Sermon, Shabbat Bereishit, 5784

Last week, only seven days ago, we assembled in this place to celebrate

the festival of Simchat Torah - rejoicing in the Torah; specifically the end of

the annual cycle of readings from the Five Books of Moses, the

Pentateuch. We read of the death of Moses, at a hundred and twenty years

of age, interestingly, and straight away, via a second scroll, began the

Torah cycle all over again, with the verses I chanted, or leyned, earlier on.

Prior to the readings, we circled this sanctuary seven times - hakafot -

dancing, after a fashion, and singing. We do the same every year at the

end of the autumn festivals, which follow in swift succession: Rosh

haShanah, the Jewish New Year; Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement;

Sukkot, or Tabernacles; and finally, Simchat Torah.

Yet this year was no ordinary year. We knew something was going on in

Israel. We had heard on the news about the rocket attack and incursions.

However, we had no idea of the scale and the unprecedented nature of

what was happening. Nevertheless, we still had to ask ourselves - as the

rabbi, I had to ask myself, ‘Do we carry on as normal? Do we curtail the

festival? Simchat Torah, the most joyful, raucous festival of all.’ The answer

was ‘no’ - I felt we needed to carry on - that is what we do as Jews, as

human beings. That is what we are doing today. Yet, when I arrived home,

when the full extent of the terrorism became apparent, I questioned my

decision. My college came to the rescue with understanding: we all had

questions; we did our best to come up with the right answer.

A colleague offered a story from the Jewish tradition, from the Talmud.

When a wedding party and a funeral party meet on the road, it is for the

funeral party to make way. In other words, joy comes before sorrow. Thus,

when a Jewish person dies and the family enters a period of mourning

known as shiva, it is suspended on Shabbat. Similarly, we are commanded

to celebrate the Sabbath day and to rest from our labours, as God rested at

the end of Creation. How much more so, kal va’chomer, on the day we

read of the Creation of the world? How much more difficult, when we know

what has happened, what is happening?

We are here for a religious service, not a vigil, yet it is that, too. Last night

we lit an extra candle; for those who were killed, for those living through

these terrible times, for the hostages, for Israel. Jeremiah the prophet

speaks to us across the ages (31:15).

A cry is heard in Ramah —

Wailing, bitter weeping—

Rachel weeping for her children.

She refuses to be comforted

For her children, who are gone.

We mourn our own and stand alongside our brothers and sisters in Israel,

while not deaf to the cries of Palestinian mothers and fathers. We have all

seen the images, heard the stories, until we could bear them no more. The

desperate WhatsApp texts that end in silence as the gunmen enter the

house; the man lifting his five year old daughter into a taxi, wrapped in a

shroud. Hamas is an acronym standing for the Islamic Resistance

Movement in Arabic. In Hebrew, strangely, the word ‘chamas’ means

violence. And that is what they brought to the people of Israel last Saturday

and what they have brought upon the people of Gaza.

There is a verse in a Bob Dylan song written about the death of Emmett

Till, a lynching in the southern states of America in the mid 1950s that

sparked the Civil Rights movement.

If you can't speak out against this kind of thing, a crime that's so unjust,

Your eyes are filled with dead men's dirt, your mind is filled with dust.

Your arms and legs they must be in shackles and chains, and your blood it

must refuse to flow,

For you let this human race fall down so God-awful low!

We welcome many visitors to our service this morning. People of all faiths

and none. Those who contacted us because they wanted to be with other

Jews in a Jewish space at this time. Those who reached out to show

solidarity. This is not a civic service, although it may be the largest

gathering of politicians since the Labour party conference! Thank you for

speaking out and for doing so unequivocally and without delay; for standing

alongside us; for being here; for committing to protect the Jewish

community, which is vulnerable, and to continuing to foster good relations

between people of different faiths. I do not intend to name people, nor to

offer a platform for political statements of any kind, even supportive ones.

Your presence is enough for us, and for you, too, I hope. Do stay for

kiddush after the service, where members and friends will be very pleased

to meet you and have you among them.

Religious texts are commonly misused and abused by people who will not

recognise the humanity in the Other, justifying the most barbarous,

inhumane acts. Religious texts can also highlight what to do and what not

to do. A protester at a Palestinian demonstration in London yesterday,

chanting ‘From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free’, which is heard by

Jewish people as nothing other than a call to sweep us from the land, was

asked by the reporter: ‘What about the murders in Israel, the kidnapping of

children, the sick, the elderly?’ ‘No comment,’ was the response. I might

have chosen the story of Cain and Abel this morning, instead of the verses

I did read. ‘No comment’, entirely in line with Cain’s ‘Am I my brother’s

keeper?’ when asked Abel’s whereabouts by God. We cannot ignore our

kin, nor any human being. Their blood, like Abel’s, cries out to God, to us,

from the earth.

There is a story in both the Jewish and the Muslim religions. It is well

known. To destroy one life is to destroy a whole world. To save one life is

as if to save a whole world. A week ago, how many lives, how many worlds

were destroyed? Lives cut short, futures obliterated, so violently, so

shockingly. Today, we are a people in shock. We come here today to

support one another, to try to absorb what has happened and what is

happening, to simply be, not to do - which is the essence of Shabbat. And,

once again, we are in a religious setting, not a political one. Therefore, it is

hardly controversial to say that our hope, our prayer, is for peace, for

justice, for a swift end to hostilities and to the death of innocent people, for

the return of the hostages, stolen from their homes and paraded through

the streets of Gaza. A prayer for a future and a hope. If it is naivete, then it

is all we have to cling to at this time.

Over the last week, we have received numerous messages of support from

all kinds of people. I will conclude with one example from a man whom I

have yet to meet, who is involved in the Southwark three faiths group. It is

simple, and rather lovely.

‘So difficult to see and hear of the suffering. My prayers are with all those

affected and for peace in this most holy and special place. Sincerely I hope

and pray that there is peace and that there are efforts to enable people to

love and live alongside another.’

So do I. So do we all. May it come speedily and in our days/bimheira

v’yameinu. And let us say ‘Amen’.