February 27th: Tetzaveh and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
In addition to our weekly Torah portion, we have an additional portion that anticipates Purim. In Deuteronomy 25.17-19, we are reminded that our antipathy with Haman goes way back:
“Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all you enemies around you, in the land the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!”
According to genealogical passages in Genesis and Esther, the evil Haman is a descendant of Amalek, and thus are we instructed to “blot out his name” whenever it is read in Megillat Ester.
Purim is a curious holiday because it is more sociological than religious. God does not speak in the Book of Esther—nor do any miracles nor even command the annual commemoration. The only “role” God plays is that Mordecai believes in God and piously refuses to bow down to any human. So, though God is our Creator and Redeemer—and perhaps pulls a few invisible strings, Purim is a festival of human qualities: faith, courage, self-defense—and political power. The prominence and connections of Esther and Mordecai put them in position to help our people.
This makes me think about the various crises in which we humans find ourselves and our various options for effective response. When we see something unjust, we understandably have an emotional reaction, but merely shreying gevalt or protesting may not be the best strategy for stopping oppression. Public protests have their place, but simply flailing one’s arms may be more self-indulgent than helpful. Serious problems require strategic thinking.
Many of us are inspired by the words of Lutheran Pastor Martin Niemoller in a poem he wrote after the Second World War.
“First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left to speak out for me.”
This poem is often used to inspire social justice protests, but for Martin Niemoller it was a statement of regret. He did not “speak out” against Hitler because he liked Hitler. An avowed anti-Semite, Niemoller voted for the Nazis in 1924, 1928, and 1933. It was only after several years of Nazi tyranny that he changed his mind, speaking out and helping found an anti-Nazi church. He “spoke out” and got sent to Dachau—and only narrowly escaped execution. After the War, he wrote the poem as a reflection of his remorse and repentance.
But one may well ask, had he been of a different mind in the 1920s or early 1930s, what could he have “spoken out?” And to whom? Did Pastor Niemoller have the status, power, or connections to speak out effectively and make a difference, or is his poetic imperative to “speak out” more a matter of personal moral clarity? As important as self-expression is, there are times when it does little practical good.
This reminds me of Aristotle’s definition of Rhetoric. An early observer and teacher of communication—and known as The Father of Rhetoric, Aristotle’s defines rhetoric as:
“finding in any situation the available means of persuasion.”
Note how his emphasis is on the persuasive aspect of expression. Speaking out a message is only half the job; the other half is speaking so that listeners understand and are persuaded to constructive action.
(This, by the way, is similar to the challenge of Kavannah, concentration in prayer. Merely speaking the words or making the gestures is not enough. Real Kavannah means mustering the sincerity, intensity, and prayerfulness necessary to engage the Divine.)
When we communicate, many of us rely on “being right” or “having Science or History behind us,” but sometimes such insistences fall on deaf ears. Why is this? Is the message being communicated in a listenable manner? Are there cultural issues shadowing or impeding the reception? Or could we be “coming on too strong,” our stridency and repetition being perceived as nagging or harassment—or condescension? Could too insistent communications evoke a defensive posture—a siege mentality that actually shuts off both dialog and clear thinking? In other words, if our messages about social and policy goals are not getting through, what are we doing wrong—and are there perhaps other communication or political strategies that would serve us better?
My point is not to devalue “speaking out” but to remind us of the possibility of other useful strategies. For example, there are some people whose letters-to-the-editor or op-eds carry more weight than others—who by virtue of their status, connections, and reputations are more persuasive. It may seem undemocratic, but the fact is that connections and reputations matter. As we learn in the Book of Esther, reaching out to the Esther’s and Mordecai’s and even King Ahashuerus’ out there may prove more effective in advancing Tikkun Olam. “Finding the available means of persuasion” means developing relationships with those in power—and working with them, respecting them, listening to them, and cooperating with them. Not only are such relationships strategic, but they are also neighborly. Remember, our goal is not self-expression or political domination but persuading our neighbors and fellow citizens to improve our society.