Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.
On it, we celebrate the love between two people. Two who have chosen to share their lives
together. What a unique
relationship. We don’t choose our
parents; we’re stuck with them! We don’t
choose our siblings; we’re stuck with them also! All the rest, the members of our extended
families if we are blessed to have extended family. (Or cursed, depending on how dysfunctional
our family might be!) But our life
partnership is unique. We choose them! We also choose our friends, but we generally
don’t live with them full time. And if a
friendship goes pear-shaped, we don’t need to get a divorce.
So the partnership
that we celebrate on Valentine’s Day is unique.
It resembles a friendship, but it requires a much bigger
commitment. So we celebrate it twice a
year. Once on our anniversaries. And once on Valentine’s Day.
(Please don’t tell
me that Jews shouldn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day because of its Christian
origins. Nobody shopping this week for
flowers or pink, heart-shaped greeting cards is thinking about martyred
Christian saints. Get a life!)
It’s an interesting convergence
that Valentine’s Day comes on the Shabbat when we read Parashat Mishpatim. In this Torah reading, in the 23rd
chapter of Exodus, verse nine, we read one of the most sublime edicts in the
Torah. Do not oppress a stranger; you
know how it feels to be a stranger, since you were strangers in the Land of
Egypt. This is not the only verse that
instructs us concerning the stranger. In
Parashat Kedoshim, in Leviticus 24, we find more. The stranger who resides with you shall be
to you as one of your citizens. You
shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.
The word ‘stranger’
here, the Hebrew ger, is understood to mean the resident alien amongst
you. After all, resident aliens is what
we were in Egypt. Our ancestors lived
there for generations. Yet, we were
never citizens. Until Hashem took us out
of Egypt, we were considered a foreign presence. And we were oppressed, as we all know
having celebrated the Passover from year to year.
When the Torah teaches
an ethical principle as it is doing here, there are usually at least two
dimensions to it. The personal and the
national. The micro and the macro. If so, how are we to understand our
obligations regarding the ger?
On the personal
level, we are obligated as individuals to make the stranger feel welcome and
comfortable. This is simple to state in
concept, but very difficult to actualise.
This is because we have so little day-to-day contact with strangers. Groups of new migrants often isolate
themselves in tight-knit communities of their own. This is unfortunate, yet natural. After all, many of our ancestors, here and
elsewhere, stuck together as a way of coping with life in an unfamiliar land.
Having said that, how much are we
blessed when we are able to reach out to a newcomer and help, even in a small
way to ease their isolation? This is, of
course, in addition to the comfort that the newcomer feels. Anybody who has had new neighbours reach out
to them upon moving to a new city or state, has experienced what I’m talking
about in a partial sense. How much more
important, when the newcomer has moved from a familiar to a new country! When we have neighbours who are new to the
country, who could use a little friendship from their established neighbours, it
is a positive mitzvah to offer that welcome.
But it’s the macro side of
this particular imperative that proves most problematic. Some Jews, and others as well, read it as an
imperative to welcome each and every ‘stranger’ into our midst and to accept
them to live amongst us with no reservations whatsoever. That sounds incredibly noble and therefore
difficult to argue against. In fact,
when one does argue against the wisdom of such social policy, one often gets
branded as a racist or xenophobe. Such
name-calling is an unfortunate practice of certain politico-social activists,
who seek to shut down honest debate on various issues by labelling those who
hold opposing opinions with various descriptives ending with ‘-ist’ or ‘phobe.’
The Rabbis understood the word ger,
resident alien, as the stranger who abides in your land and follows your
laws.
History is full of ideologies that
sounded noble and therefore took hold in various places. And then proved disastrous, causing untold
suffering. It is therefore wise to
examine any proposed public policy, perhaps especially if it sounds
noble, with a jaundiced eye.
Here in Australia at this point in
history, it is not difficult to imagine the sort of policy about which I’m
talking. There’s a great consternation over
who should be accepted as refugees. There
is a reasonable cynicism as to whether all those seeking to present themselves
on these shores as bona fide refugees, actually are. And there is suspicion, with more than a
little evidence to support it, that many such ‘refugees’ are not interested in
becoming Australian in any sense of the word.
Or in following Australian laws. At
least some of these migrants are bent upon importing here a mindset and a way
of life that is antithetical to Australian values. So what is a Jew to do, reading do not
oppress the stranger, for you know how it feels to be a stranger, since you
were strangers in the land of Egypt? Does
one advocate a national policy that ignores the dangers and pitfalls of such migration?
Is one free to advocate another
position, and therefore have to sense that they – and their country – are not
responding positively to the Torah’s imperative?
The answer is that one engages in a
serious conversation, ignoring pejoratives tossed at those who disagree with a particular
position. The Torah’s ‘social’
imperatives cannot be automatically translated to pat answers on today’s issues.
Rather, the imperative is to understand
what the Torah is talking about. And
then to struggle to apply it. We’re
instructed not to oppress the stranger. We’re
not told to accept each and every stranger who desires to live among us.
So what does this have to do with
Valentine’s Day? What is the interesting
convergence, to which I referred earlier?
On this Shabbat we celebrate the one
closest and yet freely-entered-into relationship that, for most of us, will
define our adult years. And we receive
instruction, with which we may struggle, regarding how we are to treat the
people in proximity who are least like us.
And whilst the Torah does not provide us with clear guidance as to the tachlis
of the matter, its essence is clearly conveyed.
This week in one of my classes, we had a great discussion about the
reasons we tend to divide the world into ‘us’ and ‘them.’ We agreed that there is nothing intrinsically
wrong with this. We go through life
making classifications between things, and people. The danger is when we see the ‘them’ as being
less worthy of our concern. Or even, G-d
forbid, questioning their essential humanity.
We do have a tendency to connect with those with whom we share important
cultural, or religious values. There’s
nothing wrong with that, as long as we remember the Torah’s imperatives
regarding our treatment of the other. Of
the stranger.
On this Shabbat
which is also Valentine’s Day, as any day, we need to be sensitive to the needs
and feelings of the strangers amongst us.
Because we Jews do remember how it feels to be a stranger, we of
all people should have concern about the strangers we encounter. Public policy is not quite so simple. But it merits our sincere struggle
nonetheless. Shabbat shalom.
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