When I started rabbinical school in Jerusalem, I attended the seminary connected to the movement I grew up in. But instead of finding roommates from among the Reform movement’s new class of seminary students, I rented a room (really just a bed and a cabinet) from an ultra-Orthodox Mizrahi family, who welcomed me into their home and invited me to study at night in their yeshiva. They taught me Iraqi and Moroccan minhagim (customs) that still inform my Jewish practice today.
I think we both calculated that rewards would outweigh the risks of living together. And without judgment, I thought that my landlords’ reasons for allowing me a room in their home were really on-brand. They thought they had a chance to share with me the beauty of Jewish life in the home and, moreover, to convince me that a haredi way of being Jewish was the only way of being Jewish. I felt that risking discomfort in terms of my lifestyle and practice of Judaism would be good. I wanted to build my capacity to practice pluralism—to go beyond just thinking I “loved my neighbor like myself.” I was looking to refine and put into practice that verse that Rabbi Akiva thinks is the most essential in the Torah.
I see lessons about pluralism throughout the Torah, and especially in this week’s Torah portion. The beginning of the Book of Bamidbar (wilderness), known in English as “Numbers” because of the census at its beginning, takes us to the scene of the Israelite’s wilderness encampment.
According to Jewish law, when 600,000 Jews are gathered in one place, there is a special blessing to recite: Blessed is the Lord, The Knower of Secrets! The beauty of the bracha (blessing) is that it asserts we can never know everything, even about the people we think we know most intimately. Moreover, it hints at one of the deepest values we have and must work towards fulfilling: We are a People made of a mosaic of souls and secrets only the Lord knows. That applies to the ways Jews believe, practice, and express our commitments to Torah.
Holding dear this magnitude of mystery expands our capacities to accept the hearts of others and strangers. It helps us achieve humility. By blessing God who knows the singularity of souls, we, too, are asked to appreciate the preciousness and uniqueness of individuals. While the blessing is about hundreds of thousands of Jews together, I find myself inspired to think about the individual lives of fellow citizens and those of other countries. This blessing humbles us, instead of thinking of ourselves as knower of others’ thoughts and intentions. It prepares us to acknowledge deep diversity, even though we might be tied together as families of the earth or citizens of nations. To walk with this recognition is what the Prophet Micah means when he said, “…and walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8).
Through the way the Tanach tells the story of the Jewish People and shares our development as a People, from the time of Abraham, to the exodus from Egypt, to the wandering in the wilderness, to the learning and application of the law as the Kingdom of Israel developed, the Tanach asserts that an ethic of inclusion is at the core of our culture. The Torah provides examples for how a pluralistic outlook may be put into practice.
In our Torah portion, the Jewish People organize their camp in the desert. From the chaos and darkness of plagues and pursuit by genocidaires, tribal leaders are now called upon to be civilization builders, to cultivate a God-centered community in the wilderness. We know from the text that
“The Israelites camped each by their banner, the ensign of their ancestral house, positioned around the Tent of Meeting at a distance.” (Numbers 2:2)
This year, I was struck by one element of the desert encampment that was not mentioned: the non-Jews who were in the camp. What is not in the text? A separate place or tent for non-Israelites. My theory: They are happily integrated into the tribal encampments.
We know that when the Israelites left Egypt, they did not leave alone. In the Book of Exodus, we learn:
“And a mixed multitude also went up with them.” (Exodus 12:38)
Sojourners—even strangers—took the risk to connect themselves with the Jewish People. Looking at the way the Torah describes the camp, I believe the Jewish People took a “risk of inclusion.” Instead of guarding the purity of ancestral lines, leaders linked the fate of fellow travelers to the Jewish People’s destiny. Exodus 23:9 says:
“You shall not oppress a stranger.”
I translate: You shall not pressure him to return to Egypt or turn a different direction. The next segment of the verse is usually translated: “Because you know the heart of the stranger.” I offer an expansion on the translation: “…because she has now been on the journey with you and you know in her heart she left Egypt behind and rejected Pharoah’s tyranny, and so did the other Egyptians with you. You know what it was like in Egypt, and you know what it means to feel like a foreigner and to be treated differently.”
It was a big risk to include others in those moments of great vulnerability. After all, the people of Amalek attacked the weakest souls at the back of the line, as the Jews wandered into the wilderness. Subsequently, we wouldn’t be surprised to find non-Israelites expelled or located outside the main camp. But that’s not what the Torah says: The tribes were arranged beneath their flags, and I believe the sojourners found their friends, or even made new families, with the Jews who left Egypt behind.
From this “risk of inclusion” comes a more defined “instinct of inclusion,” and then an “ethic of inclusion.” We are clued into this teaching through several foundational Torah stories, as well as through legislation and narrative later in the Tanakh.
Abraham and Sarah brought people they met in Haran into the fold of the Jewish People. When they left on their journey to Canaan, the Torah reports they traveled into the Promised Land with “the souls they made in Haran.” In a few weeks, we’ll read the Book of Deuteronomy, and it will go even further: “Do not abhor an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in his land” (Deuteronomy 23:8). The Torah speaks in language we today can understand: This was a challenge to Jews who were setting up camp in the desert, who might have had rage, grief, and even a desire for revenge because of their experience with the Amalakites. The Torah says, risk inclusion; incline toward it. It is the ethical thing to do.
Finally, and especially as Shavuot rolls in, we are reminded about how the Torah says that no Moabite may be included in the congregation of Israel. And yet, Ruth, the central figure we read about during services on Shavuot, is a Moabite! She said to her mother-in-law Naomi, “Your God is my God, and Your People is My People.” And, implied: “Your land is your land, and may I join you there?” The ethic of inclusion is on full display as Boaz marries Ruth and they beget a line that will give rise to the Davidic dynasty.
The Torah is asserting, from Genesis to Exodus to Numbers to Deuteronomy to Megillat Ruth, that enlarging the family and working under the influence of the ethic of inclusion is the way the Jewish People will fulfill our destiny. Here, we are blessed with actionable ideas.
For fellow travelers, sojourners, family who are connected to the Jewish People whose roots may be tied to other peoples and nations, now is a time to consider opening ourselves more to encouraging assertions like Ruth’s: “Your people are my people, the God of Israel is my God.” In my estimation, we must make official conversion easier for those seeking to belong both in the diaspora and in Israel.
And, what would it look like if we designed more centers of Jewish learning that worked towards developing interconnectivity among Jews of different stripes? Such models and the methods undertaken to create dialogues around shared sacred sources might also be used for building more tolerant citizens in nations wherein disagreements rage on and opposing camps are designed instead of one that faces the Divine.
Our Torah portion this week explains that a feature of the encampment in the wilderness was that everyone was to be at a distance from the physical Mishkan, the portable Tabernacle. But we may read this as every individual is to be understood as equidistant from God. When we risk inclusion, seeing that God sees everyone as holy, we are inclined to include and to put into practice the pluralism that creates holier peoples and nations.