When I see the word “Palestine,” a number of images come to mind: questions regarding borders, refugees, the city of Jerusalem, and more Middle Eastern musings. But from now on, when I read or hear the word “Palestine,” I’ll think of something else as well. I’ll think of a small town – Palestine, Texas – and a man named Sam who owns a diner there.
This Friday, I was on my way to Waco, Texas to visit Congregation Agudath Jacob. Around 1:00 or so, my fellow Education Fellow Allison Poirier and I saw the official “Welcome to Palestine” sign on the side of the road! Needless to say, we were quite pleased with the name of this town. We made a few other nerdy Jewish Educator jokes related to the town’s name, but we soon realized that we were quite hungry. We decided to stop at the Dogwood Diner for lunch.
After ordering, a man walked over to our table. As occasionally happens for me, since I wear a kippah every day, he exclaimed: “That’s a Yarmulke, right?”
I replied that indeed it was! I always enjoy interactions like this, where I get to briefly explain why it is meaningful for me to wear this funny-looking Jewish hat, but I was in for a surprise this time around…
This man was Sam, owner of the diner. He explained that his ex-wife was Jewish. Years ago, Sam sent his children to a Jewish school in Dallas. Sam knew all about the Jewish community of Palestine, TX. He told us about a Jewish cemetery located right down the road, explained that there had been a congregation nearby until about a decade ago, and had a number of other interesting stories to share with us.
But Sam left us with more than just stories. He provided us an important insight as well. After a few minutes of conversation, Sam said to us, “Ya know, I grew up Muslim, reading the Qur’an. Then I married a Jew and learned about the Torah. And recently I’ve learned more about Christianity, and I’ve read the Bible. They’re really not so different.”
I did not realize that, upon walking into the Dogwood Diner, I would hear such important words of wisdom. We get bogged down in the differences between some of our religious traditions sometimes. And let’s be clear – Christianity, Judaism, Islam, and every other world religion really are unique, and to say simply “they’re all basically the same” would be misguided. But we do share quite a bit in common. Monotheism is a common tenet, and Moshe (or Moses, or Musa) is viewed as a prophet by all three.
It is easy to lose track of our similarities sometimes, as we focus on what separates Jews from other religions – and even what separates one particular group of Jews from another. But we really do possess a number of common characteristics with other world religions. Sometimes we just need someone to remind us of that. Thankfully, I had Sam.
We find wisdom in unexpected places. Of course, somebody had inspired me with their thoughts about religion while I was in Palestine, Texas. With a town-name like that, maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.
As I mentioned in my last blog post, I grew up knowing very little about Judaism or Jewish culture. In an effort to become more familiar with the religion, partially because of interning at the ISJL, but mostly just out of genuine curiosity, I’ve been taking advantage of the educational literature on MyJewishLearning.
I began seeing unexpected parallels between Jewish texts and traditions and other religions I’ve studied, even Asian religions (around topics like reincarnation!). With all of this on my mind, when I was chatting with Rabbi Marshal Klaven last week, I mentioned that a major aspect of my education has been studying and understanding how Asian traditions, particularly Buddhism, have understood peace and been used in peace-building efforts.
He insightfully replied: “That’s interesting, because we all think we are talking about and working towards the same thing when we talk about peace, but maybe we’re not” – implying that different religions not only have different understandings of how peace might be achieved, but also may well have different definitions of what peace actually is, as well.
I had never thought of this before, but it makes sense. The teachings of Jesus advocate a more active role in nonviolence, whereas Siddhartha Gautama (The Shakyamuni, or Historical, Buddha) advocates detachment from suffering and withdrawal from the earthly world. Of course, different types Buddhism eventually developed concepts that called for more active involvement in the world, such as practicing loving-kindness. But still the roots of the way these two religious traditions understand peace are radically different—does this difference affect their understandings of peace?
Recently for a class I was asked to read an article by Allan Solomonow that discussed the Jewish perspective on peace. Solomonow explained that, from the Jewish perspective, peace cannot be separated from truth and justice—that to have one of the three you must have them all. In order to understand this more solid definition of these three rather vague terms is in order. In my mind justice has always been, I think probably subconsciously, equated with violent retribution. To me, justice has always meant equal suffering on two sides of a conflict, rather than equal healing. For example, growing up I always thought of justice as a murderer receiving the death penalty. The word still holds similar connotations to me. As a result I often think of peace, which I often equate with mercy, as the opposite of justice. However, Solomonow explains the Jewish (religious) perspective as one that rarely advocates the necessity of violence. If this is the case, then I require a different definition of justice to understand the Jewish perspective on peace.
I’d love to hear how from all of you on this topic and how you understand the concept of peace in Judaism. Let’s keep learning together!
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November 9, 2013, marks the 75th anniversary of Kristallnacht, “The Night of Broken Glass.” It is the night many point to as the beginning of the Holocaust.
I remember observing Kristallnacht in the small Jewish community to which I belonged as a child. We were the only Jewish family in our tiny, rural town, and we commuted to Flint, Michigan, to participate in Jewish life.
In Michigan, by November, it’s usually pretty cold after dark. My memories of Kristallnacht services, held outdoors, consist mostly of people huddled together for warmth; solemn readings of prayers and poems; candles lit, blown out, and lit again. The dark, cold night lent itself well to an imaginative child putting herself in her ancestor’s shoes, feeling the cold grip of fear they must have felt as windows shattered and screams sounded and evil went from local to government-sanctioned.
Recalling these events, the eve of the Holocaust, people from all walks of life came together over a brokenness in the world.
Shortly after I moved to Mississippi in 2003, I was invited to attend another sort of memorial service. Several of us drove from Jackson up to Neshoba County, Mississippi, for the 39th anniversary of Freedom Summer, and in particular to commemorate the brutal murders of three Civil Rights workers – James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner.
One black man from Mississippi, two Jewish men from up North, all working for freedom – all killed on a dark, terror-filled night. The memorial service for them took place in a small Baptist church. In Mississippi. In June. There was no central air conditioning, just people crammed together, waving church fans, sweating, crying, singing gospel hymns. The sweltering, singing church lent itself well to an imaginative young woman putting herself in the civil rights fighters’ shoes, feeling the echoes of the evil they faced and the losses their families endured. Though this was my first time at that church, there was something so familiar about where we were and what we weredoing.
Recalling the events, the casualties of Freedom Summer, people from all walks of life had come together over a brokenness in the world.
This November, we mark 75 years since Kristallnacht. This coming June, we will mark 50 years since Freedom Summer.
We are always hesitant to connect tragedies, to link one loss to another, fearing diminishing the pain or significance of either. Facing these two milestones of memory, I find that I cannot – I dare not – compare the Holocaust to the Civil Rights movement. However, I do find that I absolutely can, and will, and must compare the way that both of these events are remembered. Years later, people of different faiths and backgrounds come together, demonstrating by their very presence that they understand this truth about brokenness: Bad things happen when good people do nothing, and what impacts one group impacts us all.
We do not always learn this the first time, but when we come together and remember, our understanding is strengthened. We acknowledge past wrongs and pledge to build something better in the future.
The histories may be different. The weather, the setting, the stories are not the same. But whether we are standing outside and shivering in the cold, or fanning ourselves in an oppressive heat, we come together over brokenness. We remember. And together we say, amen.
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