12 | The Jewish Press | September 10, 2021
Voices
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Caught in the middle
ANNETTE VAN DE KAMP-WRIGHT Jewish Press Editor “Kentucky Rep. Thomas Massie was far from the first Republican lawmaker to compare public health measures aimed at curbing the spread of COVID-19 to the Holocaust when he posted an image of a tattooed wrist to Twitter,” according to the JTA. “Reps. Marjorie Taylor Greene and Lauren Boebert have also done so, along with several lower-level officials who have made similar comparisons across the country in recent weeks.” ‘If you have to carry a card on you to gain access to a restaurant, venue or an event in your own country … that’s no longer a free country,’ read the text in the image Massie tweeted, which he deleted shortly afterwards. Then, one of his interns resigned and posted the reason why on his Twitter account, at which point it became a bigger story. “This trend is far from new,” Edna Friedberg wrote, “but it is escalating at a disturbing rate in increasingly polarized times. The Holocaust has become shorthand for good vs. evil; it is the epithet to end all epithets. And the current environment of rapid fire online communication and viral memes lends itself particularly well to this sort of sloppy analogizing. Worse, it allows it to spread more widely and quickly.” (www.ushmm.com) Comparing a vaccination card to a Holocaust tattoo—I am not sure that people who think that is okay can be taught differently. We often respond to these instances assuming people are ignorant and should be educated. They can learn to be better if
they only gained some knowledge, we tell ourselves. They haven’t been exposed enough in school, they learned antisemitism from their parents, and so forth.
Rep. Thomas Massie, R-Ky., walks down the House steps after a vote in the Capitol, Sept. 17, 2020. Credit: Caroline Brehman/CQ-Roll Call, Inc via Getty Images
All those things may be true, but at some point, when the same thing keeps happening, we should probably consider the alternative. Politicians like Thomas Massie don’t care about the Holocaust. They don’t care about the Jews. And frankly, I kind of wish people like him would be honest about that. There is something exhausting about public figures who claim to be tolerant and open-minded, only to turn around and stab you in
the back. If it’s on the right, it’s Holocaust comparisons; if it’s on the left, it’s hating on Israel. Either way, we are caught in the middle. It’s a battle we keep fighting but can’t win. Meanwhile, Massie received his share of criticism online. He may have deleted the original tweet, but of course there are screen shots (especially since he left it up for seven hours) and when you post something stupid, people will run with it. The Anti-Defamation League demanded Massie apologize, which he had not as of this writing. I don’t know that it will matter much if he ultimately does. When it comes to antisemites showing their true colors, apologies often just muddy the waters. And it’s not as if they ever change anything: just look online at the many, many public figures who’ve had to apologize for saying something antisemitic. It is a very long list—and that’s just for the times they were caught. How often does anyone actually change their ways or opinions? Rather than apologize, I think Rep. Massie should do random acts of kindness. Go help out at a soup kitchen. Pick up trash. Build a playground or a skate park. All those things would help the world more than a few empty words he doesn’t mean. “As the Holocaust recedes in time,” Friedman also wrote, “some Americans (and Europeans) are becoming increasingly casual and disrespectful to the mass murder of millions.” These silly memes don’t only trivialize the Holocaust itself; they ignore the lessons we all should have internalized by now. And with every re-post, we fall further behind.
Rabbis are struggling to protect Jews’ physical and spiritual health. RABBI SHIRA KOCH EPSTEIN JTA Over the past year, I have led efforts to teach, guide and coach rabbis and other clergy of every Jewish denomination. We have worked with over 500 individual members of the clergy, serving hundreds of thousands of people since the COVID-19 pandemic began. So let me say this to my dear clergy colleagues: As we celebrate another High Holiday season under the shadow of the pandemic, I know that there is nothing you need more than support in making (or when prevented from making) impossible decisions about vaccinations, masks, social distancing and the integrity of worship. Which is why I am baffled as to why some would add to your burden with irresponsible, pain-inducing criticism that could only worsen the challenge, trauma and moral injury that our clergy are experiencing at this moment, and which I spend all of my professional time trying to lessen. I agree that mitigating all risk at the expense of our Jewish way of life is untenable, and there are certainly appropriate ways to debate safety measures during a public health crisis. Yet second-guessing rabbis like you, as you work overtime to protect the physical safety while meeting the spiritual and communal needs of your communities in everchanging ways, is not one of them. Those of us actually paying attention have seen your tremendous creativity and labor to ensure that our people have meaningful spiritual and communal ways to learn, to observe and to be connected to Torah and each other, even as COVID has precluded or restricted large in-person gatherings. I see you toiling to create innovative outdoor or remote opportunities for our unvaccinated children to engage in Jewish learning and living, and to feel a sense of belonging. I see you teaching congregants to lead backyard minyans; managing complicated technology to lead interactive remote services and study groups; introducing walking meditations and Torah treks and prayerful hikes and countless other new ways of helping our people to engage with each other and practice our traditions while reducing health risks. I hear your trauma at having buried the many
older members of your shul who have died miserably alone this year. I know that when you gather again, the seats of so many “regulars” will be tragically empty. I understand your fear that the immunocompromised and younger, unvaccinated members may be endangered by the high risk that in-person gatherings can pose this year. I know that
Signs at Congregation Bnai Yeshurun in Teaneck, N.J., indicate that the synagogue is closed by order of the local Orthodox rabbinical council, March 2020. Credit: New York Jewish Week
this informs your decisions as the Delta variant wreaks havoc, especially but not only when unvaccinated people gather. I listen to you agonize as you balance the calls for individual choice and/or trust from some in your community with your desire to have proof of vaccine and/or testing and mask mandates to protect the vulnerable, especially in locations where this is culturally unacceptable (and often the same places where hospitals are now failing under the burden of illness). You tell me about working with your professional colleagues, lay leaders and local experts as you carefully enact decision trees informed by Jewish values, COVID-era rabbinic opinions and public health experts. Many of your communities model remarkable shared leadership as clergy, boards and medical advisors together make decisions carefully. Others of you suffer, having to carry out and even be blamed for decisions that you fear are dangerous. With every change, we see you creating backups to backups, even as it means having to do twice the work, ignoring your exhaustion and pastoring to flocks who require your help as they, too, deal
with their justified angst. And I know that you are experiencing moral injury and burnout from this reality, and that you also fear for your own and your family’s health while also feeling a loss of spiritual connection as a result of your inability to pray in groups, to sing with full voice or to facilitate the mitzvah observances, simcha celebrations, prayer obligations and mourning rituals that give your own life meaning. Life under COVID is full of difficult calls, weighing physical well-being against mental health; our children’s education against the threat of an insidious virus; the risks of gathering or singing in our beloved sanctuaries versus the atrophying of our communities and our souls. No one wants to needlessly undermine centuries of tradition and our religious choices and obligations. But you, our clergy, know that preserving life is the paramount value of the Torah, and that our tradition is rife with examples of moderating our observances to protect our well-being. You have contributed to and read the myriad rabbinic opinions offering halachic and ethical ways to adapt beloved customs for this emergency situation. You do not need to be cut off at the knees while you run this ultra-marathon, all the while carrying the heavy weight of existential Jewish decisions. Your detractors may be loud, but I hear the quiet cheers of the many who want only to offer you water as you continue the race. My dear colleagues, please know: You are enough. You are doing enough. You can and you must make decisions that are the best and safest you can make, to preserve the lives and the health of your beloved members (and yourselves). Ignore the naysayers, especially those simply looking for clickbait who care not for your health or well-being. I pray that those who see how hard you are working will raise their voices and bolster you with love. With all of the hugs, love and hope for your spiritual renewal. Rabbi Shira Koch Epstein is executive director of the Center for Rabbinic Innovation, a project of the Office of Innovation. The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.
