This is Holy Week for Western
Christians (and, this year, for Eastern Orthodox Christians, too), the run-up to Easter, and tonight marks the beginning of Pesach,
when Jews celebrate the liberation of the Hebrews from Egyptian slavery. The
story goes that when the Angel of Death passed through the land to kill the first-born,
he passed over the houses that had been marked with lambs’ blood on the lintels—i.e.,
those of the Jews.
The cumulative toll of various
plagues prompted Pharaoh to let the Hebrews go. They were understandably in so
much of a hurry to shake the dust of Egypt from their heels, they didn’t bother
to wait for the bread to rise; they just upped sticks and headed for Israel.
If we’re going to talk
resistance, persistence and resilience, the ne
plus ultra of those qualities has to be the Jewish people. A lot of folks—evangelicals
among them—focus on the Biblical suffering: Nebuchadnezzar, Goliath, Pharaoh,
Caesar. After that they get pretty fuzzy. Many among them are Holocaust
deniers; many others only focus on modern-day Israel as a component of the End
Times. And they sure as hell don’t want actual Jews living anywhere near them.
(They don’t even want me living near
them.)
Plus—I remember a time when
Catholics referred to Jews as Christ-killers, and every year on Palm Sunday the
mass includes the congregation taking the part of the Hebrews before Pilate and
yelling, “Crucify him!” several times. It was only six years ago that Pope
Benedict XVI exonerated the Jews from this alleged crime, and there was a lot
of pushback on it from the faithful.
Okay, let’s have a couple of
poems of resilience from Jews, starting with Psalm 142 (KJV):
I
cried unto the Lord with my voice;
with my voice unto the Lord did I
make my supplication.
2 I poured out my complaint before him; I shewed before him my
trouble.
3 When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest
my path. In the way wherein I walked have they privily laid a snare for me.
4 I looked on my right hand, and beheld, but there was no man
that would know me: refuge failed me; no man cared for my soul.
5 I cried unto thee, O Lord:
I said, Thou art my refuge and my portion in the land of the living.
6 Attend unto my cry; for I am brought very low: deliver me
from my persecutors; for they are stronger than I.
7 Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name: the
righteous shall compass me about; for thou shalt deal bountifully with me.
For something more recent, let’s
turn to the Hungarian Miklós
Radnóti, considered one of the premiere Holocaust poets. Last year I
gave you “The
Hunted” by him. This time round, let’s have “Postcard 1”, in which we are
reminded of what inspires people to persevere in the face of the uttermost
cruelty. Victor Frankl spoke about this at length in Man’s Search for Meaning; those around him in Auschwitz who found
something worth living for—a loved one, a focus of study, a hope for the future—all
things being roughly equal, those people survived. Those who lost hope died.
“Postcard 1”
Out of Bulgaria, the great
wild roar of the artillery thunders,
resounds on the mountain
ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence
while here men, beasts, wagons
and imagination all steadily increase;
the road whinnies and bucks,
neighing; the maned sky gallops;
and you are eternally with me,
love, constant amid all the chaos,
glowing within my conscience —
incandescent, intense.
Somewhere within me, dear, you
abide forever —
still, motionless, mute, like
an angel stunned to silence by death
or a beetle hiding in the
heart of a rotting tree.
And finally, here’s a reminder
of what constitutes resistance—it is not always taking up arms or marching in
streets. It is a mindset of refusing to believe the false narrative of
propaganda no matter how many times or how loudly it is repeated. It is an
individual act of kindness or generosity, multiplied by tens of thousands of
kindnesses and generosity. It is obstructing the oppressors at every possible
turn. It is amassing a repository of evidence to everything that’s done and
said. It is never surrendering. Haim Gouri is an Israeli journalist, poet and
film documentarian. Monia Avrahami was general director of the Ghetto Fighters’
House Museum in Israel, and collaborated with Gouri on the film Flames in the Ashes, in which this poem
appeared. Avrahami died in 2014.
(Avrahami)
(Gouri)
“Resistance is…”
To smuggle a loaf of bread - was to resist.
To teach in secret - was to resist.
To gather information and distribute an underground newsletter - was to resist.
To cry out warning and shatter illusions - was to resist.
To rescue a Torah scroll - was to resist.
To forge documents - was to resist.
To smuggle people across borders - was to resist.
To chronicle events and conceal the records - was to resist.
To extend a helping hand to those in need - was to resist.
To dare to speak out, at the risk of one's life - was to resist.
To stand empty-handed against the killers - was to resist.
To reach the besieged, smuggling weapons and commands - was to resist.
To take up arms in streets, mountains and forests - was to resist.
To rebel in the death camps - was to resist.
To rise up in the ghettos, amid tumbling walls,
in the most desperate revolt humanity has ever known ...
To teach in secret - was to resist.
To gather information and distribute an underground newsletter - was to resist.
To cry out warning and shatter illusions - was to resist.
To rescue a Torah scroll - was to resist.
To forge documents - was to resist.
To smuggle people across borders - was to resist.
To chronicle events and conceal the records - was to resist.
To extend a helping hand to those in need - was to resist.
To dare to speak out, at the risk of one's life - was to resist.
To stand empty-handed against the killers - was to resist.
To reach the besieged, smuggling weapons and commands - was to resist.
To take up arms in streets, mountains and forests - was to resist.
To rebel in the death camps - was to resist.
To rise up in the ghettos, amid tumbling walls,
in the most desperate revolt humanity has ever known ...
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