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Serving Citizens

May 30, 2017

Internal contradictions are a well-known challenge in reading Torah, but few problems show up as blatantly as in the opening verses of parashat Bemidbar. In the second verse, God instructs Moses, “Take a census of the whole Israelite community,”[1] while the immediate following verse focuses the census on Israelites “from the age of twenty years up, all those in Israel who are able to bear arms.”[2] Which, then, will it be? The “whole Israelite community?” Or just those over age twenty and “able to bear arms?”

The rabbis of our tradition help reconcile these differences. Ramban, living in 13th-century Spain, points out that the Hebrew term צָבָא, usually translated as “army,” can have a broader meaning than military service; it also suggests other dedicated service benefiting the community.[3] 

The author of the classic work Kli Yakar, in 16th-century Poland, focuses on the similarities and difference between the two sets of qualifications: while it is possible that a particularly strong boy might be physically capable of bearing arms at a younger age, the Torah demands not only physical strength but also the emotional maturity and sense of responsibility that come with age.[4] 

Finally, Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin, head of the illustrious Volozhin Yeshiva of Lithuania in the second half of the 19th century, notes that there are two characteristics that separate the service referred to as צָבָא, whether specifically military or more general community service as understood by Ramban, from all other professions. First, while a farmer or craftsman can work alone, at least on a very small scale, no soldier could possibly succeed without relying on others — and without standing firm for others to rely on him. Second, whereas other trades can be pursued on one’s own property and in one’s own town, the service of צָבָא requires a person to head out into the world, sacrificing the comforts of home — and in many cases much more.[5]

The apparent tension between verses two and three of Bemidbar in fact represents a definition of what qualified a person for citizenship in ancient Israel: first, active service to the community; second, a sense of personal responsibility; third, reliance on others, and availability for others to rely upon; and fourth, a willingness to sacrifice personal comfort — and perhaps even one’s life — for the benefit and protection of the community.

Parashat Bemidbar teaches us what it took to be part of the Israelite nation in the desert. But what does it mean to be American? While this could be a perennial question, I feel like it’s been even more at the forefront these days. Do we believe in “American Exceptionalism,” the notion that our country possesses some distinct, intrinsic quality setting us apart from other nations? Do we look around at a “City on the Hill,” a beacon to those who seek freedom? Or do we see an empire in decline? The answers to these questions depend upon — and ultimately emerge from — the concept of צָבָא, obligations of service that benefit the community, as described in this morning’s parshah.

I fear that for too many Americans, “service” and “sacrifice” have become theoretical concepts. The other day, between classes in the Neziner Hebrew School, I stopped to read the plaques downstairs recognizing the members of our community who served in the two World Wars. Each time I saw a star beside a name, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the loss felt by family and friends, the tear in the fabric of our community.  But how often do we take that time to reflect? A few years ago Cantor David Frommer, a former US Army chaplain, wrote:

Most civilians [lack] a personal connection to Memorial Day. There is a blessing in that, for sure — we are fortunate to have secured a safer path for ourselves and our children. But there is also a curse — we have passed the burden of war on to others, and we have detached ourselves from its costs.

He’s right about me, at any rate. My few friends who have served our Armed Forces returned, thank God, unharmed. When I hear news reports of casualties overseas, I have to work to recognize the fallen as individual lives, with families, pasts, and lost futures — to push back against the easy tendency to speak in abstractions.

Cantor Frommer is also right that, for the most part, we are blessed not to face combat. Still, without a direct experience of service we risk losing sight of its foundational role in defining our nation. The solution lies in the insights of Ramban and Rabbi Berlin: צָבָא, the essential obligation of service, includes — but is not limited to — military service. In this spirit, toward the end of a long presidential campaign, then-Senator John F. Kennedy stood before 5,000 students at the University of Michigan and articulated his ideal America. He asked them:

How many of you who are going to be doctors, are willing to spend your days in Ghana? Technicians or engineers, how many of you are willing to work in the Foreign Service and spend your lives traveling around the world? On your willingness to do that, not merely to serve one year or two years in the service, but on your willingness to contribute part of your life to this country, I think will depend the answer whether a free society can compete. I think it can! And I think Americans are willing to contribute.

A year later, President Kennedy and Congress established the Peace Corps “To promote world peace and friendship;” over more than half a century, 200,000 men and women have proved themselves “willing to serve, under conditions of hardship if necessary” in order to bring the true “exceptional” message of America to all corners of the developing world.[6]

Decades later, Presidents George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton echoed Kennedy’s charge when they established domestic national-service programs, such as AmeriCorps, that have drawn hundreds of thousands of young people to dedicate a year of their lives in service to our country. We should be proud that, this year, our own Abe Flesichman has taken his place in their ranks, serving AmeriCorps in Milwaukee. We often describe our social-service work as “volunteering,” but the concept of צָבָא suggests that we face an obligation, not merely an option, to work on behalf of our community. On a level of basic values, citizenship must be predicated on a commitment to the greater good. The examples of AmeriCorps and the Peace Corps suggest that the values of צָבָא still matter in America today: service to the community; responsibility; reliance on teamwork and collaboration; and willingness to sacrifice.

If we are to believe there is something special in us — American Exceptionalism — we would do well to understand it not as a quality we possess by virtue of our being born in this country, but as something we must learn and implement, a strength we earn through our service to others. If we view American Exceptionalism as a birthright, some kind of inborn privilege, then I fear we will slip into decline. But if we recognize that America has always been exceptional not because of where we were born, but because of what we do and how we do it — that we live in a society founded on community service, mutual responsibility, collaboration, and sacrifice — then we will continue to excel. America is exceptional, not because of who we are, but because of who we strive to become.

On this Memorial Day weekend, we remember our fellow citizens who made the ultimate sacrifice in the name of those ideals of service that we, as Americans and as Jews, hold sacred. May their example inspire each of us to find our own avenues of service, giving meaning to our citizenship and honoring the lives they gave to secure our freedom.

On Shabbat morning, we concluded with Alden Solovy’s “Yizkor for a Soldier.”


[1]        Numbers 1:2.

[2]        Numbers 1:3.

[3]        Ramban, Numbers 1:3, citing Num. 8:24-25, Ex. 38:8.

[4]        Kli Yakar, Numbers 1:3.

[5]        Ha’amek Davar, Numbers 1:3.

[6]        Peace Corps Act, 22 Sept. 1961.

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