Chukat: How It Feels to be Homeless in the Desert

This week I will be flying home to visit my family in Sweden. Even as I wrote that last sentence, I paused before typing the word "home." I haven't lived in Sweden in 12 years, and there's a good chance I won't be moving back there ever again, yet somehow it still feels natural

to write that I'm traveling "home" when I visit there. The only family member still living in Stockholm is my father, and no Gerbers have resided in my childhood apartment on Karlavagen 101 for years, so it really is hard to put a finger on why it still feels like home. Perhaps that is why so many songs have been written about that word, because "home" is often something intangible, subjective, fluid, and emotional. And this week, home is very much on my mind.

Let's begin in this week's Torah portion... surprising, I know. In our parashah, we read about the devastating incident that led to Moses being barred from the promised land. The people were thirsting for water, and when God instructed Moses to speak to a

rock, he instead struck it with his staff, and out poured cool, refreshing water. To which God declared, "Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them" (Numbers 20:12). There are a lot of issues we could focus on in this story, but for now, I would like to talk about the granting, and denying, of access to home.

For Moses, home was a place he had never been, but to which he longed with all his heart. It was the one place that represented security, independence, empowerment, belonging, and acceptance. Most of us cannot even imagine how Moses felt; what it meant to him to remain in the wilderness, in limbo, languishing without a home. But for many people living in the US today, Moses' story is all too familiar.

Last week there was an amazing article in the New York Times Magazine, written by Pulitzer Prize winning author, Jose Antonio Vargas, where he revealed that he himself was an undocumented immigrant in the US. He had never before shared this information publicly. Vargas has also created a website, Define American, which challenges us to think about immigration,

belonging... and home. In his New York Times article, Vargas writes, "I grew up here. This is my home. Yet even though I think of myself as an American and consider America my country, my country doesn't think of me as one of its own." He also talks about fellow illegal immigrants as "members of the 21st Century Underground Railroad," referencing the fight against slavery. I very much agree with him, but I also think of these individuals as members of the 21st Century Exodus, people who started a journey towards a home, but - like Moses - are not allowed to finish it.

Sometimes Sweden still feels like home. But I am also constantly aware of, and tremendously grateful for, my American citizenship. I love where I live. I love my community, and I love feeling a part of it, and feeling like I belong. How can I deny someone else that same right? How can I force other people to remain in limbo, to feel the heartbreak of Moses who was barred from his home... or Jose Antonio Vargas, who feels like his home does not accept him? Please click on the links above. Read the articles, ask yourselves the questions that Vargas poses, and think about what home means to you, and what it should mean to everyone. This week, leading into the 4th of July, I am reading the text of our Torah from a very different perspective, and I encourage you to do the same.

Photos in this blog post:

1. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber. Siblings in Stockholm, 2000.

2. CC image courtesy of Rich Man on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of Steve Snodgrass on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of ilovememphis on Flickr

5. CC image courtesy of katerha on Flickr