I’m beginning to come to terms with the fact that I am feeling hate — an unsettling, unfamiliar emotion for me.
And I’m not alone. Congregants who have viewed themselves as peace-loving, balanced and open have talked about the murder of Shiri Bibas and her children, the locked caskets, the unidentified body in place of Shiri’s, and the fact that two of the remaining hostages were made to attend the ceremony where their brethren were freed with vitriol. These congregants spit out invective against Hamas, but it doesn’t stop there. “Maybe it would just be better to burn the whole place down,” they say, only to catch themselves with looks of horror.
I never thought I would be here. I’ve often admired the compassion and love shown by members of the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina, who forgave Dylann Roof for shooting and killing their fellow parishioners. If I were in a similar position, could I tap into this well of compassion? Could I see the radical humanity of even the most evil individuals?
Judaism may preach forgiveness, but unlike its Christian counterpart, it’s not so quick to demand it. Judaism allows for hate, it makes room for it, because it understands that it must, but at the same time it puts guardrails around it to ensure it does not consume us.
The first thing that Judaism demands of hate is that it must have a reason. We are often taught that hatred is what caused God to destroy the Second Temple. But the hatred that brought about the destruction of Jerusalem was a specific breed, sinat chinam, baseless hatred. In Hebrew the word chinam means free. It’s unearned hatred. It’s being despised not for what you have done, but for who you are. It’s the kind of hate that has grown so big that the cause is almost forgotten. A hatred without a base has no platform on which to build redemption.
This indeed is a dangerous kind of hatred. But there are plenty of other times in Jewish history, text and liturgy that statements of hatred seem to be tolerated in light of great evils done to us. We are told to blot out the memory of Amalek, who tried to destroy our ancestors while we wandered in the desert after the Exodus from Egypt. Our Haggadah preserves our ancestor’s call for vengeance against their oppressors during the Middle Ages. We may diminish our wine during Passover when we recall the plagues, but each day we proudly recite the Song of Sea (Exodus 15) where we call God a “man of war” and praise God for throwing a horse and chariot into the water.
Christianity may preach turning the other cheek, but Judaism takes a more nuanced approach. It can hold the need for peace, forgiveness and reconciliation alongside the very human need to look at those things and scoff, “Not yet, maybe not ever.”
But how can we hate? Is there a healthy way?
I have found two texts instructive on this front.
The first comes in the most unlikely of places: the commandment to avoid hatred in the first place. Leviticus 19:17 reads, “Do not hate your brother in your heart.” While often we focus on the first clause, the command, I’ve always believed that it’s the second phrase that matters more. Picking up on the words “in your heart,” the medieval commentator Maimonides recalls the story of Amnon and Absalom. After Amnon rapes Absalom’s sister Tamar, Absalom stews in his hatred. He never confronts his brother. He seeks no justice. His animosity festers. It grows rotten inside him until one day, he rises up and kills his brother. This leads to his downfall. Soon he finds himself spinning out of control in open rebellion against his father, King David. The story ends with Absalom’s death and a family in complete ruin.
Hatred is dangerous because it rots you from the inside. It’s been described as drinking poison you intend for another. In our world, it’s shameful to feel hate, so we keep it bottled up. But shame is fed through silence and it festers if unattended. In a perfect world, when we speak of our hurt and anger it will lead the one who wronged us to seek reconciliation. Knowing that’s impossible with Hamas, the best we can hope for is that someone will hear our pain and acknowledge it. We have to find productive ways to let it out.
The second teaching comes from another surprising place. The Torah tells us that despite hating our enemy, we must return his lost oxen to him if we find it (Exodus 23:4). Furthermore, if you see your enemy’s donkey struggling under its burden you need to help it (Exodus 23:5). Ideally, this will initiate a rapprochement. But the Torah doesn’t say this. It is possible to go through all the trouble of helping your enemy’s animals and remain foes.
Perhaps this text is teaching something else. In Jewish law there are two types of commandments we might fulfill. Some are completely in our control, like prayer or Shabbat, which are time bound and we choose to observe. Others we encounter by luck. We gain merit by doing them but don’t always have the opportunity to do them every day. Among this second category is the lost oxen or the stumbling donkey. Imagine one’s joy at gaining the opportunity to return this lost property or help this struggling animal, but imagine one’s chagrin at realizing that it means doing a favor for one’s enemy. Yet if we let hatred become so all-consuming that we pass the chance to perform the mitzvah, we let our enemies rob us of our opportunity to fulfill our ethical mandate. Our hatred of them clouds our ability to do what we think is right. They have won by changing us.
Hamas is my enemy, but I refuse to let them change me. I pray every day for Hamas’ destruction. And unlike our ancestor Bruriah, who taught to limit our prayers solely to ones where evildoers repent and change their ways, my prayers this week often include much darker ends. But in my brokenhearted anger and rage I remain steadfastly myself. When push comes to shove, I can’t let my hatred of Hamas fundamentally transform me.
If Israel needs to go back to war to wipe out Hamas, so be it. But hatred is not a Rubicon. In the ensuing war, I must couple that feeling with compassion for innocent lives, a hope for a quick end to the violence and prayer for an enduring peace.
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