Hope and resilience are two qualities that spell out the will to survive of the Jewish people. Hope and resilience are integral components of the DNA that define the Jewish spirit. We owe a debt of unimaginable gratitude to our ancestors who, over a span of 3,000 years, fashioned rituals, customs and traditions in ways that made sure that hope and resilience always hibernated near the surface of our collective consciousness.
It is the embodiment of these two virtues in the Jewish psyche that helps explain why, time and again, wherever Jews have settled, optimism eventually trumps pessimism. No one has to tell the Jewish people that to feel and fail, to stumble and sin, to rise and fall, are endemic features of being human. But, rather than wallow in self-pity, or drink ourselves into a stupor in front of the TV, or look for escape routes in the ashrams of Tibet and Nepal, the DNA of Jewish culture has always held a seat of honour for hope and resilience; taken together they keep our focus on what might yet be possible.
It is hardly coincidence that 'Hatikvah' (= Hope) is Israel's national anthem. Seventy years after the Shoah, the State of Israel confronts an array of social and political challenges: an untenable parliamentary structure, a host of economic disparities, and even disturbing talk of racist attitudes towards the Ethiopian community.
At the same time, alongside these imperfections, who would have logically thought that our people could have launched a cantankerous, yet democratic state of and for the Jewish people, and that this Jewish homeland would be as successful and as resolute in its determination to survive as it has turned out to be? Not only as the high-tech start-up nation, but as a society, while aware of its deficiencies, also knows deep down that its raison d'etre is grounded in the vision of Israel's prophets, of what might yet be.
Recently, I tested out my thoughts about hope and resilience with my friend and shul buddy, Professor Shalom Schwartz, one of Israel's outstanding social psychologists and recipient of its most distinguished academic award, the Israel Prize. After some pondering Shalom agreed, he knows of no other people or nation in the world that places HOPE and RESILIENCE at the exact centre of its worldview.
A year ago I began a journey I had never entertained in my wildest imagination: an invitation to teach Jewish studies in Germany; specifically as a visiting professor at Potsdam University, a suburb of Berlin, and in Berlin proper at the Reform movement's Geiger College, and newly established Conservative rabbinical school, the Zecharias Frankel College. Cheryl and I have just returned to Berlin for another semester.
We are fortunate to find ourselves in the company of a small cluster of committed Jews who belong to the liberal wing of the Berlin Jewish community. It is a privilege for us to meet and befriend this segment of German Jews; encountering them close-up as they struggle to renew Jewish life, in of all places, Germany. Our experiences to-date testify, for us at least, of how pessimism and despair are ultimately no match when confronted with the positive forces of hope and resilience.
I am particularly privileged, through my teaching, to interact with undergraduate and graduate students at Potsdam University. They are mostly in their early to mid-twenties and include a mix of Jews and non-Jews. I sense deep down that most of my teaching goes well beyond cramming their heads with information; it has more to do with explaining and unravelling the mysteries of Jewish survival and creativity. My students are curious, some to the point of obsession with wanting to know what makes the Jewish people 'tick,' and how Judaism as a way of thinking and behaving join together as a full-bodied life- equation.
Many of my Jewish students were born into highly assimilated homes; others are Jews by-choice, having only recently shed their Gentile identities. What they hold in common is the absence of Jewish memories; both groups sit before me, by and large as clean slates, waiting for me to engrave my thoughts on their minds; a task that is as sacred as it is daunting .
I am equally intrigued by my non-Jewish students, genuinely determined to learn the Hebrew language, some of whom have spent significant time in Israel. What propels their curiosity? Honestly, I don't yet have complete answers to this question. I only have stories that I am trying to make sense of. One very bright young woman, Victoria, in her mid-20s, hails from a long-line of Lutheran ministers. The other day, by chance, on the train ride back to Berlin, unsolicited, she suddenly informs me that she is seriously thinking about converting to Judaism. I asked myself: What did she know of Jews and Judaism before entering my class? Did she hear things negative, things positive as part of her own family tradition? Is this what is propelling her? One thing is clear: she is searching for her own answers.
I am thunder-struck by my students' intellectual lust; by their passion as Jews to discover their Jewish roots; and as Gentiles, by their interest in putting together some of the pieces of the puzzle that will make Judaism less mysterious. I honestly don't know yet if it is my projection or actually tapping into my students' minds: I have this sensation that so much of my performance in class is linked to peeling away a mysterious aura that surrounds Judaism and the Jewish people. Why do I think this? Because it was the puzzling and baffling nature of Judaism and the Jews that enabled a mad man, two generations ago, to convince an entire nation that mystery and the devil were embodied in the Jew!
Cheryl and I also are privileged to participate in the congregational life of the Masorti community that has its home at the historic landmark synagogue, Oranienbergerstrasse New Synagogue in Berlin. Built in the mid-19th century, the synagogue was destroyed by Allied bombing towards the end of WWII. In its heyday, it was as cavernous as Beth Tzedec with a seating capacity of 3,500. Today, what remains of the actual synagogue is considerably more modest in size, with a marvelous museum and an actual synagogue sanctuary with seating for around 150 people.
Now, we could, of course, offer up a lament: Oh, how the mighty have fallen! But, instead, the Masorti Jewish community has adopted the motto of hope and resilience. Open to different interpretations, it appears that Germany's Jewish community today numbers in the vicinity of 150,000 to 200,000; of this number, many are recent immigrants from the Former Soviet Union who show little interest in identifying openly as Jews. Aside from efforts to counter their apathy, the day-to-day work of renewal of Jewish identity means trying to touch the lives of about half these numbers.
German Jewry does have two positives going for it: it is indisputably the safest place for Jews to live in Europe; and it has the economic and legislative muscle of the German government, vigorously supporting the renewal of Jewish life. To fathom the prospects for Jewish renewal requires tapping into some general German statistics:
Germany is the second most popular migration destination in the world, after the United States. Is it any wonder that 20,000 Israelis have chosen to settle permanently in Germany, and more specifically, most of them to Berlin. Germany's population hovers around 80 million; of this number 20 percent have immigrant backgrounds; the largest number being Turks with 3 million, many of whom are practicing Muslims. What is most striking about Berlin, in particular, is it's cosmopolitan face; in a city-wide population of 3.5 million there are more than 190 foreign nationalities.
When I travel by train to Potsdam, a 25 minute ride from where we live in west Berlin, I look at the mix of students on the train whose physical appearances testify to diverse ethnic nationalities—from Africa, Asia, Scandinavian countries, China, Korea, etc. They have all clearly grown up in Germany because their German is perfect and unaccented. My mind then meanders to the host of Holocaust memorials found all over Berlin, intentionally in-your-face, bristling reminders of the Nazi years of terror; it is then I realize how far to the side of tolerance, and acceptance the pendulum has swung.
This year marks a half century of full diplomatic relations between Germany and Israel. From Cheryl's years of working at Israel's Supreme Court, I learned that Germany's democratic system is so vibrant and sophisticated that Israel's Supreme Court justices often refer to Germany's legal code as a source of inspiration for decisions that emanate from Jerusalem.
A trip to Germany's parliamentary building, the Reichstag in the heart of Berlin, offers a glimpse into the meaning of democratic openness: completed in 1999 the Reichstag's dome is fashioned from glass. Standing at the top one can look below through 360 mirrors that reflect light downward directly into the chambers of the German parliament. The transparency is intentional; Unlike the Nazi era, the dome symbolizes that the people are above the government, while the transparency captures democracy at work.
When German Chancellor Angela Merkel stands at the Brandenburg Gate in the centre of Berlin, and in Israel's Knesset, and says that Germany's Jews are a national treasure, she expresses more than a political nicety. Her declaration comes from the heart. When she says in the name of all Germans that Israel's security is not negotiable, we are eons away from the 1930s.
Fact: Israel's navy currently has several Dolphin-class submarines built in Germany, very likely built with nuclear capability. All of these subs have been fully or partially funded with German money to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars. According to the newspaper Der Spiegel, these subs can carry a warhead of up to 200 kilograms. The actual nuclear warheads are produced, it is presumed, at Israel's Dimona nuclear reactor. Although Chancellor Merkel has denied that the submarines have the capability to carry nuclear warheads, according to the Der Spiegel report, the German government has long been aware of the nuclear capability of the submarines; but out of understanding for Israel’s security needs, has always agreed to “look the other way." So, when Angela Merkel locks horns with PM Netanyahu over how best to broker a deal with the Palestinians, her disagreement hardly makes her an anti-Semite; after all, some 40 percent of Israel's own citizens agree with her.
Unlike Germany, next door neighbour France has a severe immigration problem. Some 12 million of its citizens, almost 20 percent of the population, are foreign born. Historically, France has always pushed for assimilation of its immigrant population. Encouraging immigrants to retain their distinctive cultures and traditions is a relatively recent phenomenon, often carrying more truth in theory than in practice.
There is a common perception, in fact, that French society pays lip service to multi-cultural pluralism. Even though France has just allocated 100 million euro to its budget to fight anti-Semitism and racism, there is nevertheless the perception that French society has long made a practice of hiding, or at least whitewashing, its numerous symptoms of racism, of dislike of the foreigner and of discrimination on the basis of social class. Much of the current unrest and protests in France emanate from the Muslim populations that have entered from North Africa and Turkey. They make up some 7.5 percent of France's overall population
Now, turn over the coin, and the scene in Germany could not be more different. Germany has programs in place aimed at economic integration of its immigrant population. Educationally, German children are taught to respect diversity of cultures and religion; these lessons go hand-in-hand, year after year, of learning about the horrors of the Nazi era.
Last summer during an extremely hot day hovering in the low 30s Celsius, Cheryl and I spent the afternoon at the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, a half hour train drive north of Berlin. In our midst were several clusters of German teenagers learning first-hand about one of Germany's first concentration camps, opened in 1936.
On this blistering hot July afternoon we entered one of the original barracks. The heat wave was so intense and stifling inside we could not wait to exit. Meanwhile, a group of some 15 teenagers were detained inside as their chaperon slowly delivered an extended monologue; no doubt his words held less value than his exposing his charges to a smidgeon of the dehumanization felt by the 200,000 prisoners who passed through the gates of the camp.
It is against this political and social backdrop that we can affirm that there is indeed a comfort level felt by the German Jewish community, and this is certainly the case in Berlin. And so, to summarize, we need to place this level of comfort: 1) within the wider setting of Germany's well-oiled liberal democracy; and 2) that Germany's core curriculum continuously exposes students to the nightmare of Hitlerism; and 3) last but not least, that Germany works to integrate its resident aliens and immigrants; this also includes the Jewish community.
Urban legend has it that during the heyday of Russian Jewish emigration from the former Soviet Union in the early 1990s, certain government circles in Israel insisted that Germany close its borders to the tidal wave of Russian Jews bent on crossing into Germany. With the German border closed, the Russian Jews would then be forced to settle within Israel proper. Germany's response was emphatic: "You must be kidding! We are not closing our borders to Jews!"
Simply put, Germany is witness to Newton's Third Law of Physics: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction; to fathom Germany's treatment of its Jewish constituency in 2015, just think the exact opposite of what it was in 1935 when Hitler introduced the Nuremberg Laws stripping Jews of German citizenship. Unlike its neighbour Austria, Germany accepts full responsibility for the horrors of its past. One cannot walk a kilometre in the centre of Berlin without bumping into a stark reminder of the Nazi past, and of the human potential for inhumanity and barbarism. It is precisely this unyielding readiness to openly confront its past, and its deep-seated regret, that has energized Germany's spirit, and transformed it into a power-house of moral integrity.
Who could have imagined that the German government, specifically the State of Berlin-Brandenburg would underwrite the formation of a School of Jewish Theology, to include budget and faculty salaries, at Potsdam University. Arriving at this astonishing finish line took many years, to be exact, only 177 years. It was 1836 when the idea for a Jewish divinity school was first broached by the founder of the Reform movement, Rabbi Abraham Geiger. Two years ago in November 2013 Geiger's vision came to pass. Jewish hope and resilience had crossed another finish line.
What awesome irony stands behind the establishment of this School of Jewish Theology. Potsdam University's campus occupies the gardens and palaces built by Frederick the Great in the mid-18th century. The last Prussian monarch to occupy the palace was Kaiser Wilhelm II, the grandson of Queen Victoria. The irony is that Wilhelm was a polite, but serious anti-Semite. Forced to abdicate the throne after WWI, he denounced his abdication as the "deepest most disgusting shame ever perpetrated by a person in history; the Germans have done this to themselves...egged on and misled by the tribe of Judah...Let no German ever forget this, nor rest until these parasites have been destroyed and exterminated from German soil!" Wilhelm called for an international pogrom, Russian-style, as the "the best cure." To add salt to the wound, he noted that Jews were a "nuisance that humanity must get rid of some way or other. I believe the best thing would be gas!" He wrote this harangue in 1919. How ironic, that the actual refurbishing of a building to house the School of Jewish Theology sits on the palace grounds some 100 meters from the Kaiser's palace.
Allow me to touch very briefly on three short illustrations of Jewish renewal. The first is Limmud Germany, modelled after Limmud England. Limmud's aim is to attract Jews of all persuasions who are interested in Jewish learning within an informal retreat setting. The Limmud model has spread to nearly 70 communities in 34 countries on six continents, including here in Toronto.
Like its English counterpart, Limmud Germany is not affiliated to any strand of Judaism; rather the relaxing atmosphere of a retreat setting allows participants to learn about religious, cultural, and political aspects of Jewish life. Several weeks ago Limmud Germany attracted 400 participants to a vacation setting six hours north of Berlin at the North Sea. Most of those registered were in their 20s-30s; several in the leadership cadre are my students and members of the Masorti New Synagogue in Berlin.
A second surprising illustration of renewal is that more than half of the members of the Masorti synagogue in Berlin are Jews-by-choice. I leave you to ponder the reasons that can adequately explain such a unique happening.
A third image of renewal is a revolutionary project launched by Rabbi Gesa Ederberg, a native German woman who graduated from the Schechter rabbinical seminary in Jerusalem more than a decade ago. I am proud to say that, at her rabbinical ordination, Gesa was class valedictorian. Today she is a driving force behind Jewish renewal in Berlin. Gesa has launched an interfaith pre-school program, still in the planning stages, for children ages 1 to 5 representing Jewish, Christian and Muslim children. The aim: within the same building to allow each religion to teach its doctrines and belief in separate classes, and at the same time, to build into the curriculum opportunities to have their young charges mingle together socially, in art classes, in the playground; and in this way to learn first-hand about respect for one another's religious and cultural differences.
My final illustration is a captivating story about one of my students, Rachel, who converted to Judaism two years ago. Rachel's parents are Protestant ministers in what was the former East Germany. She was given the name Rachel at birth because of the name's origin in the Bible. In fact, strange as it might seem, her Protestant mother called her 'Ruchela' when she was a child. And later when Rachel joined Jewish groups, her biblical name helped break the ice. However, her name was an anomaly in communist East Germany, which made Rachel feel like an outsider. Her comfort came from the social setting of the Church where she was able to connect to a community of faith and where she was drawn to the stories of morality told in both the Old and New Testaments. Strangely, she recalls herself mysteriously expressing her prayers to God, and not to Jesus, as Messiah.
Rachel was close with her grandmother whose name coincidentally was Ruth; born in 1923 she was in her late teens when WWII broke out. Years later when Rachel learned about the Shoah in school she approached her grandmother, wondering about the participation of Germans who were contemporaries of her grandmother during the war years. Her grandmother told her that her mother, Rachel's great-grandmother, hated the voice of Hitler and forbade Ruth to join the Hitler Youth for girls. Nevertheless, in the post-war years Rachel's grandmother felt tremendous guilt that she had personally not done more to help save Jews. Grandmother Ruth encouraged Rachel to become better acquainted, in particular, with literature about the Shoah, and with contemporary Israeli authors.
When Rachel herself entered her teens she met her first Jewish survivor, who headed an organization called "Ot Lakaprah v'Shalom," "A Sign of Atonement and Peace." The Jewish organization arranged for German teenagers to act as professional 'grandchildren' to German-speaking survivors of the Shoah. This project brought Rachel to Prague where she spent a year meeting daily with two to three survivors. She became their 'granddaughter.' From them she heard more first-hand accounts of the atrocities. Rachel now speaks of the irony that, here she was, in a small way helping to repair and tone down the guilt feelings of her own grandmother who had remained silent. Rachel's grandmother had six children and 23 grandchildren. Rachel and her brother are the only ones who became engaged in this act of tikkun, of repair.
At age 18, Rachel began her Jewish studies at Potsdam which she continues to this day, now completing her MA degree in Jewish Studies. She just spent this past fall semester at Hebrew University, and has completed five of six levels of Hebrew language instruction. She and I generally converse in Hebrew. The uplifting message I hope you will take away is that Rachel and others I have spoken of this morning are living witnesses to the supremacy of hope and resilience that defines the Jewish spirit.
