The Geulah of Gerut: Pesach as Transformation

^{Pesach 2016/5776}

Pesach

Rabbi Dr. Erin Leib Smokler

Director of Spiritual Development

Advanced Kollel: Executive Ordination Track

Class of 2018

This essay originally appeared in Ta Shma, a journal of the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance.

The story of the Jewish enslavement in Egypt is repeatedly linked to exhortations about strangers (gerim​) in the Torah. “Love the stranger,” Deuteronomy 10:19 tells us, “for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” “You shall neither wrong a stranger, nor shall you oppress him,” warns Exodus 22:20, “for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” Iterations of these sentiments feature no less than thirty-six times in the Torah, begging the questions: Why such repetitive emphasis and why this connection between empathy and Egypt?

The relationship between the obligation to love a stranger and the experience of having been one seems linear enough. As Rabbi Natan says in Bava Metzia 59b, “Do not taunt your neighbor with the blemish that you yourself have.” Do not do unto others what was done to you. Do not render someone else an alien. Do not oppress a vulnerable person in your midst-- "כי גרים הייתם בארץ מצרים"-- because you were once in that place of degradation. Let the pain of your personal past guide you toward a more compassionate future. Jewish history must yield Jewish obligation.

Insofar as our lowly origins ground our moral vision and our ethical mission for all time, retelling the story of the enslavement—on Pesach, and also throughout the year—becomes a central religious obligation. We start our tale in the thick of our misery, in עבדים היינו, to remind ourselves of the deep responsibility that was generated from our encounter with oppressive otherness

Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner, however, in his book Pachad Yitzchak, ​suggests an alternative approach to the centrality of the ger ​in our tradition generally and specifically on Pesach. Our experience with gerut ​in Egypt, ​he argues, refers not just to our status as strangers, but to our status as gerim, ​as actual converts. He writes:

According to the Talmud, our ancestors initiated the process of conversion just before leaving Egypt. By the time they reached Sinai, but not before, they were full-fledged Jews. They had to undergo a series of transformative rituals--circumcision, immersion, and sacrifice--before they could receive revelation and definitively enter the covenant.

Rabbi Hutner’s claim is rooted in Yevamot 46a, which is itself codified by Maimonides in Mishneh Torah, ​Laws of Forbidden Intercourse 13:1-5.

The story of the Exodus is thus the story of how every Jew became a Jew, so to speak. Lineage would not suffice to receive the Torah. Upon leaving Egypt, every individual had to choose to appropriate his or her inheritance. Everyone had to decide to take upon themselves the burdens and the gifts of faith, and to enact this transformation. As Pirkei Avot ​2:12 enjoins us:

The Torah, "מורשה קהילת יעקב"--​"the heritage of the congregation of Jacob" (Deuteronomy 33:4)--was not and is not, in some essential way, a “ירושה,​” a gift bestowed. One must prepare for it, work for it, become worthy of it. This is what bnei Yisrael did as they exited Egypt. They took ownership over their Judaism by willfully choosing it.

This choice would form the basis of Jewish choices for all generations to come. As Maimonides emphasizes, quoting Numbers 15:15, “As are you, so shall the ger ​ be before the Lord.” As we were converted, so should we convert others. The paradigm for spiritual transformation is our own. This is the lasting legacy of the Exodus.

In light of this, loving the ger ​ takes on a whole new valence. We ought to embrace not only strangers, but also converts, “כי גרים הייתם בארץ מצרים,​” because we were all converts once. The foundational story of our people is a story of our own awakening to faith and commitment, and we must therefore humble ourselves before all who elect to join us on our ongoing journey.

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The Pesach Hagadah​ instructs us:

Maimonides famously renders this as an obligation to show​ oneself, להראות, ​ to be one who has left Egypt. What would it take to both see oneself as redeemed and to show oneself to be so?

Rabbi Hutner’s reading of gerut ​ adds a whole new dimension to this obligation. To exit Egypt, we now know, is to actively transform oneself as our ancestors did. It is to convert anew into a life freely chosen. It is to reaffirm one’s commitments and to fortify one’s faith. The claim embedded in the mitzvah ​ of retelling the Exodus story is that that process is never ending. It must be told again and again, for it is so easily forgotten. Pesach after Pesach, we must see ​ ourselves as capable of such choice. We must remember that we are not static beings lacking the possibility of growth and change. We can always become something new. On Pesach, we must also show ​ ourselves to be transformed. Through intense preparations and festive seder ​ celebrations, we must externalize our commitments and vocalize our passions. We must demonstrate our willingness to actively engage with our tradition, to appropriate it as our own. In so doing, we announce ourselves to be gerim ​ all over again, ones who have consciously and conscientiously taken on the Jewish tradition.

This, says Rabbi Hutner, is the essential message of Pesach and the significance of its timing as well. He writes:

The story of the Exodus is the story of the rebirth of the Jewish people. It is the ultimate springtime tale of rejuvenation and redemption. But more than a tale, it is a learned practice: the practice of seeing ourselves as converts, the practice of willful self-transformation. In the words of the poet Alexander Pope, "Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest." In every generation, and on every Pesach, a Jew must see herself as ever in the process of becoming a Jew.