The Blog of Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg

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Where comfort lies?

I am always glad when Shabbat Nachamu, the Sabbath of Consolation, arrives. The bleak fast of the Ninth of Av has passed and we move from contemplating destruction to hope and comfort.

Comfort, O comfort my people; speak to the heart of Jerusalem   Isaiah 40:1

But where does comfort come from? Experience as a community rabbi has made me wary of trite comments like ‘time is a healer’. Time pushes us by the shoulder into the bewildering future. But it rarely fills in the holes in the heart through which, mercifully, painfully, those we have lost make unpredictable reappearances in our consciousness. No one lives only in the present.

In the wider frame of history, what is destroyed is rarely speedily rebuilt. The impact of persecutions, wars, disasters, marks those affected forever, and often defines the lives of their children, even their children’s children. Violence hasn’t vanished from the world, or racism, anti-Semitism and hatred gone away.

So where is comfort?

I saw a sign stuck on a lamppost ‘Ich liebe mein Leben’, ‘I love my life,’ with a small red heart underneath. Thank God, the love of life has tenacious powers. Like the pale leaves emerging in April from the thick, sticky buds of a chestnut tree after a winter of dormancy, the will to live reawakens in the human heart.

Like the wild flowers that grew in the bomb craters of London after the war, life has extraordinary resilience. It finds a foothold once again, not the same as it once was, but life nonetheless.

Destruction is powerful. But creation and creativity have – so far – found the subtle, visceral, tenacious resources to fight back:

However many rings of pain the night welds around me,
The opposing pull is stronger, the passion to break away.   Boris Pasternak

Yet, as life rushes on, what about the wounds left behind?

The issue takes me to the story of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi and his desire to question the Messiah. But where should he find him? ‘Among the poor at the gates of the great city’, Elijah informs him, referring to Rome, recently responsible for the sacking of Jerusalem. The rabbi promptly travels to the great metropolis, where he sees a host of destitute people taking off their bandages and gazing at their injuries. The Messiah, however, removes only one bandage at a time before hastily replacing it, saying ‘Maybe I am needed’.

I’ve met a lot of people like that. Sometimes they come up to me and say, ‘Remember me when you hear about someone else going through what I’ve been through’. It may be grief, depression, illness, the sudden loss of their job. They have turned their wounds into ‘Maybe I am needed’.

Nervous before the start of the Royal Parks half marathon last year, I asked the runners waiting next to me why they were doing the race:

‘For the Alzheimer’s Society, in memory of my mum’
‘For Cancer Research, because of what happened to my brother’

They too have turned their sorrow into ‘Maybe I am needed’.

Such people are my heroes, healers, redeemers, the rebuilders of Jerusalem.

Much as I sometimes wish to, I don’t think I believe in a single personal magical Messiah who’ll descend from heaven on a long rope into the maelstrom of history and solve all its ills.

But I believe in the redemptive spirit in humanity, within each of us, and in our capacity, with each other’s help, to try to turn pain into healing, destruction into rebuilding, grief into consolation, mourning into hope.

Causeless hatred – and its causes

The Talmud teaches that the Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans:

‘because there was gratuitous hatred during that period’. Talmud, Yoma 9b

As the Fast of the 9th of Av approaches, the day in the Jewish year in which we are asked to reflect on destruction and destructiveness in our world, I find myself puzzling over what that ‘hatred’ is, and how we can stop hating.

‘Gratuitous hatred’, sinat chinam in Hebrew, may be defined as the opposite of righteous indignation. If the latter is anger directed at removing a wrong or injustice in the world, the former is pointless rage and recrimination, justified by no cause.

Sinat chinam has both a personal and a political dimension.

On the personal level, I don’t think gratuitous hatred means hatred which has come from nowhere and has no source. Anger almost always has its pretexts; the mind is liable to hover over them until they become an ingrained bitterness of the soul: ‘I was neglected’ ‘I was treated unfairly’ ‘Life never gave me what I deserved’. Ground can always be found, or invented, for such thoughts.

‘Gratuitous hatred’ draws attention to their futility. Where do they take us, if not back to our own mental prisons of grudges and resentments? As Nelson Mandela famously said:

As I walked out the door towards the gate that would lead to my freedom I knew that if I didn’t leave bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.

None of us wants to go through life with part of our heart in an internal solitary cell of our own making. Once one has taken two or three turns in the labyrinth of resentment, it is extremely hard to find one’s way out. We need kindness, from ourselves as much as from others, inner understanding and self-discipline to help us.

On the political level, gratuitous hatred means wantonly or ignorantly engaging in disputes which could and should have been avoided.

This is probably what the Talmud means by the phrase. The wars against Rome were driven by extremists. The zealots who eventually burnt the food supplies in the besieged city of Jerusalem and forced its citizens to fight to the hopeless end, refused to listen to moderating voices.

The heirs of sinat chinam today are all who practise a politics of extremism and rejection and all of us who demonise others. The healers are those who practise the difficult, dangerous, often seemingly futile art of building bridges with the fragile armoury of words and relationships; with tentative sensitivity to how the world may feel like to others…all who reach out to care for others with humility, courage and faith.

I believe causeless hatred also describes pain and anger we end up provoking without even thinking about it. In a news report from the civil war in Yemen, Orla Guerin interviewed a family whose son had lost both legs in a bomb, then spoke to a local journalist, who asked: ‘Why does the west arm Saudi Arabia? You are people who believe in humanistic values, so why do you leave us to suffer?’ Sixty per cent of the population of Yemen don’t know where their next food is coming from.

No doubt the politics are complex. But it is a fact that, indirectly and without wishing to do so, we are all implicated in vast suffering in many parts of the world.

It is not pleasant to face a date established in the Jewish calendar to ponder the terrible exiles and persecutions we as a people have been forced to undergo, and to think about why there is so much hatred across the globe. But the day is important. If we refuse to visit the angriest, most hurt places in our hearts, our history and in the world, we will not be able to bring healing.

It is only out of understanding that redemption is born. Hence the teaching that it is on the Fast of the 9th of Av that the Messiah is born. This may be understood metaphorically as the desire and determination in each of us to rebuild and restore creation through justice, compassion and love.

Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it. Martin Luther King

 

God in the fire

‘He saw a palace in flames’. It’s the opening of the midrashic story about how Abraham found God. It came to my mind during a conversation about Grenfell Tower.

A man was walking from place to place when he saw a palace in flames. He wondered: Was it possible the building had no one in charge? The owner looked out at him and said, ‘I am the master of the palace.’

It’s supposed to describe how Abraham finds his faith. He sees the world burning with violence and injustice and thinks: perhaps it has no guide. God looks out at him and says: ‘I am the Master of the World’.

But why is God, the ‘owner’ in the parable, inside the building, letting it burn? Why isn’t he or she putting out the flames, rescuing others, at least getting out of the way of the fire?

Instead God, the so-called owner, is trapped inside among the victims, crying out to the bewildered passers-by.

That, it strikes me, is the point. If we’re looking for a God who won’t ever allow tragedies to happen, who intervenes in our world to prevent every disaster, who takes the responsibility for the safety of buildings, or countries, or children, out of our hands, we’ll probably search in vain.

It’ll be different if we look for God among those who’re struggling in the midst of the fire. I’m not thinking only of Grenfell Tower, but of everywhere people need to be rescued, helped, heard, or saved from the internal flames and demons which at times beset us.

God in the voice of the person at the window; in the longing of the firemen, ‘Can we reach that storey still?’? God in the angry accusations that too little was listened to, too late? What kind of a God is that? What can such a God possibly mean?

Because that is the God I believe in, those questions pursue me. They’re the questions against which I have to square my conscience, justify my life.

They entail principles which are challenging, difficult, even frightening; but essential, honest and true:

Every human life is part of Life, God’s life, because God is not some remote entity, some super-galactic being, but inhabits every single life here on earth. Every heart is God’s sanctuary, every song God’s music, and every cry God’s calling out.

If God is ‘the owner of the palace’ then everyone is the owner of that palace too. We all have the right, and carry the responsibility, to insist that it is safe and that there is space within it for the most indigent, as well as the most wealthy.

If God is ‘the owner of the palace’ the failure to listen to any voice raised fairly and justly against any wrong on earth is a failure to hear God.

Such a God is difficult. The trouble is that we may find ourselves hearing that God’s call anywhere, any time. We are all Abraham, and none of us will escape witnessing flames, metaphorical if not real. The constant challenge is, ‘to hear, or not to hear’, and the best we can manage is sometimes.

But there is wonder, too, with such a God. For God inhabits our heart also and speaks within our thoughts and feelings, awakening us to the glory of life, arousing in us a keen alertness to grace, beauty and tenderness.

And that very sensitivity, that love, makes us want to listen to the voice which is always calling out: ‘You there, don’t just walk away’.

 

‘If I am only for myself, what am I?’

‘It’s me’, my friend says, when I pick up the phone. If I were to answer, ‘Yes, but what do you mean by ‘me’, I imagine he might think I was having a nervous breakdown.

But it’s a question which preoccupies me, not as an egocentric fetish but as a moral concern.

Autonomy has become a modern God. ‘I am’; ‘I need’; ‘I want’. But who is this ‘I’? Maybe it isn’t one simple entity, me. Maybe, rather, it’s composed of many layers, and loves. Maybe it could become not just the driver of my wants and demands, but the source of intuition and compassion.

I’ve developed a new lesson for my course for teens on The Values That Matter. I put a Russian doll on the table, take out all the little dolls from inside each other, and ask: ‘If this doll is you, and these are the layers of your identity, what are they and how do they fit together?’ The discussion is vigorous:

The outermost doll is my name.
No, the innermost is my name.
No. What’s innermost is my heart.

‘What about being human?’ I ask. And ‘Where’s being Jewish?’ and ‘What about British?’

Jewish is on the outside. Then British.
No; on the inside.
No; Jewish is everywhere, through all the layers of me.
No; it’s being human which runs through all of me. Actually animal. Actually alive.

I might ask about family. ‘That layer is my parents: they made me’. Someone asks, ‘But who made them?’ ‘That tiny doll in the middle is Adam and Eve’, someone else says, only half facetiously, reminding me of the line, ‘We are atoms in the consciousness of God’.

I think of Hillel, the 1st century BCE sage, who begins his exploration of identity with the much-quoted assertion, ‘If I am not for myself, who will be for me?’ People rarely cite the continuation, ‘But if I am just for myself, what am I?’ My connectedness with others is integral to who I am. Without it, I am just a ‘what’, a nothing.

In his next saying, Hillel develops this thought further: ‘Never separate from the community, or trust solely in yourself until your dying day’. I imagine he means both horizontal and vertical community: our dependence on and responsibility for our contemporaries, as well as our connection with the cultures of our ancestors. We belong to, and must learn from, both our past and our present.

I fantasize that none of this is lost on the class of teens. It certainly touches me, – and I’d thought I was the one asking the questions. Instead, those questions grow inside me.

Literature contains some wonderful responses to them. John Donne’s is among the most famous:

No man is an island, entire of itself, every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. (Meditation XVII)

But my favourite is by Boris Pasternak, from his Zhivago poems:

In me are people without names,
Children, stay-at-homes, trees.
I am conquered by them all
And this is my only victory.

‘I am involved in mankind’, ‘In me are people without names’: that’s what I want my class to understand. It’s how I want to live.

If our ‘I’ was less full of me, if we had more space inside us for the lives and loves, the identities and cares, which compose us, – then both we and the world around us would be very different. Pasternak is right: that is our only victory.

 

We miss them: But their love still speaks in our hearts

We go into my study, stopping outside in the dark to look at the moon. We dial the number: will anyone else join us tonight? We’ve led this short service over the phone for two years now, late on Wednesday nights, on a party line so that anyone can call in, carer, sufferer, seeker of consolation. Leslie sings the song of the four angels: ‘Before me is Uriel, angel of light; behind me is Raphael, angel of healing; over my head is God’s presence.’

Leslie was there with his smile when I first came to our community, 36 years ago. That smile never left him, warm, embracing, simplifying life’s adversities into welcome, ushering everybody, old friend, new acquaintance into a sunshine of welcome. It never left him, except perhaps in the cruellest phase of his illness.

I see Leslie leading the services in the Synagogue: Kol Nidrei: All our vows and dreams, may we never give up hope of fulfilling them; Shuvi Nafshi; may my soul find her rest; Ve’avitah tehillah: you, eternal God, love the songs of mortals, made of flesh, blood and confusion, fleeting as shadows through a turbulent world.

Leslie was a wonderful teacher: ‘Half the battle is helping the boys relax, taking the pressure off them’. He’d talk to the parents: ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be great on her Bat-Mitzvah’.

Leslie loved animals. I see him, gently calling to the horses at the farm on Regents Park Road. He adored dogs, and they him. If I let my dog off the lead in a room full of forty people, it was Leslie to whom he ran.

Leslie had a moral passion too, refugees, people in pain. He helped fight for the Race Relations Act.

But it’s his from-the-heart smile we all remember most. He could almost disarm destiny with that smile, and nearly did, running with the Olympic Torch in honour of the generous, accepting spirit in which he took his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. But in the end, it wasn’t Leslie any more, but the faithful love of his family, close friends and carers which formed the counterforce of love against the cruelty of the disease.

We gardened together during the first stages of that illness, when his kindness shone out even more and he wouldn’t hear a single bad word about anyone, not his synagogue and certainly not his rabbi. I think of us together, planting hundreds of daffodils.

The wonderful poet Helen Dunmore understood, in her own dying:

My life’s stem was cut…
I know I am dying
But why not keep flowering
As long as I can
From my cut stem?

Forgive me for writing about Leslie, but he is the closest of my colleagues to have gone to his eternal rest. There are so many others whom we remember. Today is July 7, twelve years since the London bombings (before those this year). I think of Miriam Hyman, Susan Levy, and others whom I only know by name. Tomorrow is the Pride March in London; I think of Shira Banki stabbed to death in Jerusalem’s 2015 parade.

There are so many with whom our daily lives are inextricably, instinctively bound: parents, partners, children. Living without them was unthinkable until…

A friend who lost his wife spoke to me of his dislike of the term ‘closure’. I agree. Love, and loss, do not know closure. They continue to grow in us. What we have is not closure, but becoming, what the voices of the dead say inside us.

This is true of sorrow, as David Grossman wrote in Falling Out Of Time, reflecting on the death of his son Uri: ‘the boy / is dead…But his death, / his death / is not / dead.’

This is no less true of love. We carry within us the ongoing becoming of those we have loved. Sometimes, in some seasons, on days with a special light, we notice that they are still flowering. We all have gardens in our hearts, into which time painfully transplants more and more of the lives we have loved around us, until it takes us too, and leaves us, also, vital memories in the hearts of others.

Paddington Comes to Synagogue (we miss you, Michael Bond)

The much-loved children’s author Michael Bond died this week. His memory is truly for a blessing, as the flowers and jars of fine-cut marmalade which currently adorn the statue of his most famous creation, A Bear Called Paddington, testify.

I grew up with Paddington. The young bear gentleman with his entourage of the Brown family, Mrs Bird and Mr Gruber, was more frequently at my bedside table even than Winnie the Pooh, or Jennings, or Professor Branestawm. Like millions of children, I loved those stories, and still do.

As a rabbi, I maintained the fantasy that one day I would invite Michael Bond to bring Paddington to the synagogue, out of which a slim new volume might emerge: Paddington Goes to Shul.

I even half thought that the author could be Jewish, in which case, a fortiori, his creation might be too. But this is unlikely, since the very first breakfast the bear enjoys in his new home in London consists of bacon, which he likes so much that he puts the leftovers in his suitcase, leaving the perplexed Mrs Brown wondering why six dogs should have followed them into the Underground later that morning.

But what might have happened had the intrepid bear ventured into the service one Shabbat morning? I never got very far in my musings:

‘Would you like an Aliyah, an honour?’ asked the shammes, or synagogue orderly, kindly, bending down to speak to the young bear who had just entered the service. ‘We could call you up for Shishi?’

Paddington looked upwards. All he could see was the ceiling; there didn’t seem to be anywhere to be called up to. And who, and where, was Shishi? All around him were only men. Then, because he didn’t want to seem rude, he said, ‘Thank you very much,’ and lifted his hat politely.

‘No, no; you keep that on in synagogue,’ said the kind shammes, taking the bear by the hand. ‘In fact, you’ll need one of these’ he added, fetching a tallit prayer-shawl and putting it round the bear’s shoulders where it clung instantly thanks to little lumps of marmalade left over from his breakfast.

A moment later, Paddington found himself perched on a small stand on top of the podium, in front of a hushed congregation. ‘You have had your Bar Mitzvah, haven’t you?’ said another gentleman, in somewhat urgent tones. ‘You do know your blessings?’

Who were they talking about now? Paddington began to feel a little anxious. He’d seen a bar once, on the boat from darkest Peru, but he was sure it hadn’t also been called Mitzvah. ‘Bar-who?’ he said. To his surprise this seemed to go down remarkably well.

Or perhaps there could be an incident over the kashrut of Paddington’s marmalade. Whatever the case, the strange and perplexing rules and rituals of the synagogue are rife with the potential for good-natured incomprehension.

In one sense Paddington really could be Jewish. The little, forlorn bear on the platform at Paddington with his note ‘Please look after this bear’ is like the hundreds of children from across Nazi Europe who found themselves at the end of the platforms of Liverpool Street Station with a number attached to them like a luggage tag, and bewilderment in their hearts. Or, more likely, Paddington represents all the children evacuated from London at the start of the war, in which his creator went off to fight.

I’ve written many painful emails and sent many tweets about terrible events in the last months. I thought I would choose a different tone this week. It’s not because the world has suddenly become free of evil, but because all of us, whoever we are and wherever we live, want our children to be able to be children.

We want every child to enjoy a proper childhood, surrounded by affection, with curiosity, adventure and wonder. We want them to breath in the joy of innocent mornings, with life safe, plentiful and unending; before danger and mortality creep like shadows behind the half-open windows and stare out across the landscape of the future.

And even when they do, we still want Paddington to take his jar of marmalade with him under his hat, and sit down with Mr Gruber to a large cup of cocoa and his elevenses bun, and intrepid and eager, look the world straight in the heart.

Thank you, Michael Bond, for what you have given us: Paddington Marches On.

Listening, with leaders of all faiths, at Grenfell Tower

I was invited to speak at a gathering of faith leaders close to Grenfell Tower yesterday. I went, mainly to listen. We were Muslims, Christians, Jews, Sikhs, Bahais; we were just people, but people together.

On walls and railings all around are pictures of the missing, children, young couples, all ages: ‘Have you seen…?’ ‘Marco and Gloria, Italy is praying for you’. In the streets, people talk in small groups, residents, school children, police, helpers, chaplains.

There were powerful calls for justice; for all questions to be answered in all aspects; for those responsible to be made accountable. Yet the spirit was solidarity, not anger; togetherness, not division.

Pain knows no age, no colour, no gender, no religion, said the local Sikh leader; humanity is one. He told me these were the words of a colleague who was volunteering among the dispossessed in Syria and Lebanon. London, too, has its dispossessed.

‘We’re here for the long haul’, said the Bishop of Kensington, Bishop Graham, speaking for the local clergy, who’ve been remarkable. ‘We believe in community; we believe in a God who gives hope’.

‘I’m nobody’, said a local young man, ‘But I’m somebody.’ He grew up nearby; as a child he’d played next to, in and beneath the Tower: ‘I’ve friends who didn’t get out’. We’re all responsible for our communities, he said; if only we’d realised earlier; if only we’d done more.

On the walls, among the pictures of the missing, are small hand-written posters:

Broken but United with My Neighbours (in many colours)
Life does go on. But now it has to change
Listen. We are still here…

I spoke about listening; ‘Shema; Listen!’ is the first word of Judaism’s most important meditation. I told the story of the man whose friend assures him that he loves him. ‘If you love me’, he replies, ‘tell me where I hurt?’ ‘How should I know?’ the man remonstrates, ‘I’ve no idea where you hurt!’ ‘Then you aren’t truly my friend,’ says the man.

We must not become a city so separated into sub-communities divided by ethnicity, religion, income, prospects and such different daily realities that we’ve no idea where others hurt. We must not remain a society in which, when one group cries out ‘I don’t feel safe’, the rest don’t hear, perhaps don’t even care.

We all have the power to turn a nobody into a somebody, by listening and caring. We can also make a somebody feel a nobody, by closing our heart. It happens all the time and we are all responsible.

Before the gathering, I met Father Alan Everett, who’s coordinated much of the support. We talked about resources for the long-term… As for lessons, he said: Be organised and prepared. Know each other; know your local communities, councillors, faith leaders, police, fire services, teachers. Meet, discuss, plan for eventualities. Have up-to-date contact lists; keep them up-to-date.

Above us all is the tower, charred and silent; full of stifled voices which will cry out in the hearts of parents, children, friends, neighbours, firemen, rescuers, forever. I think of Rachel Bluwstein’s words, written soon before she died:

Will you hear my silence, -
You who did not hear my words?

 

Muslim Welfare House mosque, Finsbury Park

We stand together in solidarity with our Muslim fellow-citizens after the terror attack on worshippers leaving the Muslim Welfare House Mosque last night in Finsbury Park. This is a shocking and despicable hate crime.

The victims were leaving the mosque after a day of fasting and prayer on one of the holiest nights of the month of Ramadan. Our thoughts are with them and with their families and their community.

This appalling act is a desecration of the name of God and a crime against all the citizens of London who seek to live together, celebrating our differences and creating a just, vibrant and compassionate society for us all.

Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg

In tribute to Jo Cox MP

The London and Manchester terror attacks, the horrifying fire, – they make us think about the frailty of life, but also about its value. No one can ever assess the worth of any human life, but the criteria which speak to me most are simple:

What impact have we had on the lives, hearts, minds and souls of others? Have we alleviated suffering? Have we shared joy and appreciation? Have we brought companionship and love?

Jo Cox was murdered exactly a year ago, on 16 June 2016, just before her 42nd birthday. Labour MP for Batley and Spen, she was killed because of her open, inclusive and deeply compassionate values. As Sarah Brown said in tribute: ‘Jo reserved a special place in her heart for the most vulnerable and the poorest citizens of the world. She was fearless, she was endlessly upbeat…’

Before entering Parliament, she worked for 10 years at Oxfam, becoming the head of advocacy and policy. As then Prime Minister David Cameron said, she ‘epitomised the fact that politics is about serving others’.

The very day his wife was murdered, Brendon Cox issued an extraordinarily courageous statement:

Jo believed in a better world and she fought for it every day of her life with an energy, and a zest for life that would exhaust most people. She would have wanted two things above all else to happen now, one that our precious children are bathed in love and two, that we all unite to fight against the hatred that killed her.’

At Brendon’s request, this weekend of 16 – 18 June is dedicated to The Great Get-Together, to motivate us to create in Jo’s memory a societywhere we know our neighbours, invest in our communities, and are able to keep an eye out for each other’s children…Jo was ambitious for what could be done…’

This is the plain meaning of the quotation from the Torah inscribed next to the Ark on the eastern wall of our synagogue: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’. When Jews gained civic equality in Germany (for all too short a time) Samson Raphael Hirsch interpreted these words to mean that we must seek for every member of our society, irrespective of their faith or ethnicity, the very same rights and opportunities we want for ourselves. We could add that we should also try to provide for others the same security, reassurance and loving kindness we hope will surround us during our journey through life. For life can be cruel, lonely and wretched.

Brendon Cox could not have known that this weekend would come at such a painful and fragile time in the life of the country. In the last two weeks, we have seen the horrors of both physical fire and the fire of hatred.

But we are also witnesses to the great outpouring of kindness, generosity and solidarity which has characterised the huge public response, including people of all faiths and none, and across all sections of society from the Queen to the homeless.

This is a moment when the heart of humanity is open and we are called upon to be part of it.

To those who will now be governing our country

I hope and pray that whoever runs the country following the complex results of the election will show strong leadership in the protection of everyone’s safety, the respect for dignity and equality, the promotion of justice and compassion, and in unyielding commitment to the defence of the environment, the future of life itself.

Four issues concern me deeply, and have been especially poignant in the last week.

The first is safety. Like all of us, I’ve looked many times at the pictures of the people murdered by Islamist terrorists near London Bridge. ‘She died in his arms’: the utter cruelty of destroying the life, love, hope and joy of others with such evil and wanton intent is beyond comprehension. I went to Potters Fields, joined the minute of silence, and listened to the defiant and compassionate words of the Mayor of London, Sadiq Kahn. The headlines will pass, but not the pain of those whose lives have been transformed by injury, trauma and grief. Our hearts go out to them.

I joined Muslim, Jewish, Christian and police leaders at a press conference expressing sorrow for the victims and condemning terror, all terror, everywhere. I was not alone in saying how sorry I feel for the vast numbers of Muslims whose faith, so dear to them, is being hijacked by terrorists, but that, at the same time, there are challenging questions to be asked, and urgently pursued, as to why Islam is repeatedly used as cover for such wicked abuse.

I am full of admiration for the courage and professionalism shown by the police and emergency services, and the selfless bravery of so many local people and passers-by.

The second issue is the fate of refugees and the homeless. We currently have a charming lady staying with us who’s been a refugee in the UK for twelve years. She told us that when she has nowhere else to go she sleeps on the night buses. In the last months, I’ve travelled a lot; I’ve seen people sleeping on the streets and in the porticos of London, Berlin, Paris, Geneva. It’s almost impossible for a person without an address to get a job. If one has no work, how does one reconstruct a sense of one’s own life and worth? I was asked to speak at an OECD conference about what faith communities can do for refugees: the phrases I heard again and again were ‘the opportunity to learn the language’; ‘apprenticeships and jobs’; and, very importantly, ‘we need to think not just about the refugees but also the unemployed and poor in the communities where they arrive’.

The third concern is the vulnerable. Time and again when I speak with doctors, social workers, therapists, I hear of doors closing because of cuts in funding, excessive bureaucracy and resultant poor morale. (Yet I also frequently witness the heart-felt dedication of nurses, physicians, OT’s, volunteers…) Where are people to go now, who need care or counselling, or simply a compassionate ear in a compassionate environment? It makes me all the more determined to increase the resources and resilience of our, and other, faith communities. If we shut our doors to the needs of body and soul, what open doors will there be left?

Last but not least, is the matter which embraces all humankind and life on earth itself. I co-wrote and co-signed a letter to The Times (published yesterday) from leaders of all religions:

Our respective faiths unite us in the affirmation that all human life is of infinite value and that caring for our planet is a sacred responsibility. We are answerable to God, each other and our children’s children for the wellbeing of this earth. Life is too precious, the earth too wonderful and the demand to act for environmental justice too strong for us to remain silent.

I hope these basic Jewish, and universal, values will be central in the hearts of those governing our country and the world.

 

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