September 22, 2007
10 Tishrei 5768
Fundamentalism and Self-Reflection
The confessional is a mainstay of the Yom Kippur liturgy. So many times through the day’s prayers, we stand and publicly avow all the sins we may have committed in the past year.
In this spirit, this morning I have another confession to make:
I am a fundamentalist.
Yes, it’s true. I discovered it while reading this morning’s Torah portion from Nitzavim. But before you contact HUC to send me back to New York, let me explain.
First of all, a bit about the word “fundamentalism” itself. In order to understand it fully, I looked up the word “fundament” on dictionary.com: it is “a foundation; an underlying theoretical basis or principle.” “Fundamentalism”, then, is “a religious point of view characterized by a return to basic, essential, foundational principles” [adapted].
Inspired by the words of Moses in this Torah portion, I began to understand my religious quest in these terms – a Return to Essentials, or Back to the Basics.
So, what are these fundaments upon which my faith rests? Before I answer, I want to set the stage, and that involves a little bit of congregational participation.
I would like to ask you all to open up your Gates of Repentance to page 343, to Deuteronomy 30:11-14, which begins at the bottom of the page. I invite you to please rise and read this passage responsively with me; your part is everything in quotes, and I will begin.
30: 11] For this commandment which I command you this day is not too hard for you, nor too remote. 12] It is not in heaven, that you should say, “Who will go up for us to heaven and bring it down to us, that we may do it?” 13] Nor is it beyond the sea, that you should say, “Who will cross the sea for us and get it for us and bring it over to us, that we may do it?” 14] No, it is very near to you, in your mouth and in your heart, and you can do it.
(You may be seated.)
In the wake of the overwhelming display of God’s power during the Exodus, Moses has to convince the Israelites that the Torah they are receiving will not be similarly overwhelming. It is almost as if he says:
Remember when we went across the sea on dry land on our way to receive the Torah? And remember when I ascended the mountain to God’s very Presence in the heavens to receive the Law? I know that was all very miraculous and intimidating, but from now on, everything will be accessible to you on the ground.
In other words, all that divine intervention was paving the way for human activation.
Here’s where we get down to the Jewish fundamentals: the mouth-heart partnership. I believe that this duality is a radical statement of our relationship to tradition, community, and ourselves.
The mouth is the locus of public discourse. It is the quintessential tool for interpersonal communication, and, therefore, the mouth is the fundamental building block of community. By locating the Torah in our mouths, Moses reminds us that Judaism cannot exist in isolation but requires the active engagement of a collective.
On the other hand, the heart is the locus of personal reflection, self-fulfillment, and autonomy. Individuality, even when it leads to disagreement, is essential for an authentic, thriving Judaism. Of course, there are limits to this autonomy, and Moses warns us that following our own willful hearts is abhorrent to God: the heart untempered by the mouth is self-aggrandizing and idolatrous.
This interplay of individual and community is also illustrated in the way Moses addresses the Israelites in this speech. He locates the fundamentals of Judaism in “your heart” and “your mouth”, both in the singular. That singular, together with the plural “You” (or “Y’all” where I come from) in the very first verses of the portion, makes it clear that Moses is speaking to the community in its radical entirety: the Torah is to be found in the mouth and heart of every man, woman, and child – and not just the Israelite, but the stranger, too. And not just those present at the time, but all their descendants in perpetuity. Therefore, to exclude even one individual is to limit ourselves from the covenant, to cut ourselves off from God.
That’s what I mean when I say I’m a fundamentalist. My commitment to others, within and without the Jewish community, is my first and my last. Consider: Moses did not say, “This thing is very close to you, right here in this Sefer Torah.” If we are serious about the meaning of Torah, then we must guard against taking the pages of Torah so seriously that we blind ourselves to the Torah within each of us and among all of us.
This is why it makes me so angry when so-called “fundamentalists” – Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and otherwise – make inflammatory and exclusionary statements. Terrorists call for holy war to wipe out all the non-believers. Missionaries call for conversion to their one true faith at the threat of eternal punishment – and maybe some earthly punishment, too. Reactionaries call for the condemnation of those of different races, sexual orientations, and political affiliations.
To all of these I want to react dramatically; I want to call them racist, chauvinistic, outside the bounds of acceptable religion. I want to rail against them because they do not seek the divine in the mouths and hearts of those they condemn to suffering or even death. I might have used the label “fundamentalist” and meant it as a criticism, but I won’t anymore. For these kinds of believers disregard those fundamentals of mouth and heart that Moses articulates in our Torah portion. Preferring the words of their holy texts, they ignore the holy words that dwell in every human soul. They desecrate the divine spark in others and in themselves.
* * *
And then, in a more self-critical moment, I pause to ask if my summary rejection of these “fundamentalists” is itself a violation of my fundamental principle of mouth and heart. As hard as it is to ask, should I not seek some taste of the sweetness of Torah even in the bitterness of their words? In the wisdom of the great sage Ramban and this Season of Repentance, I found the beginning of an answer.
Up to now, we have taken it for granted that “this Mitzvah” (“this commandment”), which Moses locates in our mouths and hearts, refers to the entire Torah, and most commentators agree. But the Ramban, in his commentary on Deuteronomy, takes it to refer to the specific commandment of teshuva – repentance – a few verses earlier: “you shall return to the Eternal your God” (Deut 30:2; see also 30:10).
The Ramban’s interpretation encourages us, even as we criticize others, to reflect on ourselves:
When have I abused Torah to justify my hatred or to hide my indifference? When have I clothed profane ulterior motives in pious garb? When have I complained without constructing, criticized without contributing? When have I deprived myself of experiencing God by excluding someone, knowingly or not? When have I been blinded by my own willful heart? When have I been deaf to the voices of my community? When have I been hesitant to ask forgiveness? When have I been slow to forgive?
These are the questions that I carry with me this Yom Kippur. The task before each of us is to bring the mouth and heart back into dialogue, back into balance. Sometimes this means calling out hypocrisy and sin in our communities and in our world. Sometimes, it means turning those fundamentals into tools of forgiveness. Always, it means that if our own mouths and hearts are in order, we can speak with greater integrity when we see dangerous “fundamentalism” in others.
As we turn inward during this day of introspection, let us not forget to keep looking outward, too. My hope for all of us is that we have the heart to reflect critically on our own souls, and the openness of mind and mouth to share in that soul-searching with our community.
Ken y’hi ratzon, and a meaningful fast.
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