[Based on the transcript of a conversation with Rabbi Deborah Waxman on the podcast, Hashivenu: Jewish Teachings on Resilience, May 1, 2025]
What does it mean to challenge the notion of chosenness and particularism in the 21st century, when part of our globalist vision has been shattered, and when tribalism is on the ascendancy?
There is a both/and here that really must be examined and challenged. In my own liturgy and in Lab Shul’s liturgy, we have replaced the blessing at the Torah with asher bakhartanu im kol ha’amim—“Who has chosen us, along with all other peoples, to live this life with love.” That is because I estimate that a good half of my community is not necessarily Jewish according to Jewish law. They are Jewish, they are Jewish-adjacent, they are people who have chosen to live with Jewish people. Some are Jewish patrilineally. Others, matrilineally. Still others, Jews by choice. We are human, and being Jewish is part of who we are. The exact percentage doesn’t matter.
Chosen to Live with Love
We are chosen to live this life with love like every other human. And so, the “chosen people” belief doesn’t work anymore. It doesn’t serve me personally.
And yet I understand where it plays such an important part in defining uniqueness, both for American Jews and for Israeli Jews. I proudly affirm our uniqueness — the pride I have at being an heir of this ancient tradition that’s so wise, the joy I have of sitting at a Shabbat table and knowing this is a spiritual technology that my ancestors have developed to combat isolation, and to bring the sacred into the somatic and to create meaning out of simple things like candles and bread. Yes, I love it. We’ll never give it up.
Does it make it better than Communion or Iftar? Who cares? Is Buddhist meditation better than Thai meditation? Who cares? Whatever different flavors, different airlines, we all go to the same place. I love what I have, but it doesn’t make it supremely better than others. Where it gets tricky is when my claim to be better is such that I lose the ability to hold or respect yours.
The example that comes to mind is very raw, very fresh and extremely painful. I flew back from Israel two days ago. Last Thursday night, I stood in Tel Aviv at Habima Square with thousands of other Israelis protesting this ongoing war, calling for the return of the hostages, holding up photos of hostages who have yet to be returned and photos of babies from Gaza, thousands and thousands who have been killed, innocent children who are collateral damage.
I proudly affirm our uniqueness — the pride I have at being an heir of this ancient tradition that’s so wise.
Empathy as Treasonous?
For many Israeli Jews, holding up the photos of Gazan babies who have been killed is very controversial. The police tried to ban it, which is why this protest happened. Some regard it as treasonous to hold up these photos because I’m holding their pain instead of our pain. But this is a false choice. These are babies. I’m holding a hostage photo, and I’m holding a Gazan baby photo, and I’m hurting, because I’m part of the same womb of the universal hurt. And when I spoke about this to somebody prominent, a rabbi in my larger family, he was furious at me, and he said, “How dare you hold up a picture of a Gazan baby? The kid might be innocent, but his parents want to kill me. I will not hold up a picture of a Gazan baby.”
And I said to him, “Look at how your heart has hardened. Where is your empathy?”
Where is the Jewish story of pain and persistence, of survival, and the need to be strong and alive? Where is our Jewish empathy, our compassion?
My pain is opposed to yours, many people feel. My survival is in conflict with your survival. When, in actuality, the only path forward is an intertwined solution, where your dignity is my dignity and my freedom is your freedom. Together is how we grow.
That is where the belief in chosenness, the supremacy, the racism of the Ben-Gvirs of the world is a cancer in the Jewish body. And it’s a cancer to such a deep degree. I apologize profusely for anyone who has had to deal with cancer among us and our loved ones and our families. It is a part of nature, like all else, and it needs to be treated. This toxicity requires treatment — this racist supremacy of biblical proportions that is responsible for this war, that is responsible for these values. And it’s unclear, can the body be treated? Will the patient survive?
This has happened before. We had supremacist, racist zealots burn down Jerusalem. The Romans had very little to do with it when the Second Temple went up in flames. There was a civil war between the Jews: fight the Romans, don’t fight the Romans, make peace, surrender, national zeal. We killed each other. Sinat hinam, “baseless hatred.” The ancient rabbis tracked it and taught against it.
The ‘Vav’ of ‘Ve’ahavta,’ ‘You Shall Love’
We are in the first few weeks of the counting of the Omer, the 49 days from Pesakh to Shavu’ot. In order to keep this daily count, as a way to be disciplined in my spiritual awareness, I’m focusing for these 49 days on one Hebrew letter, and I’m writing about it every day.
The Hebrew letter is the letter vav, the sixth letter in the Hebrew alphabet. And it’s the vav that begins the Hebrew word Ve’ahavta. Ve’ahavta is the word that we say in our liturgy daily. It means, “You shall love.”
Ve’ahavta et Adonai Elohekha, love God.
Ve’ahavta lerei’ekha kamokha, love the other as you want to be loved.
Ve’ahavta et ha-ger, love the other, the stranger, for you were once a stranger.
The word Ve’ahavta in its permutation as Ve’ahavta lerei’ekha kamokha, the golden rule, love the other as you want to be loved, is the central word in the Torah scroll. At the middle of the third book of the Torah is that word Ve’ahavta.
Love is a muscle. Push yourself because of the power of our tribal tendencies — the binary, the “I’m-holier-than-you,” the “I’m-better-than-you.”
Somebody in our ancestry made sure that we remember that all you need is Ve’ahavta. Or as I like to say, “All you need is vav.” What a reminder! How can I love beyond what I already love?
How can I love the parts of myself that are hard to love? How can I love the parts of myself as in family and tribe and community and country that are hard to love? And how can I love those who are outside of my community and country?
Now, love is many things. I can love my mother and fried chicken and various recreational joys. They are not identical. So I’m not saying that I’m going to sit right now with my hilltop-youth cousin and say, “I love you.” He is out there at Masafer Yatta in the southern Hebron hills, creating havoc in the lives of Palestinian friends of mine. I don’t love him.
And yet, the vav is a constant invitation. Love is a muscle. Push yourself, because of the power of our tribal tendencies, the binary, the “I’m-more-holy-than-you,” the “I’m-better-than-you.”
We’re living in this binary world, which by the way, the digital world has done wonders in creating for us this either or zero sum game of swipe left, swipe right. Life is much more nuanced. I’m hoping that my exploration of the vav and the Ve’ahavta will be a Jewish and a human gift to humanity, reminding us to keep learning how to love.
