There are Giants in the Sky
There are giants in the sky. So goes the song from the musical “Into the Woods.” In the play Steven Sondheim masterfully uses our comfort with fairy tales to force us to take a harsh look at reality. Nobody’s “happily ever after” is perfect.
The characters are scared of the giant—and rightfully so. She has descended—literally down the beanstalk—and announced her desire of vengeance towards Jack, and anyone who seeks to protect him.
Like fairy tales, Jewish tradition has long used the idea of giants to represent our fears. The men who scouted the land during the generation of the exodus returned with the report that it was inhabited by giants. Most famously, our hero David gained favor by slaying the giant Goliath, representing the power of the Israelites, despite their feeling of smallness in the shadow of the Philistines.
“Into the Woods” employs allegory. The Tanakh employs hyperbole. Both help us to process our fears, for, as many times as we tell our kids that there are no monsters under the bed, the truth is, there are giants in the sky.
There are people and movements who seek annihilation of others, bringing destruction and devastation. It comes in many forms. Racism. Bigotry. Deeply held beliefs of cultural or religious superiority.
I grew up in an area and era when anti-Semitism was not part of my experience. But it was never far from my awareness. From the time I was 4 years old I went swimming each week at the JCC. There we regularly encountered people, our friends’ bubbies and zaydes, with tattoos—numbers on their arms from the concentration camps. I don’t remember the first time I was “taught” about the Holocaust. It was always part of my collective memory. While children often have a difficult time measuring time, we had tangible proof that the Holocaust was not ancient history. Yet we also had the comfort that such atrocities were, to our necessarily naïve understanding, a thing of the past. Violent acts of anti-Semitism felt like isolated events. The only government backed anti-Semitism we were aware of existed far away in the Soviet Union—and by the time I was 12 it had fallen, leaving her citizens free to pursue opportunities elsewhere. We knew that Israel’s neighbors fought against her, but were comforted by her unparalleled defense forces and the fact that worldwide public opinion was supportive of Israel.
A decade later, the memory of the Holocaust propelled the Jewish community to take a leadership role in the quest to stop the genocide in Darfur, announcing that “Never Again,” was not a mantra meant for our community alone, but rather a universal cry to stand against genocide. Just as our Torah constantly reminds us that we were strangers in Egypt, and thus must be kind to the strangers in our midst, we recognized that we were victims of genocide, and must not allow other communities to experience the same fate.
There is, among some, the belief that we are on the brink of another destruction of European Jewry. And while I can see the root of that fear, I do not agree. The tragic events that have occurred in Europe throughout the past few months have not been government backed. These are not the pogroms that our ancestors fled. Nor do I believe that anti-Semitism has become the predominant public sentiment in Europe. The responses of the people in both Paris and Copenhagen have involved massive rallies of support for the Jewish community, the nation, and shared sadness for the lives lost.
Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has suggested that Europe’s Jews should make Aliyah, should move to Israel. This is not the answer. The developed world needs to be safe for all. The global nature of contemporary society demands a mixing of cultures, religions and peoples. Unfortunately we’ve seen the Jewish presence expose where weaknesses lie, and obviously social improvements need to be made. I wouldn’t fault an individual Jew or Jewish family for choosing to leave Europe in pursuit of a less hostile environment. But a mass exodus from Europe, even if logistically feasible, which I question, is not the answer to the current challenge.
The fact that I am not convinced that we are facing a circumstances on par with events of the 1930’s and 40’s does not mean I am not concerned. I am deeply concerned. I am consumed with grief knowing that there a synagogues in Europe that have cancelled Shabbat worship out of justified fear for the safety of their congregants. I worry that there may be people who feel unsafe in Jewish settings here in America, here in Ann Arbor. I am appalled by the dangers of the internet—bringing people together out of hate and creating platforms that allow propaganda to reach all corners of the earth. I am terrified of ISIS and like-minded groups who threaten not only the Jewish world, but the world at large.
These are our “giants in the sky.” We will wrestle with them, and argue amongst ourselves regarding how to best eradicate them. We will continue to struggle with the awareness of evils in our world, praying that ourselves and love ones are not directly harmed, yet mourning with the greater world whenever we receive reports of loss of innocent lives.
This morning’s parsha includes the command to our ancestors, “v’asoo li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham,” build for me a sanctuary that I may dwell among you. In the generation of the exodus this was a literal instruction—the creation of a tangible representation of God to accompany the Israelites on their journey. In our generation, the command extends beyond the literal to remind us that God’s presence is everywhere. We hope and pray that people throughout the world begin to see God’s presence in one another, leading us towards a realization of peace in our generation.
Shabbat Shalom