There is hope in our children

When one faith is singled out as scapegoat, then no one is safe

Editor’s note: Look for a sermon or lesson from Houston’s diverse faiths every week in Belief.

Recently, newspaper headlines blazed with the words: Jewish man’s kippah ripped off head; perpetrator shouted, “you’re in America now!”

Another headline said, “Jewish man’s words of praise to God caused him to be kicked off airplane, questioned as terrorist.”

The man in question was not a terrorist; he simply said to a friend on the phone, when talking about a job promotion he hoped he would get, “B’ezrat Hashem,” may it be God’s will, and some ignorant fellow passenger told an airline attendant that she had heard the Jew say terrorist prayers on the phone.

And a video posted online showed two young Jewish women, wearing traditional modest clothing, entering a fro-yo store in their neighborhood. But another costumer in the store walked up to them, as they ate their spoonfuls of vanilla and chocolate swirl, and accosted them: “Get out of our country!” He yelled, “Go back to your own.”

These events, as we hear them, are terrible. They fill our hearts with horror, with anger, with sadness, with fear. But perhaps you are skeptical about these events. You may be wondering, are these events true stories?

They are true, every single one. Except they did not happen to Jewish men and women; they happened to Muslim men and woman.

A Muslim woman’s hijab was ripped off of her head; a man told his friend “Insha Allah” — if Allah wills it — and was questioned as a terrorist; two young Muslim women wearing traditional modest clothing were indeed accosted at a frozen yogurt shop.

I told these stories with a Jewish twist for a very specific reason — because I know that we are the same. I know that your “Insha Allah” is my “B’ezrat Hashem.” I know that fear of your faith is not so different from fear of mine. And God knows that I know, and my community knows, that when any one group is persecuted, when any one faith is singled out as a scapegoat, then no one is safe, and every one suffers.

When I read these news reports, my heart aches, my soul aches, because I know, with every fiber of my being, what it feels like to be singled out and persecuted because of what you believe.

I hurt, and I ache, because I know that every single one of us, of all religions, races, affiliations and identifications — all of us who inhabit and inherit this earth — are created b’tzelem Elohim,

in God’s image. And that spark of divinity in every single one of us, regardless of the different ways we walk in this world, regardless of the different religious choices, regardless of the different political opinions we may have, that spark of divinity is absolute and absolutely holy.

I know many of us believe that one God unites us to a common purpose, that one Source of Life binds us together, and that each of us believes that what happens to one of us happens to all of us.

But how can we bring that knowledge to the world around us? How, when women going to the beach in the clothing that is comfortable to them are forced to strip, when fundamentalists twist faith into hate, when entire faith groups feel threatened by politics?

It is so easy to feel that there is no hope.

But, there is a blessing in Judaism, my absolute favorite blessing actually, which we recite each year on a day of holiness and mourning called Tisha B’Av. It is the day we mourn everything we have lost — two holy Temples, our autonomy, our lives — throughout history. On this day of mourning and sorrow, rather than losing ourselves in everything lost, we instead say:

Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, who has made us asirei tikvah, prisoners of hope. We Jews are prisoners of hope. We cannot give up.

And I see hope everywhere.

There is hope in the great many individuals who are willing to take risks and reach out to strangers, people who don’t look or sound or dress like them. People who don’t believe what they believe, but who see in the other not some strange person, but rather a fellow human with a heart and soul.

But above all, there is hope in our children.

On my street, in far, far West Houston, there is a Muslim family three houses down, with three children who are almost exactly the same ages as my three young Jewish children.

Once, last October, an older neighbor across the street called me over. “It’s almost Halloween. Will the Muslim neighbors let their kids go trick-ortreating?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “but if my husband had his way my kids wouldn’t go either!”

She looked at me in shock. “I didn’t know that!” She said.

“Oh yes,” I answered, “Observant Jews and Muslims have quite a lot in common.”

Then she said, “Annie, even though we are Southern Baptist, and you’re a rabbi, would you pray for my husband? He is having horrible balance issues and we could use all the prayers we can get!”

“Of course I will hold him in my prayers!”

She gave me a hug, then waved as Salma walked by.

I turned and watched my sons, Lev and Eiden, play with Abdullah and Jacob. These kids — they don’t worry if one of their moms wears a hijab, and another wears a kippah, and another wears a cross. They care how fast they can ride bikes, what they have built in Minecraft, who has the best Nerf weaponry, and what Abdullah can tell them about 6th grade middle school.

They care about being kind and having a good time. They don’t need to be reminded that they are connected to each other. They don’t need to be told they are created in God’s image. They breathe it; they live it.

We get to watch as our children ride their bikes toward a future that we pray is filled with acceptance, and love, and peace.

B’ezrat Hashem. Insha Allah. May this truly be God’s will.