Beyond the Days of Awe Slugfest: Sacred Arguing in an Age of Conflict

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon
Temple B’nai Tikvah
5779/2018

By Rabbi Mark Glickman

In 1850, the spiritual leader of Congregation Beth-El in Albany, NY was Isaac Mayer Wise, the rabbi who would later become the founding father of North American Reform Judaism. At the time, Rabbi Wise was 31 years old. He had arrived from Europe a few years earlier, and in keeping with his training as a Reform rabbi, he had begun instituting some changes in the liturgy and practices of his congregation in Albany – instrumental music, a little less Hebrew, an abbreviation in the service here and there, etc. Believe it or not, there were some people in Rabbi Wise’s congregation who took exception to the changes that he was instituting. Evidently, some Jews in Albany who liked things just the way they were, and objected to the changes that their new rabbi had brought to the congregation.

The anti-Isaac-Mayer-Wise camp consisted of some very powerful members of the community, and shortly before Rosh Hashanah in 1850, they convened a long, drawn out congregational meeting, during which they succeeded in having Rabbi Wise deposed from his position as rabbi of the synagogue. Rabbi Wise’s supporters, of course, objected to the decision, and some of them brought the case to the New York Attorney General, who ruled that Rabbi Wise’s dismissal was of dubious legality, and that it was important for Rabbi Wise to be at the temple on the upcoming Jewish New Year to carry out his rabbinical duties…despite the dismissal.

At the time, the president of the congregation – and the leader of the anti-Wise camp – was a man by the name of Louis Spanier, and in his recollections that he wrote of these days almost fifty years later, you can almost hear Rabbi Wise spit out the president’s name – Spanier! As Rabbi Wise recalled,

I went to the synagogue on New-Years’ morning, appeared in my official garb, but found one of Spanier’s creatures…sitting in my chair. I took another seat. Excitement ruled the hour. Everything was quiet as the grave. Finally, the choir sings Sultzer’s great En Komokho. At the conclusion of the song, I step before the ark in order to take out the scrolls of the law as usual, and to offer prayer. Spanier steps in my way, and, without saying a word, smites me so that my cap falls from my head.

In other words, during Congregation Beth-El’s Rosh Hashanah services in 1850, at the beginning of the Torah service, the president hauled off and slugged the rabbi across the face right in front of the ark. (Kind of like what happens here sometimes.)

Pandemonium ensued. Wise’s young supporters jumped down from the balcony and ran to his defense. There they were met by Spanier’s guys, and a full-scale brawl broke out that only ended when a sheriff’s posse arrived on the scene to break it up. It was, to say the least, a memorable Rosh Hashanah in Albany.

On a personal note I’ll add that I hope such behavior on the part of temple presidents is a thing of the past, because I have a feeling that Cynthia could take me down hard.

After almost 170 years, it’s easy for us to laugh at what happened back then in Albany, but it really was an ugly event. In the wake of that brawl, the synagogue split into two, and soon after, Rabbi Wise left Albany altogether to take another pulpit in Cincinnati. Conflagrations of this sort can smash communities, and even without the public mayhem, many of us know very well what they’re like.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? After all, we Jews pride ourselves on the central role that arguing plays in Jewish life. It’s not unusual for one of our members to bring a non-Jewish guest to Saturday morning services and to have that guest become flabbergasted watching one of our Torah discussions. “You argue like that right in the middle of your worship?” they say. “And, what’s more, you argue with the rabbi?!?!” They don’t quite call it chutzpadik, but they would if they could.

We love the fact that we argue – we’re proud of it. You may have heard the story about what happened once when the newly arrived rabbi of a synagogue approached his recently retired senior colleague, “Rabbi,” he said, when I first arrived here, a group of congregants sat me down and told me that the tradition of this congregation is to rise for the Shema.”

“That’s not our tradition,” said the older rabbi.

“Yes, I know,” the younger man replied, “because shortly after that, another group of congregants came and told me that the tradition of this congregation is to remain seated for the Shema.”

“That’s not our tradition either,” said his senior colleague.

“And I’m getting concerned about it,” the young rabbi said, “because now the two groups are bickering and fighting about it all the time.”

“Ah!” said the old rabbi. “That’s our tradition!”

A good argument can be so very Jewish, but a bad one can destroy us.

Our Jewish tradition has understood this for many centuries. In fact, one of the great insights that our tradition offers us is that there are two kinds of arguments – one that our rabbis call a machloket l’shem shamayim, a disagreement for the sake of heaven, and another that the rabbis refer to as a machloket shelo l’shem shamayim, a disagreement that’s not for the sake of heaven. Now, I’ll describe what these two different kinds of arguments are in a minute, but before I do so, I’ll also note that you probably already know what they are without my even having to tell you. My guess is that you all have been in some really good arguments – arguments that were respectful and dignified, in which you really felt listened to, and in which you really listened to the others, arguments that may or may not have gone your way, but which felt really good to participate in, anyway. And my guess is that you’ve also been in the other kind of arguments, too – arguments in which you weren’t heard, arguments that turned ugly, arguments that were really just attempts on the parts of the arguers to vanquish their opponents rather than to arrive at a greater and more profound truth

What’s an argument that’s for the sake of heaven? Well, in Pirke Avot, the rabbis suggest that the paradigm of this kind of holy altercation was the kind of argument that occurred between Hillel and Shammai. Hillel and Shammai, as you may know, were two ancient rabbis, each of whom had their own group of followers, and the two schools clashed over and over and over again. In fact, the Talmud records no fewer than 316 different instances in which these two groups disagreed with one another. Sometimes, the Talmud doesn’t even tell us how the arguments were eventually resolved. “On Question X,” the Talmud says, “the School of Hillel says A, and the School of Shammai says B….Next topic. “

But despite their repeated disagreements, the rabbis teach that the two schools were always respectful of one another. They always acted truthfully and respectfully with regard to one another, even when they disagreed vociferously. On one matter, the Talmud recounts, they argued for three years, until finally a divine voice came down from heaven and said, “Both views are the words of the Living God.”

Both views are the words of the living God. What a magnificent challenge for each of us. When you argue, both views – your view, and the one you disagree with – are the words of the Living God. However convinced you are that you are right, the model of Hillel and Shammai reminds us that even your opponent – your misguided, mistaken, misbegotten opponent – has truth to teach. That person’s view, just like your correct one, is the word of the living God.

Why is this important? Well, for one thing, as sure as you are that you’re correct and your opponent is wrong, in reality could be the other way around. Caron won’t ever let me forget the time, years ago, when she and I had a now infamous argument about linen. Knowing full well that I was right, I told Caron that linen was made of cotton. Knowing full well that I was wrong, she insisted that linen is made of flax. She was right and I was wrong, of course, but the thing is, that at the time, I was convinced that I was the one who was right. I knew I was right, and that she was being utterly ridiculous about this flax thing. I couldn’t conceive of a world in which I was wrong…and boy did I have to eat my words later. Nowadays, whenever we disagree about anything, Caron just gives me that look of hers, smiles her victorious smile, and says, “Well, you might think you’re right, but don’t forget about flax.”

In your arguments, too. You might be convinced that your view is correct, but you always need to have the humility to remember that, however, convinced you are, it could be you who is the wrong one.

And for another thing, even if you are right, there still might be value to what the other person is saying. For example, when I lived in Tacoma, Washington, one of my closest friends was Rev. David Alger, a Presbyterian minister who ran the local ecumenical organization. One day, I asked him to come and speak to some of our high school students about Christianity, and at a certain point during his talk, I asked him a question. I said, “In the early 1960s, when the Israelis captured Adolf Eichmann, the architect of the Nazis’ so-called ‘Final Solution to the Jewish Problem,’ an Evangelical minister in the United States reportedly said, ‘Give me three hours with Eichmann – I can get him into heaven.’ Rev. Alger,” I said, “as a Jew, I find this notion abhorrent. A man can oversee the murder of millions of innocent people and get himself into heaven by simply mumbling some simple statement of religious belief? What do you think about it?”

My friend David paused, looked at me, and in front of the assembled group of high school students, said, “I don’t think any human being is irredeemable.”

It was so frustrating to me, because until that moment, I was so confident of my view that there could be and should be no redemption possible for someone who murders another human being, and yet, at the same time, there was value in what David said. People can turn around, and there’s value in turning.

Now, I hasten to add that it didn’t take me long to realize that David was ultimately wrong, of course. Eichmann might be able to turn around, but the enormity of his crimes meant that he’d never be able to turn enough to merit entry into heaven. Still, I learned something from my mostly-incorrect friend that day. There is value in turning. Murderers can never right their wrongs – Nazis can never undo their atrocities – but when these wrongdoers use their remaining days on earth to do something good with their lives, there is value to those good deeds. Yes, my friend David was mostly incorrect, but there was nevertheless a measure of truth to what he said, and in my disagreement with him, I came away having learned something important.

Both views are the words of the living God.

Right after the rabbis made this comment, they did admit that in the Hillel-Shammai disagreements, Hillel was usually right. Why? Because Hillel was not only kind and gracious, but he also taught both his view and that of Shammai, even going so far as to teach Shammai’s view first. Hillel was onto something important – one of the most valuable tools-of-debate that we can use is to re-state our opponents’ views just as compellingly as they did, if not more so. That way, your opponent can correct you if you’ve misunderstood them, your opponent will feel heard, and your dialogue can go deep rather than stay in the shallows.

The disagreements between Hillel and Shammai were arguments for the sake of heaven – sacred disagreements. For many of us, the notion of a sacred disagreement or a sacred argument is anathema, but for these men hashing out the hidden meanings of Torah so many centuries ago, argument was the key to a sacred life.

As I imagine these two ancient word-warriors battling it out with one another, the picture I keep coming up with is of two groups of people arguing not to win, but to learn. And this too is something that can be of unspeakable value to us. It’s easy to cut people down. It can be so easy (and yes, sometimes even fleetingly gratifying) to make our opponents feel like idiots, but is there really anything of value that we accomplish in that process? Instead of trying to vanquish our opponents, perhaps we can go into our arguments with the humility to think that they – yes, even they, the people who are so obviously wrong in what they’re arguing – actually have something to teach us. Of course, challenge their ideas, but do so not to vanquish them, but rather to learn. Try to find the kernels of truth in what they’re saying. That way, both of you can be elevated through your argument, regardless of who is right.

So, the Hillel-Shammai conflicts were the paradigm of arguments that were for the sake of heaven. But what about the opposite? For a prototypical example of the opposite type of argument – an argument that was not for the sake of heaven – the rabbis cited the argument of Korach and his followers against Moses. As you may recall, Korach appears in the Book of Numbers as the leader of a band of rebels who rejected the authority of Moses and Aaron. Korach and his guys couched their argument in religious terms – “Why do you raise yourselves up above the rest of us?” they asked. “Aren’t we all holy?” Nevertheless, even though he tried to come across as all religious and everything, Jewish tradition paints a picture of Korach as a drunkard and a glutton, a conniver and a schemer, a person who disguised his own selfish lust for power in religious clothing.

Korach was a leader who pretended to be righteous, but in reality was just a power-hungry politician. Sound familiar?

Arguments that are not for the sake of heaven are attempts to vanquish opponents rather than learn from them, and they come in all different forms. Again, you know what they’re like, because you’ve seen plenty of them. These are the kinds of arguments that cut people down, they’re the kinds of arguments that involve far more posturing than listening, they’re the kinds of arguments that give politics a bad name. In these arguments, people tend not to listen, they just wait until they can make their own points – and that not arguing, it’s just serial speechifying, and it tends not to do anyone much good.

As with all of the misdeeds that we discuss at this time of year, it’s important not to just point fingers at everyone else, but also to take a deep and honest look at yourself. When have your own arguments been for the sake of heaven, and when haven’t they? When have you couched your own selfish agendas in the guise of something supposedly noble and more sacred? When have you sought victory rather than learning as the ultimate goal of your arguments?

Lawrence Kushner once said something about rabbis and congregations that merits a paraphrase here: In conflicts over personal power and individual advancement, then regardless of who wins, everyone loses. In conflicts over ethics and ideals, regardless of who loses, everyone wins.

When you can engage in a truly sacred argument, you can’t help but win, even if you do lose to your opponent.

My friends, our rabbis’ distinction between arguments that are and are not for the sake of heaven is an especially timely one these days. These days, the political arena is one not of impassioned, principled debate, but rather one of attack and vitriol. These days, Facebook and other social media forums fester with rancid, venomous attacks firing every which way but up. These days, many of us are scared to engage in political discussions when we’re in social situations because we know how bloody those discussions can become. And of course, the villains here – those who create this atmosphere that renders meaningful political dialogue so difficult – can be found all along the political spectrum: not only on the right, but also on the left, as well as everywhere in between.

We must engage, of course – we must argue. Struggling economies, the terrifying specter of war, and the looming threat of global environmental devastation leave us no choice. But when you argue, argue well. Argue respectfully. Argue not to win, but to learn; not to close other people down but to open up everyone’s minds; not because your opponent is your enemy, but rather because you both share a desire to make things right.

Isaac Mayer Wise and his temple president had to slug it out when they argued. We can do better. We can fight good rather than fight dirty; we can fight out of respect rather than hatred; we can fight fights that are truly for the sake of heaven. And we know that when we do, we’ll all end up winners.

Shanah Tovah