Tag Archive | Black lives matter

The Days After Emancipation

Over 3000 years ago, on the 15th of the Hebrew month Nisan, the Egyptian Pharaoh releases the Israelites from centuries of bondage as all of Egypt cries out in the wake of God’s deadly plague. They march out in song and jubilation before their masters. The brutalities and indignities of slave life finally come to an end. The Israelites are free to follow their God into the wilderness.

Over 150 years ago, on the 1st day of January, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which declared, after two centuries of African American enslavement, “that all persons held as slaves” within the states that had seceded from the United States “are, and henceforward shall be, free.” The brutalities and indignities of slave life, the whippings and sexual assaults, the selling and forcible relocation of family members, the denial of education, wages, legal marriage, homeownership, had finally come to an end. African Americans celebrated their newfound freedom both privately and in public jubilees.

When Pharaoh changes his mind and his armies give chase to the Israelites, God divides a sea for safe passage, and closes it to drown their pursuers. God provides water and bread from heaven along the way. Within a few months, they arrive at the mountain of God. 

Two and a half years later, on June 19th, 1865, the slaves of Galveston, Texas received their emancipation from their masters. Some emancipated slaves quickly fled from their owners, while others who couldn’t imagine any feasible alternative remained to become wage laborers for their former owners. As the Civil War came to a close, Southern states began to pass a series of discriminatory state laws collectively known as ”black codes.” Slavery had been a pillar of economic stability in the region before the war; now, black codes ensured the same stability by recreating the antebellum economic structure under the façade of a free-labor system. 

At Mount Sinai the Israelites receive their constitution from God, a roadmap for building community, for establishing law and order, for promoting equality, equity and justice, and for creating a physical, social and spiritual space worthy of God’s presence.

The newly freed slaves were treated by some of their former masters with fair wages. Many former slave owners treated the freedmen with contempt, disdain and fear. One freedman, Houston Hartsfield Holloway, wrote, “For we colored people did not know how to be free and the white people did not know how to have a free colored person about them.”

When the time comes to realize God’s promise, ten of the twelve scouts who had gone into the Promised Land report to their community that the plan is not feasible. The residents, from their perspective, are giants. “We were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight.” 

The Reconstruction implemented by Congress, which lasted from 1866 to 1877, was aimed at reorganizing the Southern states after the Civil War, providing the means for readmitting them into the Union, and defining the means by which whites and blacks could live together in a nonslave society. The South, however, saw Reconstruction as a humiliating, even vengeful imposition and did not welcome it.

God and Moses are deeply disappointed, to say the least, that the community chooses to heed the report of the ten, as opposed to the more optimistic report of Joshua and Caleb, who believe that it is within their power—with God’s help—to take what has been promised. God decides to punish the Israelites for their lack of faith to forty years of wandering in the wilderness, such that the generation of slaves will die before they enter the Promised Land.

In 1877, the “Exodusters,” blacks who fled the south, established the settlement of Nicodemus on the arid plains of northwestern Kansas. However, because of several crop failures and resentment from the county’s white settlers, all but a few homesteaders abandoned their claims. A rising population of 500 in 1880 had declined over the next 40 years to less than 200.

Forty years later it is the Israelites’ children, raised in the wilderness within the parameters of the new constitution and under the eyes of a protecting God, who enter Canaan to reclaim their ancestral homeland.

In the former Confederacy and neighboring states, local governments constructed a legal system aimed at re-establishing a society based on white supremacy. African American men were largely barred from voting. Legislation known as Jim Crow laws separated people of color from whites in schools, housing, jobs, and public gathering places. The laws proved very effective. In Mississippi, fewer than 9,000 of the 147,000 voting-age African Americans were registered after 1890. In Louisiana, where more than 130,000 black voters had been registered in 1896, the number had plummeted to 1,342 by 1904. The children born to former slaves may not have known the whip as their parents did, but they suffered continuing marginalization and dehumanization at the hands of those who did not consider the 14th amendment to the Constitution–that “all men are created equal”–to include black Americans.

We, in our mostly white and Ashkenazi-centric (“Ashkenormative”) Jewish communities love to assert how we have fought for the civil rights of Black Americans through the decades, and that we are uniquely equipped to understand the experiences of people of color.  There is no doubt that Jewish Americans have disproportionately supported progressive causes with their presence and their resources. But neither our historic experience of enslavement in Egypt nor our experience of anti-Semitism in all its forms through the centuries have given us unique insight into the suffering of Black Americans at the hands of a society that was created by whites for whites, and only begrudgingly made space to incorporate the “others” already in their midst. Moreover, even our immigrant experience as seekers of religious tolerance in a new world, as fraught as it may have been and continues to be, fails to educate us sufficiently to the historic and institutional inequities faced by people of color in this country.

Claims that we are not racist–that we can relate, that anti-Semitism is a problem too, that all lives matter–only serve as impediments to ridding ourselves of the systemic racial injustices and the privileges that benefit us. If we are to be ANTI-racist, allies to those who are disproportionately negatively impacted by too many systems in our country, we must listen to and we must believe the voices of those who say that they face a daily exhausting battle. We must turn within our own communities to hear the voices of Jews of color and how they have been marginalized. And we must face ourselves and our loved ones and friends honestly to confront uncomfortable truths, to engage in hard discussions, about our own attitudes and biases.

“It shall be unlawful for a negro and white person to play together or in company with each other in any game of cards or dice, dominoes or checkers.”
—Birmingham, Alabama, 1930

Our most senior community members were born into a world where humans were marginalized for the color of their skin.  Many of our parents were raised in communities where such attitudes persisted. There are those of us who felt the sting of the word “shvartze” in our homes, even if we would never use it ourselves. Few of us knew that Jews of color existed. And if we did, we questioned the authenticity of their experience or chalked them up to being Sephardic, an “otherness” of a more acceptable yet still not-as-authentic Jewish ilk.

When a person of color walks into our synagogue, do we think “What’s their story? What are they doing here? Are they Jewish? Did they convert?” These questions reflect a racist bias, regardless of our intentions. Yet, as we remind those who equate Jewish with whiteness, we are a multiracial people and we are becoming more so. We must thus begin by asking ourselves the question: As a Jewish community that is almost exclusively white, where are we? Why are we? What must we do to enter the 21st century, to create an environment where Jews of color are comfortable and safe with us? Can we assert to Jews of color that, indeed, Black lives matter, so that they no longer need to feel marginalized or denigrated in their own spiritual homes?

Perhaps home is where we can and must begin to do the arduous work of becoming anti-racist allies. I welcome the difficult conversations that will hopefully follow.

Rabbi Craig Scheff

A Two-Sentence Legacy

Today, the sixteenth of Sivan, was my father’s yahrzeit. All day, I have been thinking about what he missed for these past 29 years.

He never witnessed so many changes in me, never saw who I have become. He never met two of his four grandchildren, and never experienced a milestone with them past Noah’s second birthday. His baby granddaughter is now expecting a baby of her own. I know that he would have relished it all.

Like many of us, on such an anniversary, I think about what my parents have missed, but this year, my father’s yahrzeit has been a particularly hard day.

When I examined my deep sadness, I recognized that thinking about what he has missed is just a shield against thinking about all that I have missed. And what I am missing today is the dad who listened patiently to my questions about injustice in the world. It’s the dad who could wisely help me trace historical factors that led to the situations that are plaguing society. It’s the dad who would let me cry and comfort me for the anguish of suffering people in the world. My father was a progressive liberal in all of his thinking, but he was never an activist. Family dinner table conversations were about family members, television shows and the Red Sox. We did not often talk about current events and never debated politics. There were no cries for taking action against injustice, no stamping of postcards, no traveling miles to rallies and protests. But in the quiet of our den, I would lean on my dad’s shoulder as he read the Portland Press Herald in the morning or the Evening Express at night, and he was my tutor. He guided me to formulating ideas about issues in the world and to recognizing my agency to effect change.

Today, in the midst of these days filled with anguish and protest, I missed that quiet den and those talks. But when I tried to retrace my father’s role in my activist soul, I could not do it. My memory for actual conversations is too undependable, even the tenor of his voice flees from my remembrance. There are too many questions I never asked, stories I do not know, descriptions of emotion I never heard. My father’s inner life, it seemed to me all day today, is an irreplaceable treasure.

And then suddenly, earlier this evening, a memory came to me, like the answer to an unasked prayer. From out of the blue, I remembered, in absolute detail, a conversation with my dad when I was disappointed about something (no doubt inconsequential) in high school. I have no memory of my own particulars, but I remember everything my dad told me about his senior prom. “I went to my senior prom with Charles Richardson. Charlie was the only black student at Portland High School in 1947. In fact, the Richardson family was the only black family in all of Portland.” On one level this information is certainly of interest, that my dad had no date and attended a dance with a fellow male student. At a deeper level, I feel like I recovered this memory as a salve for my hurting heart. My dad rarely spoke about his childhood. But of all the stories my father did not tell me, this is a story fragment that he did share.

And I accept it. I accept this story with its mysterious details and take it in as my legacy from my dad. He showed up at his prom with a young black man as his date. In Portland, Maine. In 1947. If the legacy was not overt, I can still find it there when I look closely. The only question now is what will I do with his legacy?

In this time of upheaval and protest, I dedicate myself to ongoing education, to learn more about historical, institutional racism, to move beyond understanding myself as a racist to becoming an anti-racist. I pledge to continue engaging in conversations with those from whom I can learn and with those I can teach.

In this month of June, Pride Month, I dedicate myself to ongoing education, to learn more about the lives of those who still fear sharing with the world who they are, to move beyond being an ally to becoming an activist.

It does not matter if I am making more of my father’s story than ever existed in context. I have decided to consider it the legacy left me by my father. A simple two-sentence story bearing two important facts. Dad went to the prom with another boy and that boy was black.

For some of us, the legacy for social justice is clear. Others of us, like me, must go searching and maybe even make it up a little. But I know that I had a dad who taught me to value the vulnerable because he himself was. He taught me to find strength in what appears to be weakness because that is what he did to survive. My father left me the key to a treasure trove of important values in a two-sentence fragment of a story. I’ll take it.


This past week, the Jewish Federation and Foundation of Rockland issued a statement, which we shared to our synagogue community, in response to the recent publication of the Movement for Black Lives’ platform. I had a feeling that the statement would elicit a range of responses, and my sense was rewarded with three messages, each very different in its perspective. With each passing day this week, following social media and the many (mostly Jewish) media outlets, I gained several more perspectives in response to the platform. I have tried to find my personal response inside these many perspectives, but none entirely gives voice to exactly how I feel. So perhaps, if I can lay out my responses for you, you can come to a conclusion of your own. I can, however, offer you from the outset one ultimate conclusion I have reached: if you truly care about where to stand on this issue, you must dive in deeply. Wading through the waters from the surface will only serve to reinforce preconceived notions and biases, in which case you might as well not even bother taking the swim.

To summarize the issue in its most basic terms, the published platform of the Movement for Black Lives (note: they are a subset of organizations affiliated with the Black Lives Matter movement, but they are NOT synonymous!), in an extensive and far-reaching statement of “policy demands for Black power, freedom and justice,” includes a section on investment and divestment: We demand investments in the education, health and safety of Black people, instead of investments in the criminalizing, caging, and harming of Black people. We want investments in Black communities, determined by Black communities, and divestment from exploitative forces including prisons, fossil fuels, police, surveillance and exploitative corporations.” Among the many detailed demands put forth in this section, in calling for a decrease in military spending and aid, the platform singles out America’s complicity with Israel “in the genocide taking place against the Palestinian people.” The platform further states that “Israel is an apartheid state with over 50 laws on the books that sanction discrimination against the Palestinian people.”

So here is where the conversation gets tricky, especially in a community where so many people have pledged support for the Black Lives Matter effort but who also care about protecting Israel’s interests against deligitimization and the growing BDS (Boycott, Sanction and Divest) movement.

My observations:

  1. Everyone should read the entire Movement for Black Lives platform. It is important on so many levels, and there is so much to learn about the institutional challenges we as a society face in battling economic inequalities, social injustices, and racial biases in America. (Click here, please, to access the platform.)
  2. “Genocide” is a loaded term, especially for Jews. While others may look to expand the definition of the term for their own purposes, or are not sensitive to the impact of that word on others, some Jewish people go to the other extreme, claiming ownership of the word for their personal, unique and incomparable historic experience. Most Jews are extremely sensitive to the use of that word being directed at Jews or the Jewish state. In the words of my colleague Rabbi Shai Held, “The Occupation has caused immense suffering to Palestinians, and in my estimation, it has caused profound moral and religious rot in Israel. And the silencing and condemnation of so many serious, passionate Jews who have been critical of the Occupation has done profound damage to the American Jewish community (and to Israel too). But an occupation is decidedly not a genocide. And to suggest otherwise is to demonize and vilify the Jewish State based on what amounts to a libel.”
  3. Naming Israel an apartheid state is absurd, and exposes ignorance at best and bias at worst. Recent United Nations reports of Hamas using humanitarian aid for the purpose of building tunnels into Israel from Gaza should serve as a good reminder for why security fences and checkpoints exist in certain population areas. Moreover, the economic and political freedoms and legitimate opportunities that Arab Israelis, Muslims and Christians, Blacks and other minorities enjoy in Israel should render any accusations of apartheid as malicious and illegitimate. This is not intended to ignore the challenges faced in Israeli society, where prejudices and institutional inequalities also exist. But by any objective standards, these challenges do not render Israel an apartheid state.
  4. Any intersection of the Black Lives Matter with the BDS movement sells short and undercuts the legitimacy of the BLM movement. Most in the mainstream agree that BDS is veiled anti-Semitism, that it does not advance the chances of peace between Israelis and Palestinians, and that it does not acknowledge the realities of the region.
  5. Jews have historically walked proudly with other civil rights’ movements, especially in 1960s America, because of our own historical experience and the Torah’s socially progressive ethics. But the Movement for Black Lives is not the civil rights movement of the 1960s. It sees itself, in its own language, far more aligned with the more radical Black Power movement, engaged in a struggle against White supremacy and imperialism around the globe. To what degree, then, is this movement interested in partnerships with those who have been associated with privilege and imperialism? That question is yet to be answered.
  6. “All lives matter” is not an appropriate response to the “Black lives matter” assertion. Just as we, as Jews, see our historical experiences and suffering as unique, so too blacks have a unique history, experience and place in society today. We who are white Jews may be able to sympathize, but we cannot empathize with those who are black. I have learned this from the stories of black Jews in our community; I have learned this from white Jewish parents raising black Jewish children. They face a unique set of challenges in this society, Jewish or not. Yes, all lives matter. That is one of our central values as Jews. Even so, the obligation to the stranger in our midst is a separate Jewish value, equally as important. The plight of black people in our society warrants separate consideration.

My conclusion:

“We” are not mutually exclusive. “We” as a Jewish community are constituted by individuals of many colors, black, white, and others; we are Jewish and non-Jewish; we are liberal and conservative. As such, we need to recognize that when issues such as this one arise, some of us may be affected differently than others. Our internal response is as important as how we respond to the outside world. Unified or not, that response needs to reflect an understanding of, and be sensitive to, the diversity that “we” represent. Hopefully, our response can always reflect the unity of our shared values. If the 9th of Av, whose fast is observed Saturday night into Sunday, is to teach us anything, it should at least teach us that is who we are.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Craig Scheff


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