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Interfaith Service - Testimony of Rabbi Tom Gutherz

8/13/2019

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REMARKS AT AUGUST 12, 2019 INTERFAITH SERVICE 
Rabbi Tom Gutherz /Congregation Beth Israel /Charlottesville, Virginia

I’ve been asked to share some reflections on the impact of August 12, 2017
on the Jewish community in our town. Most Jews in America today are here 
because they, or more commonly, their ancestors, were refugees escaping religious persecution, often pogroms or genocide. Most of us carry these family stories, 
and especially for first- and second- generation Americans, these stories were related 
to us directly by those who experienced them, by our parents or grandparents. 
 
We were raised to believe that America was a kind of promised land. Not a place 
where all anti-Semitic attitudes would be completely absent, but a place where organized anti-Semitism, aided and abetted by the institutions of government and society, would not occur in this land of liberty and freedom.
 
Most of our community has experienced garden-variety antisemitism: the pennies thrown on the floor, insensitive words that convey some unpleasant attitude or some unflattering idea about Jews or Judaism. And many of us grew up with some name-calling: Kike, Hebe, Yid.  But by and large the public expression of hatred towards Jews was thought by us to be a thing of the past.  

And then came August 12, in Charlottesville.

Since that weekend two years ago we have had to have certain kinds of conversations with our children and our friends, that we never had before. Trying to explain to them: Why do people hate the Jews so much? 

The Unite the Right Rally here was a public coming-out ceremony for a movement 
that had been steadily organizing itself in the corners of the dark web, where Jew-hatred is glorified and amplified. Where the names of Jewish journalists, activists and public figures have their names bracketed with the three parentheses to signify “JEW.”

Before August 12, we did not pay much attention to this.  We, like many of you, were surprised that when the Klan came to town—the Klan, whose very existence is a visceral reminder of racial terror for African Americans--and most of the signs they carried were anti-Semitic. 

And we did not fully understand why the people who came here, ostensibly to protest the removal of Civil War hero statues, were chanting: JEWS WILL NOT REPLACE US” 
And maybe some of you still do not know.

The reason is this: that for many on the alt-right, hatred of Jews is a part of the glue 
that holds together the white supremacist worldview. This movement has cut and 
pasted classic anti-Semitic tropes into their version of “the Great Replacement 
Theory.” According to them, the Jews, not being truly whites and certainly not Christians, work secretly for the demise of the white race. 
This myth of sinister Jewish power is what motivated the shooter at the Pittsburgh synagogue last year. He blamed HIAS--the Hebrew  Immigrant Aid Society--for 
being behind the invasion (his words) of immigrants at our border. So he went to a synagogue to murder some Jews. 

The story of HIAS and Pittsburgh is a personal one for me. My father Joseph was 
born in Poland in 1924. He lost his entire family in the Holocaust. By the time he 
was 20 years old, every single person who he knew growing up, every family member and friend, with one or two exceptions, was murdered because they were Jews.  
They were victims of a society that whole-heartedly embraced these same theories of racial supremacy, that believed in worldwide Jewish conspiracies. My father survived. HIAS brought my own father to America in 1950, and helped him to settle in Cleveland Ohio, where I was born. 

The thought that Nazi ideas are avidly discussed on the internet and neo-Nazi insignias proudly worn on our streets, makes the Jewish community uneasy. We feel that the ground is shifting, though we do not know exactly how. We are uncomfortable about being suddenly cast into the public eye. And though we are grateful for all the expressions of support we received from so many of you in this room, our synagogue 
has gotten used to security measures that we never felt were necessary before. There 
are moments of fear, when we see or hear about some unusual activity. 

But together with our fears and uncertainties, we are also aware that Jews as a community have been embraced in a unique way by this country. Barriers that once restricted our admission to neighborhoods, universities and or organizations have mostly disappeared. 
We are no longer shunned as marriage partners, as was the case only two generations ago.  

I’ve told you part of my father’s story. And yet I am also aware that when he arrived 
in this country, and settled in Cleveland Ohio in the 1950’s, there were certain neighborhoods he could live in, bank loans and jobs he could get by virtue of the fact 
that he had been designated as white, or kind of white, in America’s either/or racial lens. 
I and many in our Jewish community--the ninety percent of our community 
who are not Jews of color--enjoy privileges that were not available, and still are not, 
to African Americans and people of color.  

We know that for every synagogue shooting, there have been dozens of attacks on African American churches and communities. And we know that much white supremacist violence is directed at Muslims and, as we saw just last week in El Paso, at the Latino community. 

I had known about the violence of racism and its history in our country. 
But on August 12 I, and many of you, saw it and felt it in a different way.  
I may have been surprised by my exposure to the depth of the hatred and 
the violence of white supremacy in this country, but African Americans have 
always known it. It is as much a part of their life, of your life, as the air we all 
breathe. And havin seen and felt that, I think, imposes a special obligation on 
all of us.

So I have a lot of questions that need to be answered: 

Why did I not feel that violence? 
Was I too optimistic about the things I saw changing?  
Too complacent about the pace and efficacy of those changes?
Why did I not know the history of the statues that are one block away from the synagogue, that I pass every day? Why did I not have the curiosity to find out?  
Shame on me!

And what else is there that I just do not want to see? 
And what is at stake in my not seeing? 
What will I have to give up, to support, to change, in order to contribute to undoing 
the racial injustice that some are fighting so hard to maintain? 

Many of us in our town have made the commitment to answering these questions. 

Part of what changed for me on August 12, was a realization that I needed to change 
my way of thinking about racism in this country. That I needed to understand that 
it is not just about what is in my heart or my mind. But to understand the structures 
it has built: economic, educational, political, and social; to understand its tenacity, its violence, its legacy.  How it has shaped almost every aspect of the world we live in.
As well as its near invisibility to me as a white person.

My generation of Jews, born after the Holocaust, was raised under the slogan “merbr Again.” This was presented to me, and perhaps to many of you, as a “lesson” of the Holocaust. It its narrow meaning, this lesson translates to this: that Jews must take seriously the words of those who seek to harm us. We have learned that history does not only go forward. It can go backwards as well.

But I understand “Never Again” in a much larger way. “Never Again” means 
that on account of my personal history, on account of what I and my community has experienced, on account of what all of us here in Charlottesville have experienced, 
we have a special responsibility to be vigilant about racial and ethnic hatred 
and injustice wherever we see it. And to look for it, to ferret it out, when we do not see it. 
To understand clearly how it works, and to look for ways to dismantle it. To be a resister and not a bystander. 

The Jewish tradition teaches:  You are not obligated to compete the task
But neither are you free to desist from it. Each of us must find that way that
we can best contribute to this task. 
I am so grateful for those of you in this room who have taught me, and continue to 
teach me. I am learning. We are all trying to learn. And I believe we will all find
our way forward together

​
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Interfaith Service - Testimony of Rev. Dr. Jill Duffield

8/13/2019

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CCC Interfaith Service, August 12, 2019
By 
Rev. Dr. Jill Duffield

In order for me to share the impact of August 12, 2017, I need to go back in time first. It is June, 2015. I am in South Carolina, a state I called home for nearly 20 years. It is June, 2015 and I am living in Columbia, South Carolina, the state capital, the one where the Confederate flag flew defiantly on the state house grounds from 1961 until July of 2015. On June 18th I wake to the news of the shooting at the historic, Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina. The evening before, at Mother Emmanuel, nine people, including the pastor, had been murdered in cold blood while attending a Bible study, the shooter was a young man, a white supremacist, who wanted to start a race war, a young man, it will be revealed, who was raised in a white, mainline, Protestant church just down the road from mine. In other words, a white supremacist so virulent that he killed nine African American brothers and sisters in Christ, in a church, during a Bible study, after he was welcomed by them and sat beside them for an hour and waited until they bowed their heads in prayer to execute them. This man was raised in a church not unlike the one that raised me and not unlike the one I serve. How, I lamented, could this happen?

I grieved with my adopted state and wrapped in my protective white privilege, resting in the secure bubble of my white safety, wrapped in the rarified ignorance of my white obliviousness, I thought: This is an evil, horrendous, exceptional event.

Never mind that in that same state on the campus of the flagship public university sits the Strom Thurmond Fitness Center, a huge edifice on the corner of what the builder says is “the fourth most active intersection in South Carolina and not far from the state capital.” It opened not in the 1950’s or 60’s or 70’s or 80’s or 90’s but was dedicated in 2003. 

Never mind that during the transatlantic slave trade about 40 percent of enslaved Africans brought into the country passed through Charleston Harbor.

Never mind that when I asked my African American colleague in that wealthy, storied, Southern city to write something a year later, in the wake of yet another police shooting of an unarmed black man, he said, “And just think - America and the world sat glued to the television in dismay again last night over yet another senseless death. My head and heart worked all night to keep the lid on my outrage as seemingly… the life and spirit of a black male has 0 value.”   

Despite all of that and SO MUCH MORE, I was naïve enough, because I could be, to be surprised by racial prejudice, to be largely unaware of centuries of systemic and structural racism, and subsequently shocked by the insidious, ever present and growing white supremacy not only in this country but in white Christianity.

How utterly sinful of me. What an affront to the One Body of which I am a part, the Body that is to be so united and connected that it hurts when others hurt and weeps with those who weep.

Three years ago, I moved to Charlottesville and began to get acclimated: UVA has grounds, not a campus, Thomas Jefferson is everywhere, Vinegar Hill was once a thriving, predominately African-American neighborhood that was destroyed in the name of so-called urban renewal. 

I followed the statue debate, heard the KKK was coming, got connected with the Charlottesville Clergy Collective and prepared for that mid-August weekend of two years ago. 

As we met and made plans, I thought some of our group were alarmist about the potential for violence. How utterly sinful. What an affront to the One Body of which I profess to be a part, the Body that is supposed to be so connected that it knows intimately the pain of any member of it. 

On August 12, I donned my stole and went to the sunrise worship service in this very space. I sang and prayed and was moved by the preachers and energized by the crowd and I marched and then took my place at First United Methodist and waited and watched and was shocked, sinfully shocked as the day unfolded, because I had the privilege of being shocked, the luxury of not subjected to the daily threat of violence or centuries long structural discrimination codified in policy and enforced by terror not only episodic but calculated, pervasive, systemic and baked into our infrastructure and institutions, all of them, including the one I serve.

God forgive me, It took the weekend of August 11 and 12th, in this historic, storied city from which liberty for all supposedly sprung, to remove the scales from my eyes, only then did I recognize that the tragedy at Mother Emmanuel was not a horrific outlier, it was emblematic of our past, representative of our present, and a loud bell weather of our future. 

I owe an apology to my African American siblings and my Jewish, Muslim and Hispanic ones, too, because resting in my privilege, I not only allowed, but through my inaction and silence enabled and therefore participated in the hate that would erupt into deadly violence, again and again and again.

Historian of race and religion, Jemar Tisby, writing to white Christians, warns: “Sin in the form of white nationalism crouches at the door of every congregation.”  

In the wake of August, 2017 and Pittsburgh and Poway, Christ Church and Gilroy and El Paso, I must confess that white nationalism does not only crouch at the doorway of every white congregation, but all too often worships in its pews and preaches from its pulpits.

It is not enough, however, to confess, I, and my fellow white Christians, must repent and repentance requires not just an openness to being transformed by God, but a willingness make tangible, earthly amends, to do all that is on our power to repair the damage our action and inaction have wrought.

My faith tradition is one in which we are taught that every person is a beloved child of God.

We are told that God desires life, and life abundant, for everyone.

We are reminded over and over again to work for justice and stand on the side of the oppressed. 

We are admonished that God will judge us based on how we treat those being marginalized and hurt in our world.

We learn that the most basic and important tenet of our religion is love of God and neighbor…and yet…

All to often we, those like me, live as if our Lord came to bless our heritage, bolster our unearned benefits and baptize our entitlement rather than trouble the waters and upend all that robs others of their God-given dignity, humanity, and worth.

God forgive me, it took August 12, 2017 with torch carrying neo-Nazis and semi-automatic wielding militias and Confederate flag wagging white supremacists and van loads of organized, vitriolic slogan shouting alt-right nationalists to see, really see, the truth of not only our history, but of our present reality of hate against others who do not look like me, and therefore don’t have the luxury of my heretofore willful ignorance and deadly complicity.
​

I am truly sorry and I humbly repent and that means working for real change: personal, systemic, structural, in every arena of our life together, until that day when truly we are ONE beloved community, with liberty, justice and not just equality, but equity for ALL.
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"Navigating Troubled Waters" - CCC Interfaith Service

8/13/2019

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​The Charlottesville Clergy Collective thanks all who participated, attended, and supported the Interfaith Service, Monday evening, August 12, 2019, held at First Baptist West Main St.

​We celebrated the resilience of this city. We were inspired and challenged by the testimonies. We were uplifted by song. We prayed for guidance and for the Lord to make things right. We departed with a renewed commitment to act on behalf of love and justice.

You can also read the testimonies given by
Rev. Dr. Jill Duffield and 
Rabbi Tom Gutherz

Photo credit: Michael Cheuk

Below are links to local media coverage of the Interfaith Service.

Charlottesville Tomorrow:
https://www.cvilletomorrow.org/articles/unity-days-interfaith-service-reflects-on-2017-and-looks-forward/

NBC 29
www.nbc29.com/story/40908469/cville-area-people-gather-together-in-prayer-at-interfaith-service
WVIR NBC29 Charlottesville News, Sports, and Weather

CBS 19
​www.cbs19news.com/content/news/Faith-leaders-join-together-for-Aug-12-service-538648931.html
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Cville Sing Out!

8/12/2019

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On Saturday, August 10, a Charlottesville Sing Out was held at the Sprint Pavilion as part of the city's "Unity Days" initiative as we approach the second anniversary of the white supremacist rally.  
Photo credit: Michael Cheuk
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