AM I PROUD OF MY JUDAISM?

The Jewish core has emerged stronger than ever these past few weeks. The monstrous massacre, compounded by the public blaming Jews for it, was a murderous double stab to the collective Jewish heart. The fact that some of our decades-long friends and neighbors have turned on us so suddenly left us disillusioned. We were once proud to say, “My best friend is Muslim,” but it turned out that some of them were not our friends. We loved our alma mater and thought of it as home. It turned out it never was home.   Oh, they say they don’t hate me. They just hate the Jews in Israel. But they don’t get it. The Jews in Israel are me. It's not that I agree with everything Israeli Jews say. It's that they are my heart and soul. They are the blood that pumps in my heart and the life that pulses through my veins. When they bleed, I bleed. Do you think I can separate your disdain of them from myself? You are mistaken. I can’t blame you. I never told you differently. I gave you every appearance of being Canadian, American, European, Australian. Turns out I was always Jewish. I didn’t realize it. And neither did you.

But you know what? Your rejection, and your stab in the back, reinforced my true identity. I have been beaten so deeply, battered so profoundly, that I am shaken to my core. And once my core came to the surface, I discovered the truth. My core is Jewish. Thank you for reminding me; for showing me my Jewish core.
This has been the experience of many Jews these past few weeks as the Jewish core made a comeback. I will share two social media posts that illustrate my point.

The first is from Omer Barak, a self-professed Israeli leftist who considered himself a man of the world. He recently broke the internet with the following post: When I self-reflect about ideas I used to have and about which I have since changed my mind, only two words come up. The two words I have always refused to say, ani Yehudi—I am a Jew. Wow, how I hated this two-word sentence. When I lectured abroad, I would identify as Israeli. If someone asked about my Jewishness, I would deny it. I would say that I was born a Jew, but there is nothing Jewish in me today. These past weeks, that response bore a hole in my soul. It doesn’t give me rest. I was born in a home that mocked Judaism. I simply didn’t want to believe that I was that poster child with the black beret. I wanted to believe that I was a man of the world, an author, a journalist, and a screenwriter. My Judaism was not part of my identity. It was not even listed in my passport. This, too, was a mistake. I might not be the child with the black beret, but I am a Jew. For the first time in my life, I understand that no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape it. For the first time in my life, I realized that I didn’t want to escape it. I am proud of my Judaism. I am ashamed that I denied it. I will not start wearing a Kipah, and I don’t think you will see me at the synagogue, but I will seek out my Judaism and my G-d. I will seek out the identity that others have tried to destroy for so many years. By mistake, I nearly destroyed it myself. And with my own hands. Today, I lit candles with my children for the first time in my life. I didn’t have any candles at home. I borrowed some from a friend, but I wanted to light them. I did not even know the proper blessing. So, we recited the blessings of Chanukah candles. Whatever. But we prayed for the soldiers. And for ourselves. I don’t know if I will light candles every week. I don’t know where this journey will lead me. I do know that I am Omer Barak, an author, a journalist, a screenwriter, an Israeli. And a Jew.

The other was an Instagram post by American actor and designer, Ilan Muallem Srulovicz I have a confession. And I think it's going to be true for a lot of Jews out there. And it’s a big lesson for you Jew haters, so I suggest you listen. Growing up, my Jewish identity was a separate part of my life. I never even thought about it. My parents told me stories about what they went through. My mom had to escape Iraq because she was a Jew, and sadly, most of my dad’s family were killed in the Holocaust. But I never personalized it. It was never super real to me. It was just stories of things they went through. Then, after October 7, seeing the way the world responded to the attack and the amount of Jew-hatred that actually exists kind of woke up my Jewish side. It made me reconnect with it fully. And I think people don’t realize just how many Jews out there have reconnected with their Jewish identities now. You know, we were disappearing. We were marrying non-Jews at exceptional rates. Most of us don’t follow the religion . . . now so many of us are activated.   You strengthen us when you attack us. So, I have to say thank you to everyone who has reminded all of us Jews what it actually means to be Jewish. Thank you for showing us the true face of antisemitism. And thank you for uniting us once again because I promise you. We are stronger than ever now.

The Jewish core has emerged. You beat us back and bat us down, but it only reminds us of who we are. And when we remember our truth, when we find our Jewish core, we find our strength.  Thank You, Esau. It all began with the twins Jacob and Esau. Jacob loved the study tent, and Esau loved to hunt. Their mother, Rebecca, loved Jacob. But surprisingly, their father Isaac, the saintly legendary Jewish patriarch, loved Esau. What did he like about Esau? He hunted people with his words.

Antisemitism has reared its ugly head again. It is no surprise. Antisemitism never really went away. Our sages taught that antisemitism is an unchanging, intractable scourge. Esau will always hate Jacob. The only question is how close to the surface it lies.

The story of Esau and Jacob appears in the Torah portion of Vayishlach we read this week. Esau was furious with his brother Jacob for absconding with their father’s blessings. Isaac had offered to bless Esau, and Jacob, dressed up to look like Esau, appropriated the blessings. Jacob fled their home to escape Esau’s wrath and returned thirty-four years later. But Esau was still angry.

When Jacob learned that Esau was marching against him with four hundred mercenaries, he prepared in three ways. (A) He sent a generous tribute to his brother to arouse his feelings of kinship. (B) He prayed through the night. (C) As a last resort, he prepared for war.

It turned out that war was unnecessary. Softened by the tribute, Esau was further moved when Jacob bowed before him seven times. Esau experienced a moment of mercy and chose to offer clemency. He hugged and kissed Jacob, and they then cried together.

Our sages were flabbergasted by this story. Esau had nursed his hatred for more than three decades. He was Jacob’s sworn enemy. What happened? How did he change overnight? They explained that nothing changed. Esau’s hatred is an established, immutable fact. He was just overcome in the moment, and his heart was stirred. Nothing changed. Underneath, the antisemitism remained.

Our sages were not just talking about Esau; they were talking about antisemitism across the generations. The author of this statement, Rabbi Shimon, was the same rabbi who spent thirteen years in a cave hiding from the Romans who wanted to kill him. He knew and understood antisemitism. He also knew that though antisemites can be overcome in a moment of compassion and being nice to Jews, it doesn’t change their underlying antisemitism.

We can’t make antisemitism disappear, but we can sway key people in key moments to support our cause. That is how we respond to the unending scourge of antisemitism.

This Shabbat the 19th day of Kislev is celebrated as the “Rosh Hashanah of 
Chassidism.” It was on this date, in the year 1798, that the founder of Chabad 
Chassidism, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (1745–1812), was freed from his imprisonment in czarist Russia. More than a personal liberation, this was a watershed event in Jewish history, heralding a new era in the revelation of the “inner soul” of Torah.

Rabbi Schneur Zalman saw these events as a reflection of what was transpiring Above. He regarded his arrest as but the earthly echo of a heavenly indictment against his revelation of the most intimate secrets of the Torah. And he saw his release as signifying his vindication in the heavenly court. Following his liberation on  19 Kislev, he redoubled his efforts, disseminating his teachings on a far broader scale, and with more detailed and “down-to-earth” explanations, than before.

This day marks the “birth” of Chassidism, when the long-hidden secrets of Judaism emerged from the womb of mysticism to illuminate and transform the totality of Jewish life.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky