I’ve spoken here before about my 8th grade Jewish History class, where we study the history of the Holocaust. About ⅔ of the way through the year, our focus shifts to the history of the State of Israel, including contemporary events. So…. less complicated topic, right? 

In class the other day, as we were parsing out the different events and circumstances that led to the intractability of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, one of my students shyly raised her hand.

“This may be a dumb question,” she said, “but why don’t the two sides get together and just agree to end it? They have to want it to stop, right?”

We discussed her question for a few minutes in class, affirming that it was far from dumb, and also reminding ourselves of some of the issues in play that make it extremely challenging to have either side willing to seek peace, or even simply compromise. We talked about how looking for a straightforward answer is a natural response to a devastating situation, but that the reality is more complicated.

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When I was in college, the bodega around the corner from my freshman dorm had a video rental service. (This was in the days of VHS.) One of the movies my friends and I rented over and over was The American President, in which Michael Douglas played a brilliant, altruistic, and entirely human president who was dealing with both personal and political challenges. 

There’s a scene, during an impromptu press conference, when the president, kind of shockingly, begins lambasting his opponent in the upcoming election. There are several memorable moments in his speech, but the part that really gets me is his description of American identity. This is the scene that’s been running through my mind of late. He says:

“America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You've gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say, "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours." You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country cannot just be a flag. The symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Now show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms.

Then you can stand up and sing about the land of the free.”

Advanced citizenship. To be fully invested in being an American, he posits, one has to embrace ideas or realities that seem diametrically opposed. True patriotism isn’t monolithic – it takes many different shapes and forms, each of them authentic and true. Being American pulls us in conflicting directions and asks us to balance opposing philosophies and moral demands. 

It’s all too easy just to pick a perspective and hold onto it unilaterally, to minimize the importance of elevating other viewpoints. And to be honest, holding opposing philosophies simultaneously can be confusing. We tend to like it when things are yes or no, black or white, right or wrong. When things become yes and no, black and white, right and wrong, we don’t quite know what to do or believe…

Which brings me to our parashah. Aḥarei Mot and Kedoshim comprise what scholars call the Holiness Code, the Torah’s recipe for sanctity: in community, in ritual life, in our relationships, and within ourselves. Holiness, as it turns out, is not easy. It is advanced Jewish citizenship. It asks us to take contradictory ethical demands and somehow figure out how to create something livable. 

Two of the most widely quoted and broadly applied ideas in the Jewish tradition come from our parashah. And they fall right under the umbrella of advanced Jewish citizenship, conflicting with each other at their very core. 

One of these ideas comes as a warning: “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws.” (Lev. 18:3) We see this same idea again in the Torah’s command: “You shall not follow the practices of the nation that I am driving out before you.” (Lev. 19:23) 

The other idea comes as a moral demand: ״ואהבת לרעך כמוך״ - “Love your fellow as yourself, I am the LORD.” (Lev. 19:18) And shortly after this: “The strangers who reside with you shall be to you as your citizens; you shall love each one as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Lev. 19:34) 

Part of the Holiness Code inculcates xenophobia and demonization of the other. And part of the Holiness Code teaches us to embrace the other, even those who are most different from us. 

These two drives within our parashah are hard to reconcile. And there are, of course, those who prefer to pick only one perspective and stick with it. We see this clearly in the rabbinic midrashim on these passages, particularly on the ones that warn us against getting close to people of different backgrounds. 

The Sifra, an early midrash on the book of Vayikra comments:

 מנין שלא היתה אומה באומות שהתעיבו מעשיהם יותר מן המצריים?

From where do we learn that there was no nation whose actions were more detestable than the Egyptians? From (Lev. 18:3) “You shall  not copy the practices of the land of Egypt; nor shall you follow their laws.” (Sifra Aḥarei Mot 8:3) The same section then says something similar about the Canaanites. Both are strong statements vilifying the people among whom the Israelites lived.

The midrash continues: “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt…or of the land of Canaan…” (Lev. 18:3) We might think that the verse is telling us not to build or plant in the same ways that they do. Therefore, it is written (ibid.) “Nor shall you follow their laws” – [it is specifically their laws and cultural practices that you must shun]” (Sifra Aḥarei Mot 8:8) Even here, where there is some acceptance of assimilation and sharing wisdom, the midrash makes sure we know that the people themselves and their unique practices must be entirely avoided.

Looking at these midrashim, we can see the fear (perhaps well-founded) that motivates the strict boundaries between the Jewish community and our neighbors. When the different practices and cultures that surround us become too comfortable, we run the risk of losing sight of what makes us unique. We become what we normalize, and the Jewish tradition has a vested interest in making sure we embrace our unique practices and beliefs. We also run the risk of not noticing when a neighbor is no longer friendly. We become vulnerable to ostracism and violence, so we put up strict boundaries, separating ourselves from others and teaching ourselves to see the worst in them.

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The other day, I came across a social media post from someone I used to study with at JTS - Alex Sinclair, who was a professor of Jewish Education when I was there. Quite some time ago already, he and his family settled permanently in Israel. They live in Modi’in. What he said in his post shocked and saddened me deeply.

He explained that, for something like 20 years, he has always worn a kippah with two flags on it – the Israeli flag and the Palestinian flag. It’s a reflection of, as he said, “the messy ambivalence of my Jewish-Zionist identity.” While he was working on his laptop at a local cafe, wearing this kippah, a religious Jew came over to him, shouting that his kippah is against the law. (It is not.)

Alex invited the man to sit and discuss politics if he wanted, but stated that the kippah isn’t against the law. The man called the police. 

The police arrived, repeating the fallacy that the kippah was against the law, an incitement. They detained Alex, confiscating his kippah, and taking him to the police station, where he was locked in a cell, with no water, no phone, and no access to legal counsel. After some time, he was allowed to leave the cell and guided to the front of the police station, to be released. His property was returned to him – except for the kippah. He asked for it back and was told “You can either go now without the kippah, or we can put you back in the cell by force.” He insisted that the kippah was important to him as a religious object and the officer he was speaking to relented, bringing him his kippah – or part of his kippah. The Palestinian flag had been cut out.

What happened to Alex was extreme and people all over the world are responding to this gross violation of basic freedoms. However, it is a logical extension of choosing only one of the conflicting perspectives from our parashah. It represents a simple answer to the complicated question of how to make something holy out of contradictory ethical demands. 

Sarah Tuttle-Singer, an American-born writer living in Jerusalem, says something similar in her response to this incident posted online: 

“Extremism thrives on simplicity. On a narrow bridge  of history, of identity, of [sorting] human beings into categories that are easy to accept or reject. It tells you that holiness belongs to you — and only you. That anything outside your framework is lesser, suspect, or disposable.

It feels like strength.

It isn’t.

It’s fear, distilled. And it corrodes. 

Because real faith — the kind that has carried the Jewish people through centuries — has never been that fragile. It has always existed in proximity to others. In conversation with them. Sometimes in tension, yes — but also in recognition.

We are not new to plurality. We were shaped by it.”

When everyone is an enemy, you forget how to have friends. But friendship is at the base of the other drive in our parashah, the one that tells us to love both our neighbors and the stranger as we love ourselves, the one that relates to our time in Egypt not as a motive for revenge, but as a reason for empathy. 

Just as there are rabbinic midrashim reinforcing the xenophobia and cultural isolation we see in the parashah, there are also midrashim that deepen our understanding of the verses representing the opposite perspective. These midrashim do not overlook or negate the necessity of boundaries – boundaries do help us maintain the uniqueness of who we are and protect us from real threats. However, the message inherent in these midrashim is that difference itself is not a threat. It is an opportunity. 

In Bereishit Rabbah (24:7), we find the following: 

“Rabbi Akiva says: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18) – this verse represents the central tenet of the Torah, so that one does not come to say: Since I have been disparaged, let someone else be disparaged along with me; since I was cursed, let someone else be cursed along with me. Rabbi Tanḥuma said: If you do act like that, know who it is that you are disgracing, [as it says]: “When God created humankind, it was made in the likeness of God” (Genesis 5:1).”

This is advanced Jewish citizenship. Instead of judgment, choose empathy. Instead of fear, choose connection. Instead of rejection, choose holiness. 

Shabbat shalom.