Rosh Hashanah 2003 / 5764

There are moments that define a mood. There was terror before 9/11, but the events of that day freeze-framed it in our minds, telling us starkly what is at stake in the contest between respect and contempt for human freedom that will dominate the twenty-first century.

There were suicide bombings in Israel, too many of them, before the explosion in the Café Hillel in Jerusalem on 9th September that took the life, among others, of Dr David Applebaum and his daughter Nava on the eve of her wedding. But there was none that so clearly defined the difference between the religion of life and its newly mutated enemy, the culture of death.

Every life is holy. Each person, said the sages in a famous Mishnaic teaching later adopted by Islam, is like a universe. But by any standards David Applebaum was an unusual man. A distinguished Talmudic scholar and a deeply devout Jew, he was a favourite disciple of Rabbi Aaron Soloveitchik, who urged him to become a yeshivah teacher. He refused on the grounds that saving life takes precedence over all other commands.

He became a doctor. He specialised in emergency medical treatment for victims of terror attacks. He treated every victim equally, Israeli or Palestinian, Muslim or Jew. He was head of Jerusalem's emergency medical service and won an award from Israel's President for bravery in saving lives. Despite the pressures on him, he would spend time each week in yeshivah studying Talmud with his son, because as well as being a fine doctor he was an exceptional parent. That Wednesday should have been one of the happiest days of his life, standing under the chuppah with his daughter. Instead, that day both of them were buried.

At the end of his life Moses, the greatest of the prophets, resolved the complex issues of the human condition into a single overwhelming choice: "I call heaven and earth to witness against you today that I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse. Therefore choose life so that you and your children may live." Those words echo now with monumental power.

It was not an obvious choice. The pyramids were citadels of death. Most civilizations at most times have glorified war (the 19th century historian Sir Henry Sumner Maine, said "War is as old as mankind; peace is a modern invention"). Sigmund Freud, in one of his deeper insights, spoke of thanatos, the death instinct, as a universal human drive. Against this whole constellation of values, Judaism is a sustained voice of protest, especially on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. "Remember us for life, O King who delights in life, and write us in the book of life for Your sake, for You are the God of life."

That value is under attack, and Jews, especially in Israel, are on the front line. Time and again these past three years I have been stunned at the courage of Jewish reactions. I think of the parents of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street journalist brutally murdered because he was a Jew, who responded by gathering testimonies from as many public figures as they could as to why they are proud to be Jews. I think of the family of our own Yoni Jesner, a youth leader of outstanding promise murdered at the age of nineteen. They took Yoni's kidneys and donated them to save the life of a young Palestinian girl who had been waiting for two years for a compatible transplant.

I think of the haredi families who lost parents or children in the brutal attack this August on a group returning from praying at the Kotel. They uttered no calls for revenge. A single graffiti on the walls of Meah Shearim was immediately removed. Instead they accepted heaven's verdict and rebuilt their shattered lives through prayer with a quiet dignity that moved some of the most hardened secularists in Israel.

A new chapter of Torah is being written in our time, week in, week out, and it has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with one of the most deeply engraved instincts of the Jewish soul. Right now many Israelis, religious and secular alike, are daily living the most basic form of heroism that Paul Tillich called "the courage to be." I for one am proud to be part of such a people.

Israel has shown great courage in the face of the collapse of its efforts to make peace. It has never claimed to be perfect. That too is the heritage of the Days of Awe. To be a Jew is to admit our wrongs, ask for forgiveness and try to heal if we have harmed.

Nor do I believe that in their heart of hearts all Palestinians - still less, all Muslims - are caught up in the current tidal wave of hate. Most Palestinians are suffering from the policies of their leaders, and Islam has its own inner conflicts with which it must wrestle.

But Israelis are hurting, Jews are under attack, and the situation is unlikely to change in the immediate future. That is why I want to reaffirm in the strongest possible terms the call I issued two years ago to Jewish Responsibility. The Jewish world needs all of us to come to its defence.

It was Bernard Lewis who pointed out that when things go badly, civilizations can respond in two ways: by asking "Who did this to us?" or by asking instead, "How can we put it right?" The most ancient Jewish instinct, shared by all the prophets, was not to blame others but to accept responsibility. That is a painful option. It is also the key to the most awe-inspiring feature of Jewish history: the capacity to turn crisis into renewal.

It began long ago when the young Moses, raised as an Egyptian prince, saw the sufferings of his people and first felt the passion for justice that turned him into the greatest leader our people has ever known. It happened again when national calamities gave birth to the visions of Amos and Hosea, Isaiah and Jeremiah. The Babylonian exile led to a renaissance of Torah. The destruction of the Second Temple gave rise to the vast library of rabbinic literature: mishnah, midrash and Talmud.

From the Crusades and the Spanish expulsion came new forms of Jewish piety. Within three years of the Holocaust, the greatest single crime against humanity, Jews made their most astonishing declaration of life: the State of Israel reborn. One line from the Book of Exodus has echoed through the ages: "The more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and grew."

All of us, whatever our degree of religiosity and whatever our political views, are summoned by that challenge today: not to blame others, but to do what we can to heal a fractured world; to give something of ourselves to the Jewish community here or in Israel or to humanity as a whole; to contribute, not just financially but with our time, our gifts, our skills. We are a tiny people. For every Jew in the world today there are approximately a hundred Muslims and almost two hundred Christians. That means that every one of us can make a difference, and every contribution counts.

There are hundreds of ways in which Jews can make Israel or the Jewish people stronger: some by their prayers, others by teaching, some by welfare activities, others by community defence. Some work for better relations with other faiths, others come to Israel's defence in the media. Some simply visit Israel. Some enliven synagogues, others do wonders for Jewish schools. There are those who act quietly and privately, others who work in the public domain to promote Jewish values: saving life, fighting for justice, helping the underprivileged or working for peace. Instead of complaining, they act. Rather than blaming others, they exercise responsibility. They make us all walk a little taller, bringing strength to Jewish life, pride to the Jewish people, and credit to Israel and its cause.

Responsibility means refusing to accept the world as it is, because it is not as it ought to be. It means turning tough times into good deeds, answering hostility with generosity, crisis with leadership, and terror with courage. I see the birth of a new sense of responsibility especially among our youth and students. A fateful challenge is being posed to the Jewish people. Let us defeat those who opt for hatred and death by the living example of God's elemental call: Choose life.

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