A couple years back, a dear friend of mine named Eitan Hersh, who’s now a political science professor at Tufts University, noticed something striking in his research: college-educated Americans are widely believed to be the demographic group most likely to be politically engaged, and a significant number of these folks indeed say that they are very interested in politics. Yet when they were asked to describe what that involvement actually looked like, it turned out that, aside from voting in major elections every two or four years, they were spending the vast majority of their time consuming political news, discussing and debating politics, or simply thinking about political issues. In other words, the group of Americans that purports to be the most civically-minded was, in actuality, not particularly involved in the political process at all: few belong to political parties or advocacy organizations, attend political meetings, or work with others to solve community problems.
Hersh coined a term to describe this phenomenon: “political hobbyism.” Political hobbyists relate to politics like sports fans relate to sports: we may have deeply held beliefs and values that lead us to feel passionately about one party or politician or issue over another; we may care about the outcome of the political process, follow political news closely, cheer for our favored politicians, and jeer our political opponents. We rejoice when our “team” wins, and conversely, we may be crestfallen when our “team” loses. We may spend endless hours doom-scrolling about the latest drama in Washington, or get into impassioned fights with friends and family on social media or at Thanksgiving dinner – be honest, does this sound familiar to anyone? – but very few of us college-educated Americans actively engage in the political process on the ground level, committing our time to fighting in an organized way alongside others who share our values and commitments for the issues we say we care about.
If we were to think about it rationally, most of us likely realize that political hobbyism of this sort is a pretty ineffective way of making a difference in our community or country. But as Hersh points out, political hobbyism is more than just a waste of time. It’s actually harmful. Treating “politics as a sport incentivizes politicians to behave badly. We reward them with attention and money for any red meat they throw at us. Hobbyism also cultivates skills and attitudes that are counterproductive” to making a real difference. “Rather than practicing [the] patience and empathy” required to build coalitions, gain supporters, and move policy priorities forward, political hobbyism cultivates outrage and incentivizes the pursuit of instant gratification. It distances us from the people and policies that impact our and others’ lives, and reinforces a sense that we are not responsible for the decisions our leaders make and the actions they take – much like I might care about how my favorite team is doing, and might be happy or angry about the outcome of a particular game, celebrating or blaming particular players or coaches or referees, but don’t have to bear the burden of responsibility for any of it because I don’t really have any ability to influence how things turn out. This is the “don’t blame me, I voted for insert name here mindset.
But the political process, particularly but not exclusively in a democracy like ours, is not like sports. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel famously said when explaining his opposition to the Vietnam war, in a society such as ours, “some are guilty, but all are responsible.” Our leaders might do good or ill, and they bear the burden of guilt for their actions. But their capacity and incentive to act as they do comes from us. If we see degradation or persecution and are not moved to march, if we see tyranny and are not rallied to resist, and if we fail to remind our leaders through our voices and with our votes who they serve, then it is we who bear responsibility.
Today, the Shabbat before Tisha B’Av, the day on which we commemorate the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, is traditionally known as Shabbat Hazon. The name comes from the opening words of today’s haftarah portion, from the opening chapter of Isaiah. Isaiah began to prophesy sometime around 740 BCE, nearly a century before Jerusalem and the First Temple were destroyed by the Babylonians. According to tradition, the fact that the warnings of Isaiah and subsequent prophets went unheeded led inexorably to the catastrophe of conquest and the agony of exile, and we continue to revisit their admonitions and mourn the destruction they failed to prevent all these centuries later because they still have something to teach us, they still have the capacity not only to help us stave off whatever calamities might befall us in our time, but moreover to redeem our broken world.
At the core of Isaiah’s critique in this week’s haftarah is a denunciation of corrupt leadership. He condemns Judah’s leaders for subverting justice, for selling out the legal system to the highest bidder by taking bribes and otherwise giving preferential treatment to the wealthy and powerful, for failing and refusing to give regular people – and all the more so those at a structural disadvantage such as the poor, the widow, and the orphan – a fair shake.
Given the content of his indictment, Isaiah’s message seems straightforward enough: a society with corrupt leaders who pervert justice for personal gain, in which power and wealth is concentrated in the hands of a few while most are left poor and powerless, is doomed to crumble and collapse under the weight of its own oppression. It would seem that Isaiah, who had access to individuals at the highest levels of Judahite society, even the king; who at certain points in his life was even a royal official, was saying directly to these corrupt leaders: clean up your act, or face disaster. But it’s not quite so simple.
If you read the haftarah closely and carefully, you’ll notice something surprising: Isaiah doesn’t address the leaders. Rather, he speaks directly to the people. Throughout the passage, Isaiah clearly addresses the people of Judah themselves, calling them, at turns, “goy hoteh / sinful nation, am kaved avon / people laden with iniquity, zera m’reyim / brood of evildoers, banim mash’hitim / depraved children” (1:4), as well as “k’tzinei S’dom / chieftans of Sodom,” and “am Amorah / folk of Gemorrah” (1:10). He lambasts the people for their disingenuous religiosity, their pretentious piety decoupled from ethical behavior and the pursuit of justice (1:11-14). Perhaps even more revelatory, is when Isaiah says, “Sarekha sorerim / Your rulers are rogues and cronies of thieves, every one avid for presents and greedy for gifts; they do not judge the case of the orphan, and the widow’s cause never reaches them” (1:23). If Isaiah were speaking to Judah’s leaders, why would he refer to them in the third person while addressing his audience in the second person? Clearly, then, Isaiah was speaking to the people about their corrupt leaders, and not to the leaders about their own corruption.
The question, of course, is why. If Isaiah had a problem with the leaders, and he had access to the leaders, why doesn’t he speak to them directly? Why doesn’t he say to their faces that they must change their corrupt ways? Why does he accost and accuse and arraign the people, who are not themselves guilty of the crimes he is calling out as spiritually and ethically intolerable, the sins that are bringing the nation to the brink of disaster?
Because when leaders act unjustly and the wider public sees it as theater and fails to resist or intervene, it signals tacit approval, emboldening them to continue the wrongful behavior, creating a vicious cycle that results, ultimately, in widespread corruption and pervasive oppression. Indifference to evil is what allows evil to flourish. To put it another way, a sure sign that a society is indifferent to its leaders acting unjustly is the prevalence of social injustice. And a society that is sick with and dying of widespread injustice reveals an underlying moral malady, a pre-existing spiritual condition: an unengaged and morally indifferent populace. To be sure, leaders doubtlessly bear the burden of guilt for their wrongful behavior. But the broader society is ultimately responsible for what its leaders do, and are allowed to get away with, under its watch. “Few are guilty,” as Heschel taught, “but all are responsible.”
Isaiah vividly illustrates this idea with a striking metaphor, describing Jerusalem “כְּסֻכָּ֣ה בְכָ֑רֶם כִּמְלוּנָ֥ה בְמִקְשָׁ֖ה / as a sukkah in a vineyard, as a booth in a cucumber field.” Contextually, Isaiah is saying that when Jerusalem is ultimately destroyed, all that will remain of the once vibrant and vital city will resemble a fragile, forlorn shack in an open field. But why does Isaiah not depict complete desolation? Why not say that Zion will be a waste, a total ruin, when the enemy is through with it? And why does he use this image, specifically, to describe the destroyed city?
Think, for a moment, about a sukkah. Picture one in your mind’s eye. A sukkah is an inherently relational structure. It has no doors. According to tradition, it is ownerless — once built, it legally belongs to everyone and must be open to and available for all who seek its shelter. As a matter of fact, on Sukkot, the mitzvah is not to build a sukkah but, rather, to dwell in one, meaning that the mitzvah can be fulfilled in anyone’s sukkah – even, according to the rabbis, without their permission – emphasizing the structure’s communal nature, its embodiment of hospitality and inclusion.
The Jewish mystical tradition reflects this dimension of a Sukkah by encouraging us to welcome ushpizin, spiritual guests, into the sukkah. The symbolism of the sukkah as an inviting, enveloping space for all to join under is perhaps the reason why the rabbis of the midrash came to understand Sukkot as a universal holiday, a festival that all people, not just Jews, are invited to enjoy and celebrate together as one human family.
Little wonder that, in several instances, the biblical prophets envision ultimate redemption – when all peoples on earth will embrace their common humanity and collective responsibility, joining together as one in peace and harmony – as occurring on Sukkot, for a sukkah breaks down the barriers between people, fostering a sense of collective responsibility. If we’re all to share and survive and thrive in this one, fragile structure, we must look out for and support one another. A sukkah reminds us, as King wrote, that “we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny,” making it a perfect metaphor for a commonwealth, a society in which everyone is responsible for, and committed to taking care of, one another.
Isaiah uses this metaphor not as an indictment, or even, strictly speaking, as a prediction of events to come, but rather as a description of reality, a statement of basic fact. Stripped of all artifice and pretense, all societies, at their core, are akin to sukkot. We build elaborate structures of power and wealth to give ourselves a sense of security, but these are ultimately illusions. In truth, the societies we inhabit together are not impenetrable fortresses atop imposing mountains, but frail huts, left exposed and vulnerable amidst cucumber fields. The journalist George Packer recently put it like this, in writing about our own imperiled democracy: A society is “a fragile artifice. It depends less on tradition and law than on the shifting contents of individual skulls — belief, virtue, restraint.” Our institutions, along with the leaders empowered to preserve, protect, and defend them by faithfully executing the duties of their offices; our systems and structures, our borders and bulwarks, however strong and stable we might imagine them to be, ultimately provide no guarantee of our common welfare on their own. Rather, it is we, the people, who are the bulwark. We are the guarantors.
To dwell in a sukkah is to be freed from the illusion that the structures we erect of power and wealth, law and tradition, rules and rulers, are the source of our security, and to recognize that our well-being requires our own responsibility – to care for one another, to support one another, to protect one another from enemies without and enemies within. To dwell in a sukkah is to share space as fairly as possible with all who seek its shelter, to take special care to ensure that everyone has a place, that no one is left out or left behind, that no one, particularly those with less wealth or lower social status, is exploited or taken advantage of by those who would claim as much space and standing for themselves as possible. Put differently, a sukkah reveals and reinforces the reality that the structure won’t support itself, and on its own offers no security to those who dwell within. We are the supporters. We are the safeguards. Without our vigilance, without our persistent participation, without our relentless responsibility, the walls are destined to fall, collapsing and crushing everyone inside.
Only when we are watchful, when we are engaged, when we uphold our obligations to one another do societies survive. “ציון במשפט תפדה,” Isaiah insisted. “Zion will [only] be redeemed through justice” (1:27). Justice is not an abstract concept, but a concrete reality, the condition of people’s very lives. It’s not a pastime but a persistent need. It’s not the purview of an elect few, but the responsibility of all. And it doesn't just happen -- it needs to be actively, continuously, pursued -- in partnership with others, in the arenas of policy and, yes, politics.
Justice, in other words, ultimately depends on just us. If we want the structure to stand, we can’t be hobbyists; we must become holders – getting off the sidelines, ceasing to be spectators; engaging actively, directly, and persistently in the ceaseless yet sacred work of creating and sustaining a just society.
As we look toward and beyond Tisha B’Av, may we embrace and fulfill Isaiah’s vision, recommitting to responsibility for one another, striving to secure a sukkat shalom, a shelter of peace, a world redeemed through love and justice.
So may it be God’s will. Amen.
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