Reclaiming the Sacred from Tribal Politics

Walking up to the bimah this past Rosh Hashana, the new rabbi at my former congregation paused to take a deep breath. And then he initiated the apparent purpose of his rabbinate: centering tribal politics in faith. As his d’var reached its peak, he offered a perspective that would have made Jerry Falwell applaud: “We can’t mix politics with religion. They were never separate in the first place.” In other words, the idea that politics and religion are distinct but can overlap at times is a fallacy. There simply is no distinction at all; they are one and the same. What’s more, politics are not to be transformed through faith into the transcendental (a justice of universal love) but faith is to be transformed through politics into the reductionist (a justice of division). 

For over twenty years, this congregation was my spiritual home. It is where I had the joy of celebrating my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah and my wife’s conversion. I remember holding my then infant daughter in my arms during services and the smiles from fellow congregants as we tried to keep her quiet. I recall our first service in 2002 when we couldn’t believe we had found such a wonderful community. I have so many blessed memories there.

I have left that community.

What I witnessed is not unique to my former congregation; it is happening in non-Orthodox congregations across the country. In fact, it’s not even unique to Judaism. A singular political ideology is becoming the center of the religious experience in Blue America. You are much less likely to see a “He is Risen” banner in front of a mainline Protestant church than you are one declaring “Black Lives Matter.” If you live in a district with a Democratic representative, it is likely that progressive politics has become the lingua franca of your religious community—if you attend at all.

A year before my congregation made the change to the new rabbi, a congregant told me this direction was necessary to “bring in millennials and Generation Z.” During Rosh Hashana, the rabbi speculated that what caused his childhood shul to close was insufficient attention to the political and too much to the sanctuary. But why do we call it, then, a sanctuary? It is where we step out of the corporal and into the world of God as we have for millennia. Apparently this is now insufficient. People want to castigate, confront and fight.

The politics central to this perspective is unilateral. It isn’t humble, questioning or respectful of ideological differences. It is singular: The congregation must always be on the side of whomever progressive sentiment declares the oppressed. If a congregant admits they voted for a Republican, voices a divergent perspective, or speaks to concerns about this political orientation, they will be called out as an oppressor. This happened to me when I expressed disappointment about the direction of the rabbi’s d’vars and he tweeted in response: “It’s amazing how much attention the complaint of a single, straight, cis, white man can command.”

The fundraising value of creating a divide between evil and good can be seen in the explosion in size in the advocacy sector.

While it is painful for anyone to be reduced to an identity—and by a fellow Jew in my case—I am writing this essay because the trendline is much more concerning. I have been in the social change space for my entire professional career. I understand the advantages and disadvantages of an applied binary. The fundraising value of creating a divide between evil and good can be seen in the explosion in size in the advocacy sector. On the other hand, the retreat from heterogenous coalition partners and diversity of thought has caused policy and societal paralysis. The result is not a more beloved community but rather a tearing of bonds within and across groups. In attempting to be unified, we are pulled apart and away from the divine within each of us. I shudder in fear that such a fate awaits contemporary Judaism as it reduces individuality and common humanity simultaneously, offers answers in the place of questions, and elevates the base. It is incompatible with the spiritual. 

Mainline Protestantism, which has increasingly become politically monolithic, reveals what will befall Judaism if it follows this path. The “seven sisters” of mainline Protestantism, where belief in God is now only present in 66% of adherents, have seen their share of the U.S. population drop since the 1970s from 30 percent to about 10 percent. It is worth noting that Evangelical Christianity, which embraced intertwining faith with politics on the opposite side of the ledger, is experiencing its own significant attrition. After all, how can a house of worship compete in the political realm with an actual party, advocacy organization or Twitter? It cannot. What it can provide, if it remembers, is a sanctuary. It is a place for God, faith and prayer. It offers a community of people who show up for each other during illness, loss and joy, irrespective of political differences. It is where we search and love, together.

Moreover, progressive politics as the map for justice for Judaism is a risky proposition. Its incompatibility can be seen in the fact that most so-called progressive congregations only gingerly touch the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Progressive orientation and most coalition partners compel alignment with the Palestinians. So why is it avoided? The answer is obvious: Telling people that they are aligned with “oppressors” is asking them to wear a scarlet letter—never a popular move. Instead, the topic is avoided in favor of solidarity, as rabbis declare to congregants: You too are oppressed. Unless you forget your roots. And then you are on the side of the Pharaoh. For this reason, my former rabbi castigated Jews for “hoarding” power. Instead we must return to perceiving our oppression. As the rabbi advised the congregation, “If you want your children to be Jews, and live as Jews, and be proud to be Jews, remind them that they were slaves.” This is a game that cannot be won, particularly by Jews who have learned the lesson, again and again, that a world of allies and enemies is one where we eventually stand alone.

A form of Tikkun Olam that strips away dissent, undermines universal love, and presents itself as the only path for adherents is not religion nor justice. It is dogma.

Rabbi Abraham Heschel figures prominently with those who seek to center progressivism in Judaism. But they miss his lesson. A transformative rabbi, and a transformative congregation, is one that finds God in moments of joy and suffering. It helps people overcome loss, celebrate simchas, apply the wisdom of ancestors to our lives, love our fellow humans as ourselves, and find the divine everywhere. A form of Tikkun Olam that strips away dissent, undermines universal love, and presents itself as the only path for adherents is not religion nor justice. It is dogma. 

We forget this at our peril.

Jared Feuer is a long-time resident of Atlanta who has worked professionally in the social change sector for his entire career, including at the American Civil Liberties Union and Amnesty International USA.