More than 800 years ago Maimonides, Rambam, penned a letter to a convert to Judaism who had taken on the name Ovadia. Ovadia had written to Rambam wondering if he could recite the same berakhot as other Jews when those blessings or prayers refer to God’s relationship with our biological ancestors and events in our history. He asked whether he could say: “Our God and God of our fathers,” “Who has chosen us,” “Who has granted to us,” “Who has brought us out of the land of Egypt,” “Who has made miracles for our fathers,” and more of this kind.”
Rambam’s answer was unequivocal: “You should say everything as prescribed. Do not change anything. Rather, you shall bless and pray in the same way that every natural-born Jew blesses and prays, whether as an individual or when leading the congregation.”
I was not surprised to learn Rambam’s answer to that question because I’m used to the idea that everyone says the same words as they are printed in the siddur. That’s the point, according to Rambam, of even having a siddur with fixed words: we can all say beautiful prayers even if we aren’t Hebrew poets. But Rambam provides a different explanation to Oavadia the convert. Ovadia can speak about his ancestors when he recites berakhot because, as a convert, he is a disciple of Avraham, the first Jew and the first to teach others about the unity of God. “Thus,” Rambam writes, “anyone throughout history who converts, and anyone who declares the unity of God’s name as the Torah states, is a disciple of our patriarch Abraham and a member of his household.” Avraham, Rambam continues, “is the father of his worthy progeny who follow his path and is father of his disciples, of all proselytes who convert. Therefore you shall recite: “Our God and God of our fathers,” because Abraham is your father.”
There is a hint of this idea in our parasha as well. Near the end of Parashat Emor, the Torah tells us:
מִשְׁפַּ֤ט אֶחָד֙ יִהְיֶ֣ה לָכֶ֔ם כַּגֵּ֥ר כָּאֶזְרָ֖ח יִהְיֶ֑ה כִּ֛י אֲנִ֥י ה’ אֱ-לֹהֵיכֶֽם׃
You shall have one standard for stranger and citizen alike: for I the LORD am your God.
Writing in the 18th century, Rabbi Chaim ibn Attar, in his Torah commentary Ohr HaChaim draws our attention to a small but significant detail of the Torah’s phrasing:
כגר כאזרח. ולא אמר הגר כאזרח, שאז יהיה נשמע כי מדרגת גר למטה ממדרגת אזרח שהקטן נתלה בגדול, לזה אמר כגר כאזרח פירוש האזרח כגר והגר כאזרח ששקולים הם במשפט
The Torah says כגר כאזרח the status of the stranger, but here understood to be a convert, is as the status of a citizen and so the Torah does not say “the convert is like a native-born Jew” which would be הגר כאזרח for that would imply that one is greater than the other. The thing being compared is always subsidiary or dependent to the thing it is compared to. Instead the Torah says כגר כאזרח which means that each one is dependent on the other and each one is fully equal to the other in their status.
And the verse ends, “I am the Lord’ because it is precisely our common relationship to God that creates that equality. It is common for people who chose to become Jewish as adults to assimilate into the Jewish community and adopt elements of how we speak or cook and some amount of that acclimation may be unavoidable and necessary. But, too often, those of who who did grow up in Jewish homes with Jewish parents and grandparents mistakenly confuse the sounds and smells of our childhood with something essential and necesasary for Judaism itself. But the Torah says כגר כאזרח – the native-born and the immigrant Jew are no more authentic than each other.
It doesn’t matter if you grew eating gefilte fish or gumbo. It doesn’t matter if your bubbe’s bubbe was born in the shtetl or was born in a log cabin on the prairie. כגר כאזרח however we became a part of the Jewish people, we are all equally Jews and equally committed to God.
This mitzvah is introduced by the Torah in our parashah at a pivotal moment in an obscure and confusing story that is quite profound despite its brevity.
וַיֵּצֵא֙ בֶּן־אִשָּׁ֣ה יִשְׂרְאֵלִ֔ית וְהוּא֙ בֶּן־אִ֣ישׁ מִצְרִ֔י בְּת֖וֹךְ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וַיִּנָּצוּ֙ בַּֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה בֶּ֚ן הַיִּשְׂרְאֵלִ֔ית וְאִ֖ישׁ הַיִּשְׂרְאֵלִֽי׃
There came out among the Israelites one whose mother was Israelite and whose father was Egyptian. And a fight broke out in the camp between that son of an Israelite woman and a certain Israelite. The son of the Israelite woman pronounced the Name in blasphemy, and he was brought to Moses—now his mother’s name was Shelomith daughter of Dibri of the tribe of Dan—and he was placed in custody, until the decision of the LORD should be made clear to them.
The Torah does not explain precisely who this man was with the Egyptian father and Israelite mother or why he was fighting with another Israelite. But we know as a result of this fight he blasphemed God’s own name, we know, he was punished, and we know that the Torah instructs us to treat all Jews, no matter their ancestry with equality.
With these facts, the Midrashic tradition, quoted by Rashi and others, fills in the missing details. This individual, was the product of an abusive relationship between an Egyptian man and an Israelite woman. Following the exodus, he had no place in which to pitch his tent. When he tried to pitch his tent among his mother’s family, they reminded him that tribal lineage follows the father’s line only. This man then sought redress of his grievance from Moshe himself and his claim was denied. His mother’s relatives had the right to exclude him from their tribal portion. Confronting this perceived injustice, he blasphemed God, whom he surely blamed for what he understood to be an unjust law and unfair stigma.
This is a tragic story, but it is also a remarkable story because it combines three elements that we almost never see together. This is a story of real and serious trauma. This is a story of serious consequences for someone who commits a serious crime. And this is a story of reform and communal improvements to ensure better outcomes in the future. We so often see one or two of those elements, but rarely do we allow all three elements to coexist.
The blasphemer suffered real trauma and hardship. He had an abusive father and came from a broken family. He was stigmatized by his peers and had no way to fit in. And…all the same, there are some things that just cannot be said. It is so easy and so common to either minimize the severity of a crime or to minimize the severity of the underlying trauma. The Torah does neither. The trauma is real. This person’s struggles were real. But his crime was real too. Certain things, blasphemous and defamatory speech, poisonous and destructive language has consequences and an individual’s legitimate grievances do not make those consequences go away.
And then, the Torah offers a fix: we are commanded to strive towards equality so that this sad episdoe will not repeat. If we do a better job treating all members of our community כגר כאזרח as equals, not one of us will have a background that can be a source of stigma and we would figure out a way to make room for everyone’s tent.
This too is unusual. Too often we acknowledge trauma, formulate a solution to prevent it, and then gloss over the severity of the crime that was committed. Or, we acknowledge the severity of the crime and formulate solutions to eliminate the motive for that crime, but then gloss over the real human trauma that had occured in the past of the criminal.
This brief episode of the Torah tells us that real life, as the Torah wants it to be lived, can make room for all three elements. Acknowledge and honor trauma. Treat serious crimes with the severity that they deserve. And work to build a future where neither the trauma nor the ensuing crimes ever recur.
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 