This was the question I asked my Sunday school students as
we sat around a table in the social hall having our snack of graham crackers
and green grapes.
*
I explained that
Mitzrayim, the
Hebrew word for Egypt, also means “narrow places,” and I asked them to think
about where in their lives they feel the oppression of Egypt, when in their
lives they feel constrained or stuck.
“School,” said one, just as our prescient congregational
president/resident Sunday school teacher simultaneously said, “And ‘school’
doesn’t count!” (I shushed Mr. president/teacher.)
“Practicing violin,” said the other, with a sideways glance
at her mother, enthusiastic proponent of violin lessons, sitting nearby.
This led to an interesting conversation about whether
aspects of our lives that ultimately benefit us (the one child does aspire to a
high school diploma, and the other loves performing violin, which she does
beautifully, thanks to the despised practice sessions) could be compared to the
biblical Mitzrayim, a site of
bloodshed, suffering, and degradation for our biblical forebears. (The answer:
No. And yes. Of course. Try it yourself, and let me know how your conversation
goes.)
But the reason I asked my students this question, the reason
I’m writing this in the first place
**, is that I had been thinking about this question—“What is our
Mitzrayim?”—during my entire drive
from Jackson to Greenville on Friday afternoon. (I live in Jackson, Mississippi, I serve the
congregation in Greenville, Mississippi, 110 miles away. A more coherent introduction to me
and my crazy life in another post.) I was thinking about this question in
conjunction with the Trayvon Martin shooting, and also, especially after
reading
my friend Beth's thoughtful (and poignant and brilliant) blog post, in
conjunction with the shootings in Toulouse and the guilty pleadings of three
white teenagers in Jackson, Mississippi to the racially-motivated killing of
James Craig Anderson, a black man.
So much hate. Is hatred our Mitzrayim?
But, why the hate?
We learn from the Passover Seder that each of us must feel each
year as if we ourselves left slavery in Egypt, as if we ourselves experienced
the redemption. No formal commemoration, this. Not even a reenactment. This is
real, Jewish tradition teaches us. Every year, we feel the oppression. And then
we experience the release. We are meant to put ourselves, as nearly and as
truly as possible, in someone else’s shoes sandals.
And that, in fact, is the problem. Because we can’t
actually, truly walk in another person’s shoes, can we? Not simply by attending
a Passover Seder. It’s the stuff of fantasy and undercover spy stories and
psychological studies, the idea of experiencing another person’s reality.
Nevertheless, it is our obligation to try, each year at
Passover, and, I would argue, every day of the year: You shall welcome the
stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt, the Torah repeatedly
exhorts us. Love your neighbor as yourself. Do not do to others what is
distasteful to you. We are all created betzelem
elohim, in the image of God. Put yourself in the other’s shoes.
Because when we don’t, it leads to injustice. The other
remains other: distant, alien, threatening…. When we can’t put ourselves in
another’s shoes, it opens the door to hatred.
As I drove and thought, the flat Mississippi Delta plains
stretching out in every direction from under the wheels of my car, I thought a
new question, a terrible question: Do people, my people, the people of my own
congregation, whom I love, want to put themselves in The Other’s shoes?
Now, I am not completely naïve. I know that none of us always wants to put ourselves in
another’s shoes. It’s hard work. The Torah wouldn’t constantly command us to do
it if it were easy. Even when we want to do it, when we mean to do it, we often
fail. And I know there are plenty of people out there who make bad choices,
even wicked choices, who through some sad injury or perversion lose all contact
with their yetzer tov, the good that
God put in them, and intend ill toward others.
But I suppose I’ve always assumed that people of good will,
even when we are failing to do the right thing, even when to do the right thing
is difficult or unpleasant, in some part of our being, want to do it. In some
corner of our consciousness feel indignation when injustice is brought to our
attention, and want to do something to correct the injustice, to change and
heal the world.
Beth, in her blog post, wrote, “I began to fear, not for the
first time, that perhaps I have too much faith in humanity.” When I read that,
I felt terribly sad for Beth, but the closer my wheels took me to Greenville,
the more I began to wonder the same about myself. I began to wonder when, and
even whether, people, even good people, truly aspire to walk in another’s shoes,
aspire to recognize The Other’s basic humanity, especially when that other is
of a different race, or class, or creed.
When I arrived in Greenville, I got ready for our Shabbat
service. During the service, I shared some of these thoughts and questions with
my congregation. And then, after the service, I had a conversation about all of
this with a good friend, a good person, a person I have known and loved for
many years, and suddenly, vividly, I saw how good people can become resigned to
others’ otherness, and to hatred, and injustice. Good people can become
embittered and worn down by a lifetime of slights, and insults (even as it is
also a lifetime of blessings and friendship—for don’t we all too often remember
the bad and forget the good?), and outrage, personal and communal.
This then, is our Mitzrayim:
our failure to walk in another’s shoes. Or even worse: our failure to want, or
even to try, to do so. It’s perpetuating the cycle. It’s holding us back. We’re
stuck, as long as we stay here.
My religious school students don’t know this yet, which is
perhaps, given their youth, appropriate. My congregants…some know it, some
believe it, others not. Myself? I think I, like the rest of us, have my work
cut out for me.
I have finally taken the big leap into the blogosphere partly thanks to Ima on (and off) the Bima's #BlogExodus initiative. Yes, I am a few days behind on the #BlogExodus schedule. So we're starting off on the right foot! More about myself and my blog another day.
*Wow,
I had entirely overlooked the alliterative quality of our snack til this very
moment! I guess I was having a great day. A gimel-ish day. A yom gadol,
perhaps. But I digress.
**Aside
from imabima, that is.
