Feeling and knowing that we belong

One of the painful postscripts of the Holocaust was the saga of the many Jewish children hidden during the war, especially in churches and monasteries across Europe, but whose parents did not survive to find them when the war was over.

Some of these children were six or seven years old, and though Jewish by birth, had for all intents and purposes grown up as Christian children with little recollection of their parents or their Jewish roots.

One of the individuals who worked tirelessly to locate these lost children and bring them home to their people, was Rabbi Herschel Schacter, a chaplain with the U.S. Eighth Army.

It was difficult to find these children, much less to prove that they were really Jewish, but Rabbi Schacter had an ingenious way of discovering the Jewish children amongst the multitude of refugees.

While stationed in Poland, he would take a jeep and a couple of burly soldiers and visit the local churches on Sunday mornings during mass.

Rabbi Schacter would stride up to the front of the church in full U.S. military uniform and, staring out at the hundreds of children crowding the pews, would begin to recite, in a loud, booming voice, the Shema Yisrael. And then their eyes would give them away.

A few years ago, I told this story to a large audience, and an elderly gentleman came over to me afterwards and told me, with tears in his eyes, how much it meant to him that the story was still being told. He had been one of those children. That experience had been so powerful for him because until that point in his life, he had never felt like he belonged, and then, in walks this army Colonel, and starts saying words he could not understand, but he just knew he belonged.

We all have a need to belong, and sometimes we respond to that need in unhealthy ways. We want to fit in, and will sometimes behave in a way that allows us to be accepted by our peers, almost as if to say: “Look at me!” Judaism, however, has a very different perspective: Rather than getting everyone to see me, Judaism challenges us to learn to see everybody else.

So how do we succeed in achieving this desire to belong, without losing perspective on why it is worth belonging at all?

One would assume that the most natural vehicle for accomplishing this goal is the family. If there is any place in the world where I should feel like I ‘belong,’ it should be in the family, where I should know that I am loved, and I should be able to see and appreciate everybody else. And yet, that is not always so.

I remember once, in the middle of a Friday night dinner at Isralight, one of the students began to cry. She was trying to take it all in: the beautiful table and candles, everyone sitting around with nowhere to run to and no schedule to keep, singing Shalom Aleichem, and especially the blessing over the children.

If there were a moment in the week that I had to choose as my favorite, I would have to say it is Friday night when we bless our children. Blessings are about appreciating the gifts we have in our lives, and if we are willing to take a moment to appreciate what a gift an apple is, then taking such a moment with each one of our children is nothing short of magnificent.

In fact, there is a wonderful custom we follow in our home, that before you offer the traditional blessing to each of your children, you mention their name, and take a moment to appreciate all that they are for you in your life, and all that you hope they will ever be. All your hopes and dreams are encapsulated into this one moment: you step off the world, and it’s just you and your child.

I guess it struck a chord with this particular girl, because tears were streaming down her face. Later, while everyone was washing their hands, I took her aside, and she said it suddenly hit her, that she couldn’t remember the last time she had told anyone, including her parents, that she loved them. On Sunday afternoon, I took her into my office, gave her the phone, told her to call her parents, and stepped out of my office for lunch. She said it was one of the most meaningful experiences she had ever had.

So why is this so hard to do? In America today, we seem to be watching the family unit disappear; why is that?

In this week’s portion, VaYeshev, things at last seem to be headed in the right direction. All twelve of Yaakov’s sons seem to be remaining in the fold, until, almost out of the blue, they are selling one of their own brothers into slavery, and it seems like the dream of a Jewish people, dedicated to creating a world of ethics and brotherhood, will never materialize. And then, somehow, it all works out, and (three weeks from now in the portion of Va’Yechi) the twelve sons of Yaakov gather together around Yaakov’s deathbed for their blessings which will result in the birth of the Nation of Israel, made up of these twelve tribes.

What went wrong, and then, what went right? And what does this mean for us today?

Two leaders emerge from the family of Yaakov: Yosef (Joseph) and Yehudah (Judah), and one wonders what happened to Re’uven, the rightful first-born heir?

A closer look at the story of Joseph seems to suggest that it is actually Re’uven who tries to do the right thing, not Yehuda.

When the brothers (Genesis 37:20) conspire to kill Joseph, Re’uven steps forward:

“And Re’uven heard, and saved him (Joseph) from their hands, and said: ‘let us not kill him.’ And Re’uven said to them do not spill blood! Throw him in this pit… but lay no hand on him, intending to rescue him from their hand, and return him to their father.” (Ibid. 37:21-22)

While Re’uven wants to save Joseph, Yehuda initiates the plan to sell him as a slave to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver (37:26-28). Is there any lower point in Jewish history than this, when the sons of Yaakov conspire to sell their brother into slavery for profit? It is Re’uven (Ibid. 37: 29) who tears his own clothes in agony when he realizes his plan to save Joseph has been foiled.

And yet, we derive the royal line of King David from Yehudah, while Re’uven is relegated to a relatively marginal role. So what did Re’uven do that was so terrible?

One line in the story may be the key to unlocking this mystery. When Re’uven returns to discover that Joseph is sold into slavery, he says: “HaYeled Einenu’ Va’Ani, Anah Ani Bah?” “The boy is gone! And I-where can I go?” (Ibid. 37:31)

While at first glance it appears that Re’uven is upset about his brother being sold into slavery, a close look at this verse reveals that Re’uven’s reaction is all about Re’uven. Joseph’s name does not even appear in the verse! How could Re’uven, reacting to Joseph’s being sold as a slave, not even mention him by name? Perhaps this is the root of the problem; Joseph simply isn’t there, which is how this could have occurred at all. And when my brother isn’t there, then in a sense, part of me isn’t there either. In the end, it is specifically when I can find my brother, and feel his pain, that I really find myself.

And this is the state the brothers are in: they throw Joseph, their own brother into a pit, and then sit down to eat lunch. (37:24-25) The only way you can throw your brother into a pit and then sit down to lunch while his cries echo in your ears, is if that brother really isn’t there.

This is essentially the antithesis of the phrase used to describe a person’s really being there: “Hineni” “Here I am,” which is Abraham’s response to G-d for the binding of Isaac, and Moshe’s response to G-d’s call to redeem the Jewish people from Egypt. Because, again, if I am really with my fellow human beings, no matter where they are, then, and only then, am I really here.

At the end of the Joseph saga, when Joseph reveals himself to his brothers he says: “I am Joseph.” (Genesis 45:3) It is precisely because, despite all that he went through, Joseph still feels his brothers’ pain and is “with” them, that he is really “there” as well.

It is precisely this principle that is at the root of Yehudah’s ultimate emergence as a true leader. His descent into despair is all about that he really was not there.

And then, everything turns around for Yehuda, demonstrated by his willingness at the end of the story (Genesis 44: 18-34) to step forward, and place himself as a slave in lieu of his brother Binyamin. At that moment, his brother is so there, that he becomes even more important to Yehudah than Yehudah himself, and Yehudah finally becomes all that Yehudah can be.

And this is the dream: that one day, we will succeed in putting aside our differences, so that we can build one world community, which begins with many smaller communities of nations, all of whom finally learn that we all belong to the same planet, with the same goal of learning to live as one.

In the end, when one nation, just like one person, believes that the pain or danger or injustice of another nation (or person) is not their issue, it is not just wrong because it is mistaken; it is wrong because it just isn’t true. Maybe one day soon, we will learn to see things as they really are meant to be.