In Europe, after the Holocaust, Jews identified one another by asking, “Amcha?” meaning “your people” in Hebrew. The speaker was effectively asking, “I am one of Your (God’s) people; are you?” What a curious manner to self-identify after the cataclysm of the Shoah.
We have just begun the annual Torah cycle of reading Exodus. In Genesis we meet individuals: Adam and Eve, Noah, Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, etc. But in Exodus we encounter the narrative of “amcha,” God’s people. The exodus is the “root experience” of the Jewish people. We trace our history back to the exodus from Egypt, all of us, one people, walking together out of slavery. Slavery and the exodus forged disparate selves into a single “am,” a people covenanted with God. A Jew recognizes the history and destiny of the Jewish people as his/her own.
I have to imagine that not everyone, however, walked out of Egypt at the same pace. Older people often walk slower than younger; the weaker and lame walk slower than the stronger. Eventually Amalek attacked the stragglers and attempted to cut them off, earning him the label of archetypal enemy of the Jewish people. Haman and Hitler are descendants of Amalek, according to our lore. But instead of breaking into separate camps according to physical prowess, all of the people journeyed together.
The most repeated statement in the Torah, some 33 times, is, “You know the soul of the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
The Jewish soul knows suffering. We know the feel of slavery. God commands that we remember the experience, that we reach inside ourselves and extricate that experience, like a penitent recalling a determinative childhood lesson. We behave ethically regarding strangers because we occupied their position.
These Jewish lessons are not necessarily shared by other religions. They emerge from specifically Jewish moments in history, lived by Jews and passed on through generations. They comprise a huge motivation in Jewish ethics, to learn from our experiences how to treat others, because we are a community.
The United States often operates with a different motivation: “Take care of yourself and get as much as you can for your family.” The poverty rate has increased 67 percent in Johnson County in two years, and over 38,000 people now live below the poverty level, more than the 33,000 in Wyandotte County to our north. Most critical in this debate, however, is this fact: The “haves” actually have much more than they ever did in comparison with the “have nots.” If we intend to continue the institutions that hold together our community: social welfare agencies that get their money from United Way or through taxes, our schools, our basic services provided by government, and yes, even Beth Torah, our congregation, then those who have more are going to have to contribute a higher percentage of their income.
I hear stories of children suffering from abuse and family problems, stories that would turn your stomach, because the state no longer has the money to fund the workers to make a difference, and this economic downturn among the least skilled has frankly caused some people to take out their anger on their families. We are not protecting the weakest among us.
The greatest responsibility must fall on those who have prospered more than others. The unemployment rate among college graduates is only 5 percent. But those who are hurting after several years of downturn are hurting badly. For only the second time in my rabbinic career, I am using my discretionary fund to save homes.
The very rich are earning sums that could save lives and social institutions. Even on the level on which most of us earn and live, we should consider doing more so that those who are suffering — losing homes, going without food, watching children suffer abuse — can be protected. Even at Beth Torah we are still waiting for dues to return to levels of two years ago. Those who can must step forward to preserve the agencies and institutions that give us our values. There’s no other way.
During the Exodus I don’t imagine that the young and strong ran ahead to flee Egyptian persecution on their own. In their excitement, our people united. “We all travel together, or we all stay behind.” Together they succeeded. It’s much easier with a dynamic leader like Moses, but it’s possible at anytime. I ask that you give it some thought. What is your role in moving us ahead together? And every bit as poignantly, what will happen if you don’t?
This article was originally published in the January 2011 editor Congregation Beth Torah’s newsletter, Tekiah.
