Perhaps it was a Hint
of Hope
Rabbi Victor H.
Reinstein

The difference this time seemed to be in the connection and
interaction with passersby. There is always the supportive honking of a horn as
cars pass, a wave and a smile from drivers, from cyclists, from pedestrians,
people stepping from the bus, hurrying on home from school and work. Last night
there was an uncharacteristic shout from the driver of a pick up truck, fist
punching the air beyond his open window, yelling, “go Trump.” A collective sigh
went up from the otherwise silent vigil, an expression of dignity. That seemed
to be part of the difference I felt in tone, a dignified weariness. We are in
it for the long haul now, and it is hard. The hate, the brutality, the
coarseness even come to Jamaica Plain.
In standing together, we find strength,
singing and sighing together, reminding our selves and passersby that we are all
on this journey together.

And so too, passersby reminded us last night of our purpose
in being there, reminding of the larger picture and of the human connection
that joins us all. Yes, the driver of the truck who shouted at us offers one
type of reminder, and a challenge. Perhaps some day he will appreciate our
perseverance and even stop by to talk, even to stand. That happened to me once
as part of another vigil, one seeking peace and an end to militarism, of US
testing of submarines in Canadian waters. Every week a heckler came by,
sometimes drawn to my kippah, often
stopping right in front of me, shouting, too close for comfort. It was a weekly
vigil, and every week I spoke calmly to the man as he leaned in, crossing
boundaries of comfort and respect. I came to know well the markings on his face
and the East European accent in his voice. Over time, I asked him of his story,
of his family, from where he had come, gradually sensing a softening as he
offered short answers to my questions. One week I was not able to make it to
the vigil. During that week of my absence, I was told that the man had come by
as usual, but he was quiet, asking the others, “where is my rabbi?” From then
on, it was different, a connection made. The man never joined the vigil, but he
no longer came by to harangue, only to talk and affirm the human connection
that inheres among us all, affirming that we were indeed a peace vigil.
There was something more at the recent Black Lives Matter
vigil that I continue to reflect on, to feel tearful and hopeful about. There seemed to be a different way of
interaction with African American passersby. Perhaps I have missed such
interactions in the past, but I was struck last night by the number of African
Americans of all ages who stopped at various points along the line to say
“thank you.” There was something deeply moving in these simple words, but
something that also made me feel awkward, even embarrassed. Standing up for
justice, standing up in the face of our neighbor’s oppression and our own is
what we are called to do because it is right, not as an act worthy of
gratitude. It is an act of tz’dakah
in its most basic meaning of acting for
the sake of justice, for the sake of making things right, as called to
action by the Torah (Deut. 16:20), tzedek,
tzedek tirdof/justice, justice shall you pursue. In the whiteness of most
of the vigil standers, it is an obligation to stand for those without white
privilege, precisely the reason and the need to cry out that “Black Lives
Matter,” that those facing injustice most directly not be left to cry out
alone. In my discomfort with expressions of appreciation, perhaps I am also
being too critical, failing to see an expression of the very connection we seek
among us. The simple words of thank you can be heard as an expression of
solidarity, that we walk hand in hand even as we stand. It is not that there
are more white people standing in the vigil on behalf of black people. We are
standing, black and white together, whether some are standing in the silent line,
some passing by, some smiling, some praying, some knowing the scourge of racism
all to close to home, together seeking justice, offering love and hope along a
busy street as life goes by.
Most of all, I was moved to tears by a mother and son. She
stopped right by the end of the vigil line, right by where I most often stand.
The woman smiled and offered those two beautiful words, “thank you.” I simply
smiled, wanting to hug her, but refraining. I have thought since that I might
have said, “We are all in this together.” Perhaps that was conveyed in my
smile.
She then stood nearby, bending down to speak earnestly to her son of
about seven or eight years old. She spoke into his ear, turning to point to the
signs that said she mattered, that her son mattered. The two came closer again
to the line of vigil and still with the same warm smile nodded her head,
holding her son so close, and then to both him and to us sang out in prayerful
cadence, “yes, Black Lives Matter!” Of love and justice joined, mother and child
affirmed, so were we. As the two turned then to leave, I said to her the same
two words, heartfelt and true, “thank you.”


In telling Avraham, it is with the hope that we shall keep the way of God--to do righteousness and justice/v’shamru derech ha’shem—la’asot tz’dakah u’mishpat (Gen. 18:19) Mishpat refers simply to justice. Tzedakah, as we are commanded to pursue it, is justice infused with love, with a quest to do good, to right what is wrong. Often joined together as a phrase, mishpat usually precedes tzedakah in the language of the Torah. Not here, in the face of such violence and social breakdown, love needs to infuse justice if we would rebuild the world and our society as it is meant to be.

We cry louder, greater witness needed, when one person’s mattering is forgotten, a mother passing by and explaining to her son, grateful for the opportunity, a moment of gratitude that joins us all. There was something different in the tone, in the fall air filled with our silence and our song. With gratitude for the breath of life and for each one’s presence, touched by simple words of thank you, hand in hand we stand that no one should ever have to plead for the next breath that doesn’t come. Something different in the air, perhaps it was a hint of hope.
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