Changing our chosen status

Johnny Baker

SHUL is about the last place I expect to chance upon a revelatory experience. So I had to do a double-take when such a rare moment struck. I was keen to hear Limmud Oz presenter Amichai Lau-Lavie demonstrate his Torah stories in the ancient tradition of the turgeman. Originally conducted in the local Aramaic vernacular, it was a means of bringing the masses closer to the intent of the weekly parshah through a combination of translation and midrashic interpretation.

Strangely enough, it was not the innovative part of Lau-Lavie’s presentation that grabbed my attention, but rather the seemingly mundane. I normally pay scant attention to the Torah aliyot, let alone to the routine brachot.¬†But this time there was something different. I noted an ever so slight inflection in his recital of the brachah. I immediately approached him to check if my ears had heard correctly, and with a wry smile he conceded that my hearing was intact and had not betrayed me.

What I had remarkably heard was the use of the phrase “asher bachar banu im kol ha’amim” rather than the traditional “mi kol ha’amim”. “Bless the Lord who has chosen us ‘with’ (or alongside) other nations” as opposed to “‘from’ (or above) other nations”. The change of a mere word. The twist of a single letter from “mi” to “im”. Something indecipherable to the casual observer and inaudible to the initiated.¬†And yet, in that minor change lies a profound distinction. To move the notion of chosenness¬† from¬†a perspective of superiority to one of equality constitutes a fundamental world of difference.

This concept has implications far beyond Judaism. For if there is one constant¬†ailment in the world today it is the exclusivity of belief — the contention, which is shared by fundamentalists of all religions, that they alone have the singular path to absolute truth and salvation. And, by extension, those who do not share such beliefs are condemned to eternal damnation.¬†All critics of the role of religion premise their arguments on this fervour for religious exclusivity. From Sam Harris through Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens, the world’s current problems are attributed to an intoxicated belief in the monopoly of¬† God’s benevolence.

To be sure, Judaism — as the only non-missionary monotheistic religion — is to a large extent spared from this scourge.¬†Theologically, it does not demand conversion as a prerequisite to eternity. This is in part the reason why so little bloodshed has been committed in the name of the Jewish religion over the years. Which is why messianic-focused revivals in some sectors of Judaism are all the more disturbing. An over-emphasis on the world to come inevitably creates a distorted view of the here and now.¬†Ironically, this has been truer of late in so-called “Modern Orthodox” circles, whose strident nationalism has led to a fundamentalist interpretation of the messianic idea.

In a famous passage in Yehuda HaLevi’s classic work, The Kuzari, the protagonist suggests that the main reason for Jews not being oppressors through history has been due to their lack of power. Given half the chance, they too would act as all other entities in committing atrocities for the sake of the faith.

Thankfully, our recent history has, by and large, discredited this thesis. Nonetheless, there are disturbing ideas and practices that can place us at the edge of a slippery slide towards intolerance and beyond:¬†potent words that creep into our vernacular — schwartze, shikse, chayes — whose origins and connotations are disparaging at best; the ritual of spitting during the recital of Aleinu at the mention of goyim, which is as unedifying as it is undignified;¬†the overtly racist declarations of¬† revered spiritual leaders. All these, and more, serve to misrepresent the concept of chosenness. Which is why, as with so many other precepts, we need to be particularly careful in our choice of language.

The power of the word — even one solitary two-letter word — cannot be overstated. It has the capacity to shape the collective memory of a people. Which brings us back to Lau-Lavie’s inflection. It detracts not one iota from the essence of Jewish uniqueness. It still leaves room for the Jewish mission and destiny, but in a tolerant and inclusive way. It underscores the ethos of Judaism as a tradition infused with respect and compassion¬†for the other. It highlights the burning zeal for tikkun olam (repairing the world) as amplified through the ages in the words of the prophets. For Lau-Lavie and myself, both of whose fathers were liberated on the same day from Buchenwald, it is a constant reminder of the need to balance the unique with the universal.

The approach of the Yamim Noraim is a perfect time to acknowledge the elements that bind humanity.