I Am Jewish, I Am American, I Am Free

I’ll begin with a personal reminiscence: Sometime in the late 1950’s my parents took my sister, brother, and me on our first trip away from home to a destination other than my aunt’s house. We loaded up the car in Worcester, Ma. and headed east for almost two hours until we reached Plymouth. Imagine the anticipation: after learning all about the Pilgrims, Miles Standish, Squanto and the first Thanksgiving, I’d actually see Plymouth Rock. I still remember the anti-climactic moment when we stood before the Rock – it was so small!

When you grow up in Massachusetts, you understand from a young age that what happened in Plymouth is a fundamental chapter in the American political, ideological, and spiritual story.

Each time I returned to Plymouth I came to understand that, as important as it is, it doesn’t tell the whole story. I learned long ago that the Mayflower’s passenger list did not name a single Cohen, Levite, or Israel. Further, I am not sure that the early Puritans would have warmly welcomed Mr. Cohen, Mrs. Levy, or Ms. Israel into their group. Thus, while we may surely learn from the Pilgrim’s journey, our particular Jewish story in America, even with its clear similarities, follows a different course to this land.

Our first chapter opens 34 years after the Pilgrims alighted at Plymouth Rock. In September of 1654 the first twenty-three of us who would stay for good in the future United States of America arrived at the future New York City. The 23 actually relived an all too familiar pattern in Jewish history. After the Portuguese wrested control of Brazil from the Dutch, the conquerors expelled Jews from the colony. When their ship, the Ste Catherine docked in Cuba and Jamaica, the Spanish did not allow them to remain. (Hertzberg, The Jews in America, 19) Ultimately, what the historian Jonathan Sarna called “an economically ruined” group of refugees from Recife, Brazil “sought to settle down and form (for the first time) a permanent Jewish community in North America.” (Celebrate 350, American Jewish History 1654-2004, Jonathan Sarna, p. 1)

Who would have predicted that the arrival of the four couples, two widows, and thirteen children would preface an unprecedented kind of Jewish story? One can find it in the chapters written after the several waves of immigration that increased the Jewish population from 23 to today’s five plus millions. One can detect it in the chapters that tell of the earliest groups of Spanish and Portuguese Jews, or the Jews of Middle Europe who would join them in the mid-nineteenth century, or the huge influx of Jews from Eastern Europe who disembarked and settled between 1881 and the First World War. One can discover it in the lives of the survivors of the Shoah who came in the aftermath of World War II and in the immigrants from the FSU at the end of the twentieth century.

Emma Lazarus, born in New York in 1849, described them all. In the “New Colossus” she called them: “…your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.”

They were the men, women, and children who took a risky route illuminated only by the promise of the light shining from the “lamp beside the golden door.” (From Emma Lazarus’ “New Colossus”) They passed through that door toward those golden streets. Detours like quotas and discrimination would not deter most of them discovering that something new and different for Jews. We know their stories: after all they are our parents, our grandparents, our great grandparents. They are our spiritual forbearers.What would they encounter that would prove so new?

New and different? In his answer to Seixas, Washington affirmed that “It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights.” And confirming Seixas’ point of view, the president wrote “…happily the government of the United States, which gives bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it, on all occasions, their effectual support.” (Ibid)

The government itself promised the free exercise of “inherent natural rights.” No less than President George Washington committed that principle to writing. His statement connects directly to the ratification of the Bill of Rights on December 15, 1791 in which the first amendment guaranteed that “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; ”( http://www.archives.gov/national_archives_experience/charters/bill_of_rights_transcript.html ) This not only separates church and state, it allows all Americans to bring to their participation in civic life the universal ethics and values that ought to emanate from persons of faith even as such a persons learn them from particularistic teachings in their own houses of worship. What was new? Jews had freedom, security, and political rights. One could be a Jew at home, a Jew in the synagogue, and a Jew in the street. What was really new? The law of the land guaranteed freedom from persecution. The remarkable Jewish community that descended from the 23 souls from Recife would not need to fear a repetition of the Jewish story of expulsion and resettlement.

Despite the detour here and there, that freedom resulted in unprecedented opportunity in every conceivable walk of life. From Chaim Solomon to Judah Touro – the earliest Jewish movers and shakers in the public sector; from Johnny Kling, a Chicago Cub catcher who was the first Jewish major leaguer to Sandy Koufax and his Yom Kippur world series decision; from Judges Brandeis to Goldberg to Bader-Ginsburg, and Breyer; to Senators like Javits, Leiberman, Levin, Kohl, Feinstein and Wellstone z”l, to musicians from Leonard Bernstein to Gene Simmons, from Richard Tucker to Bob Dylan…from journalists like Daniel Schorr, Tom Friedman and Daniel Pearl z”l. We can count way more than a minyan of Nobel Prize winners, Pulitzer Prize winners, academy award winners, Grammy winners and Emmy Winners, Rhodes Scholars and Fulbright Scholars, Olympic medalists, public servants, and captains of industry who proudly live Jewish lives in the United States. How do such achievements remain so possible?

Now, 350 years after those first arrivals, what does this freedom mean besides opportunity, achievement, and promise? Where else in the world, besides Israel, would a nationally recognized Jewish leader write with confidence, “Anti-Semitism is not a threat to the security and well-being of North American Jews.” (RJ, Fall, 2004, 2) Rabbi Eric Yoffie, president of the Union for Reform Judaism made that unprecedented statement. Though he tempered it with realism, saying, “An attack by vandals on a Jewish cemetery or building is deeply distressing, and so is an overheard anti-Semitic remark.” (And from time to time in certain places, these still happen.) Then he added: “But we know from long historical experience that Jewish well-being is in doubt only when accompanied by certain tell-tale signs: when Jews are prohibited from working where they want, living where they want, going to school where they want – and most important of all, when government authorities sanction anti-Semitism or look the other way. None of these conditions exist in North America.” (Ibid.)

In the United States of America Jews live free from fear of government sanctioned persecution and expulsion. Jews live free to pursue what all Americans value: life, liberty, and happiness. Jews live free to rise to the fullness of being Jewish and being American.

A poignant and inspiring example of how an individual does that and integrates American ideals and Jewish spirit emerges from one of the darkest moments in our country’s recent past.

You may remember this tragic occurrence in February 2002? The videotape recorded a harrowing scene and this declaration: “My father is Jewish, my mother is Jewish, I am Jewish,” (I Am Jewish, vxii). That is what the Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl z”l affirmed with confidence in a supreme act of resistance just prior to his murder by terrorists in Karachi, Pakistan in February 2002. More than two years later, his words resound with compelling power. And, in an important way, as his legacy, they illustrate how one man freely integrated being Jewish and being American.

“Daniel Pearl was not a military hero or political leader,” wrote his Israeli born father, Judea Pearl in a New York Times Op Ed column, “yet millions of people worldwide have identified with his life, mission and legacy…. Wherever he went, Danny radiated joy, truth, friendship and genuine respect for people of all backgrounds. He personified everything that is good in our culture and none of its faults. (The New York Times, Editorial/Op-Ed: June 18, 2002, www.danielpearl.org) His father added: “when they murdered Danny to humiliate the United States, the terrorists created the opposite effect - they unveiled and magnified the humanity of America…” (The New York Times, Editorial/Op-Ed: June 18, 2002, www.danielpearl.org)

He personified America’s best values. ---- Thus he could say into the faces of terror and inhumanity, “I am Jewish.” (I Am Jewish, xvii) - “It hit me right away that this sentence would strike an especially deep chord for Jews everywhere, though I could not fully grasp its scope or significance.” That is what his mother, Ruth Pearl, wrote in the preface of the book she edited with her husband – (a new book called I Am Jewish Personal Reflections Inspired by the Last Words of Daniel Pearl) “…I came to realize that he left us a precious gift in those words - a faithful mirror in which we, Jews, can see ourselves.” (Ibid, xvii) She added: “His dignity signified so vividly the victory of the eternal Jew over his perennial enemies, the victory of Danny over his killers.” She hoped that “…Danny’s words would lead to empowerment and pride and, eventually, to a stronger, more united Jewish people.” (Ibid, xix)

Listen again to his father’s words: “He personified everything that is good in our culture.” “Wherever he went, he radiated joy, truth, friendship and genuine respect for all people.” His act of resistance “magnified the humanity of America.”

Listen to his mother: “His dignity signified so vividly the victory of the eternal Jew over his perennial enemies.” His words “…would lead to empowerment and pride and, eventually, to a stronger Jewish people.” In the worst possible circumstance, a Jew, born in Princeton NJ, reared in Los Angeles, a graduate of Stanford, an intern at the Indianapolis Star, a reporter at the North Adams Transcript and the Berkshire Eagle in Western Massachusetts, a lover of all kinds of music; a Jew whose CV reads like the journalist’s version of the American dream, makes a clear statement not only about his spiritual legacy: the covenant of the ancient matriarchs and patriarchs; the covenant of his parents Judea and Ruth; but also the power and meaning of being an American – not the “ugly American,” but the bearer of the high ideals of the nation that “gives bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.” He showed through his Jewishness the humanity of his country. His declaration and the ideals that prompted it flowed from a worldview formulated in a place where the government of the people, and by and for it, “protects inherent natural rights.” Given the milieu from which he grew, it is no surprise that, even under duress worse than any we could imagine, Daniel Pearl would naturally, confidently, and heroically announce from his Jewish and American heart and soul: I am Jewish.” And for this, we honor his memory.

In his ringing proclamation, you can hear the ancient words: “Ukratem dror baaretz lchol yoshveha, proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof.” These are the Torah’s words: the Jewish text inscribed forever on the Liberty bell that sounded when all Americans declared they were free. Even in physical captivity, even in the face of his murderers, Daniel Pearl’s Jewish spirit, strengthened by his American essence, remained free. And likewise, his American Spirit, fortified by his Jewish essence, remained free-both echoing the biblical words: “Proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof.”

So, in turn, we thank God that we live in a nation where we can freely do more than pay lip service to being both Jewish and American. But sometimes, that freedom can lead us astray and put us off balance. We are not just free “from.” In America we are also free “to.” Here is the challenge: When we can be free from fear, when announcing that we are Jewish is not an act of resistance, does that give us license to choose to be free from meaning?

I ask this in response to a perverse term that surfaced in the Chicago Tribune less than a month ago. The term? Faux Mitzvah. Faux, as in false, artificial, ersatz, unreal, fake. Faux mitzvah, used in this case in reference to parties for 13 year olds requiring a custom designed gossamer frock, and featuring a great high tech montage, $40,000 worth of pizza and pasta, and all sorts of appeal for a vast new circle of friends. A reporter, echoing stories in People Magazine and the Wall Street Journal about a national trend put it this way: “It’s the faux mitzvah, and it’s catching on. Kids turning 13 who aren’t one bit Jewish are opting for all of the above, or certainly some variation thereof, in frank imitation of the Jewish coming-of-age blast, albeit minus one speck of religion.” (Chicago Tribune, Aug 29, 2004, Section 13, p. 1)

This, too, is a sign of our freedom and general acceptance in American society. Acceptance is surely not a bad thing. But if our neighbors and their children cannot see the enduring meaning behind the celebrations they imitate – whether they commemorate b'nai mitzvah, weddings, brisses, the victory of the Maccabees, or the Exodus from Egypt, then we have abused our freedom and done our own children a disservice.

For example, in that perverse construction, “faux mitzvah,” the word faux parallels, bar or bat – the terms for son or daughter- the very people who do something with profound, ineffable meaning when they answer the call to the Torah. In our time, we are free to celebrate that and we should. Yet, apparently, we are also free to let the reason for the celebration get lost in the shuffle. Bar and Bat Mitzvah mark the moment when our sons and daughters become free to take on responsibilities, to be seen as accountable, to be full covenant partners in their own right. There is nothing faux about it or them. But if that has become invisible, then we have something as absurd and devoid of meaning as the so-called Chanukah Bush or attempts to universalize Christmas calling it a commercial, national observance, when, in truth it has deep theological meaning to faithful Christians. This all means that we today are free to think carefully about how we endow with meaning those experiences that announce freely: “I am Jewish!”

Here is what I mean: In America, we have the indisputable right to exercise our unequivocal freedom to practice our religion. Tomorrow morning, for example, we’ll rise three times for the sounding of the shofar. We shall precede, Shofarot, the final set of calls with this prayer (please take a look at page 150 in the Gates of Repentance so you can see the words for yourself): “Our God and God of all generations: Sound the great Shofar to proclaim our freedom: raise the banner for the redemption of the oppressed; signal liberty for all who are in exile; bring lasting joy to Zion and to Jerusalem, your city.” (GOR, 150)

The Great Shofar will proclaim our freedom. In this time and in this place, nothing but our own reluctance, closed minds, or closed hearts can prevent us from hearing and answering its calls.

First: We are free “To raise the banner for the redemption of the oppressed.” We are free to bring the universal ideals of our tradition squarely into the life we share with all Americans. We are free to echo the prophets’ admonition that no child or adult feel the pain of hunger, bigotry or persecution. We are free to press for the protection of the religious freedoms that the constitution and the Bill of rights promise all Americans. We are free to bring the values of Judaism to our civic life – to do justice, to love mercy and to extend these to all persons.

Second: we are empowered to “signal liberty for all who are in exile.” In this respect, I am not thinking about political exile only, but also spiritual exile, the seemingly unbridgeable chasm that separates so many from the profoundly meaningful and nurturing riches of our own tradition. I am thinking about the exile from the enduring and fortifying presence of God – a presence we can meet through sincere prayer, open-minded study and openhearted reclamation of certain fundamental moments that are uniquely Jewish moments. We can end our exile of the spirit when, in freedom, we assure that there will be a mikdash, a sanctuary that is a meeting place for God and Israel for all the generations. And then, with all of the generations, we enter it and dwell within it.

Third: The Shofar heralds “… lasting joy to Zion and to Jerusalem, your city.” This phrase has literal meaning: with all our hearts we pray that peace will reign and that all Israelis and their neighbors will bask in the simple joy of a life free from the visible and invisible walls built to stem fear and terror. In whatever ways: political action, economic support, personal visits –we are free to show that Israel and its future matter. In fact, Jewish community – an abiding relationship of responsibility to all Jews-, here, in Israel, worldwide, remains a value we Americans are free to affirm.

And it has symbolic impact for the term “lasting joy to Zion” hints at that condition that may exist in some far off time when all will acknowledge not only the oneness of humanity but also the oneness of God, when all will know shalom in its most complete sense.

We are free: to echo Daniel Pearl’s American song of Jewish freedom and to make it an affirmation of life and faith – his parents urge us to do as much. In this spirit, we can freely hearken to the shofar’s call. Let that not be a faux mitzvah. Let it be real.

As these Days of Awe unfold, my colleagues and I will reflect on real ways to engage in the mitzvot to which the calls summon us. How can we raise the banner for the redemption of the oppressed? How can we signal liberty for all who are in exile? How can we bring lasting joy to Zion and to Jerusalem, Your city?”

In three and a half centuries of Jewish life in America, we have heard the call to freedom – from the moment we disembarked from our Mayflowers and alighted at the Plymouth Rock called Ellis Island. In 1776 the words of Torah rang across this land. Let them resonate now. And, as we hear them, with gratitude and in freedom we can affirm – as if we could speak the words simultaneously, “I am Jewish!” and “I am American!” - “I am American” and “I am Jewish.”

“Ukratem dror baaretz lchol yoshveha, proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof – let the Torah’s words on America’s bell and the sounds of the Shofar of freedom call us into this new year, 5765 - the 350th Rosh Hashanah in America!

Great article, Jackson.

Turn the page in the community’s life story from 1654 to August 17, 1790, and a letter addressed that day to President George Washington, by Moses Seixes, the warden of Newport RI’s Kahal Kadosh Yeshuah Yisrael synagogue. He expressed what this country had already come to mean to the small group of Jews who had settled in by the end of the 18th century: “Deprived as we heretofore (in other lands) have been of the invaluable rights of free citizens…we now behold… a Federal Union whose basis is philanthropy, mutual confidence, and public virtue…a government which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance….” (A History of the Jews in America, Abraham J. Karp, p.22)

New and different? In his answer to Seixas, Washington affirmed that “It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights.” And confirming Seixas’ point of view, the president wrote “…happily the government of the United States, which gives bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it, on all occasions, their effectual support.”

I have a "copy" of President Washington's letter referenced in this article.
(Not just the words but an actual "photocopy" of it written in his own hand.)

You see, my great-great-greatfather was Jewish. (On my mother's sides of the family)
(I won't bore anyone with the details. Suffice it to say, he ended up marrying a Christian lady and their children were Christian. Those were the days of what we now call the "old west". Different time.)

When I was a child growing up (1940's-50's) and someone "made a slur" against "the Jews", I was always told by my parents and grandparents......Remember....you have a Jewish "great--grandfather.

'Nuff Said.

(This is America. I have the blood of several "races" (about 8) in my veins. I am an American-American!)

A very inspiring sermon (with the exception of his mention of several embarassing American leftist Jews).

I married a beautiful Jewish lady 30 years ago, when we were both young. Even though my background was not Jewish and hers was, we thought and continue to think that we were made for each other.

My ancestors, Dutch, came to New Amsterdam in 1654...when I saw that the first American Jews arrived at the same place the same year, 1654, my head started spinning a little bit, to tell you the truth.

I'm going to print this out for her.

“Ukratem dror baaretz lchol yoshveha, proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof"

I've actually seen DUers defending Hitler because "At least Hitler was a combat veteran unlike Bush."

Yes. I've been informed of same. (I don't go to DU anymore. It makes me sick.)

I'm an older man as you can tell by my post. I sometimes find it very difficult to accept the "changes" ,in this... My Beloved Country.., such as I see these days.
May G-D help us all.
&
G-D Bless America.

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