Sh’lach Lecha: Who Puts the "Ger" in Stranger?

One wonderful and infinitely complex aspect of the Torah text - in general - revolves around the issue of interpretation. It’s so hard to say “the Torah says…” because every time you translate something, you have to choose between synonyms to decide the nuance, tone, and intention of what you think the original text says. This week, we find a critical example of this ambiguity in one pivotal word that affected our ancient ancestors and still (maybe more so) affects us today. It caught my eye, because the Torah restates this commandment in back-to-back verses. Ok, so let’s “ger” right into it, shall we? 

In Numbers, chapter 15, verses 15-16, we read: 

“15: There shall be one law for you and for the resident stranger; it shall be a law for all time throughout the ages. You and the stranger shall be alike before Adonai. 16: the same ritual and the same rule shall apply to you and to the stranger who resides among you.”

Perhaps surprisingly, the ambiguous word in those verses - and indeed throughout the Torah - is “stranger.” The word in Hebrew is “Ger,” and a big question that we need to clarify is, who is the stranger? Is it just someone who is unfamiliar to you personally? Or someone who resides with you temporarily, but not permanently? Is this someone who was not born Jewish but who converted? Or a non-Jewish individual who has no intention of converting, but who nevertheless lives with you? What complicates the matter is that it’s used in all of the above ways throughout the Torah. In Genesis, Abraham refers to himself as a Ger, meaning he’s an outsider with no claims to land and no status among the Hittites where he lives (but he certainly hasn't converted to their religion, nor does he have any plans to). In Exodus, the Jewish People are repeatedly reminded by God that we were “strangers (Gerim) in the land of Egypt.” But again, the Israelites weren't converts TO Egyptian culture, but merely status-less outsiders. Yet when the text later talks about Gerim living among us - like in our parashah - most commentators translate this as “convert” or “proselyte.” And the implications are significant.

Why does this matter? Well, when the Torah commands us to take care of the poor, the orphan, the widow... and "the stranger" in our midst, is it talking only about converts (and thus perhaps only concerned with taking care of fellow Jews), or about all people, including non-Jews? Most classic rabbinic commentaries defer to the convert-translation. One of the most famous of these was Rambam (or Maimonides) who wrote a thousand years ago: "All [occurrences of the term] 'Ger' which are said regarding gifts to the poor are nothing other than a 'Ger Tzedek' (i.e. a convert)." Personally, I am dismayed by this assertion, because I read our texts as absolutely commanding us to be kind and considerate to *all* people, regardless of religion, race, ethnicity, or any other defining characteristic. How unfortunate that, when our texts already have multiple instances of commandments directing us to take care of fellow Jews, and here we have an opportunity to expand the circle and extend God's Love more broadly, so many authorities choose instead to read it as yet another example of taking care of our own.

Even if we were to agree to read Ger as convert, I'm still bothered by it. We so often state that once someone has converted they are Jewish, plain and simple. No second-guessing, no questioning, no exclusions. So why would this text be talking about fellow Jews as "strangers" and "outsiders," just because at one point they converted into the religion?? Today, in our diverse and multicultural world, I firmly believe we need to emphasize inclusion. We can absolutely still acknowledge the differences between being Jewish and not, and I don't mind saying there are certain mitzvot and rituals that are exclusively performed by Jews during a Jewish prayer service. But we cannot, and should not, wall ourselves off from our neighbors all around us, no matter how different from us they may be. Clearly, not all authorities read it this way, but there is no doubt in my mind as to what the Torah (and God) meant here. And the commandment to treat all people the same was not only true in the time of the Torah, but is just as much true today in our modern world. If not more so.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Historical Thesaurus on Flickr
2. Nick Youngson on Pix4free
3. Wind-Struski on Wikimedia Commons
4, U.S. National Archives on Picryl

Naso (repost): Feeling the Loss of God's Face

This is a repost of something I wrote in 2012, and I dedicated it then in memory of Henry Dickson, who was a member of the congregation and a good friend. It's hard to believe it's been ten years since he passed. I wanted to make sure to mention the tribute, because Henry is mentioned in the post itself. May his memory always be remembered for a blessing.

Our Torah portion this week is Naso, the second parasha in the Book of Numbers. One of the most famous sections in Naso is the Priestly Benediction, which still to this day is used by many parents to bless their children at the Friday night dinner table, and is also included in many lifecycle events. The Etz Hayim Chumash translates the Priestly Benediction as follows: "Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: 'The Lord bless you and protect you! The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you! The Lord bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!'" (Numbers 6:23-26) Now, Henry would have looked at that translation and said, "Is that REALLY what the Hebrew text says?" And of course my answer would be, "No." The Etz Hayim translators would probably argue that they're giving you the figurative meaning of the text, but personally, I like the literal meaning. And Henry was one of many people who, like me, wanted to know what the words were literally saying, and then he could make up his own mind about the interpretive meaning. So let's delve, shall we?

I'm ok with the first line, it is indeed talking about God blessing and protecting us. So far, so good. But the second and third lines have a fascinating wording that provokes a very different theological understanding: "May God shine God's Face upon you and be gracious to you! May God turn God's Face toward you and grant you peace!" Are we uncomfortable with the notion of God having a face? Is that why we gloss over this with a figurative translation? Let's instead sit with the challenge of this wording for a minute. What does it mean to see/experience/feel/know God's Face? And even if you don't believe in an anthropomorphic God (a tangible, human-like Divine figure), isn't there something we can learn from the concept of God turning towards us, rather than just asking God to show us favor?

One idea that jumped out at me comes from the Book of Genesis. After not having seen his brother, Esau, for nearly 20 years, Jacob is reunited with his sibling once again. As he tries to offer his brother a caravan filled with gifts, he exclaims, "Accept from me this gift; for to see your face is like seeing the Face of God, and you have received me favorably" (Gen. 33:6). To me, what Jacob is saying is that good fortune in life, special joyous occasions, and moments of thanksgiving - they are all LIKE seeing the Face of God. The Divine Countenance is also discussed in the Book of Psalms, a book filled with every human emotion across the spectrum. In at least ten different Psalms, the theme of God's Face features prominently, either as a Presence strongly felt (and therefore the source of joy, confidence, and safety), or a gaping void (and thus the source of agony, sorrow, rejection, and defeat). And it is the central focus of the Priestly Benediction, which has remained one of the most well-known Jewish prayers for over 3,000 years.

God's Face is not theologically problematic to me. Because whenever good things happen in life, it can indeed feel as if the Face of God is shining on us all. And when we are alone in our grief, mourning the loss of wonderful people, it certainly can feel as if God's Face is hidden, and the world is just a little bit emptier. The people who bless our lives with their presence, they are the embodiment of God's Light shining in our lives. And knowing that the light can come and go forces us to cherish them while they are around. So make sure to identify the people who represent the Face of God in your life, who light up your existence and spread warmth, joy, comfort, and positivity. Treasure every precious moment that you have with them, and be grateful always.


Photos in this blog post:
1. Image of the Google Translate app courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPad.
2. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone on a gorgeous afternoon.
3. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone... but the gift courtesy of Ohev Shalom's awesome Confirmation Class 2012!
4. CC image courtesy of The California National Guard on Flickr

Shavuot: I Believe I Saw You at Sinai...

I know it's kind of short notice, but if you're local to Ohev Shalom and aren't too busy this Saturday, you may want to consider joining us for either or both of our events that day. Zoom works too, but it's never really the same as being in-person, is it? So, what's so special happening on Saturday, June 4th? Well, both of them have to do with the Ten Commandments, and what happened when Moses and the people received them directly from God at Mount Sinai. There is a classic, Jewish legend that states that every Jewish soul was present at Mount Sinai, so I suppose I could have added to my previous sentence: "Remember that day? Man, that was crazy!" Anyway, we have a morning service and an evening program going on, and altogether three opportunities to grapple with that history-altering moment in the Bible... and all three from very different perspectives. I want to say a word or two about each here on the blog, and I hope at least a few (more) people will be able to attend. 

First, at the morning Shabbat service, our sixth and seventh grade class will be delivering a clever D'var Torah. I say "clever" because we decided to try something a little different. As a class, they've written Divrei Torah (plural) with me in third, fourth, fifth, and sixth grade, so it was time to think outside the box. My colleague, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, and I decided to introduce the students to medieval rabbinic commentary from a series of volumes called Mikraot Gedolot. So the class and I looked at the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai, and some of the peculiar, melodramatic elements of that scene. We then examined some of the commentaries, and the students then got to write their own questions, considerations, and musings. And we put it all together on a page that mimicked the rabbinic template from Mikraot Gedolot. I share all this with you - and hope you can come tomorrow morning - because I think (I hope) the students learned something really essential about Torah: Our voices matter. Studying our ancient texts is meant to be a give-and-take, back-and-forth, interactive process, where every single generation of Jews (including yours and mine...) is invited and encouraged to join the conversation. And once we realize we're part of the dialogue, we may also discover yet another powerful truth about our Jewish tradition. Torah wasn't given once at Mount Sinai, to one group of people, in one geographic location. It is actually a continuous and ongoing process that is still going on to this very day!

And that's only the morning service! Later in the evening, starting at 8pm, we are holding our annual Tikkun Leyl Shavuot, evening of study connected to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot. This year, we decided to center our learning on the notion of "This I Believe." Looking at it through the lens of the Mount Sinai experience, we might ask ourselves what each person believes actually happened there, and what does it still mean for the Jewish experience today? How often do we even stop and ponder what we truly believe? What are our guiding principles in life, and how did we come to believe them in the first place? For tomorrow evening's learning, I've invited several congregants who are Jews by Choice, i.e. who converted to Judaism as adults. Generally speaking, Jewish tradition tells us not to highlight when someone has converted, because they are indeed fully Jewish, and their journey doesn't mitigate that experience at all. At the same time, I think it is a vital part of the larger narrative of the Jewish community, and it helps us all - collectively - be more inclusive when we learn what someone else went through to claim their Jewish identity. And by the way, their souls were right there at Mount Sinai too; they just needed an extra step to find their way home. 

We will then conclude our evening of study by looking at several essays on the topic of "This I Believe." And not even necessarily stories from the Jewish community. People around the globe grapple with the notion of what they believe; about the universe, humanity, the meaning of life, and what it means to do good. As I mentioned above, we rarely take the time to stop and think about those beliefs, even though they may fundamentally impact all of our major life decisions! Reading about other people's guiding principles in life may really help us contemplate our own. Just as learning about (or remembering?) what happened at Sinai can inspire us to think about what Judaism, Jewish tradition, and God mean to us today. And realizing that our voices are essential parts of the Jewish conversation - as our Hebrew School students did - will hopefully spur you on to really own your beliefs and share them with others. Look how much you could learn, just by coming to services on a single day! :-) I hope to see you there.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Philip de Vere on Wikimedia Commons
2. Ohev Shalom's sixth and seventh graders
3. Nick Youngson on Pix4free
4. ckubber on Flickr