The End of the World (and Year) as we know it (and I feel fine)...

Folks have been asking for my most recent sermon dealing with the so-called Mayan apocalypse. I had been sending them to be put up on the Beth Emeth website, but seeing as how we're in the midst of a migration, I'm going to start updating here as well. You'll find this sermon below.

Before I post it, with only a few hours left in 2013, here's hoping for a sweet (secular) New Year filled with wonder, hope, the promise of new beginnings, blessings, health and joy. Or, to quote Counting Crows, maybe this year will be better than the last.

So I’m glad to see that we all made it through the end of the world. That Mayan calendar, grist for so many apocalyptic and humorous mills, has turned out to be, in fact, nothing to worry about. We’re still here, the aliens didn’t show up, and I still have to pay off my college loans. I wish I could say it was all one big joke, but between survivalists in Russia going bonkers, a school district in Michigan closing, and both NASA and NOAA having to post online guides about how the world was not, in fact, going to be hit by a rogue planet or asteroid, self-destruct, be swallowed by the sun, or slip off its axis, and at least one online dating company using it as fodder for an ad seemingly to encourage their users to have one last meaningless hook-up, well, it seems like quite a few people went a little nuts. 

This is not, of course, the first time we’ve seen such apocalyptic nuttiness. We survived Y2K, the Heaven’s Gate cult committing suicide to ride the Hale-Bopp comet in 1997,  various fundamentalists’ predictions of self-destruction, and more than a few Christian ‘scholars’ talking about the book of Revelations or some other silliness on the History Channel. 

Where does all this come from? Some of it is the anxiety of our age: much like Godzilla gave voice to the fear of an Atomic War in the 1950s and zombie movies reflected in the ecological and political crises of the 1970s, these brushes with Eschatology—the collapse of civilization—all reflect the angst of the moment. Books like The Road by Cormac McCarthy, or many of the current slate of television shows, or the films Melancholia and  2012, imagine a world  self-immolating, and that speaks as much about our fears of real environmental and societal upheaval as a real belief that some big rock that looks like an Oreo may predict our doom. 

But some of it is also a very non-Jewish notion of how we experience the world. We heard it in the words President Obama used at the memorial service in Newtown CT: God has called his children home . For so many religious people—this world is a place of pain to be schlepped through, then escaped. The goal is to leave this world and achieve the peace and happiness that only comes to us when we shuffle off our mortal coil. If we achieve anything in this world or do anything just or kind, it is in the hopes of earning eternal reward of some variety. Judaism is unique among all the religions in that our goal is not the world to come. Or rather, it’s not our priority. Our priority is this world. Any given day may be our last day on this world; nevertheless we are obligated to live each life responsive to our sacred obligations and to those created in the divine image. Or, to paraphrase Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, we are not trying to escape this world to reach God, we’re trying to bring God to our world, to infuse our world with holiness. This idea is best summed up by the words of Yochanan Ben Zakkai, Hillel’s student: “If you are planting a tree and you hear that the Messiah has come, finish planting the tree, then go and inquire.” 

I can’t think of two more radically different ways of seeing the world. One as a place filled with pain and those barely capable of doing the right thing without the prospect of eternal reward or punishment over the horizon. The other a place described by God as “tov”, good, and filled with those who might be partners in creation and revelation, if we would just heed God’s voice. 

This week in the parasha, Jacob, having come at last to Egypt to see his lost son Joseph, is introduced by his son to Pharaoh. It is a strange scene: Pharaoh asks “How many are the days of the years of your life?” Samson Raphael Hirsch writes, “It is only with a few select people that each day is full of importance and is considered by them as having a special meaning. A really true human being does not live years, but days…. Thus Pharaoh, too, says here: "How many are the days of the years of your life?" And in putting the question "How old are you?" in these words, he reveals the deep impression the dignified behavior of Jacob has made on him.” There is no doubt that our world is troubled, but if we saw each day as full of importance and meaning, if we planted more trees, and spent our time accordingly, l’taken olam b’malchut shaddai, repairing the world for God’s sovereignty, perhaps we’d be less worried about zombies, or monsters, or aliens or asteroids or calendars that look like cookies. Kein Yehi Ratzon, may this be God’s will. 

Newtown CT

An hour ago, my son, who's in kindergarten, got off the bus as he always does. He greeted me with his typical salutation--making his fingers into a gun and going 'pew pew'. On our way back to the house he told me about his day and what he learned. We shared a snack, went over the things in his folder and the lunch menu for next week, and now he's watching a cartoon while he waits for us to light Chanukah and Shabbat candles.

All totally mundane activities, no different than any other. Except for the events of today at the Elementary School in Newtown Connecticut. Others have shared words of wisdom: of prayer, of parenthood,  on politics and gun control. As they say, all are the words of the Living God. I cannot match their words. But I am mindful of this week's portion. As Israel debates sending Benjamin to Egypt (with Simeon already in captivity and Joseph supposedly dead), Judah says, "Send the boy in my care, and let us be on our way that we may live and not die--you and we and our children. I myself will be surety for him; you may hold me responsible: if I do not bring him back to you and set him before you, I shall stand guilty before you forever." (Gen. 43:8-9)

Judah, himself having experienced the pain of losing two of his children, understands Jacob's anxiety of losing another son. So when he says "I shall stand guilty before you forever", his words are sincere, and not rash; he knows what is at stake, what kind of pain and loss and terror is experienced.

Friends, we are Judah: we are responsible, the guilt of this, the pain, the responsibility is upon all of us. An accounting is required of all of us. And we must begin to understand that our responsibility ends not at our doorstep, or with our own family, or our own choices, but with the choices of others as well.

Jacob is ready to be bereaved: having lost Joseph, he expects to lose Benjamin. Judah is responsible but hopeful; he knows that survival requires real efforts and real care, an accounting who's reward or punishment is eternal. We must be Judah, for the alternative is too painful for us to bear.

The Rabbi Speaks: Chanukah

Here's the script from last week's "The Rabbi Speaks" on Chanukah.

Last week, while on my regular stop into the Comic Book Shop on Marsh Rd., I found myself looking at the kids’ racks. Elishai, my son, who’s in kindergarten, has been on a big kick practicing his reading, and loving comics and superheroes, was hoping I’d bring him home something. So along with my usual pulls, I grabbed a Green Lantern book to share with my kid. 

Later that night, after dinner and homework, we settled into reading his new comic, and we discovered that it was in fact, a Chanukah book. Here was Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern, helping aliens named Mattathias, Judah and Maccabee of the Hammer tribe defeat other aliens of some distant planet, all while the Green Power Ring holds out for eight days with only a single day’s charge. Latkes are consumed, lights are lit, and the universe is saved. 

 My son, obviously, loved it. Here was a Chanukah-specific holiday comic book where the festival of lights appeared not as an effort in tokenism in an otherwise Christmas-themed story, nor merely as a paean to diversity to satisfy some focus group, but with its own integrity. And the fact that this was being sold in a comics shop, rather than some cheap freebie created for distribution in a Jewish school or synagogue or JCC, made it all the more amazing to me. Of course, Jewish themes have appeared in comics for decades—anyone who’s taken my class at the JCC or read Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay knows that Jewish writers and artists essentially began the medium. But rarely were those themes so overt, the exception being ‘serious’ graphic novels like Maus and ‘A Contract With God’. Yet here was kid’s comic, a ‘normal’ comic with a proudly Jewish theme, well written and well-drawn, meant for a popular audience. 

I’m old enough to remember when Chanukah first started appearing in the public sphere, and it was usually cringeworthy. In the school ‘winter concert’—and I remember when they were Christmas concerts—the band would throw in ‘Rock of Ages’ or “I Have a Little Dreidle” or if we were really lucky, ‘Ocho Candelikas’ around ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ and ‘Good King Wenceslas’. If there was a special Christmas episode of a TV show, the one designated Jewish character would get a throwaway line about Chanukah. Slowly, though, you started seeing Menorahs in McDonald’s commercials and in places of business and government, Chanukah candles for sale at Target, and the like. Adam Sandler’s Chanukah song might be nearly 15 years old and pretty trivial, but it set off a rash of popular musicians writing Chanukah songs.  Sometimes this made for strange combinations; at some point someone has sent you the picture of Hams on display at Walmart advertised as “delicious for Chanukah”. This year one Tablet writer wrote about seeing an explicitly Jewish Star of David Christmas tree topper advertised “for interfaith families” in the Skymall Catalogue.
All this fills me with wonder, but also gives me pause. It is amazing to me that my son now grows up in a world where, yes, he is aware that he’s in the minority, but the idea of a Jewish comic book is normal for him. More to the point, for most of his classmates, Judaism is rarely as strange or exotic as it was for my non-Jewish friends when I was a child. But especially at the holiday season, when perhaps we as Jews are even more aware of our minority status, the idea that Chanukah is becoming increasingly homogenized, worries me. 

Chanukah as we experience it now is a sweet little holiday: we eat some fried stuff, light some lights, exchange some gifts and call it a day, but has gone through tremendous upheaval. To use Arthur Waskow’s language, The Book of Maccabees makes it clear that, in addition to being a rededication of the Temple, it was originally a ‘rerun’ of Sukkot for the Maccabean rebels who, in their war with the Assyrian Greeks were unable to celebrate the festival. Since that first Chanukah it has evolved at various stages to be a celebration of Jewish imperial might and Jewish independence, a story of martyrdom and eternal reward for those who maintained faith unto death, a commemoration of God’s power and how one can maintain faith and light even in times of darkness and hiding, a political statement for early Zionists longing for Jewish sovereignty, and now a Winter Solstice holiday celebrated along Christianity’s great holiday. Until recently, it never held the power in Judaism of, say, a Rosh Hashanah or a Passover, nor was it ever meant to.  A post-biblical commemoration filled with small presents and games and fried food, it has achieved much greater standing than ever.
And for many Jews and non-Jews alike, this is problematic, or even, dare I say it, a ‘shande’. For conservatives who see a ‘war on Christmas’, and even liberals like Garrison Keillor of A Prarie Home Companion, Chanukah has become a target, a way to vent their spleen over the loss of religiosity surrounding Christmas. After all, it’s not just Jews going to the movies and out for Chinese these days. And for Jews, there is the fear that these two very different holidays—Christmas and Chanukah— will minimize our differences in ways that make meaningful interfaith dialogue even more difficult, as non-Jews get confused over the meaning of Chanukah and more Jewish-star tree toppers and Chanukah bushes confound a landscape.  Who hasn’t been asked whether Chanukah is the Jewish Christmas and had to use every facial muscle to prevent the eyeroll of doom? 

It’s clear, however, that there’s no turning back. We’re long passed the point of tokenism or euphemism, of occasional characters or a Festivus for the Rest of us. We are beyond the age of giant menorahs in Times Square and White House Chanukah parties and Peter Yarrow songs, and Blues Clues Chanukah Books and the occasional page 18 article showing a Jewish family playing Dreidle. There are Pandora and Spotify Chanukah channels, sexy Chanukah songs (seriously, Michele Citron, look it up), latke recipes in every cooking magazine, and every imaginable appearance in popular culture, to say nothing of the fact that you can buy a chanukiah—a really nice one—at most department stores, even in Delaware. Chanukah is clearly here to stay, not just as a Jewish holiday but as an American experience. 

So how do we make it meaningful? By remembering that, if Chanukah is to avoid being a Christmas-equivalent, we still give the holiday its due. Let Chanukah have integrity all its own, emphasizing the values as distinct from the values of other holidays at this time of year. The word Chanukah means dedication; we call this holiday ‘Chanukah’ because we remember the Maccabees rededicating the ancient temple, defiled by those bent on assimilation at all costs. Remembering this, we can rededicate ourselves to our highest values; to allow the light of the holiday and its hopefulness to banish the darkness of cynicism. 

The Green Lantern has an oath. The one we’re familiar with goes In brightest day, in blackest night, No evil shall escape my sight Let those who worship evil's might, Beware my power, Green Lantern's light. But the original read  ..and I shall shed my light over dark evil. For the dark things cannot stand the light, Just as Green Lantern’s oath declares that light shall banish the darkness of evil, may we come to see Chanukah in a new light, not as a “Jewish Christmas”, but as a truly American holiday.
  

Giving Thanks

So I'm writing this from my parents' house in Centerville, on Cape Cod. E is watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Last minute details are being taken care of. My wife's on the phone with her best friend in California. It's a quiet day, after quite a month, exhausting really. I've been trying to do the math: between Superstorm Sandy and the relief efforts that followed, the election, Operation Pillar of Defense and the ceasefire that went into effect only yesterday. Closer to home, Marisa had a show, E has been better adjusting to school, we've had a ton of special services, social action projects large and small, including our wonderful annual IFSAC program, and I've been on the phone with two congregants, one who's parent has passed, another who's husband is in hospice as we speak.

It's hard to think of this day without sinking into pablum; and after this  post, is there really anything else to say in gratitude? And yet, our tradition reminds us of the importance of offering thanks. We speak words of thanks at every time we recite the Amidah (Modim Anachnu Lach--We Thank You). We are reminded in the Torah to offer thanks repeatedly, from the food we eat, to life and health, to our presence in the Land. We are reminded to pray for--and be grateful for--peace.

So with that in mind, and without belaboring the point, we give thanks for all we have and all who are in our lives. Most importantly, in the words of Elder William Brewster from that first Thanksgiving in 1621:

 "We thank God for our homes and our food and our safety...We thank God for the opportunity to create a new world for Freedom and Justice." 

Digging wells: contention, harassment and wide places

Most folks are just now 'discovering' the conflict going on between Israel and Hamas that has been taking place for the last week. Sadly, people are now only aware that in the last because it's real finally chose to respond to days and days of rocket and mortar fire by killing Hamas' 'military commander'. Nevermind the anti tank rocket that was shot last week but kicked off the conflict, wounding four soldiers. Never mind the fact that Israel has now been subject to multiple barrage attacks now amounting to roughly 1 rocket every 6 minutes. never mind the 3 Israeli civilians that have been killed in last 24 hours. The only thing that makes headlines is Israel's jet fighters in the sky.

Those of us who have been long supporting Israel are used to this kind of double standard. And to a certain extent, that double standard comes from good intentions. We as Jews expect our Jewish state to live up to our highest values, to be a light to the nations. This is why I have also been brought up Israel's settlement extremists, its treatment of migrants, of women, and the seeming inability to resolve the issue of integration of the Orthodox population into civil society while maintaining and strengthening secular institutions and religious pluralism. Even today, Rosh Chodesh Kislev, as rockets were being shot at civilian targets in Sderot, Jerusalem police detained members of Women of The Wall-including a member of the Municipal Council-who were trying to pray at the Kotel. Nevertheless, it is possible for two things to be true-Israelis have work to do, but it cannot, SHOULD NOT have to do that work while being threatened by death. And a democracy-with all the faults and scars that come from living in a heterodox society-should not be punished by the media for defending itself from a terrorist 'failed state'.

This week in our Torah Portion, Isaac tries to dig wells for his herd, but each time is driven away by his enemies. So he names them 'Esek' and 'Sitnah'; contention and harassment. Only the third well, when he is left in peace, does he name 'Rehovot', wide places, as if to say 'No really, there is room enough'.

There is room enough-for Palestinians and Israelis, for all flavors of Judaism, for diversity and pluralism, but we can only dig wells when the enemies of peace and humanity cease stopping up the wells with rocket fire.

Elections and Reconciliation.

On the Shabbat before the election, the Rabbi of one of the most prominent congregations in New York City ascended the bimah, apologized for preaching on a political topic, and launched into a sermon on the sacred importance of voting, the wrongness of the Republican candidate, and the threat the election posed to the unity of the Republic.

The sermon was not delivered this past weekend, but by Morris Raphall, the rabbi of B'nai Jeshurun  in 1860. In this article from the American Jewish Archives, Raphall again and again pleads for the preservation of the Union, going so far as to sympathize with southern Democrats and object to the abolition of Slavery, and later (in an 1863 Fast Day sermon) railed against 

“demagogues, fanatics and a party Press” of both North and South, had mired the United States “in the third year of a destructive but needless sectional war which has armed brother against brother and consigned hundreds of thousands to an untimely grave.” While Raphall found “consolation” that the “cause of the union is the worthiest in the field,” he never mentioned slavery or the Emancipation Proclamation or searched for any larger meaning to the conflict. The nation must find its way back to the days of peace and prosperity that preceded the "demagogues, radicals and a Party Press war, albeit without acceding to unacceptable Southern demands for dividing the Union. His words conveyed the disillusionment prevalent in both the general and Jewish communities of New York City—a city that had never supported Lincoln or the Republican Party and its causes. The lavish Purim balls held that year along with other social events, including festive Saturday afternoon strolls down “Judenstrasse” (Broadway from Canal to Union Square), were evidence of the community’s determination to “turn from the horrible realities of war to the gay and festive, the charitable and intellectual.”

Sound familiar? An electorate eager to get back to their lives, to peace and prosperity, a sense that radicals on both sides had taken over the political process and, through money, media and grandstanding, had driven a wedge between people in this country, and a sense that, while on the one hand history is being made before our eyes, the meaning, the sense of what is happening is lost to us. 

Thank God this election, with it's long lines, with it's endless commercials, it's merciless attacks, it's voter registration laws and fears of conspiracy on both sides, did not lead to the kind of emergency Raphall and his cohort experienced. Despite some commentators speaking of two Americas, we do not have to live through the kind of 'two Americas' we suffered 150+ years ago. But we are facing a crisis, one of love and trust, of the ability to see the other as ourselves. 

Other people have written more profoundly on this topic than me, including Wendi Geffen and this article from Kveller, which both speak of the need to sympathize, to put yourself in the other's shoes, to be able to continue the relationship with those we disagree with, in spite of our differences and because those relationships are so critical. Which doesn't mean surrendering your values--it means living them in the most human way possible. 

At the Penny Candy Store in Centerville, across the street from the playground I went to growing up (and where I take my son now when we're on the Cape) there are two white benches on either side of the door--on the left bench is written "Democrats" and the right bench is labeled "Republicans", both in a fun old-timey script. There was a time when, despite sitting at different benches, we could sit together--to debate and argue, to hash things out, to prove our points--but out of love and respect, not hostility. This election (and those that have built up to it) have done a great deal to hurt that idea, and replace it with one where it's not just about your values and issues, it's also about whether your 'team' won or lost, without any consolation. To be sure this has happened in American politics before; the Civil War is only the most dramatic example, but there was a time when voting meant running a gauntlet of armed thugs from the other party. But it is also true that we have found ways as Americans to put that animosity away and find ways to share our values with one another meaningfully and build our country up. That task falls to us again, and it must, by necessity, fall to ALL of us. We have become a more partisan country and our elections reflect that; let us now use that same energy to rebuild relationships and put aside hurts, blame, accusations and conspiracy theories to work together. As John Kennedy said, "Let us not despair but act. Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer but the right answer. Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past - let us accept our own responsibility for the future."

I've quoted this line quite a bit since the election, but the sentiment is true. It is the very last lines of my favorite of Shakespeare's Histories, "Richard III". May these words come true soon enough: ‎"Now civil wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again: That she may long live here, God say amen!" 

Questioning Clal Yisrael

I just finished reading This post by Rabbi Rebecca Sirbu from CLAL, itself a response to this op-ed in the Harvard Crimson. The latter describes a student's attempt to find community at the Harvard Hillel and discovers himself the lone Reform Jew in a sea of Modern and Ultra-Orthodox Jews, and that sense of alienation and minimization that comes with such an experience. Sirbu, in turn, writes to emphasize that such alienation shouldn't lead us to oppose the other, criticizing how "Orthodox bashing has become vogue for many secular Jews" (The author of the Crimson op-ed bounces between 'secular' and 'Reform' as a self-descriptor, so I assume that's why she uses the term). She goes on to criticize this fear of the other and encourages a stance of curiosity

 I am not an Orthodox Jew. I too disagree with many political positions, and practices the Orthodox community engages in. But I am a pluralist. I believe there is space for many different kinds of Judaism. I can observe Judaism the way I choose to and you can too. Somehow this message is not being taught to our children. Each community is so concerned about educating our children about “our” kind of Judaism be it Reform, Conservative, Orthodox or other, and are so concerned with keeping the kids in their particular fold that the concept of “Clal Israel” of the entirety of Israel formed of different tribes and different ways of doing things has fallen by the wayside.  

I find myself struggling with this sentiment in light of what's happened with Women of the Wall, and recent encounters online (never a good start) where Anat Hoffman were called Extremists, and where it was suggested that my unmitigated support for them was extremist as well.

I love the idea of 'Clal Yisrael', that we are all one cohesive group, and there are times where that imagery is helpful. But too frequently, it is that very idea of "the entirety of Israel" that is used to quell dissent or the pluralism Sirbu holds dear. Instead of encouraging curiosity into the others' values, it promotes a kind of maximal-minimalism: rarely are progressive Jewish values taken into consideration, but Orthodox values are seen as 'acceptable to everyone' so they are encouraged. Instead of allowing a full-throated and meaningful conversation about Israel and the best policies to encourage a strong, diverse Jewish State, 'Clal Yisrael' is invoked to cast anyone who disagrees with the status quo out of the mainstream and out of the discussion. Rather than used to encourage liberal voices to speak up alongside traditional voices, it's used as a cudgel to keep order. Sirbu herself, albeit unintentionally (I assume) falls into this pattern herself: while she sympathizes with the alienation the college freshman describes in his article, she calls him to task for Orthodox bashing, rather than explore what might be at the root of the dilemma  why don't liberal Jewish students feel welcome in so many Hillels? Why is his experience minimized, the burden of open-mindedness placed on him, and not the Orthodox students at Hillel?

Worse, frequently 'Clal Yisrael' is used to create a moral relativisim: somehow a woman singing the Sh'ma in public makes you an extremist and provocateur no different than the Orthodox man who throws acid or ink at that woman. 'Clal Yisrael' was invoked when the Reform Movement began ordaining women (never mind giving them a full voice on the bimah), when we reached out to Interfaith families, when we recognized individuals as Jews regardless of parentage, when we advocated for a full voice for LGBTQ Jews in our community. Each time we were told that we were breaking with 'Clal Yisrael'. Each time peace mongers (to steal a phrase from Ed Friedman) insisted that we were being divisive and were causing the Jewish people harm. Advocates for peace with the Palestinians are routinely told the same thing today. "Clal Yisrael" has even been invoked by "post-denominationalists" (who I find are rarely truly post-denominational) as a way of saying that movements are dinosaurs, are part of the problem, and should shut up already. Guess what? Judaism is not only surviving, but thriving, with greater creativity than ever before, in part because of the advocacy of our movements, not in spite of that advocacy.

In a fantastic article, Rabbi Eric Yoffie talks about why most interfaith dialogue doesn't work.

Most of the time -- and it is painful for me to admit this -- it is terribly boring. Most of the time there is a tendency to manufacture consensus, whether it exists or not. Most of the time we go to great lengths to avoid conflict. Most of the time we cover the same ground that we covered last month or the month before. And far too often we finish our session without really knowing the people across the table and what makes them tick religiously.

Yoffie then spells out what works in good interfaith dialogue:

First, meaningful dialogue happens when the conversation turns to our religious differences. Platitudes are set aside when, as representatives of our faith traditions, we cease to be embarrassed by the particular; when we put aside the search for the lowest common denominator that most often characterizes -- and trivializes -- our discussions; and when we recognize that absent a clear affirmation of who we are, how we are different and what we truly believe, all our conversations are likely to come to nothing. 

Second, interreligious exchanges become compelling when my colleagues and partners give expression to their religious passions. I am drawn in when they share with me their deepest beliefs and strangest customs, no matter how radically other they are from my own. And the sharing of religious passions should lead to passionate debate, in which we struggle with the really hard questions: What happens when conflicting beliefs lead to conflicting interests? What do we do about those areas where differences cannot be bridged and must be dealt with?

Third, interreligious dialogue truly touches us when we can discuss what we all know to be true but what we rarely say: that, in some ways at least, we all believe in the exceptionalism of our own traditions. We all tend toward the conviction that there are some elements of our religious beliefs and practice that stand above and apart from what other religions offer, and it is liberating when we are able to acknowledge this and then explain why we think that way, without apology but open to the honest reactions of those around us.

What Yoffie argues for interfaith dialogue is just as true for intrafaith dialogue. I'm all for promoting "Shalom Bayit", peace in the home, but real peace comes from justice, and supporting your own beliefs, not appeasement and an attitude of "can't we all just get along". I'm all for curiosity and learning and openness, but too often that openness is shut down in order to avoid conflict. By all means, let's find common ground, but let's not make "kumbaya" moments for their own sake. Sometimes we disagree, sometimes we think--we know--the other is wrong. Good, let's fight it out in the marketplace of ideas, and let's allow that conversation to get heated. Let's get in each others' faces. Let's push. Let's challenge. Let's talk about who we are and what we do unapologetically, with nothing to prove to the other. But when we invoke 'Clal Yisrael", let's do so with caution, lest we find ourselves giving up on our convictions to make sure no one's offended.