It’s not every morning that my eyes well up with tears reading The New York Times. Yesterday morning, though, I sat at breakfast and read a reflection by Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro, about his experience having his home—the governor’s mansion—firebombed on the first night of Passover.
As an American who has made my home in Canada, I have watched with alarm as President Trump has attempted to tear down so much of what I care about in America: a free press, the pursuit of science and higher education, celebration of difference, progress toward ever greater equity and opportunity, to name a few. Yes, I’ve watched my investments tank and heard the experiences of friends and family, but personally I’ve taken solace in the impacts being somewhat distanced from me, down south of the border.
Reading about this violent breaching of a Jewish home, especially one in the state where the Constitutional Convention articulated so many of those values I hold dear, brought the current political moment back into my own home and heart, the intertwining of the Jewish and the American story. The images Gov. Shapiro shared of broken plates and burned Haggadahs felt like not only a Jewish devastation, but an American one: They seemed to express that the hope for a certain kind of freedom, a certain kind of respect for difference, a certain kind of equality, that America was founded on is being burned up. From the right and from the left, from those in power and those who say they are fighting for the powerless—like the arsonist arrested for the attack on the governor did, it seems like that common vision has frayed to the point of crumbling to ash.
In his essay, Gov. Shapiro wrote:
“As elected leaders, we have an additional responsibility to speak and act with moral clarity. To not just call out what’s right and what’s wrong but also to do the hard work of bringing people together to find common ground in a world that’s constantly trying to divide us.”
I believe now is the time that we all must step into responsibility for “doing the hard work of bringing people together.” What could enable us to hold back the deluge of cruelty and callousness that is pervading public discourse?
One way to shape the national culture we hope for is by strengthening our caretaking of one another, especially by fostering the sense of responsibility even for those we don’t know well or who are different from us. When we take care of someone, we put aside our political or belief differences and focus on our common human needs.
In the Jewish tradition, we call this chesed. Whether they be the ancient charity-collecting systems of the Talmud; or the immigrant mutual aid collectives that founded many of North American Jewry’s synagogues, cemeteries, and hospitals; or the chesed committees of today’s synagogues and independent minyanim, the tried and true Jewish modes of mutual caretaking deliberately create interdependence. And interdependence fosters proximity, engagement, and understanding.
Many Jewish communities, especially less traditional ones, have lost touch with these very countercultural traditions. After all, these traditional modes of caretaking require us to be involved in each other’s personal business, and even to admit we need help – not popular stances today. However, I would argue that it’s time to dig into our Jewish toolbox to strengthen the bonds among neighbors and citizens.
I’ve been exploring the ways synagogue communities provide chesed to their members, and after speaking with over a dozen professional and lay leaders, I want to share a few traditional Jewish methods of caretaking that can be generalized and can inspire us to connect.
- Gemach: An acronym for “gemilut chasadim” (acts of lovingkindness), a gemach is a collectively owned library of occasionally-needed but often-expensive items. Wedding dresses, baby strollers, and medical devices like crutches are items I’ve seen in gemachs. During the early pandemic, my minyan had a puzzle and games gemach. This has also taken off secularly, as with local tool libraries and public libraries offering art supplies, sewing machines, and more. While originally providing financial aid, gemachs also reduce environmental impact.
- Meal trains: In Jewish culture, when someone dies, we don’t bring flowers. We bring casserole. The last thing someone needs to think about when suffering a loss or crisis or experiencing even a joyous transition like a new baby is finding the time to cook. Home cooked meals involve not just the mind but the body: the hands that chopped these onions, the arms that stirred this giant pot of pasta. This food was made just for you, with wishes of a speedy recovery. Cities have food banks and soup kitchens, but the meal train is a mutual effort of people who are personally interconnected. Takeout can feed you if you can afford it, but it makes a huge difference when your food is an expression of care and kind attention.
- Small task rotation: This is like a meal train for household tasks. Whether someone is hospitalized or has just suffered the death of a loved one, when we are in crisis we need help with our everyday chores. Not everyone wants to be visited by those outside their closest loved ones, but when you’re hospitalized or bedridden or dealing with a death, it sure helps to have people take out your garbage bins, walk your dog, bring you personal items, or drive your kids to school. These small kindnesses are often the things that people remember the most years later.
- Social companionship: Social isolation and loneliness are what former Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy has called an epidemic. Many synagogues have a social visiting program matching community members with other community members who are socially isolated. Often these are seniors, but it could be anyone experiencing social isolation. A phone call or in-person visit makes a huge difference and creates ongoing bonds.
The key for all these methods and more is to enact them within mutual, relationship-based, voluntary communal associations, whether they be synagogues or other houses of worship, neighborhood associations, school-based parent groups, boys and girls clubs, community centers, or mutual aid societies. This of course also calls for the strengthening of civil society—the parts of society that are not government, not the market, and not family. The mutuality is fundamental: We are all capable of giving and we all will have times when we need to receive. Our task, each of us, is to widen the circle — for whom we care and from whom we ask for care. In doing so, we rebuild the connections of our society, and thereby the hope for an America of respect, equality, and kindness.
Gov. Shapiro reminded us in his essay that Pennsylvania, and America itself, was founded to be “a place of tolerance and understanding where people of different faiths could live together in peace.” Most importantly, he dared to assert his “recognition that there is far more that binds us together than divides us — no matter what those who stoke that division would have us believe.” One way to cross division is through mutual care. Let’s revive the lost art of Jewish caretaking and bring its insights into the rest of our communities.
Rabbi Julia Appel is Clal’s Senior Director of Innovation, helping Jewish professionals and lay leaders revitalize their communities by serving their people better. She is passionate about creating Jewish community that meets the challenges of the 21st century – in which Jewish identity is a choice, not an obligation. Her writing has been featured in such publications as The Forward, The Globe and Mail, and The Canadian Jewish News, among others.