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There’s an old Emo Phillips joke where he says:

Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump. I said, “Don’t do it!”
He said, “Nobody loves me.”
I said, “God loves you. Do you believe in God?”
He said, “Yes.”
I said, “Are you a Christian or a Jew?”
He said, “A Christian.”
I said, “Me, too! Protestant or Catholic?”
He said, “Protestant.”
I said, “Me, too! What franchise?”
He said, “Baptist.”
I said, “Me, too! Northern Baptist or Southern Baptist?”
He said, “Northern Baptist.”
I said, “Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist or Northern Liberal Baptist?”
He said, “Northern Conservative Baptist.”
I said, “Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region or Northern Conservative Baptist Eastern Region?”
He said, “Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region.”
I said, “Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1879 or Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912?”
He said, “Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912.”
I said, “Die, heretic!”
And I pushed him over.

This joke is funny because it points to a truth: we are astonishingly good at turning differences into enormous divides. We sort the world into “us” and “them” with alarming ease.

As the High Holy Days approach, many of us think about the habits we want to change or the forgiveness we need to seek. Perhaps one of our greatest spiritual challenges is learning to truly see one another. Whether it’s politics, generations, neighborhoods, parenting styles, or the countless labels we assign one another, it’s easy to forget that the person on the other side of the disagreement is still a person.

For years we’ve spoken about the importance of tolerance, but I’ve come to believe tolerance isn’t enough. Think about how we use the word: we tolerate traffic, annoying habits, or something we’d rather not endure. Even the Hebrew word savlanut suggests bearing a burden. Tolerance may be a good beginning, but it is not the Torah’s destination.

The Torah asks something much harder: Love your neighbor as yourself. Love the stranger. Biblical scholar Abraham Malamat suggests that the Torah isn’t commanding us to feel love so much as to practice it. Love is something we do. It means treating another person’s needs, dignity, and humanity as though they mattered as much as our own.

A Hasidic story tells of two friends sitting together in an inn. One asks, “Do you love me?”

“Of course,“ the other replies.
“Then tell me,” the first asks, “what causes me pain?” His friend cannot answer.
“If you loved me,” he says, “you would know.”

Real love begins with listening. It begins with curiosity instead of assumptions. It means taking the time to learn another person’s story, to understand what keeps them awake at night, what brings them joy, and what burdens they carry. Every one of us is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. Every person we meet reflects something of God that we cannot discover on our own.

This High Holy Day season invites us to move beyond merely tolerating one another. Imagine how our families, our congregation, and our community might change if we stopped asking, “How do I put up with this person?” and started asking, “What causes them pain? What can I do to help?”

Perhaps that is one of the deepest forms of teshuvah: not only returning to God, but turning to one another. May this be the year we move beyond tolerance and choose the harder, holier work of love.

Rabbi Rachel G. Greengrass