Outside the Pennsylvania State House sat Elizabeth Willing Powel – an influential Philadelphia socialite, who was known for hosting salons in her home for many of the political elite. Her living room had been the site of many conversations among the likes of George and Martha Washington, John and Abigail Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and their peers, who would dine and drink late into the night, as they discussed what form of government would be best for the young country.
On that September afternoon, Ms. Powel sat outside the State House, eagerly awaiting the Convention’s closing gavel. As the proceedings concluded, and the delegates started to emerge from the hall, she rushed over to her friend Benjamin Franklin, to ask him what decisions had been reached. “Well, Dr. Franklin,” she asked, “what form of government do we have: a republic, or a monarchy?”
“A republic!” Franklin replied, enthusiastically. But then, considering it for a moment, he tempered his answer, and added: “That is, if you can keep it.”
If you listen to much of our national discourse today, you will recognize that we are living in an era in which many people are feeling the same sort of concern that Benjamin Franklin did. With a national election on the horizon, with polarization intensifying, and with politically motivated violence already having emerged from its dangerous lair, it sometimes feels, as Franklin warned, as if our republic might not keep.
Ours is not the only country to be experiencing this kind of political tumult. Rather, we are part of a broader trend in which democracy is waning around the globe.
The well-respected non-profit organization Freedom House publishes an annual report in which they measure the health of democracy in every world country. According to their criteria, a healthy democracy is one that ensures equality under the law; free, fair, and conclusive elections; minority rights; and freedom of the press, among other things. Signs of democratic decline, by contrast, include the quashing of dissent, the spread of disinformation, the scapegoating of vulnerable communities, and the proliferation of extremist thought.
This year’s Freedom House report shows that, for the eighteenth year in a row, democratic norms have been on the decline all around the world – with 80% of countries, including the United States, scoring lower this year than last year.
To be clear: to be concerned about protecting our democracy should not be understood as a partisan issue. Rather, it is a problem that should motivate people from all across the political spectrum. As the writer Adam Gopnik has helpfully described it: Some of us oppose the right to bear arms. Others of us oppose legal access to an abortion. But what we should all agree on is that the one thing more troubling than either of these would be if there were no constitutional order left for us to argue about in the first place.
If we are to protect our country’s democratic norms, then we will need to do more than simply show up to vote for our preferred political party in November. Rather, we will need to invest in rebuilding our country’s civic culture – the values and commitments that undergird our society and inform our politics.
To help us with this task, we, as Jews, might turn to the wisdom of our tradition for guidance. After all, throughout our history, the Jewish tradition has often served a countercultural function – providing an alternative framework for approaching the issues of the day.
This evening, I’d like to share three classical Jewish ideas that can aid us in repairing our civic culture – in hopes that we might be able to heed Benjamin Franklin’s warning, and ensure that our republic will keep.
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The first Jewish idea is the concept of mitzvah.
We often use the word mitzvah in its colloquial sense, where it means “a good deed.” And while this unofficial definition does in fact have currency, I am thinking here of the word’s proper, technical definition – which is: a commandment. Our tradition teaches that the Torah contains 613 mitzvot, 613 commandments: 613 things that we are expected to do – or, in many cases, things we are expected not to do. And this system of 613 commandments forms the backbone of an observant Jewish life.
The late, prominent professor at Yale Law School Robert Cover has noted that the Jewish legal framework is substantively different from the American legal framework. The Jewish framework is concerned with mitzvot – with obligations, with things we are expected of us. The American framework, by contrast, is concerned primarily not with obligations, but rather with rights: the freedoms to which we are intrinsically entitled – which are enshrined in the Constitution, and are inalienably ours.
Cover takes no issue with the concept of rights. They are an essential part of our democratic culture. Rather, Cover notes that, when taken to the extreme, our American emphasis on rights has often contributed to a culture of rampant individualism, in which the collective good is often bypassed in favor of the individual’s desires.
On a social level, our emphasis on rights has indirectly contributed to political radicalization. Last year, the US Surgeon General declared a national epidemic of loneliness and isolation. Each of us does indeed have the right to be alone. But without some sense of obligation – some sense of commandedness that requires us to engage with others – our right to be alone can quickly sink into the morass of social seclusion, and from there, potentially into political extremism.
On a policy level, our overemphasis on rights sometimes leads us to act only in our own self-interest. In almost every US state, if you are witness to a car accident or a drug overdose, you have no legal obligation to provide assistance. There are understandable reasons why this is so. In the Jewish legal tradition, by contrast, if you see your neighbor’s donkey [1] – even if you see your enemy’s donkey [2] – and it has collapsed under the weight of its burden, you are not encouraged to provide assistance; rather, you are required to do so. A sense of obligation – a sense of commandedness – builds a civic culture in which each person is responsible to all the others.
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A second Jewish idea to help us repair our civic culture is the centrality of the law.
To clarify: when I say the centrality of the law, I do not mean “law and order,” as the word sometimes connotes. Rather, I mean that our Jewish tradition affirms that, in order for our society to be strong, we need to have a shared set of publicly agreed upon norms and rules.
There is only one time in the entire Torah in which God speaks directly to the entire Israelite community. It happens at Mount Sinai – in that momentous scene in which God gives our people the tablets of the law. The Torah understands that, in order for the laws to be binding, the Israelites need to hear the laws directly from their source, and verbally confirm that they are willing to abide by them. The Israelites respond to God, and say: “All the things that God has spoken, we will surely do.” [3] It is as if our ancestors implicitly understood the notion of the social contract – an idea that the Enlightenment philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau would not articulate for another 2700 years: namely, that the state derives its authority to govern only through the knowing and willful consent of its citizens.
When the Israelites at last complete their forty years of wandering in the desert, and they reach the Promised Land, Moses instructs them that they are to place enormous stones on the top of the tallest mountain. They are to coat these stones in plaster, and carve into the plaster all of the laws that are in the Torah. [4] These stones, Moses tells them, shall serve as a public reminder of all the norms and rules that they have collectively agreed to live by. We might think of it as similar to the Christ the Redeemer statue that towers over Rio de Janeiro – but instead of depicting the figure of Jesus, a messianic symbol of salvation, this giant edifice will remind them of the law, their shared set of communal commitments.
In this manner, the law is not secluded away, unreachable and unknowable, the exclusive domain of the religious or intellectual elite. Rather, the law is every person’s responsibility, so that the Israelites can become, as the Torah commands them, “a kingdom of priests” [5] – in which every citizen is expected to be conversant in the laws, to understand their rights and duties, and to be fluent in their society’s concept of justice.
In our society, by contrast, we seem to have lost our sense of civic duty. Faded are the days in which our educational system taught a student not only algebra and chemistry, but also, how to be a responsible citizen. Our Jewish tradition can provide a corrective, by insisting that the law – our shared set of communal commitments – stands at the center of our public consciousness.
***
A third Jewish idea to help us repair our civic culture is our commitment to ideological pluralism.
We are living in an age of extreme political polarization. For many of us, the vast majority of our social relationships are with people who vote the same way that we do. Similarly, the news that we follow and the media that we consume tend to reaffirm the ideas we already hold.
Our Jewish tradition, by contrast, insists that we engage in genuine conversation across ideological lines – that we try to thoroughly understand the positions with which we disagree. Discussion, deliberation, and dialogue-across-difference all are hallmarks of Jewish life and Jewish learning.
The Talmud starts with a single question: “At what time should a person recite the evening Shema?” It then lists one rabbi’s answer. And then, a second rabbi’s different answer. And then, a third rabbi’s still different answer. It then goes on to explain the logic by which each rabbi reached his differing conclusion. It then offers an anecdote, a short story that subtly suggests yet a fourth possible position. [6] And on and on the discussion goes for fifty-four-hundred pages – a sprawling compendium of conflicting opinions, in which each voice makes room for all the others.
Of course, for every question, our tradition does indeed identify a preferred, semi-official answer. After all, in order for a society to properly function, we cannot just deliberate; we have to make decisions. But even after a decision has been rendered, our tradition requires that we not discard the unadopted minority opinions. Rather, when we study a page of Talmud, we spend equal, if not even more time trying to understand the various positions that were ultimately not adopted.
There is a Jewish value called machloket l’shem shamayim – a phrase that literally means “disagreement for the sake of heaven,” but which we might more loosely translate as “disagreement for a higher purpose.” As Jews, we are instructed to approach our disagreements not for the relatively lowly purpose of trying to win the argument. Rather, we are to approach our disagreements for the higher purpose of trying to discover the truth.
We recognize that no one person has exclusive access to the truth – and, conversely, that every person’s argument has at least some degree of merit, however small. We enter the conversation not to prove our point, but rather, to help us refine our own thinking. We expect that our conversation partner might be able to show us the places in which our logic is flawed – and, equally, we hope that we might be able to incorporate into our thinking the best parts of their position, without having to abandon our convictions. In this way, the deliberative process is not just an intellectual exercise or a stimulating pastime. Rather, it becomes a pathway for discovering the truth – a sacred act.
***
In less than thirty days, our country will vote in a highly charged national election. If we are to meet this moment well, we might look to the wisdom of our Jewish tradition – to remind us to balance our rights with obligations, a sense of commandedness; to remind us that society functions best when law, our shared set of communal commitments, stands at the center of our public consciousness; and to remind us that ideological pluralism, preserving the minority opinion, is a sacred act.
I like to imagine that, many decades into the future, someone who is today just a child will have grown, had a career, and will be spending her retirement serving as a tour guide and museum educator at the old Pennsylvania State House in Philadelphia – a site that we now, of course, call Independence Hall.
She will be leading a group of elementary school-age students on a class field trip – giving them a tour of the historic site, and explaining to them that it was here that our system of government was first established.
One child will raise his hand in curiosity – and, without knowing that his question is an echo of the past, he will ask: “So, what system of government do we have?”
With a knowing smile, the tour guide will say: “It is called a republic.” And then, considering her response, she will pause, and quietly add: “And it is on you to help us keep it.”
__________
[1] Deuteronomy 22:4
[2] Exodus 23:5
[3] Exodus 24:3
[4] Deuteronomy 27:2-8
[5] Exodus 19:6
[6] Babylonian Talmud, B’rachot 2a
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