new world
Interview

No Hiding
from Reality
In the modern milieu of increasing encroachments upon religious liberty, RABBI DAVID MEYER discusses the implications of not being regarded “as a citizen like any other,” as well as his work at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome, where he witnesses to “a bond that is stronger than theological declarations.”

by Tricia Branagan

Rabbi David Meyer, Professor of Rabbinic Literature and Contemporary Jewish Thought at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome and at the Catholic University in Louvain (Belgium), recently testified before a hearing at the U.S. House of Representatives entitled, “Anti-Semitism: A Growing Threat to All Faiths.” A gentle and deeply intellectual scholar and social observer, this middle-aged family man generously shared his witness not only before the DC commission, but also in an impromptu meeting with university students, followed by an evening meeting with Crossroads Cultural Center. When that ended, he lingered to answer questions from attendees, and then sat for a private interview with the Jewish monthly, Moment magazine (founded by Elie Weisel). In sheer amazement at his stamina someone asked, “How are you feeling, considering the jet-lag factor?” He answered with a capricious smile, “Not well!” This peaceful spirit of self-giving, in a seemingly hectic life split between Rome and his home in Belgium, spread itself wider in the 24 hours he spent in the USA.
Rabbi Meyer’s experience of both the threat to expression of faith as well as of true Judaeo-Christian dialogue add timely insight to this historic moment when freedom of religion faces opposition in the U.S. and Canada, as well as Europe–and in fact on all continents. Traces explores these themes with the Rabbi during his visit to the nation’s capital.

Can you tell us something about how anti-Semitism has affected you on a personal level?
My first encounter with the reality of anti-Semitism happened in 1980. In October of that year, as a young boy about to become a Bar Mitzvah, I found myself on a Friday night at Synagogue Copernic in central Paris. Toward the end of the service, a bomb suddenly exploded just outside the doors. When the panic and confusion subsided, four people had lost their lives–one, a woman entering the synagogue, and three others who were passing by. At almost 13, prior to that day, I could never have imagined that, as a Jew, I might be targeted in such a way.

Did this event catalyze public outrage?
Yes, but not for the reasons you might think. In the hours following the bombing, the Jewish community heard the expected reactions, linking such an act of Jewish hatred to the never-ending conflict in the Middle East. What was not expected, however, and far more shocking, were the words of the then-Prime Minister, Raymond Barre. In front of the nation, the Prime Minister deplored the attack on the synagogue and expressed condolences, but then went further and made sure to specify that “this horrendous attack was aimed at the Jewish community, but it is finally innocent French citizens that were mostly the victims.” Even to a young and naïve boy, it did not take long to truly understand the meaning of these words: the Jew entering the synagogue was not innocent, whereas the people passing by were. From that day, more than 33 years ago, I have learned that many in Europe will never see me as a citizen like any other. My experiences of anti-Semitism have certainly wounded me and affected my views on my own personal future as a Jew in Europe, yet they pale in comparison to the violence that has been inflicted on others within the Jewish community.

As has also been seen in the U.S., the extremist Muslim element is an obvious risk to citizens–in the case of Europe, is this because of the conflicts in Israel?
There is no doubt that many of the violent acts of anti-Semitism in recent years have been at the hands of radicalized youth from Muslim backgrounds who are often marginalized and influenced by their religious preachers and leaders. Often the acts of violence are linked to the conflict in the Middle East and what is racist violence against Jews is often masked as frustration against Israel. We are all aware that for these people, “anti-Zionism” is but a code word for “anti-Semitism.” At this level, many in the Jewish community believe–and they are right–that as long as this link to the conflict in the Middle East is tolerated, as long as a radical form of violent Islam is tolerated, anti-Semitism will also somehow be tolerated, because as Jews–whether or not we carry dual citizenship, as I do–our link with Israel is deep, real, and enduring.

You have spoken out against recent legal attacks on Jewish traditions, such as circumcision, which has also been brought into question in the U.S.–in 2011, a ballot initiative circulated in San Francisco that would have banned it if it had not been struck down. These legal positions seem to signal a particularly insidious form of anti-Semitism.
In Germany, a court attempted to ban circumcision as a “barbaric practice,” contrary to the European understanding of human rights, and insinuated that such a Jewish practice is not “equal” to “proper” European customs. The idea spread within weeks to its neighbors, notably Switzerland and Austria. Many in intellectual and university circles have been receptive and sympathetic to these arguments. This current situation raises an important question. The wording of the ruling stated that the “irreversible bodily harm” thus imposed on the child without his consent is illegal. This, the court argued, amounts to a crime and a breach of the European Charter of Human Rights as it exposes the infant to “potential physical dangers” for no other reason than the religious conviction of his parents. One could easily extrapolate from there that the same conclusions could be reached regarding not just circumcision, but the very notion of Jewish identity. Most Jews are simply born Jewish, without any form of choice. In light of European Jewish history, where the very act of being Jewish was enough to bring death and violence, one could then argue that being born from a Jewish mother could very well expose the child–without his consent–to “potential physical dangers.” By over-emphasizing the rights of the child and the constant need for “consent,” the German judges set themselves on a colliding path with Jewish identity, “choice-less” in its nature.

What can you conclude from these trends?
As a Jew, as a rabbi having spent a great deal of time studying Jewish European history, the current state of anti-Semitism leads me to a simple observation: behind these various attempts at undermining the legality of Jewish practices lies the widely held view that even after 2,000 years of attested Jewish life in Europe, we are still perceived as a foreign tribe that recently landed on the European continent.

The fact that you are the first rabbi on faculty at a Pontifical University with the largest theology department in the world, and whose student body is comprised of only 20% lay people is quite historic. Can you describe the novelty in this situation?
Teaching there has given me the opportunity to create enough friendship and enough trust to read very difficult texts for them–such as texts that Jewish writers have written about Christianity. For example, there is an American Orthodox rabbi, Eliezer Berkovits, who has a theory that you can’t have any sort of Jewish-Christian dialogue, and the reason that Christianity has invited Judaism to the dialogue is only because we are approaching  the end of Christianity. When you read a text like this at the Gregorian, it certainly sends an odd silence into the classroom. I said to them, “Look, we have this text and we have to confront it. If we hide what we’re not going to like about each other, there is absolutely no point. And I am not saying I’m in agreement with Berkovits; I’m just saying he is an interesting writer, and I want you to read it. I don’t want you to agree with it, but I want you to know why someone like him, who is a knowledgeable, intelligent guy, would write something like this.”

It sounds like this growth of trust has been fruitful–and challenging.
Somehow, you reach a level of relationship that allows you to take risks like this that benefit everyone exploring the truth. Just yesterday, before I left, I received a note from one of the students I have been teaching for the past three years. He asked me to help him with his Ph.D. He wrote, “I know this is a piece that has generated a lot of anti-Semitism, and I know there has been a lot of anti-Semitic reading of this text in the Church, but this is the text that I want to do with you.” This is the type of relationship that we have. There is no hiding from reality; I think that it’s very important, because even though it is difficult and it hurts, you cannot build a strong and enduring relationship if you evade those texts and those issues. When you do a one-off conference–when you bring a priest, a rabbi, and an imam to the table–you can’t do this. The setting in which to approach those difficult texts is one of an “ongoing process,” and that’s what we have at the Gregorian.

What about when the syntony is lacking in this setting?
Sometimes I have moments of solitude. I have difficulty with a lot of the concepts they tell me about–sometimes they talk about love and compassion so much that it gets on my nerves! The last time they did that, it was on the Shoah theology, so I read them the following text by an American Rabbi, [Irving] Greenberg. He says: “There are good theological reasons that there be less talk about God today. Faith is living life in the presence of the Redeemer, even when the world is unredeemed. After Auschwitz, there are moments when the Redeemer and the vision of redemption are present, and moments when the flames and smoke of burning children blot out faith.” He adds that no statement–theological or otherwise–should be made that would not be credible in the presence of burning children. So I tell them, “When you keep telling me about love and compassion, this is what I am asking you to think about.”

Your work offers profoundly unique opportunities for incisive study and interfaith inquiry–for both you and the students. What dominates your awareness of this?
From time to time we have dialogue that comes to a stumbling block, and we have to accept that there are stumbling blocks. Sometimes you feel a bit alone in a situation like this, but it’s part of the exercise. However, what I have is a feeling of real friendship and a sense that, on a weekly basis, I am in touch with people I can talk to–people who question, who have some of the doubts I have, people who have certainties that I don’t have–and that creates a bond that is stronger than whatever theological declaration or common declaration we can make.