During this olive harvest season, we are working alongside Palestinian communities to help them defend their land, while at the same time helping us, as Jews, defend our values. Both are under brutal attack.
Moderation, humility, and respect for human dignity are the cornerstones of Jewish tradition. They are the moral compass that guides our relationships with one another and with God. The foundation upon which we exalt Moses is his profound humility: “Now the man Moses was very humble, more so than any other human being on earth” (Numbers 12:3).
We are commanded to love our neighbors, not to consider ourselves above others, and to practice restraint and self-control: “One who is slow to anger is better than a warrior, and one who rules their spirit than one who captures a city” (Proverbs 16:32). Throughout our tradition, the recognition of human dignity, kavod habriyot, is repeatedly affirmed as a value of overriding importance: “Great is human dignity, for it overrides a prohibition in the Torah” (Berakhot 19b).
The roots of these values lie in the recognition of humanity’s humble place in the face of creation, in the face of time, and above all, in the face of God. Humility is, in fact, one of the deepest forms of serving God. It guides us toward a sensitive and loving relationship with the world around us and all its inhabitants.
In a central passage in The Kuzari, a piercing question is raised: Does the humility that occupies such a central place in Judaism stem from deep faith and moral choice, or is it merely the result of exile and powerlessness? When Jews gain even a little power, will they too lose their humility and act violently toward others?
The King of the Khazars asks:
“That would be true if your submission were voluntary. But it is imposed upon you, and when you have the upper hand, you will kill.” (The Kuzari, First Essay, 114).
This sharp rebuke leaves the Jewish scholar with no real answer:
“You have found the very place of my shame, O King of the Khazars.” (The Kuzari, First Essay, 115).
In our family, my father-in-law often quotes this exchange as a warning against the corruption of character that power can bring, and against its ability to transform the system of values upon which our tradition is founded.
It seems that Judaism has had relatively little experience with religious fanaticism and extreme violence committed in the name of religion. We, who love the Torah and seek God's truth as revealed in the “still, small voice,” have felt safe and protected, even sheltered and embraced, within the moral moderation of our tradition. But this sense of security lulled us into complacency and, ironically, even gave rise to pride and a sense of moral superiority—the belief that we, simply by virtue of who we are, are immune to these sins.
Today, we are witnessing some of the most extreme Jewish religious fanaticism we have known since the days of the Second Temple. Gangs of unruly, unrestrained young men, clutching Rabbi Nachman of Breslov's Sefer HaMiddot (The Book of Character Traits), are participating in the expulsion of innocent people from their homes. At the same time, malicious and distorted falsehoods are being spread, as Rabbi Dov Lior explains that taking olives belonging to others is not prohibited, but is even a spiritual right. Those seeking to become the “masters of the house” have already answered the King of the Khazars' question—and in the most painful way possible.
This olive harvest season, Jewish tradition is being desecrated before our very eyes by the actions of fanatics, the moral corruption of leaders, and the support of rabbis.
We can no longer remain silent. And if we have not yet brought God's wrath upon ourselves, we must act resolutely to restore humility to its rightful place and reestablish it as a fundamental principle of Jewish tradition and religious conduct. It is not enough to speak about humility; we must demonstrate it precisely when we hold power, precisely when it is easy for us to ignore the suffering of others, and precisely when we are called upon to choose between superiority and human dignity.
Every day during the olive harvest season, Rabbis for Human Rights sends out groups of hundreds of Israeli volunteers to support Palestinian farmers and harvest olives together, in the name of humility and human dignity. Join us!
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Anton Goodman is the Acting CEO of Rabbis for Human Rights. This article was originally published in the Darkhei Noam Shabbat newsletter.
Moderation, humility, and respect for human dignity are the cornerstones of Jewish tradition. They are the moral compass that guides our relationships with one another and with God. The foundation upon which we exalt Moses is his profound humility: “Now the man Moses was very humble, more so than any other human being on earth” (Numbers 12:3).
We are commanded to love our neighbors, not to consider ourselves above others, and to practice restraint and self-control: “One who is slow to anger is better than a warrior, and one who rules their spirit than one who captures a city” (Proverbs 16:32). Throughout our tradition, the recognition of human dignity, kavod habriyot, is repeatedly affirmed as a value of overriding importance: “Great is human dignity, for it overrides a prohibition in the Torah” (Berakhot 19b).
The roots of these values lie in the recognition of humanity’s humble place in the face of creation, in the face of time, and above all, in the face of God. Humility is, in fact, one of the deepest forms of serving God. It guides us toward a sensitive and loving relationship with the world around us and all its inhabitants.
In a central passage in The Kuzari, a piercing question is raised: Does the humility that occupies such a central place in Judaism stem from deep faith and moral choice, or is it merely the result of exile and powerlessness? When Jews gain even a little power, will they too lose their humility and act violently toward others?
The King of the Khazars asks:
“That would be true if your submission were voluntary. But it is imposed upon you, and when you have the upper hand, you will kill.” (The Kuzari, First Essay, 114).
This sharp rebuke leaves the Jewish scholar with no real answer:
“You have found the very place of my shame, O King of the Khazars.” (The Kuzari, First Essay, 115).
In our family, my father-in-law often quotes this exchange as a warning against the corruption of character that power can bring, and against its ability to transform the system of values upon which our tradition is founded.
It seems that Judaism has had relatively little experience with religious fanaticism and extreme violence committed in the name of religion. We, who love the Torah and seek God's truth as revealed in the “still, small voice,” have felt safe and protected, even sheltered and embraced, within the moral moderation of our tradition. But this sense of security lulled us into complacency and, ironically, even gave rise to pride and a sense of moral superiority—the belief that we, simply by virtue of who we are, are immune to these sins.
Today, we are witnessing some of the most extreme Jewish religious fanaticism we have known since the days of the Second Temple. Gangs of unruly, unrestrained young men, clutching Rabbi Nachman of Breslov's Sefer HaMiddot (The Book of Character Traits), are participating in the expulsion of innocent people from their homes. At the same time, malicious and distorted falsehoods are being spread, as Rabbi Dov Lior explains that taking olives belonging to others is not prohibited, but is even a spiritual right. Those seeking to become the “masters of the house” have already answered the King of the Khazars' question—and in the most painful way possible.
This olive harvest season, Jewish tradition is being desecrated before our very eyes by the actions of fanatics, the moral corruption of leaders, and the support of rabbis.
We can no longer remain silent. And if we have not yet brought God's wrath upon ourselves, we must act resolutely to restore humility to its rightful place and reestablish it as a fundamental principle of Jewish tradition and religious conduct. It is not enough to speak about humility; we must demonstrate it precisely when we hold power, precisely when it is easy for us to ignore the suffering of others, and precisely when we are called upon to choose between superiority and human dignity.
Every day during the olive harvest season, Rabbis for Human Rights sends out groups of hundreds of Israeli volunteers to support Palestinian farmers and harvest olives together, in the name of humility and human dignity. Join us!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Anton Goodman is the Acting CEO of Rabbis for Human Rights. This article was originally published in the Darkhei Noam Shabbat newsletter.