It’s Good to Be a Jew

There’s an old joke about two elderly Jews who are sitting in the park. One is reading a Yiddish newspaper, and the other an antisemitic tabloid. Suddenly, the second man bursts out laughing.

The first one is upset. “It’s not enough that you’re reading that garbage, but you actually find it funny?”

The other man shrugs. “Look, when I read our paper, all I see is bad news, with Jews being attacked and humiliated. But when I read this antisemitic paper, I finally get some good news. According to them, we Jews run the entire world!”

Sometimes it feels like Jews are far too comfortable emphasizing the ‌bad news. And as a friend recently pointed out to me, I am quite guilty of this as well. Since Oct. 7th, my sermons and writings have focused on the conflict; even my classes are on topics such as blood libels, trauma and resilience, and anti-Zionism.

I shared on a recent podcast with Shai Davidai that right now I feel like I’m in survival mode, fixated on defending the Jewish people. Our brothers and sisters in Israel have been under attack for two and a half years, and in the U.S. there is a cesspool of anti-Israel propaganda that flows right through the media, with a parallel rise in antisemitism. And those traumas have colored my view of everything. I have leaned heavily into local politics even though I always wanted to stay away from politics. I’m reluctant to criticize anything about Israel right now because I know that bad-faith actors who want to destroy Israel will exploit any rabbinic criticism. And I spend far too much of my time refreshing news feeds, looking for the latest details about Israel and the Jewish community.

Yes, I talk a lot about the bad news. In my defense, there has been plenty of bad news. Even so, that is not an adequate defense; it is too easy to fixate on what’s wrong and forget the context.

Salo Baron launched a historical debate when he criticized what he called the “lachrymose conception of Jewish history.” In 1928, in the early years of his career, Baron wrote an article challenging the view that the Middle Ages were “a nightmare of the deepest horror” for Jews.

Earlier historians such as Graetz and Dubnow had taken the “suffering and scholars” approach to medieval European Jewish history. Life outside the community was a vale of tears, and at the same time, there was a constant output of rabbinic genius within the community.

Baron disagreed. He explains that the various massacres and inquisitions were episodic; for the most part, Jews had long stretches of peace and prosperity during the medieval period. And although Jews didn’t have equal rights, this wasn’t unique; except for the elites, most people had limited rights. Baron finds it particularly difficult to sidestep the question of ghettos. He explains that although they were unwanted, they offered the silver lining of providing the Jewish community with a great deal of autonomy.

His theory found immediate critics. Yitzchak Baer wrote a sharp rejoinder in 1936. Baron and Baer’s argument was not based merely on a detached reading of the data. The “lachrymose conception of Jewish history” is precisely the argument Zionists made then for building a State of Israel. And Baron took the opposite view, certain that if Jews could relatively live well under the protection of their medieval rulers, they certainly could flourish in the safe-haven of the United States.

Tragically, the Nazis murdered Baron’s parents in Tarnow in 1943. Baron would later testify at the Eichmann trial about the impact of the Nazi murders on the Jewish world.

Even so, Baron held firm to this view for the rest of his career. And that had a profound influence. Many of the Jewish historians in North America studied under him or his students. They have held “neo-Baronian” views, often seeing Jewish history as being built on mostly positive interactions in their societies.

Personally, I lean toward the “pro-lachrymose” school. The fact that massacres and pogroms occur infrequently does not diminish their impact. On the contrary, the accumulated trauma leaves Jews permanently uncertain of their place in society. And antisemitism isn’t measured by violent outbursts alone; there are daily indignities of nasty words and discrimination, each a reminder that one simply doesn’t belong.

Yet I still find enormous value in Baron’s point of view. Not as a theory of history, but as a perspective on Jewish identity.

We must not be dragged into a lachrymose concept of Jewish identity. When we sigh and declare, “It is difficult to be a Jew,” we diminish Judaism.

How we describe ourselves truly matters.

Parshat Tazria discusses the laws of tzaraat, different lesions that can attach to the human body, clothing and houses, and render those people and items impure. One peculiar detail of the laws is that no matter how vivid and large the tzaraat lesion is, it is not impure until declared so by a kohen.

Various commentaries wonder why specifically a kohen is needed, instead of any other expert. Rashi says it is simply a divine decree. The Alshich says by involving a kohen, an emissary of God, the Torah shows tzaraat is not a mere disease but rather a supernatural apparition. The Meshech Chochmah actually takes the opposite approach; he says tzaraat is contagious, and only a divinely appointed emissary like a kohen will be protected when examining it. Seforno says that the kohen is there to pray for the person and help them heal.

Of particular interest is the theory of the Kli Yakar, who says that tzaraat comes because of the sin of slander, which “causes quarrels and separations between brothers. Therefore, the Kohanim, the sons of Aaron, who … had the trait of peace, and loved peace and pursued it, can come and heal the tzaraat.”

One rule, however, remains unexplained. The tzaraat is only impure after the declaration of the kohen. No matter how many experts inspect the lesion and say that it must be tzaraat, nothing takes effect until the kohen says so. Its status depends on a declaration.

But why is that so? Shouldn’t it be the lesion itself that makes one impure, not the words of the kohen?

I would argue that this too is a lesson about slander: words matter. At times, they even matter more than reality. The declaration of the kohen can change one’s life.

I would argue that this too is a lesson about slander: words matter. At times, they even matter more than reality.

And so it is with slander. What we say about others can transform the world they live in. Even a few negative words can cause irreparable harm.

Negativity about Jewish identity is just as damaging.

Rav Moshe Feinstein argued vehemently against the sentiment that “shver tzu zayn a yid” (“it is difficult to be a Jew”). He wrote that even if people wanted to highlight the inner strength of previous generations with this phrase, it would backfire. By speaking that way, we make young Jews feel as if Judaism is devoid of joy. But it should not be.

We must not have a lachrymose theory of Jewish identity. We have the privilege of carrying forward a remarkable 3,000-year-old tradition. Our community has found success that our ancestors could only dream of. And we live at a time when the State of Israel has been reborn. We are truly lucky.

It’s good to be a Jew.