A Heart with Many Rooms and other Jewish values
A Jewish Cemetery In Germany
(By Yehuda Amichai)
“On a little hill amid fertile fields lies a small cemetery,
a Jewish cemetery behind a rusty gate, hidden by shrubs,
abandoned and forgotten. Neither the sound of prayer
nor the voice of lamentation is heard there, for the dead praise not the Lord.
Only the voices of our children ring out, seeking graves and cheering
each time they find one--like mushrooms in the forest, like wild strawberries.
Here's another grave! There's the name of my mother's
mothers, and a name from the last century. And here's a name,
and there! And as I was about to brush the moss from the name--
Look! an open hand engraved on the tombstone, the grave of a kohen,
his fingers splayed in a spasm of holiness and blessing,
and here's a grave concealed by a thicket of berries
that has to be brushed aside like a shock of hair
from the face of a beautiful beloved woman.”
This poem by Yehuda Amichai uses the imagery of an abandoned Jewish cemetery somewhere in Germany as a symbol of death and life, a fitting theme for Yom Kippur. The silence and sense of neglect, the rusty gates and wild growing shrubs, all evoke a feeling of erasure, of the loss of Jewish history. And yet the excited voices of the children cut across this silence as they run around and ‘discover’ the graves. It hints at a sense of the lost connections as well as the sense that new life can emerge. The children are like the mushrooms and wild strawberries in their excitement and their growth. In the act of brushing away moss they discover both lost names and deeper connection to, and appreciation of, their heritage; “There's the name of my mother's mothers, and a name from the last century. And here's a name and there!”
Though the cemetery is abandoned, with no sounds of Jewish prayer or lamentations remaining, with no living religious tradition to maintain it, the image of an open hand engraved on one tombstone still reminds us of the endurance of Jewish tradition even when it seems connection has been abandoned, like the old cemetery, the symbols, memories and names still call to us from those past times.
The poem is about the Holocaust and the impact it still has on Jewish identity, tradition and life. It brings into focus the everyday tensions between the life affirming play of the children for whom such ways are distant thoughts, and the old forgotten tombstones that despite their abandoned status, gently offer their memories of past times and communities, of the broken connections; and invite us to explore who we are, as we seek to understand who they were.
Amichai’s poem reflects the tension between the exuberant discovery of life, and the pain and sadness as we consider death, loss and suffering. This tension is something that perhaps many of us recognise in the narrative of Jewish communal life and culture that has played out since the 1970s; where the need to remember and preserve the memory of the Shoah, of survivors, as they finally began to be ready to talk about what happened, to share their experiences. That time was when Jewish communities began to more fully contemplate, and engage with, a devastating period of collective trauma.
It's a beautiful poem and yet I also struggle with it. For it reminds me of what we sometimes call the ‘Shoah-Sinai spectrum’, after the essay written by Rabbi Professor David Hartman in 1982, where he famously explored whether the “ugly demonic forces of antisemitism” or “the eternal Sinai covenant” should be the foundations upon which we build Jewish life? His answer was clear;
“We will mourn forever because of the memory of Auschwitz but we will build a healthy new society because of the memory of Sinai.” And the way we define who we are and want to be, cannot be based on “any obsession with the long and noble history of Jewish suffering”, rather the weight has to be on “the awesome task implicit in the Sinai covenant.”
What it boils down to, says Hartman, is whether Auschwitz, suffering, persecution and the memories of all those who have died matters more than Sinai, a Judaism that looks to life, to connection, and to the world around us; where we are asked to explore and experiment. ‘Sinai’ is a Judaism that encourages us to ask new questions, to look for the light, for life, and for joy.
It is of course not an either/or, but rather a spectrum. This means that we move around on the spectrum, depending on where we are in our own lives, and what is happening around us at the time. And yet, there is a tendency amongst many to favour the end focused on memory, loss and destruction. We have lived in times where the long shadow of the Shoah has hung over us and shut out much of the light.And this has taken on a renewed sense in the past two years; It has been a hard balance to maintain, for we know the importance of remembering, and recognise the importance of honouring those who have perished. And yet, if this becomes the main part of our Jewish identity, and we are only, or even mostly, focused on death and loss and memorial, then our Judaism too will become bleak, like that abandoned cemetery.
I remember two significant moments where this came to the fore and shaped my own Jewish identity. And I can imagine that many here will have their own versions of something similar.
The first was on a trip to Berlin, where our group was given the choice of visiting a concentration camp or the National Museum of Berlin, I and all the Jewish students chose the museum. We could not face any more learning about the Holocaust.
For us, when we had been taught about the life-giving and nourishing parts of Judaism, it was usually framed in the context of Israel, the development of the country as a land for all Jews, and the place where a really Jewish life could be lived. The other end of our spectrum was not Sinai seen as as a religious and ethical construct, but only the land of Israel.
The other significant moment that helped define my Jewish identity came a few years later, when living and studying in Brighton, I realised that it was coming up to Yom Kippur and I hadn't really noticed, as I was not part of a Jewish community and therefore I had no external reminders of the festival cycle. No reminder of the sounds, smells, and tastes of the festivals, the joy of baby blessings and b’nei mitzvahs, these were all missing. I was not surrounded by a community and people who knew me, and valued Jewish tradition. It was like a primary colour was missing and it left everything else looking a bit greyer, lacking depth, vibrancy, and meaning.
Many of us take being part of a Jewish life for granted, especially when growing up. Going to university is quite a wake up call for our young people, discovering that they have to actively choose services or festivals, or JSoc, or come home to the Chavurah. But it does not have to be at that age only, for many the need for finding community and Judaism may come with having children, wanting them to be a part as well, to learn about their history and tradition, and to make their own Jewish friendships. And for some it comes (again) with older age, with wanting to explore the ancient wisdoms in the light of the world we now live in, a time of looking for greater meaning and depth. And it is in these situations, and more, that we realise how much Judaism and our Jewish traditions mean to us, and we actively search for them.
Nowadays, living as Jews is something we all have to choose, bar the most ultra-Orthodox parts of the community where social expectation has a strong hold over people. With the coming of the Enlightenment, and the rights of the individual, being part of a religious community ceased to be a fundamental societal need. We therefore live in a world where we can choose to turn away, to stop living as Jews, or cease to ‘do Jewish’ at the drop of a hat. It is easy to just let go and allow the place of Judaism to slip away.
And so nowadays we all have to choose our Judaism. For some it barely registers, for others it’s an ‘of course’, and for yet others it comes after much soul searching, or even drifting away, exploring other traditions or cultures and then returning. For some people it is about a rejection of the Judaism they grew up with. Choosing to make Judaism part of your life can be a deliberate act, or a painful choice. For some it kind of sneaks up on them, for others it is a conscious return.
Do you have a moment where you chose Judaism as a conscious part of your life? Not only as something inherited, or a safe/familiar place to be, but something you were seeking deliberately? And do you remember what made you aware?
For me, coming from an Orthodox community, it was not only a choice of a Sinai/life-affirming form of Judaism, it was also choosing a form of Judaism that was based on values of gender equality both in roles and responsibility, an inclusivity which meant that no matter who your partner were, in terms of gender, or background, they were equally accepted.
It’s a Judaism where individuals make religious choices in light of the breadth of Jewish tradition, and not based solely on the rulings of a rabbinic minority.
It’s a Judaism that deeply values ethics and morality, and bases choices on that, rather than ‘this is how we have always done it’.
It is a scholarly, knowledgeable, questioning and curious way to do Judaism.
It is also a Judaism that is not only centred on ourselves, or choseness, but looks to and engages with the larger world around us.
It is a form of Judaism that lives with, rather than apart from, the rest of society.
It is a Judaism that is not insular, nor based on binaries of in/out, or kosher/not kosher, male/female or is even overly focusing on the right/wrong ways of ‘doing Judaism’.
And so I along with many of us here discovered a Judaism that looked different from what we grew up with.
Today, on this most sacred day in the year, it feels imperative that we think/talk about what happens when our core Jewish values are themselves questioned, or even undermined. What should we think when other Jews use our sacred history and language in a way that only stretches as far as caring for other Jews as they see them? How can we respond when their use of Jewish teachings is accepting, maybe even encouraging, or perhaps even actively participating in the undermining of what we consider to be the fundamental human rights of others? And what about when this division, sometimes, is even directed at other Jews, or those deemed to be “not the ‘right kind’ of Jew”. Where is our Judaism left in this space?
What about what has happened and is still happening in Gaza and the West Bank? Or the colossal breach of trust by failing to get all the hostages home? How have we found our Jewish values, our identities rent/torn by these circumstances?
How has the rise, and perhaps even personal experience of antisemitism affected us? The internal fighting, and shaming, both in, and between, Jewish communities, and within the Jewish media. Lines crossed, trust broken, words or actions that fail to honour and respect the sanctity of life. All of this has shaken many people’s Jewish identity, and made us question what it means to be Jewish. Or rather, it may have made us question what are our ‘Jewish values’? And though this is a painful experience, we have to take it seriously. Both for ourselves, and for our youth, who do not have the same memories and relationships that we have, and where we realise that all that has taken place in recent years may have made them question not just what Judaism means to us, but I sometimes fear/hear, ‘well what’s the point of Judaism, of being Jewish?’ Of carrying a sense of shame in ‘being Jewish’, rather than a sense of pride or comfort or nourishment.
The answer I think lies in remembering, learning and talking about our core Jewish values; why they matter, and how they should inform and guide us in how we live our lives and build a just society.
One of those is B’zelem Elohim, to be made in the image of God, a core Jewish concept. It comes at the beginning of the Torah, before Abraham, the first Jew, before even the notion of Jewish tribes or groupings. It is addressed to and describes all of humanity. We are all made in the image of God, and this means that every single human being has infinite value. Do some Torah texts or rabbinic thoughts make distinctions between us and them, between one group and another? Of course, and yet, our tradition makes it very clear that all life is sacred, and that human life should always be honoured before considerations of ‘our’ power, land, or wealth. There is a reason why Jewish lawyers were involved in the developing the concept of human rights. And such values mean that, as we saw in the Torah portion today, we are asked to remember the sacred nature of human life by choosing peace and life “so that you and your descendants may live”.
Teshuva is another concept, which we probably take too lightly, or at least for granted. We have a tradition that understands that we, as human beings, and as Jews, will make mistakes, sometimes grave, horrible ones, with serious consequences. And yet, we are all reminded that we have a process of return. But this is very much not ‘forgive and forget’ or ‘turn the other cheek’.
Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg, one of the foremost writers on the complexity of doing teshuva in today’s world, writes:
“We can't have a fully functioning, fully holy society if we throw people away, lock them away forever for making a mistake…. This does not mean that we tolerate harmful, abusive, unrepentant behavior as acceptable, [that we should] give people who cause harm positions of power, or reward them for tripling down unrepentantly. There are many mechanisms for holding [such] people accountable in a functioning culture… But that doesn't mean we have to say that you can never find a way for those who have made mistakes to come into our spaces and worship together with us, or that– say– one stops being a Jew even if one causes harm (even in the name of Judaism).... Even a sinner is a member of the community”.
On this day of Yom Kippur we are reminded again and again, to “choose between life and good, or death and evil”.
One further deeply held value I want us to remember today, is the respect for a plurality of voices, or as Jewish tradition calls it, to have ‘a heart of many rooms’.
It stems from a rabbinic debate about how to proceed when both sides in an argument are right. How do you choose? The answer is poignant: “So make yourself a heart of many rooms. Bring into it the words of those who declare unclean, and the words of those who declare clean.” It is a profound and sacred teaching. But more than just asking us to note that there are differences of opinion, it goes further. The text does not conclude that one side is right or wrong, or even that one opinion should be chosen. It creates a space where the validity of opposite views can be accepted. It respects and honours the fact that differences can arise.
In our world, in our societies, we need a spectrum of different voices and opinions, to have space to agree or disagree with each other. To be able to both speak from the heart and listen with an open heart. We need respectful spaces for questioning and serious debates, and we don't always need an answer. And most importantly, we must know that we can, and should, live with disagreement.
And so Jewish teachings remind us of the fundamental values to live by:
of B’Selem Elohim - to be made in the image of god - to live in a world that respects the sanctity and sacredness of all life.
of Aseh L’cha Chedarei Chedarim - to make your heart a place of many rooms - to honour plurality, to respect difference, and to live with disagreement.
And of T’shuvah - to return - to recognise that in this world we all are capable of making mistakes, and we all can follow the process and find a path to return to more righteous ways, even if we have done great wrong.
And, though in this company it may sound a bit trite - we also need to be able to just ‘do’ Jewish. We still need Jewish time and rituals, Shabbat dinners, festivals, learning, baking and making. We need our Jewish ‘doing’ as a balance and a reminding to us that Judaism is not only about ethics and thoughts about building a just society, but also something that we do, together. It’s also the wild strawberries; its singing, and jokes and bagels, its celebrations, and shiva prayers, its care packages and hospital visits, and its grandparents kvelling, its cake and learning.
If you are still left with the uneasy question of whether any of this still holds value, when it seems that a substantial number of Jews do not seem to want to know or care for others whom are not insiders, part of their group; then please remember that disagreement and dissent from such views is a form of resistance.
And dissent itself is intrinsic to Judaism, from Abraham arguing with God, to the prophets standing in the breach, from the rabbis who never stopped disagreeing with each other, to the birth of both Chasidism and of Reform Judaism in response to the German Enlightenment, both a reaction to the society at the time. Dissent is found in good company, from Zelophehad's daughters, to female rabbis, and from Moshe Rabbeinu/Moses to Ruth Bader Ginsburg, dissent, disagreement and discourse are all part of who we are. It is part of our collective identity, and part of what makes each of us grow.
Yom Kippur is about resetting the clock, to return to who we truly are, and to decide what you want to do ‘Jewishly’ in this year to come.
Where do you want to spend time, on what, how, and with whom? Perhaps you’ll join our November sessions for discussion, and Mitzvah day or other hands-on events reaching out to our neighbours across Haringey, maybe you’ll choose to be at the shabbat retreat in March, or our learning and discussion sessions, or at our festival celebrations - we need your input and new ideas to make them relevant not just for our children but adults too. Look out for asks on Whatsapp and in the community newsletter. Giving back to your community is a core Jewish value, a recognition that we can only function when everyone steps in and helps out, whether once a year or whenever there’s an ask, be it hosting, helping, planning or organising.
Judaism, and our sense of what it means to be Jewish, does not have to live in the part of the spectrum where we remember only the hurt, and death. It can and hopefully is a living Judaism, based in values and our daily attempt to live honestly by them, in the best way that we can.
Join in the children's voice, search through our history and traditions, and see what you can find. Take time to appreciate the wild strawberries, and to help brush the moss off. Dissent, discuss, and do it Jewishly. Always remember that this tradition is ours, as much as anyone else's. Be a part of helping it to grow.
On a little hill, next to to a woodland, lies a small community,
a Jewish community behind a tended gate, hidden by a mound, neither forgotten nor abandoned.The sound of prayer and discussion is heard there, for the living praise the Eternal One, Source of Life.
May this be a year of valued, and valuable life.
