One of the canards leveled against Judaism is that it holds Jewish people to be superior to all others. From early antiquity, in the writings of Josephus, we read of Antisemites who accuse Judaism of cultivating a disdain for the rest of humanity. Because we claim that God has singled us out from among all the peoples of the earth by giving us the Torah, the charge goes, we also believe that we are better than the rest of humanity. Hence we try to keep separate from everybody else. Hence we only use other people for our own benefits and our own purposes.
It is tempting to simply write off these distortions of classical Judaism as absurd, the cloak which bigots use to cover their own hatred and ignorance. But aspects of its essence have been offered from within the Jewish community as well. Thus, the classical Reformers of a century ago asserted that the ritual practices of traditional Judaism serve only to divide Jews from other people and should therefore be discarded. The Tanya, a founding document of Chabad, asserts that the souls of Jews are qualitatively different (and higher) than the souls of Gentiles. And the late Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, founder of the Reconstructionist branch of Judaism felt that the claim of chosenness led to ill-will on the part of Gentiles and to arrogance on the part of Jews, so he removed it from his version of the Siddur.
The assertion that Judaism insists that Jews are special is true. But the claim that Judaism disdains the rest of humanity confuses the rich polyphony of diversity with the flattening deadness of homogenization. One can love being different and feel special because of that difference, while also admiring the distinctive traits that make other people different too. Judaism understands difference as distinctiveness (in fact, the ceremony ending Shabbat is called “Havdalah”, which means “distinction.”). But does distinction necessarily imply superiority or indifference?
To answer that question, lets look at a passage in today’s Torah portion. The Torah speaks of Israelites bringing sacrifices to God. Sacrifices were at the core of biblical worship, and the place where the sacrifices were made, the altar, was the defining implement of the Mishkan (the Tabernacle) and of the Temple. Israel’s holiest people, the Kohanim and the Levi’im busied themselves with the daily, Shabbat, and Festival offerings, and Israel’s most holy building, the Temple, was where these sacrifices were made.
If Israelites thought of themselves as the only people God cared for, if they believed that God only heard the prayers of a Jew, then they might well have insisted that only an Israelite was permitted to make this most serious and sacred gesture, that only an Israelite could enjoy this most sublime privilege.
What does the Torah say in this regard?
When, throughout the ages, a stranger who has taken up residence with you, or one who lives among you, would present an offering of fire of pleasing odor to the Lord—as you do, so shall it be done by the rest of the congregation.
Surely this passage alone would refute the terrible charge of misanthropy. Jews don’t hate humanity; nor does Judaism neglect the spiritual treasure that each and every person represents. Indeed, its highest form of worship is available to all, Jew or Gentile, man or woman.
As if this assertion of universal value wasn’t enough, the Torah makes the point explicitly: “There shall be one law for you and for the resident stranger; it shall be a law for all time throughout the ages. You and the stranger shall be alike before the Lord.”
Jew and Gentile are each precious to God. The Torah celebrates the rich diversity of human faiths and human beings by insisting that each has the right to the same level of legal protection, precisely because different people are different. Without seeking to obliterate our differences, the Torah teaches a way to cherish each other and to learn from each other. Celebrating diversity is the only true universalism. In fact, the false universalism that insists that everyone ought to be the same is really just the particularism of the dominant group, unable to see its own suffocating hold on the bouquet of cultures under its sway.
We are, each of us, precious. And the way to express that value is to maintain and to cultivate our own diverse heritages, without seeking to melt them into some all-embracing mush. With Jews growing in their Judaism, and Gentiles each walking in their own paths of wisdom and of holiness, we have a chance of learning from each other and of real spiritual growth.
You, and the stranger who dwells in your midst — each different. And each, holy.
Shabbat shalom.