the daati and chiloni, (religious and secular Jews) and sabras and olim (those who are native born and the new immigrants). In some ways I feel fortunate that I did not receive any kind of formal Jewish religious education here in the United States. I was not sold any kind of false myth that Israel was a shining city on a hill. Israel is not Shangri-La or Disneyland. Israel is a country with all the same issues and turmoil that we encounter in every country on Earth.
But just because we don’t expect perfection doesn’t mean that we, as Jews, shouldn’t have high standards for the Jewish state. Over the past 12 months there have been many times where Israel has surpassed my expectations and many times where Israel has fallen woefully short. Seeing dead or injured children on TV, whether they're Israeli or Palestinian, fills me with grief. Seeing people displaced from their homes, whether Israeli or Palestinian, makes me feel helpless and hopeless. Seeing people in constant fear of having a bomb dropped on their heads, whether Israeli or Palestinian, makes me empathize with those who are forced to preference security over peace. Hearing people from other countries, especially Jews, posits simple solutions to this really complex problem drives me insane. Many of these backseat drivers and armchair quarterbacks have never even visited Israel or spent any significant time there. The more time I spend in Israel the less black and white the conflict becomes.
As the one-year anniversary of October 7th approaches, it fills me with trepidation. With every story about another bombing or more dead hostages, exploding pagers and assassinations, it feels like there is no end in sight. People are forming their opinions on the Israel/Palestine conflict based on three-minute TikTok videos. They are taking to the streets, sometimes violently, fueled by misinformation and antisemitic rhetoric disguised as Palestinian liberation bombast. I often ask myself "is how my grandmother felt right before she was carted off to the camps?" With antisemitism at a record high globally on both the political left and right, this is precisely the time that we as Jews need the presence of a strong, stable, Jewish state, and yet, ironically, this is precisely the time when Israel is at her most vulnerable.
As heart breaking as this all is, I want you to know that we have more in the works at Masa Seattle for 5785 than just navel gazing. This year we're going to do a few things that will empower you. We will be offering a series of classes to better understand the conflict, teach you the tools to talk to others about divisive issues without creating more animosity, and, God willing, give you an opportunity to visit Israel with our community in the coming year. I have recently been accepted to a special fellowship called Amplify Israel and I will be traveling to Tel Aviv in January. It is my intention to hold several live sessions with you from Israel and then, upon my return, start plotting a course for a community solidarity trip sometime in late 2025 or early 2026. Regardless of your views on Israel, I hope you will consider immersing yourself in the topic and seeing first-hand what is really happening over there.
There's so much more I could say. You don't spend a year writing a sermon in your head and only have it last 15 minutes. I've got some deep thoughts on settlement building, religious claims to the land, left-wing Jewish groups like Jewish Voice for Peace and If Not Now, the ever-present threat of terrorist groups like Hamas, and the question of whether or not this beautiful dream of lihiyot am chofshe b’artzenu, being a free people in our land, can ever be fully realized. There’s just too much to unpack, and that's what makes this so hard. The fact of the matter is this really isn't a topic for a sermon at all. I prefer dialogue over diatribe. A sermon is a monologue and not the appropriate way to wrestle with these difficult questions. I want us to be in conversation, leaning in, rather than tuning out.
We are all am Israel, the nation of Israel. Whether we live here or in Jerusalem, we are one people with one destiny. This year, may we all be destined to have a shana tovah yoteir, a better year, filled with peace for all people. Ken Yehi Ratzon.
Rosh Hashanah, Oct. 2nd, 2024
Rabbi Sydney Danziger
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