REFLECT:

From Rabbi Amichai Lau-Lavie (Lab/Shul)

It was the first day of the Jewish New Year, back in 1986. I was 16 years old, and that’s when my eyes opened, for the first time, maybe way too late but just on time, to my white privilege, to how racial difference was not talked about, but whispered, with suspicion and disdain, in the Ashkenazi Orthodox Jewish community where I lovingly grew up.

We lived in Jerusalem and on that afternoon I walked to the Silwan village in East Jerusalem, where the ancient Shiloach spring, the bedrock of Zion, still sings its clear cold waters. Back then, many religious Jews from all over town would walk down to the spring to shed our sins on the new year, performing the ritual of Tashlich – casting out our past. We walked by Palestinian residents, oblivious to the plight that will erupt as the first Intifada only one year later. But this was not the only oblivion transgression of the day.

I had a guest with me, my friend M., an American Orthodox Jew of Color, studying in a Yeshiva for the year. I noticed some looks from others who walked along us, but gave them no notice. Or did I choose not to? We were two Jewish teens, good friends, chatting away on the long walk there and back, meeting many other friends along the way.

The phone calls started after the holiday. Concerned neighbors and folks from the congregation who wanted to make sure my parents knew, and who was that, and is M. Jewish, and all of that..

My mother told me about the calls, more bewildered than angry. M. Was a beloved guest in our home and the ‘good neighbors’ were considered busy-bodies not to be concerned about.

But I remember thinking – this is what it’s like to be considered different, to be seen as other, to be talked about. No wonder I stayed in the gay closet – a privilege I had and still have today – for a few more years after that.

But I did not speak up. I didn’t bring this up with M. Not then, and not since. I was embarrassed. My silence was part of the pact.

We lost touch over the years. But I remember that Rosh Ha’Shana day that has helped to make me who I am, committed to less silence and more visible, loud, loving words of protest, or support, words and gestures of presence for each of us in divine image exactly as we are.

I choose to be silent as I take on daily contemplation, mindful of the privilege of breath, of life. And it’s my choice to not be silent when the breath of life, the dignity of friends and kin, of others in my world, is routinely attacked and denied.

I invite you to read the short reflection by one of my meditation teachers, Oren Jay Sofer, about the power of returning, again and again, like breath, like these holy days, like our moral duty – to the sacred work of showing up.

READ: How I Continue To Mess Up Being An Ally by Oren Jay Sofer