Unless you follow the Nobel Prize, you may not have heard of Mairead Corrigan. She was a shorthand typist and secretary in Belfast, Northern Ireland. But she wasn’t typing on the afternoon of August 10, 1976. Instead, she and her sister and her three children, hopped on bicycles and went for an outing. That same afternoon, the Irish Republican Army sent snipers to open fire on a British army patrol. Missing their targets, they fled, pursued by the same patrol. The chase led the parties inexorably closer to the women and children enjoying their bicycle ride. And then, the British troops fired on the fleeing IRA car. The IRA terrorist lost control of the car and it careened directly into the innocent bystanders on their bikes. The three children were killed.
In the aftermath, Mairead Corrigan, and colleagues Betty Williams and Ciaran McKeown began to organize some of the largest peace demonstrations in their region’s history. The rallies throughout London, Belfast, Derry/Londonderry and Dublin spurred Corrigan and her compatriots to found an organization which they named “Women for Peace,” but which continues to exist under the title, “The Peace People Organization,” a movement of Catholics and Protestants dedicated to ending sectarian fighting in Northern Ireland.
Within only one month of its birth, Corrigan’s organization had united over 30,000 women under a common cause, and by its third planned march, the demonstrators included both Protestants and Catholics, marching side by side.
For her work in bringing about a halt to violence, she and her partners had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1976.
It was a remarkable testament to the power of a voice in the cause for peace. Even when they were threatened by both sides with even more violence, they staged their demonstrations, braved the slings and arrows of hate and made a change that helped to bring an end to the violence in that troubled land.
Peace has always been a paramount Jewish value, as well. We are taught to set aside specific parts of each harvest for the poor; to do tzedakah and to protect people who are in a state of weakness or helplessness, including orphans, widows, strangers, and runaway slaves. We have to be concerned with other people’s safety, building fences around our swimming pools and guardrails around our roofs. We have to be concerned with other people’s feelings, guarding our speech so that we never cause anyone humiliation. We have to help people we consider our enemies, even if we must force ourselves. And we have an absolute obligation to save a human life that is in danger. And these are not just niceties, they are codified mitzvoth – we are bound to them no matter how we feel.
I share this with you because, in the Torah portion this week, we have an entire section dealing with ethical laws. Sandwiched between the laws of sacrifice are laws that prohibit placing a stumbling block before the blind, fraud, lying, gossip, and so forth. These are laws that everyone aspires to and, though there are different applications of these laws, they are pretty universal.
And then, in the middle of all these wonderful laws comes something totally unexpected. The verse says, “and a garment which has a mixture of shaatnez shall not come upon you.” There are many questions when you have a verse like this not the least of which is, ‘what is shaatnez’? It is not even a Hebrew word and it always remains untranslated in any Jewish Bible. As well, there is no indication of what it even is! Only in Deuteronomy, quite possibly written many centuries after Leviticus is there a description of what it is. Specifically a mixture of linen and wool in the same garment. Evidently, the people who read Leviticus even argued about what it was. The other question, and a far more important question, is ‘why is there such a prohibition?’ Exactly what difference does it make if my clothes are made of both linen and wool? What great ethical lesson is there in this?
According to the Torah, it seems that the mixture was something that the pagans did and so, to distinguish the Jews from the pagans, this mixture was forbidden. But even with the explanation, there was something missing and for centuries, Jews commented on what the great ethical lesson was about the mitzvah. The commentary continues to this day.
Rabbi Israel Lau, a contemporary Orthodox rabbi, has an insight that is poetic and meaningful. He sees in this strange mitzvah an awareness of the struggle between Cain and Abel: Cain, represented by the linen, was the farmer. Abel, the shepherd, was grower of wool. This strange law, then, is a reminder of the jealousy and hatred and violence that existed between Cain and Abel and what such enmity can lead to. However, Rabbi Lau continues: “The Jewish outlook does not seek to perpetuate schisms [by using symbols of separation to say we must keep separate] but to bridge the gap between them. Thus it would perhaps be more in keeping with the spirit of Judaism if we were obliged to wear special garments of wool and linen mixed–in order to heal the breach and reconcile differences. For we long for peace and abhor controversy.”
This is a remarkable statement for Rabbi Lau is suggesting that the mitzvah would be better served if we specifically commanded to wear mixed garments. After all, would it not be better to wear a symbol of unity – something like a Jewish peace button – rather than a symbol of division?
Maybe the message of shatnez is that there is still division, still hatred, jealousy and enmity between brothers, nations and peoples. Wearing the symbol of the original division between people is a way of constantly reminding ourselves that the work to make peace is never finished and that we are still a long, long way from the prophetic vision of peace that Judaism values so highly.
The pursuit of peace is, you should pardon the pun, piece-meal. It is not achieved in great strides but rather by individuals who do the work of peace. When he heard he would be awarded the Peace Prize of the Association of German Publishers, former Jerusalem Mayor Teddy Kollek chose Manfred Rommel to present the prize. Rommel was the Mayor of Stuttgart and, if the name is familiar, you are right. He is also the son of General Erwin Rommel – the commander of Hitler’s Africa Tank Corps and avowed Nazi. His son took a different path.
Upon accepting the prize, Kollek said the following: “Who would have imagined that the Field Marshall’s son and I would meet in the peaceful profession of being Mayors? Isn’t that a symbol of peace, which is our theme here tonight?” In the face of fanaticism and intolerance there is a need for a deep belief in humanistic Jewishness… treating all people with the same respect and in the same manner. That isn’t always recognized, especially among groups which only think of themselves and overlook the interests of others… According to Jewish belief, however, humanity is indivisible.]
Reaching for peace, one moment at a time, one small event at a time, is only way that peace is every going to be achieved. And, even though peace is the highest Jewish value, peace is often a product of great pain. Peace is not the absence of war. War is sometimes necessary for only through war can we suppress those who seek to destroy lives, who enslave, and who seek domination. Peace is the opposite of that for true peace is mutual respect and engaging with another to build something better together.
In 1968 Olympics in Mexico City, John Ackwari of Tanzania hobbled into the stadium more than an hour after the Olympic Marathon had been declared over. There were a few spectators who waited for him and, when he crossed the finish line, that small crowd roared with joy at his accomplishment. Soon after, a reporter asked him why he had not retired from the race, since he had no chance of winning. His answer was inspirational when he said, “My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race. They sent me to finish.”
Too often we wear the symbolic shatnez on our back and use it to remind ourselves that there is no end to hate. But let us look at it as Rabbi Lau teaches and that is a reminder that there is no end to the opportunities to make peace. We all know what it means to start the race for all of us want peace. But are we willing to keep going despite the pain, the jibes, the criticism and the hate that seem to never end? We may end up hobbling across the finish line, but if we have built one bridge based on mutual respect or taught another the value of equality despite difference or shown love when all we feel is hate, then we have contributed to something which may truly outlast us all.
At the beginning of this d’var Torah, I spoke of the Nobel Prize and how it sometimes happens that people we never heard of sometimes win it. It is unlikely that anyone we know will ever win it – but that is irrelevant. Our goal is not to win the Nobel Prize but for the ‘noble prize’ – a crown of nobility given freely to those who have seek peace and pursue it.
In a few moments we will be wishing each other a Shabbat Shalom – a Shabbat of peace. This Shabbat, think about what Shalom means to you and set yourself a small goal. Try to instill a little bit of Shabbat Shalom on someone this week. Make a tiny step in the right direction.
It is said that the longest journey begins with a single step. Jews might say that the longest journey begins with a single, “Oy Vey!” When we look at the huge task ahead of us, we will for sure let out an ‘Oy Vey.’ But keep in mind that “Oy Vey” sure sounds a lot like “Oyev” – the Hebrew word for “enemy.” The enemy of taking the step toward Shalom is the size of the “Oy Vey!” But when we take those small steps, we can turn the ‘oyev’ – the enemy — into the ‘ohev’ – the friend – and hobble toward a goal that is, paradoxically, both light years away and right before us.
From <https://americanrabbi.com/from-oy-vey-to-ohev-by-cy-stanway/>
