The High Holy Days and the election season have much in common. Both occasion reflection and conviction. Both require preparation and ritual. Both affirm a precious identity — Jews and citizens. But how do those identities interact?
Starting with Jimmy Carter’s campaign, politics and religion have become entwined in a seemingly irreparable way. The first joint appearance of this year’s presidential nominees occurred in the sanctuary of the evangelical Saddleback Church, presided over by Reverend Rick Warren. One candidate asserted, “Jesus Christ died for my sins and I am redeemed through him”; the other contended he is “saved and forgiven.”
Although these testimonials are appropriate in a church sanctuary, in a nationwide telecast billed as a political event, the question arises — are the candidates running for commander-in-chief or pastor-in-chief?
In their book “The God Strategy,” scholars David Domke and Kevin Coe document how political leaders both broadcast general religious convictions and “narrowcast” subtly placed signals to rally the devout without alienating religious moderates or secularists.
What the innocent listeners hear is benign. What the intended audience experiences is communion.
So while all of us could receive the broadcast, the Saddleback Church Forum was also a narrowcast. Both candidates made a pilgrimage to one of the largest churches in America and proclaimed to an evangelical minister, his congregation and, by extension, the larger audience of Christian evangelicals waiting with cocked ears, “I’m one of you.” The fact that they both felt the need to be Saddleback pilgrims speaks to how fully the God Strategy is now entrenched into our politics. They each succeeded in speaking the language of the faithful, becoming political priests anointed by the unimpeachable Rev. Rick Warren.
As narrowcasting meets broadcasting, and as appeals to Christian believers become more insistent, many Jews grow apprehensive, our sensitive antennae attuned to claims of Christian nationalism and theocracy. We have long been both proud advocates for and beneficiaries of the separation of church and state. For generations, for most secular and religious Jews, civic space without religious orthodoxy provided a metaphoric sanctuary from our historically understandable fears — the threat of Christian nationalism, accusations of being un-American, the perils of persecution.
But for conservative Christians, religion was not just missing from public life — it had been violently exiled. Something had to be done. In the battle between non-believers and the faithful, most Jews sided with the secularists. We try to stay out of the line of fire as Bibles are thrown like hand grenades and code words are launched like missiles.
“Life,” “sexuality” and “culture,” words that once had benign meanings, are now invoked as battle cries, calling culture warriors from the church to the ramparts, whether they are in the voting booth, on the school board or at the Supreme Court. Much to the dismay of those who preach Christian love, the public square has been taken over by an intoxicating blend of certitude, anti-intellectualism and hatred.
When faith is used as a bludgeon, when prejudice is cloaked in scripture, many of us want to run as far as possible from religion. But the atheist alternative lacks the power and inspiration of Jewish tradition. Historian Jonathan Sarna suggests that “in our dreams, most Jews long … [to live] safe from the fire and brimstone of the Christian state and the desolate barrenness of the secular one.”
But our choices are not limited to the religious right or the irreligious left. Like Moses at the Red Sea, we hold up our hands to keep church and state divided, and with equal fervor, we extend those hands to bring Jewish values into our public and civic commitments.
Not only do we uphold Jewish values, we must do so while protecting a vision of a democracy that includes many perspectives and voices. It may not be possible to silence religious invective, but we must not cede religious language and values to the loudest voices. Our response to religious intolerance must be a different, more compelling view of religion, one incorporating wisdom, thoughtfulness, humility and humanity from all religious traditions.
Our task is to shape a civil public square where citizens open their hearts to explore agreements and disagreements with respect and humility. We need to model how people of faith can live up to the religious pluralism and liberty enshrined in our country’s founding documents and promised in the American dream.
When we blow the shofar, breath enters the narrow end of the shofar and sound emerges from the broad end. So, too, we are capable of narrow-mindedness and cowardice, apathy and fear. We also are capable of broadmindedness and courage, inclusion and engagement. Let the shofar’s call move us from a narrow place to a broad one, fashioning a public square that enriches democracy.
Rabbi Patricia Karlin-Neumann is a dean of the Office for Religious Life at Stanford University.