to love toward only one’s own kind is not kindness at all
My brother-in-law, Rabbi Aaron Rubinstein, shared with me a beautiful news story from Israel, a scene from a Covid-19 ward in a Tel Aviv hospital. An elderly Haredi (Ultra-Orthodox) man in a wheelchair is being attended to by two Arab Muslim male nurses, Kahlil Gazawi and his colleague Ahmed, both from the Arab village of Um El Fahm. The two nurses are clad in protective suits and masks.
The elderly gentleman wants to pray with his tefillin, but his entire left side is paralyzed. Ahmed uses his tablet to google instructions for putting on tefillin. He reads them aloud, guiding Kahlil as he affixes the tefillin on to the patient’s arm and head. The moment was caught on a video which went viral in Israel.
In a wonderful interview, the newscaster compliments Kahlil on his proficiency with tefillin, to which the Muslim nurse answers in Hebrew b’ezrat Hashem (with the help of God). The interviewer then asks how Kahlil felt as he wrapped tefillin around the ultra-orthodox Jew’s arm, helping him fulfill an important mitzvah. Khalil responded, “I felt very happy to help the man.” He added that the gentleman said to the two of them afterward, “I thank you with my whole heart.”
This scene would be remarkable enough if it stood alone, but throughout Israel, Arab Muslims reached out to help Jews afflicted with the coronavirus to observe their commandments, pray, study Torah and celebrate the holiday. Just two more examples: In a geriatric ward in Pardes Hannah, Smahar Jibrayin, another Muslim nurse, read the Haggadah to a Jewish patient on Seder night. In a B’nai Brak hospital, Dr. Abed Zahakla carried a Torah scroll to an ultra-orthodox patient with coronavirus.
Its not just Muslims that are reaching out. In the midst of this pandemic, there are stories of Jewish Israelis reaching out and helping Arabs, and of secular Jews and religious Jews helping each other. What’s more, lest you think this phenomenon is only in Israel, we have seen the same here in the states. Political, racial and class distinctions have faded under the harsh light of the coronavirus. Even as the virus has forced us all to physically distance ourselves from one another, it is actually bringing closer together groups that have historically been at odds with one another. Faced with a common invisible enemy, we find ourselves reminded of each other’s humanity. We increasingly recognize that we are both dependent upon each other. For all of our fears, we have found more room in our hearts to love.
Loving and caring for those who are different than us is a theme found in the laws of kashrut in this week’s Torah portion, Shemini. The Torah lists those birds which are forbidden for us to eat. The sages of the Talmud taught that we are permitted to eat those species which embody character traits we should emulate (a fish with fins and scales can swim against the tide) and forbidden from eating those species which embody negative character traits we should avoid. (The pig has a cleft hoof but does not chew its cud. It looks outwardly like it is kosher, but it is not. Hence it represents a lack of transparency and integrity).
Among the forbidden birds listed is the hassidah (stork). The word hassidah means “kind.” Rashi explains that the bird’s chief characteristic is that if one of its flock is injured and cannot fly, another will stay behind as its companion until the injured bird is well enough to fly and rejoin the flock. This presents a dilemma. If the stork is so kind, why is it on the list of forbidden birds? The answer of our tradition is that the stork is only kind to its own flock, but if a bird from another flock or another species is injured, it does not show it the same kindness. In fact, when encountering a bird that is different, the stork can be cruel.
The lesson here is that to love toward only one’s own kind is not kindness at all. God demands of us that we show the same love, care and compassion to all God’s children without exception. That is why the Torah explicitly commands us that there should one law for the citizen and the sojourner alike, that we must care for the needy in our land regardless of their background and that the righteous of all nations – not just Israel – have a share in the world to come.
My brother-in-law, Rabbi Rubinstein, points to a verse in our parshah that refers to the deaths of Nadav and Avihu. He says that the words of the verse, uprooted from their context in the story and taken on their own, convey this same idea: Moses gives Aaron this message from God: “I will be sanctified by those who are nearest to me.” That is, we sanctify God when we treat those physically nearest to us, those we come across in our daily activities – regardless of who they are and what background or group they belong to – as holy and deserving of our love and kindness.
When Kahlil and Ahmed helped the elderly, paralyzed Jew to fulfill the mitzvah of tefillin, and when the gentleman returned his thanks to them with love, they did a kiddush Hashem. They sanctified God.
There is a lot of fear, pain, isolation and loss that has come with this pandemic. Let it be that the one redeeming outcome from this crisis will be we all learn to appreciate that we have so much more that is in common than we do that sets us apart. Let it be that the divisions fall away, and humanity learns that only in our ability to express the unity of God’s children in love can we make manifest in the world God’s unity. Let us abstain from the false kindness of the hassidah and embrace the true meaning of hesed. May our ability to embrace and love each other bring the healing that our world so sorely needs.