Ignorance is bliss—or so they say.

I know I’ve asked this question before, but: How much do we want to know—really? And how much do we really know?

(Spoiler alert: we think we know so much, but we really know very, very little, about pretty much everything, and sometimes we don’t really want to know a whole lot more, because it’s so overwhelming, especially when we’re not sure what we can do about it—and we risk despair and giving up when we know stuff and feel helpless to change it.)

(Spoiler alert #2: Ironically, we really do want to know, and when secrets are kept from us, even or especially by people who love us and think they’re protecting us, and even when it changes our life forever, we actually wouldn’t choose not knowing—and always suspected the truth anyway.)

It was the Fourth of July on Sunday, and it felt like the whole world was out celebrating. Central park was teaming with people, large groups that couldn’t gather last year—due to the pandemic (dah).

I remember the weeks-long fireworks starting around Juneteenth last year after the murder of George Floyd, and up through July 4th. On July 4th, we traditionally celebrate the beautiful history of our country and freedom (which I say with more than a little bit of irony). But this felt more like rage.

This year couldn’t have been more different. The day was unusually cool (a short but glorious break from the extreme heatwaves that keep coming), and you couldn’t find a space in the grass between the celebratory gatherings, with grills giving off the delicious smells of summer cookouts, stretching past the park, throughout Harlem.

And it’s true that there’s so much to celebrate: the pandemic feels like it’s just about over in New York, and there’s been an awakening of so much of our nation to the truth about police brutality and racism. It feels like an awakening that’s taken things to a whole new level, thanks to the pandemic (if we can thank it for anything, I think we can thank it for that).

And there have been other positive political developments in the past year, including the passing of a bill for expanded LGBTQ rights and, most recently, additional protections for the trans community.

We could focus on all the horrors, and we should remember that the LGBTQ community is under increased attack over the last couple of years, in spite of the legislation, but there is also some positive to recognize.

Would recognizing the good mean that people are unaware of the state of the world? I don’t think so. Are they aware they’ve been lied to and that the lies continue, and that not enough is being done about the climate crisis?

I believe the majority is aware.

And do they want the truth, along with some true compassion that translates into things like truly affordable housing, and real investment in the earth, not this fake thing we’re getting?

Of course they do.

I was listening to a bonus episode of the podcast Family Secrets, and the conversation started with discussing the platitudes,“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” “There’s a reason for everything,” and “God only gives you what you can handle.”

So WRONG, right? Because these are the last things you can believe, or want to hear, when you’re in crisis. And the country and the world are in crisis, on so many levels.

And such platitudes are really only helpful to the one who gives over such a message. It makes them feel better—or they think it’s better than the backlash of telling the truth.

On Family Secrets, Kelly Corrigan talks about how she found out that she was conceived through a sperm donor—long after both her parents had died—and that they’d kept it a secret from her her whole life. Learning the truth blew up her entire identity.

But the truth, as painful and shocking as it was, was also liberating, because the disconnect, the questions, were always there under the surface.

So who feels better as a result of secrets or denying the truth? I don’t think anyone does.

You know what else doesn’t feel better? The retelling of the story of Pinchas, the violent zealot from the Bible I spoke about last week.

Yes, our tradition takes a really nasty story, that of Pinchas, and says that Pinchas is one and the same as Elijah, the wonderful prophet we invoke on Passover and at the end of Shabbat and as part of the ritual circumcision of a baby boy. We tell beautiful, magical stories about Elijah. We think of Elijah as a rescuer and protector of Jews.

When we hear the story that Pinchas was really Elijah, or became Elijah because he lived a really, really long time, it leaves us with a potential feeling of bliss. That’s what actually happened to me. When I heard this, it made me smile and sigh with relief inside for a few blissful moments. It gave me a soft, fuzzy, warm feeling inside.

But thinking about it later, I got angry.

Why do we do this? Do we think that the Torah and Judaism will somehow be saved and redeemed by this possibility?

In my eyes, it does neither. It just makes me angry, and makes me want to walk away. It makes me want to disconnect.

Add to the truth of Pinchas’ violence the thought that he has a place of honor again this week in the Torah, and that Moses, our great hero, has one last job to do before he dies, and that job is to wage war and wipe out an entire people so the Israelites can dwell in peace in the land that God is giving them.

And add that Bilam, the one who blessed the Jewish people over and over again a couple of weeks ago gets a special mention as needing to be murdered for being a Midianite. I know; the Midianites were guilty of pulling the Israelites away from their God and the idea of One-ness, and it was a hard message for people to get, but does that justify genocide??

Also, I get that God literally made Bilam bless the people, and Bilam acted like an ass with his ass, but Moses’ own wife is a Midianite, and I think it’s fair to say that there was a genuine love and respect between Moses and his father-in-law, Jethro.

So, what messages are sent here?

It feels like racism to me.

Telling the truth of the nasty parts of Torah doesn’t cancel out the good things that happen, and there are good things in this week’s parsha. Like the guidelines for trying a murderer, and the establishment of cities of refuge for such fugitives. The premise is fairness of judgment. A difference is drawn between those who intentionally kill, with hatred in their heart, and those who do so by accident. It sounds a lot like the American system of law! Also, Zelophahed’s daughters get their inheritance and the laws about females inheriting property are clarified.

But I don’t want to make up a pretty story about Pinchas just to feel better about the Torah and being Jewish. I don’t want to gloss over the pain.

What’s more, I don’t think glossing things over makes me—or others—want to stick around more. People have been walking away from Judaism and other religions partly due to lies told: not because of truths. How many Catholics walked away from the Catholic Church because of the widespread cover-up of sexual abuse by priests?

I believe that the more we tell the truth, the more permission we have to wrestle with the text, the more we will turn toward instead of away from Judaism (or whatever community—or family—we belong to). Ignorance is only temporarily blissful, until the truth comes out—and then we realize we not only wanted to know it, but we suspected it all along.

Kelly Corrigan reinforces this idea in Family Secrets. She talks about how people keep secrets from each other mostly out of fear and the belief that they are alone.

But the more chances we take in revealing ourselves (with caution), sharing truths that we think are so deep and dark that no one would ever want to talk to or look at us again, the more we realize how we are not alone—that there is at least one person out there, and more likely thousands, who understand our experiences—because they’ve had them, too; literally anything we’re ashamed of, she says, we can find others like us, and more connection will result, not the isolation we fear.

Because we’re really not alone. And the truth will come out, no matter how well we think we hide it, or try to. And then we’re left with, “What else did you lie to me about?” Carl Jung would call this “psychic poison.” It takes away any trust that was there. It makes us want to walk away, and isolates us further.

What’s true for us personally, and for our country, its history and present, are true for Torah as well. And if we talk about the truth, we can work through it.

It’s time to face the truth of all of it and stop glossing things over. In facing the ugly, we will connect more, not less, and we can’t change the ugly if we pretend everything is bliss—of the Torah or our country. Plus, we risk giving up in despair if all we see is the ugly.

So let’s stop saying that ignorance is bliss, that what we don’t know won’t hurt us, and that God only gives us what we can handle. And let’s stop retelling stories in ways that change the reality just to make it pretty. These platitudes and attitudes only harm and separate us.

And I’m really hoping we choose to walk toward each other—as Jews, as Catholics—as anyone. Together.

We have the option of turning away from the racism of Torah and pretending it’s not there, that it’s only about God wanting us to know that One-ness is the biggest truth, or we can take the ugly stories as lessons for how not to live.

Starting with truth, we will turn towards each other and figure out how we want to live—as One—on Earth.