One of the most challenging summers of my life was working as an eighth grade bunk counselor at the Reform movement’s Camp Eisner, a gorgeous camp up in the Berkshires.
This was the summer just after I graduated from college. I had decided to apply to the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion’s cantorial school, and I was advised by a mentor to bulk-up my Reform credentials a bit by working at a movement summer camp.
I expected the girls to be loud, boisterous, even rebellious. It was taken for granted that they would go on night raids over to the boys cabins, eat candy in the cabin, skip daily tefillah or otherwise be spoiled 14 year olds.
But I didn’t expect them to be cruel.
There was a girl in the bunk named Robin. She was tall, had a sturdy build and cropped blond hair. Though we didn’t have such diagnoses at the time, it seems clear in hindsight that she was significantly on the autism spectrum. She didn’t wear the “right” clothes, didn’t catch the jokes, didn’t fit in.
In those days, we would have assumed she was simply a “misfit”. As such, no accommodations were made. There was no expectation of acceptance from the other girls. She was basically thrown to the wolves. I took her under my wing, kept her engaged, and showed her as much care as I could.
There were whispered taunts, jokes behind her back, exclusion. And being older than some of the other counselors, I saw what they could not. That through those long weeks, not one camper stood up to say, “Stop it. Enough.” Not one teenager rallied to Robin’s side. Not one spoke up to say, “This isn’t Jewish. This isn’t who we are.” Not one. And there were many counselors and camp leaders who also did nothing. I should say, some of them are in very powerful positions today.
Silence has consequences.
The Talmud tells us a story that begins exactly like this. It’s the story of the destruction of Jerusalem.
It happened this way: A certain man had a friend named Kamtza and an enemy called Bar Kamtza. This man held a banquet and said to his servant, “Go and bring Kamtza.” You can see where this is going, of course.
The man went and accidentally brought Bar Kamtza.
When the man who gave the party found Bar Kamtza there he said, “You are my enemy, what are you doing here? Get out!” Bar Kamtza replied, “Since I am already here, let me stay, and I will pay you for whatever I eat and drink.”
Said the host: “Absolutely not.”
Bar Kamtza tried again. “Then let me give you half the cost of the party,” but again, the host refused.
So Bar Kamtza upped the offer. “Then let me pay for the whole party.”
The host refused once more, took Bar Kamtza by the hand, and threw him out.
Bar Kamtza thought, “Since the Sages were sitting there and did not protest the actions of the host, although they saw how he humiliated me, learn from it that they were content with what he did. I will inform on them to the local Roman authorities.”
He went to the authorities and said, “The Jews are rebelling against you.” This fueled the Roman’s anger and wrath. It set in motion a chain of events that led directly to the destruction of the city in the year 70 CE.
And the blame falls not on the man who ejected his enemy — though that was clearly wrong — but on the sages of Israel who simply sat in silence. In that cold and cruel soil were planted the seeds of two thousand years of death and Diaspora.
Leadership is often seen as making decisions. But in practice, it is also about noticing the moment when something needs to be said — and deciding whether or not to say it. Sometimes our failures don’t come from bad intentions, malice, or spite, but from simply staying silent. Inaction in a moment that calls for action.
Speaking truth to power is a Jewish value.
We hear it in the echoes of the prophet Nathan who accused King David of murder in front of his entire court. We see it in an image of Elijah standing up and rebuking the wicked King Ahab who used power for personal gain. And after Elijah prophesied against Ahab we hear the incredible story of the lesser known prophet, Micaiah ben Imlah.
King Ahab had gathered 400 prophets around him who unanimously agreed that Adonai would grant him great success in a coming battle. When Micaiah ben Imlah was brought to the court, he was told to agree with the other prophets. Keep your head down. Go along to get along. Don’t cause trouble. Don’t upset the room.
But did he listen to them? No. Micaiah turned with fire and said, “So God has put a lying spirit in the mouth of all these prophets of yours; for God has decreed disaster upon you.” What happened next? He was imprisoned with only bread and water, and he is never heard from again. Of course, his prophecy was true and King Ahab was killed in battle. Micaiah ben Imlah refused to let power replace truth, very likely at the cost of his life.
Think about it. If you ignore a weather forecast of rain just because you don’t want to carry an umbrella, well, the reality is you’re still going to get wet.
Torah knows that the powerful often prefer affirmation to honesty. So many of our institutions surround leaders with voices that reinforce what they already want. It’s easier to stay silent. It’s easier to ignore abuses. The lone dissenter, the whistleblower, becomes the problem, not the danger being warned about.
Our tradition is clear, the danger of silence is the greatest threat of all. We’ve seen it in action time and again. And so tonight, I share these famous words of Eli Wiesel, who stood against silence.
I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the center of the universe.
Back at camp, there was a talent show. Some counselors and I were in charge of the evening, signing up acts and arranging the show. I encouraged Robin to be part of it. She was game.
And even though it has been a few decade, I still remember when Robin stood up to sing. She had a moment of pride and joy. She was glowing. She stood in the faces of those who excluded her and sang out with all her might. And they were stunned. For that night, for that moment, she was safe. She was loved.
We must all remember to listen. We must also remember that we have voices. Most of all, we must remember to speak up when our moment comes.