I fear Auschwitz has become an obsession. Not the place itself – although that is part of it – but rather our experience of persecution, both historical and contemporary. Antisemitism looms so large today it seems to dominate everything about who we are. Even when Judaism calls on us to focus on other themes – freedom, morality, sanctity – antisemitism muscles its way into the conversation. In every generation they rise up to destroy us; they behave like Amalek towards us; they value death where we value life.
When we survey British Jews about which dimensions of Jewishness play the largest parts in their Jewish identities, 95% of them say that remembering the Holocaust is either ‘very’ or ‘fairly’ important. 92% say the same about combating antisemitism. The most Orthodox among us place less emphasis on these than others, but overall, far more Jews prioritise these aspects of Jewishness than celebrating Shabbat, giving tzedakah, having faith in God, or Jewish learning, practice or culture.
I get it. The trauma of the Holocaust lives within us. And now, post-October 7, the levels of anti-Israel, and often anti-Jewish, sentiment that swirl around us only serve to reinforce that trauma. They hate us. They did then; they do now; they always will.
But it is Shavuot. And on Shavuot, a different theme – Sinai – holds centre stage. Or at least it should. Because Sinai is about us, not them. We were given Jewish law and an ethical code by which to live our lives. We were called upon to be a mamlechet kohanim – a kingdom of priests – and a goy kadosh – a holy nation.
Intriguingly, most Jews understand this. When we ask British Jews how important ‘moral and ethical behaviour’ is to their Jewish identities, 94% say it is either ‘very’ or ‘fairly’ important, a very similar proportion to those highlighting the Holocaust or antisemitism.
Indeed, looking across the entire Jewish population, from the most secular to the most charedi, our own moral behaviour is the only aspect of Jewishness that we all regard as important. We all understand that being Jewish comes with a fundamental moral imperative.
Yet underneath that commonality lie immense differences. What is morally right? What constitutes ethical behaviour? What moral compromises should we make if our lives are threatened? Can we act immorally in pursuit of a higher moral value? Indeed, should we?
Dr Jonathan Boyd, executive director, Institute for Jewish Policy Research
Rabbi Professor David Hartman famously explored these questions in a 1982 essay, Auschwitz or Sinai? He asked whether the “ugly demonic forces of antisemitism” or “the eternal Sinai covenant” should be our orienting category?
His answer was unequivocal. “We will mourn forever because of the memory of Auschwitz,” he wrote. But “we will build a healthy new society because of the memory of Sinai.” We must define who we are, he argued, “not by any obsession with the long and noble history of Jewish suffering,” but by facing up to “the awesome task implicit in the Sinai covenant.”
That’s tough today. I see our anxieties, insecurities and fears not just in the data we hold, but in the pit of my stomach. Yet Hartman was right. Sinai matters more than Auschwitz. Much more.
That’s not simply because it’s our guiding legal code and moral compass. It’s not even because the moral quandaries facing us today – and facing Israel – are some of the most acute and critical we have ever known. It’s because that moral conversation, that began at Sinai and has continued ever since, is what holds the key to our shared moral essence.
That conversation – if conducted well – should exercise our moral muscles to instil within us the moral instincts to manage any challenges thrown at us. If we’re getting it wrong, it suggests we are allowing the horrors of Auschwitz to overwhelm the covenant of Sinai.
We’re allowing them to define us, rather than our own moral tradition. And that is an immensely dangerous path to go down.
- Dr Jonathan Boyd, executive director, Institute of Jewish Policy Research
