I would want some of my favorite bridges: the quaint yet indispensable covered bridges of Vermont, San Francisco’s romantic Golden Gate, the noble Brooklyn Bridge, and the sweeping Chesapeake Bay Bridge leading urban Washington DC dwellers out to the Atlantic shore. Bridges afford a panoramic view—they take our eyes off the road before us to see the vista, the river, the rolling hills, the ocean, the mountains.

This past summer, we also saw the precariousness of bridges.
We saw on television what happens when bridges weaken and collapse, the terror of falling cars, the dangers of search and rescue. And even from our vantage point in Boston, we understood the massive loss in the aftermath, as communities are left stranded.

I would like to devote my teachings over the course of these holy days to the importance of bridges in our lives. Every day, we leave the comfort of our own egos and cross bridges to the territory of the other. In marriage, in parenting, in friendship, we are constantly building and maintaining bridges. Many of us work in bridge-building—teachers and organizers, social workers and therapists, advocates and activists, we bring people together across bridges of understanding.

Why are bridges so important anyway? Why not stay safely within our own boundaries? To build a bridge is to open ourselves to new territory, to adventures, not to mention the risk of crossing over in the first place. Once we build safe and sturdy bridges, we might cross over regularly without even noticing the risk.

Consider our own Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge as an inspiration to us all for connecting different neighborhoods, ways of life, and points of view. Where would we be without it?

They say that in bridge construction, there is a Rule of 10s—if you don’t do routine maintenance, it costs 10 times as much to make minor repairs. If you don’t make the minor repairs it costs 10 times as much to rebuild parts of the bridge. And if you don’t rebuild, it costs 10 times as much to build a new bridge.

The same is true of our relationships: maintaining them is work, but that work demands much less of us than repair. And repairing takes far less of a toll than starting over.

A major innovation of the late 20th century has been the important bridge-building that we call interfaith dialogue. In the October of 1965, guided by the vision of Pope Paul VI, the Second Vatican Council issued Nostra Aetate (meaning “in our time”), or the Declaration on the Relation of the Church with Non-Christian Religions. The enormity of this declaration, following centuries of persecution and division, created the first opening for understanding between Jews and Catholics. Forty years later, we may take for granted the idea of people of different religious backgrounds should treat each other as individuals, and respect one another’s religious faith. But this was a dramatic new stance that did not take hold overnight. It took decades of intensive dialogue, revision of teaching curriculum, changes in liturgy and seminary education to fulfill the teachings of the document, to end the Catholic Church’s rejection of Judaism, its charge of deicide, and acknowledge its role in centuries of persecution. Thanks to people like Boston’s own Cardinal Cushing, priests and laity heard the call to embrace Jews—a far cry from the anti-semitic rants of earlier priests, like Father Coughlin and Father Feeney. Nostra Aetate was a visionary bridge, a sweeping span that brought millions across in both directions.

Forty years later, we believed that Jewish-Catholic dialogue is a sturdy bridge we can all cross without thinking. But earlier this summer, Pope Benedict revealed two cracks in the bridge. First, he reinstituted the Latin Mass with its hostile language toward the Jews, and second, he asserted that Roman Catholicism is the true church. The rule of 10s comes into play here—no bridge is built to last for eternity. It requires constant care and upkeep, as well as vigilant inspection to prevent deterioration. I believe that the vast majority of Catholic institutions in this country will continue to work with Jewish groups to maintain this vital bridge, but we are all the more aware of its vulnerability and its importance. And we can all point to evidence that having the bridge is certainly better than not trying at all.

Today, many in the Jewish community are speaking about building another bridge. In the small world of the 21st century, living in a post 9/11 America, where the Jewish community is well-organized and comfortable, it is time to cross a new river and build a bridge between Jews and Muslims.

This past week, a group of prominent Jewish leaders and prominent Muslim leaders in the greater Boston area have issued a joint statement calling for a “community of trust.” [Copies of the statement are available just outside the sanctuary for you to read later.] I am proud to be among those who signed it, as well as part of the group that has been developing the statement. We are issuing the statement in time for Rosh Hashanah as well as for the beginning of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan. When you read the declaration, I hope that you will find it fairly self-evident and non-controversial. I wish that were true. We are in the process of building a bridge over turbulent waters, between territories unknown, and without a massive public-works budget behind us. Yet I believe that this effort is one of the most important developments of the religious world today.

In the past several months, I have met Muslim leaders from Greater Boston. I have spoken to devout traditionalists and secular community organizers. I have learned that the Muslim community is also waking up to the need to meet and dialogue with Jews. This call demands that we start at the beginning, the way that Vatican 2 did, to start with understanding of our respective religious traditions as pathways to the same God. Note that the statement makes no mention of Israel or Palestine. We are not fighting that war. What we are trying to do is to meet one another where we are, here in the city of Boston, where we live and are raising families and each of us seeking to practice our religions freely and without prejudice. This is an area in which American Jews have a lot of experience, and should have some empathy.

There are already several successful Muslim-Jewish dialogue groups in Boston. What makes this statement stand out is our aim to bring Muslims and Jews together through mainstream Jewish organizations in conversation with Muslim organizations. We want to demonstrate to both of our communities that the overwhelming majority of Jews and Muslims in our city are people of good will, people who believe that dialogue works, people who renounce terrorism and violence, people who abhor discrimination and harassment.

What could be so controversial? I am sad to say that there are those in the Jewish community who have sought to undermine our efforts at dialogue by pressuring people to take their names off the statement. These elements did succeed in preventing us from listing the Jewish organizational affiliation of those who signed—even though it has been endorsed by six former presidents of JCRC, five former CJP chairs and several additional JCRC and CJP Board members. I myself faced pressure to keep the rabbinic hechsher off of the statement. But I find these efforts undermine both internal Jewish dialogue and the best interests of the Jewish community to the people of greater Boston. At a time when the Boston area Jewish community stood up to the national ADL on behalf of the Armenian community, I am disturbed that a statement that simply stresses two communities talking to one another has been subject to the worst kind of bullying. As a supporter of the Jewish community at large, this tears me apart.
The opponents of dialogue are suspicious of Muslims who have had any connection to middle eastern groups such as the Muslim Brotherhood or fundamentalist Wahabist Islam. They believe that Jews who seek this path endanger our community and betray our people. They claim that some of the Muslims who have signed the statement are evil and should be isolated by their Muslim brothers.

The nay-sayers fear that efforts at reconciliation serve to condone those who attack Israel and speak ill of Jews. They will call us naïve. They will brand us as divisive or even dangerous. They know full well what fear can do to people, and they use it to their advantage.

I prefer to promote hope, not fear. When we promote fear, we are blinded by our own victimhood. When we promote fear, we lose our sense of common humanity. When we promote fear, we choose false simplicity over the complexity of truth.

To those fear-mongers I say, if we can’t talk to each other in Boston, where can we talk?

In the course of dialogue, it is important that both sides speak candidly of our fears and look openly at our differences. When we engage in dialogue, we need to ask each other hard questions. I don’t know whether these Muslim leaders have dangerous ties. But fear itself never leads to understanding. Rabbi Yossi Hagalili taught:: “How great is peace! Even in times of war, Jewish law requires us to initiate discussions of peace.” (Vayikra rabbah, tzav 9) And understanding is not the same as agreement. In dialogue, we seek to build bridges between foreign territories.

The Jewish leaders who have been sitting around the table, talking about building a community or trust, are neither naïve or inexperienced. We represent some of the highest levels of Jewish leadership in Boston, and include many individuals who have headed numerous mainstream, moderate, established organizations in the Jewish community.

We in Boston are not alone in the desire for reconciliation with Muslims. And it is not only the interest of liberal Jews. Organizations like Children of Abraham and Daughters of Abraham are cropping up across the country. The leader of the Reform movement, Rabbi Eric Yoffie, was invited just last week to speak to 40,000 Muslims at the Annual Islamic Society of North America (ISNA) Convention. It was the first time any major Jewish leader had been invited to address a major Muslim organization, and his appearance was apparently a highlight for many in attendance. Another historic first at the biggest conference of Muslims was the inclusion of a panel on Muslim-Jewish relations, in which a Modern Orthodox rabbi, Eliyahu Stern, took part. Despite the cries of extremists on both sides, the quiet voices of moderation are being heard.

You yourself may be a long way from being part of these dialogue efforts. Or perhaps not. Perhaps our congregation will invite a Muslim leader to address us, and we will have the opportunity to meet with local Muslims and begin the long and slow process of reconciliation.

But what is more important, what is essential, what this hour demands before we even lay one girder of this new bridge, is for our community to affirm the importance of dialogue itself. It is up to us to demand that conversation replace conflict, that understanding replace intolerance, that open doors replace closed minds. As long as we refuse to talk to people, even our enemies, they will have no opportunity to change, and every reason to continue to hate us. Simply by advocating for dialogue, we open up the possibility of changing our culture, changing the way we talk and think, and inspiring hope in a fearful world.

On Rosh Hashanah we are called to reflect on our failings. Ramadan is also a time for reflection and repentance. As we enter the new year, we read a passage from Torah that sets the stage for dialogue between the children of Abraham.

We read today of the banishment of Hagar, the mother of Abraham’s oldest son, Ishmael. The Torah clearly sees Isaac as Abraham’s favored son—just as the Koran favors Ishmael. But the story expresses sympathy for Ishmael’s fate, and the rabbis see this as an imperative—not to close our eyes to the plight of Ishmael.

Commenting on the verse,
Why are you distraught, Hagar? Have no fear, for God has heard the boy’s voice, where he is (Gen.21:17)
Rabbi Isaac taught: this teaches that we are judged only for what we are at the moment of judgment, as it says of Ishmael: God has heard the boy’s voice, where he is.

Rabbi Simon added: When God took note of the boy’s cry and saved Ishmael and Hagar in the wilderness, the ministering angels were astounded. They complained: Holy One, how can You provide water from a well for one whose descendants will cause Your children to die of thirst?
The Holy One replied: Here and now—tell Me—is this one righteous or wicked?
They had to say: Righteous.
The Holy One continued: Then understand: I judge My children only for what they are at the moment of judgment. The future must take care of itself
That is our model for dialogue, a model that the Torah tells us was created by the Holy Blessed One. Our tradition teaches that we must judge the Other where he is. Not where his angry father was. And not where his extremist brother is. We can only start where he is—and where we are—right at this moment. And if the Other is across a wide river on the banks of another shore, it is up to both of us to build the bridge that will bring us each to the other shore.

Building a New Bridge
Rosh Hashanah 5768
Rabbi Barbara Penzner