Arguing for Justice

Sermon Shabbat Vayera 5782

Rabbi Samuel M. Cohon, Congregation Beit Simcha, Tucson, AZ

What do you think is the essential Jewish characteristic?  Is it the ability to survive, as we have been doing for 3800 years, since the days of Abraham and Sarah?  Is it Jewish resilience, the ability to rise from destruction and defeat and rebuild our lives in new places and in new ways?  Is it the enjoyment of food, without which no event seems truly Jewish?  Or is it our profound and ancient commitment to learning that is our most unique quality? 

Or is it the willingness to argue that makes us truly Jewish?

You know the stereotype: when you have two Jews you have three opinions—and four synagogues and five rabbis and at least ten Jewish organizations.  We have developed, over the millennia, a remarkable talent for disagreement, and that is reflected in everything from our taste in synagogues and Jewish food to our Talmudic literature—what is the Talmud, really, but a very, very long, extended argument? 

There is the classic Jewish joke about the desert island: a ship is sailing in a lonely part of the South Pacific when the captain sees smoke coming from what should be a deserted island.  He steers a course for the island, and as he approaches it he's startled to find that there is actually a full pier, and a well-dressed man waiting on the beautifully built dock.  The captain crosses the gangplank and is welcomed by a man who says his name is Goldberg.  "I'm astonished, Mr. Goldberg," the captain says.  "How'd you get here?  And how did you construct this magnificent dock?" 

"Oh," says Goldberg, "I was shipwrecked here, alone, 5 years ago.  But the dock is nothing.  Come see the rest of the island."

So Goldberg leads the captain on a tour of his island, which includes a beautifully paved main street--he made the cement himself from seashells and coconut milk--with a store, a school, every possible convenience.  The captain oohs and aahs, but what really impresses him are the two magnificent buildings at the end of the street, both with stained glass windows.

"My God, Goldberg, look at what you have done here, with nothing but your bare hands.  But I'm curious," said the captain, "what are those two incredible buildings?"

"Oh," says Goldberg, "those are synagogues."

"That's incredible," the captain says, "but why do you need two?"

"The one on the right is my shul.  The one on the left I wouldn't be caught dead in!!"

Now this tendency to argue, often at full voice, is certainly typically Jewish.  But you may not know that it is also quite ancient, dating back to the very first Jew, Abraham, who in this week’s Torah portion of Vayera teaches us something important through the medium of argument.

In our Torah portion last week, Abraham was called by God to leave his homeland and journey to an unknown land.  Atypically for all the Jews who have followed him, he did so unquestioningly, taking a great leap of faith into a new and strange place. For this Abraham is sometimes called a knight of faith, trusting in God to bring him to his destiny without questioning.

But that’s not the whole story, of course, and in this week’s Torah portion of Vayera, things are different.  Our portion is truly quite a spectacular one, filled with fascinating incidents, as Alan has taught us.  Early on in Vayera, it includes the remarkable tale of the impending destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, a traumatic decision by God to try to attempt once again to eradicate evil from the world.  In one of the great short scenes in Biblical history, God tells Abraham of his plans to destroy the wicked cities—the Las Vegas and Atlantic City of their day—and instead of nodding politely and accepting God’s decision, Abraham nobly steps forward and protests the decision.  And he does so with another one of the great Jewish qualities: Chutzpah. 

What if there are fifty righteous people in Sodom—would God destroy the city then?  Wouldn’t that be immoral, the judge of all the world acting unjustly—hashofeit kol ha’arets lo ya’aseh mishpat as the Torah says?  He actually employs Jewish guilt on God!

And it works.  God agrees with Abraham’s objection, but the noble Abraham keeps arguing—what if there are forty-five righteous?  Forty?  How about thirty? Perhaps God won’t destroy Sodom for the sake of twenty righteous people?  Ten, a bare minyan?  And God agrees that even ten would be enough to save the cities. Of course, there aren’t ten who are righteous—for a minyan, you don’t go to Sodom!—and the fleshpots of evil are marked for destruction. 

But it is Abraham’s noble defense of what might just turn out to be a righteous remnant, theoretical or real, that stands out here.  For this is the essential way all Jews ever since have interacted with God: we question and struggle and test God, always seeking greater justice in the world.  We argue with God—and become holier and better people through that process.

Pirkei Avot, the great ethical tractate of the Mishnah, tell us (Avot 5:17) that kol machloket l’shem shamayim sofah l’hitkayeim—every argument that is for the sake of heaven—will yield lasting benefit. That is, if we argue as Abraham did, for the sake of justice, holding even God to a higher standard, then we are being the best Jews we possibly can be. 

This will come as a surprise to many Jews, but not every argument qualifies as a machloket l’sheim shamayim.  Pirkei Avot explains that the kind of arguments that Hillel and Shammai had, as they explored the correct interpretations of Torah, seeking to understand God’s will for how we live our daily lives, are the kinds of arguments truly conducted for the sake of heaven.  But it continues that a machloket shelo l’sheim shamayim, an argument that is not for the sake of heaven will not bring enduring good, and indeed it implies that it will bring destruction.  The example they use is the rebellion of Korach, who sought personal glory, who used clever, even ingenious arguments as he sought to advance his own power and reputation.  This kind of self-interested machloket, this sort of naked power grab, is ultimately damaging and, frankly, evil in the eyes of Judaism.  When we argue for own egotistical desires, our own ego needs, we are arguing for the sake of ourselves, not the sake of heaven.

Obviously, we need to take care that when we use this Jewish characteristic activity of argument that we do so for what truly are the best reasons and that we are seeking to improve humanity and our society.  Abraham didn’t argue all the time, remember.  He only did so when in his view it was a matter of justice.

And so, when we argue against human immorality in the world—the brutal Chinese repression of the Uyghur, for example—or against the environmental destruction of our planet, or in favor of the rights of the downtrodden such as the homeless right here in Tucson, well, then, we continue what Abraham began in this week’s portion.  These truly are machlokot l’shem Shamayim, arguments that are truly for the sake of heaven, for justice right down here in our world, la’asot mishpat, to create righteousness.

That is the true heritage of Abraham.  For when we make these kinds of sacred arguments, when to fight for the cause of justice, our lives can, like Abraham’s, bring great blessing.

Ken Yehi Ratson.