Here, I share some thoughts upon my
recent return from marching as a part of the NAACP-organized “Journey for
Justice.” The march spans 860 miles from Selma, Alabama, to Washington, D.C. to
highlight and address continuing issues of racial justice. Over 150 Reform
rabbis from across the nation have committed to be a part of this extraordinary
journey and I am proud to count myself among them. In our arms, we carry a
Torah scroll, the sacred document of our people that proclaims the message of
justice and redemption.
There was a man who
led the march every day and he walked the majority of each day’s 18-22 miles.
He stood in the front and held a full-sized American
flag, waving it on occasion high above his head, especially spurred on when someone
driving by in a car or someone sitting on their porch watching our caravan pass
by whooped in support.
With the Torah in my
arms, I introduced myself to him as we lined up to begin the march. “Middle
Passage,” he replied. “My name is Middle Passage.”
Later in the day, I
found a quiet moment to approach Middle Passage, or MP as he was sometimes
called, and asked him more about how he came to take on that name assuming and
I was right that it was not his given name. I knew the history of the middle
passage, that horrific route that carried African slaves across the ocean but I
wanted to know him and what led to
his decision to take on that name.
MP was a relatively
quiet man. He took on the name in 1999 and then proceeded to paint his story in
simple and broad, but evocative and powerful strokes.
“You have to know
where you came from to know where you are going.”
And I thought to myself, “How Jewish.”
The pull of history.
The anthem of Never Forget. The repercussions of history’s horrors playing out
in our communities still to this day.
The African-American
and Jewish communities have long been united both in oppression as well as in
lifting up and calling for greater justice for all peoples. For we know: “You
have to know where you came from to know where you are going.”
The Journey for
Justice, this 40-day movement from Selma, Alabama to our nation’s capital is about
knowing where we came from, where we are, and indeed where we need to go.
Simply watching the
state police escorting and protecting
the marchers was a moment that brought that learning home. Fifty years ago, our
law enforcement stood in our way and now, with blue lights shining, they are
leading it. And while we celebrated and honored the officers and troopers
helping us in our march for freedom, we are also marching for greater
transparency in our law enforcement’s dealings with the public and for bridge-building
particularly between law enforcement and the black community.
There is so much
work, sacred work to be done.
It is America’s Journey for Justice, organized
by the NAACP whose proud partners include the Union for Reform Judaism, the
Central Conference of American Rabbis, and the Religious Action Center for
Reform Judaism. And just to emphasize the commitment of Reform Judaism to this
work: it was in the RAC, in the Religious Action Center itself where both the
Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were drafted.
The journey’s
subtitle is: “Our Lives, Our Votes, Our Schools, and Our Jobs Matter.” The
Journey for Justice is about appealing to the hearts of the American people.
It reminds me of the
story of the disciple who asks his rabbi, “Why does Torah tell us to ‘place
these words,’ the words of Torah “upon
[our] hearts’? Why does it not tell us to place these holy words in our hearts?” The rabbi answers, “It
is because as we are, our hearts are closed, and we cannot place the holy words
in our hearts. So we place them on top
of our hearts. And there they stay until, one day, the heart breaks and the
words fall in.”
Well, we need to keep
on talking, keep on placing those words of justice on top of hearts throughout
the nation, keep spreading the conversation wide and far, keep talking about
Tamir Rice and Walter Scott and Sandra Bland and the list goes on, keep sending
out images of blacks and whites side by side and sometimes hand in hand on this
march, Torah scrolls next to American flags, with mayors joining the march,
with passersby suddenly joining the march as they are moved until the hearts of
the people open and the words, the words of justice and equality and the means
to get there just fall in.
Let me conclude by
sharing a moment that opened my own heart a bit further.
When our bus was departing
to head to the site of the march start, a group of older women, members of the
local NAACP came by. They got ushered onto the bus and after a few miles, began
to question what was happening and where we were headed. It turns out these
women of some advanced age had come to the march as volunteers – to make
sandwiches, not to march for upwards of 20 miles a day. One was wearing dress
shoes and another was wearing sandals.
But they found
themselves getting off the bus like the rest of us and they placed themselves right
up near the front. We began to walk relatively briskly and they began to belt
out spirituals. I carried our Torah scroll and it suddenly felt much lighter in
my arms than it should have as their voices filled the air. The Torah, in many
ways, laid down the lyrics to the songs they sung for our Torah is ultimately
the story of justice, of redemption, of physical slavery leading towards
spiritual freedom. While I carried a beacon of justice, they sang of it. And
you couldn’t help, but join in.
Aint gonna let nobody turn us around
Aint gonna let nobody turn us around
We’re gonna keep on walkin’
Keep on talkin’
Marchin’ up to Freedom Land
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