Antisemitism can’t be defeated or eradicated. But we can — and should — change the narrative. Rise above. Transcend hatred. The following is my sermon tonight at Temple Beth Israel.

Last week the rabbi talked about antisemitism and the incredible rise in both antisemitism and anti-Zionism, especially since the October 7^th attack and massacre.

I think the rabbi was off by a few years; instead of three years, it’s more like 3,000 years. Because antisemitism has been a thorn in our sides for an extremely long time. It hasn’t gone away and it’s not going to go away.

The question for us today is the same one that Jews have been asking ourselves from time immemorial. What do we do about it? How do we function, how can we possibly flourish, in a world that continues to turn against us, to weaponize words, religion, ethics? Not to mention lies like the Protocols of Zion.

Jesus, who after all was a Rabbi in the same tradition as the Rabbis who wrote the Talmud, would say to turn the other cheek. But that’s perpetual victimhood. You might survive that way, but you could never flourish. 

And the remarkable thing about Jews is that we have continued to flourish. Over and over and over again, we have succeeded. In so many ways we have done beautifully. 

We have written great literature, made great discoveries, led the world as scientists and physicians and composers and artists. We have done wonderful things. It’s just that we tend to think back to the times when things were really bad. Don’t get me wrong – I know that things have been really bad for the Jews. I’m not denying that. 

I believe that what we need most is not to make fighting antisemitism the center of Jewish life. That battle matters, and we can never ignore it. But our greater task is to nourish ourselves as individuals, as communities, and as a people.

I want to see us rise so far above, that we are at an altitude that others can only dream of attaining. 

One of the most amazing things about the Jewish people is the prayer called the Mourner’s Kaddish. In Hebrew, it is the Kaddish yatom, the orphan’s Kaddish. 

It’s written in Aramaic, which was the lingua franca of its day. Basically an ancient version of what English is today in the world. It’s too bad that we don’t pay attention to the meaning of the words. Because it doesn’t talk about mourning. It doesn’t talk about death. 

It talks about transcendence. It talks about rising above the mundane and understanding that there is something greater than. Something greater than me, something greater than you, something greater than prejudice, something greater than death.

It is an affirmation of the power of community. This is why we are required to have a minyan to recite the prayer. It is not said solo. We have many other prayers that we can say on our own that proclaim God’s oneness, God’s greatness, God’s majesty. But that’s not really the point of this particular prayer. 

 This prayer is about rising above; which why it is said while standing. We are proving that even in the darkest times we can stand up. We have strength and conviction, and we demonstrate that by standing together in community.

Today, July 17, is the yartzeit of Congressman John Lewis. Many years ago I was priviledged to spend a day voluntering with him at a health fair in Atlanta. He was assigned to the booth for the organization that I represented, and we spent the day chatting. 

 Nothing earth shattering, nothing important. Just two people who were dedicated to serving the community, standing side by side.

 He was a quiet man, dedicated to doing what’s right. We love to quote him about getting in good trouble. Here is the entire quote:

 “When you see something that is not right, not fair, not just; you have to stand up, speak up, speak out, and find a way to get in the way and get in trouble. Good trouble. Necessary trouble.”

 John Lewis lived a life of service to his community, and he did indeed stand up, speak up, and speak out.

Most of us are not politicians or famous civil rights leaders. We will never march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge or address Congress. But every one of us has opportunities, every single day, to choose who we will be.

We can choose fear, or we can choose purpose.

We can allow hatred to define us, or we can define ourselves by the richness of Jewish life—by learning, by kindness, by generosity, by prayer, by justice, by community, by joy.

That, I believe, is how the Jewish people have survived for thousands of years. Not because our enemies disappeared—they never did—but because we refused to become merely victims.

We kept building communities. We kept raising children. We kept asking difficult questions, creating beauty, arguing with God, studying Torah, comforting mourners, feeding the hungry, and blessing one another.

That is our answer.

Not simply to fight antisemitism, but to outlive it. To outcreate it. To outlove it. To stand together, so firmly rooted in who we are that hatred cannot define us.

There is always something greater than prejudice. Greater than fear. Greater even than death.

The Kaddish has been reminding us of that for centuries.