Choosing to be chosen

Black Hebrew Israelites, who identify as "real Jews".

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The Department of Homeland Security is launching an internal investigation of Gregory Bovino, the erstwhile and unmissed face of the Trump administration's immigration crackdown, over Mr. Bovino's alleged remarks about a Jewish lawyer.

The former U.S. Border Patrol "commander at large" was reported to have complained about difficulty he had trying to reach the U.S. attorney in Minnesota, Daniel N. Rosen on a Saturday. Mr. Rosen is an Orthodox Jew and observes the Jewish Sabbath. Several people reported hearing Mr. Bovino on a telephone call sarcastically musing about whether Orthodox Jewish criminals take weekends off, and using the term "chosen people" in a mocking way.

Ah, the "chosen people" gripe.

The idea that the Jewish people has been divinely elected — which the Torah asserts in several places and which every observant Jew expresses gratitude for in his or her daily blessing — thanking God for having "chosen us from among all the nations and given us His Torah" — has been an irksome assertion to those predisposed to disliking (or worse) Jews ever since… well, ever since Sinai.

It has also inspired some to lay claim to the mantle themselves.

Like the Black Hebrew Israelites, whom I once saw preaching in Times Square. While not all BHI groups are racist, the particular group I saw featured a master of ceremonies, flanked by two assistants dressed like he was, in colorful caps and robes adorned with Jewish symbols, angrily vilifying Caucasians — expressing particular malice for "so-called Jews."

Next to the threesome was a large display board, inscribed with the names of the 12 tribes of Israel. Opposite each was a novel identification: one of 12 African or Caribbean nationalities. Their citizens, the MC announced loudly, were the "real Jews."

Both the grousers and impersonators assume that the "chosenness" at issue is meant to signal some inherent moral or intellectual superiority, even some right to oppress others.

Part of that assumption, the part about smarts, might be bolstered by historical and statistical data.

In the April, 2007 issue of Commentary magazine, political scientist Charles Murray (who, as if it makes any difference, is not Jewish) reported that "the average Jew is at the 75th percentile" of the IQ scale and that "the proportion of Jews with IQs of 140 or higher is somewhere around six times the proportion of everyone else." It's also hard not to notice that a number of world-changing ideas, both religious ones like monotheism and scientific ones like relativity, have roots in a certain ethnicity.

Mr. Murray suggested several hypotheses to explain those facts. But he ends his essay with the (perhaps tongue in cheek) conclusion: "At this point, I take sanctuary in my remaining hypothesis, uniquely parsimonious and happily irrefutable. The Jews are God's chosen people."

But intelligence has nothing to do with the meaning of the Jewish people's chosenness.

Because what Jews are chosen for is one thing: To serve the Creator — with our intellects, yes, especially in study of Jewish religious texts — but also with our hearts and in the way we live our lives. We are not inherently worthy in any way; in fact, we are described by the Torah as "stiff-necked." Our election is ultimately due to the dedication of our patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, to G od's will.

In any event, what count in life aren't IQ's but RQ's — righteousness quotients. What matters is service, not smarts. The sages of the Talmud did not often stress inherent abilities — mental or otherwise — but rather focused on how people utilize whatever blessings they have. Those sages' greatest honorifics customarily ran not to words like "genius" or "brilliant" but to ones like "righteous" and "G od-fearing."

Somehow, the truism that every human being has value and limitless potential has morphed into the notion that people are all interchangeable. To suggest that different individuals or groups may have different functions or responsibilities has become impolite, if not condemnable as sexist or racist. Judaism, however, unapologetically assigns roles — to men and to women; to scholars and to lay people; to descendants of the Biblical Aaron (cohanim, often rendered "priests") and to the rest of the Jewish people. And Jewish people qua people have a role as well. They are chosen to be a worthy example to the rest of humankind, the proverbial "light unto the nations."

We don't always live up to that mission, sadly. Jews can be less than that lights. The Torah tells of our ancestors' repeated failings. And the Jewish world has produced not only Einsteins and Salks and Wiesels and countless unknown-to-the-public Torah scholars and virtuous people but Meyer Lanskys and Jeffrey Epsteins too.

All said and done, though, living noble and virtuous lives of dedication to the divine remains our mission, and the meaning of our being chosen.

What's more, and ironic, is that, while Jews are sneered at by some, like, allegedly, Mr. Bovino, for accepting their designation as chosen, being chosen can… be chosen.

Because anyone sufficiently motivated can join the club, so to speak. Authentic conversion to Judaism is no simple matter; it includes the sincere acceptance of all the Torah's commandments, including those of the Oral Law and the corpus of subsequent rabbinic enactments (it's a complex story). But anyone not born Jewish who is truly willing to live a comprehensively observant Jewish life can become part of the Jewish people. Judaism doesn't seek converts and there is no obligation on anyone to join the Jewish nation. But the fact remains that anyone can.

The bottom line: Jewish specialness is not a license but a mission, a responsibility to live moral, ethical lives of dedication to G od and thereby, to be an inspiration to others.

Hardly something to mock or sneer at.

Rabbi Avi Shafran served for many years as Agudath Israel of America's director of public affairs. Before assuming his current position, he served as a Jewish studies teacher in secondary schools for nearly 20 years. He studied in Israel and at Ner Israel Rabbinical College in Baltimore, receiving his rabbinical ordination from the latter institution.

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