The first time I visited Chattanooga, I was struck by its tremendous natural beauty. It is absolutely gorgeous, with lush greenery, breathtaking mountain views, and the Tennessee River meandering through the city.
I love the way history mingles with modernity here. Chattanooga has transformed itself into a vibrant, revitalized city, known as “Gig City” for its pioneering high-speed fiber-optic network. We have a wonderful downtown, a world-class aquarium, the Creative Discovery Children’s Museum, the Hunter Museum of American Art, beautiful parks and trails, and extraordinary natural surroundings.
Our own Mizpah Congregation is part of this rich history. Founded in 1866, Mizpah has been part of Chattanooga for 160 years. Our history is intertwined with some remarkable figures in American Jewish life, including Adolph Ochs, publisher of The New York Times; Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, one of the architects of Reform Judaism in America; and our beloved Rabbi Abraham Feinstein, who served this congregation for more than three decades.
When I first arrived, I was also surprised to discover that our congregational cemetery shares a property line with the Confederate Cemetery. And every day on my way to Mizpah, I pass the Trail of Tears. History touches us everywhere we look. Some of that history inspires pride; some of it reminds us of painful chapters in our nation’s past that we must never forget.
Yes, we have so much to be proud of. We live in a breathtakingly beautiful city, surrounded by reminders of a history that is complex and still very much present.
Yet, almost every day when I drive to work, I see another side of Chattanooga.
Just down the block from Mizpah, I notice people who are homeless, sometimes pushing all of their worldly possessions before them in a shopping cart. Some evenings, people use the doorways of buildings around us as shelter.
The contrast is stark and heartbreaking.
This disparity between abundance and need is hardly new. In fact, it lies at the heart of this week’s Torah portion, Re’eh:
If however, there is a needy person among you…do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin. Rather, you must open your hand and lend what is sufficient to meet the need. Beware, lest …you are mean and give nothing to your needy kin – who will cry out to the Eternal against you, and you will incur guilt. Give readily and have no regrets…For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land. (Deuteronomy 15: 7-11)
Immediately prior to this, the Torah explains that God is giving us a good land with enough food to feed all, so there will “never be needy among you.” (Deuteronomy 15:4)
How can these two seemingly contradictory ideas exist simultaneously in the Torah? How can Torah envision a society in which no one need be poor and, only a few verses later, acknowledge that there will always be those in need?
Perhaps that tension is precisely the point.
The Torah holds both before us an ideal and the reality. The ideal is a society in which God’s blessings are shared so fully and so justly that no one lacks what they need. The reality is the world in which we actually live, where abundance does not necessarily mean that everyone has enough.
We know this reality all too well. Our world has extraordinary abundance, and yet people remain hungry. We have tremendous wealth, and yet people sleep without shelter. We have closets overflowing with clothing, and yet others lack even the most basic necessities.
The Torah does not allow us to look at this disparity and simply shrug our shoulders. Notice the language it uses: Do not harden your heart. Do not shut your hand. Open your hand.
The movement is from the heart to the hand. Compassion must lead to action. Our faith in God must be an impetus to action, not an excuse for inertia.
The 18th-century Chasidic master Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov expressed this idea in even more audacious terms:
There are times when we must actually believe that there is no God! For example, when someone who is needy comes to ask you for bread, you must not send him away with such comforting words as, ‘God will provide,’ nor may you use God as an excuse by saying, ‘If God wanted you to have my money, then you would have it.’ At that moment, you must act as if there is no God, and you are the only one who can help.
In other words, we cannot outsource our responsibility to God. We are God’s partners in repairing the broken places of our world. Sometimes the answer to another person’s prayer is not a miracle from heaven. Sometimes the answer is us.
What does that mean for us?
It can mean supporting organizations that provide food, shelter, clothing, medical care, and other necessities to those who need them. It can mean keeping food, water, or other useful items in our cars to offer when we encounter someone in need. It can mean volunteering our time. It can mean learning more about homelessness and food insecurity in our own community, and supporting efforts that address not only immediate needs, but also the circumstances that create and perpetuate poverty.
Above all, it means remembering the dignity of the person standing before us: treating everyone as an individual made in God’s image, b’tzelem Elohim, worthy of receiving honor, blessing, food, clothing, and shelter.
During the upcoming High Holy Days, Mizpah will once again collect funds to support our local food pantry. I hope each of us will participate as generously as we are able. Please watch your email and upcoming congregational notices for more information about how you can help.
I understand that these measures will not eliminate homelessness, hunger, or poverty. No single act of generosity can solve problems this complex. However, Judaism teaches us that even though we cannot finish the work, neither are we free to walk away from it.
The rabbinic sages imagined that when we enter the world to come, we will be asked, “What was your work?” If we can answer: “I used to feed the hungry, I clothed the naked, I tried to do my part,” we will be told:
“This is God’s gate: you who fed the hungry, clothed the naked and did your part, you may enter.” (Midrash on Psalm 118:17)
We understand that there will always be those among us who are poor or homeless. Yet the Torah’s realism should never be mistaken for fatalism. At the same time, we never give up trying to eradicate these issues.
Rabbi and theologian Leo Baeck wrote:
Every suffering of our neighbor must become our own concern, a test and proof of our ethical freedom… When we face poverty, we meet not the language of fate but the demand of a definite duty imposed on us. In the most special sense of the commandment is the poor man our fellow man… Through him humanity appeals to us, bare and naked, humanity, one might say, asking for human fellowship. (Leo Baeck, The Essence of Judaism)
This is the challenge Re’eh places before us. The Torah does not ask whether we can eliminate every inequity in our society. It asks what we will do when need appears before us.
Will we avert our eyes?
Will we harden our hearts?
Will we shut our hands?
We live amid extraordinary beauty and abundance. The challenge is to make certain that the beauty of our surroundings is reflected in the beauty of how we treat one another.
How will you open your hand, open your heart, and make a difference this week?
Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel