Parashat Mishpatim—2/07/07
“The Stranger is YOU”
Rabbi Ari Sunshine
B’nai Shalom of Olney

          Not long ago I came across a poem written by a homeless man, Ken Smothers, who had just passed away.  He called his poem, “Those People”.  Listen to what he writes:
There are some real weird people out there.  You know the ones I mean.  Those people.  The ones wearing those funny clothes or doing strange things with their hair.  Oh, yeah, let’s not forget the tattooed ones and the ones that go around getting everything pierced.  What about the ones that listen to that kind of music?  There’s also a bunch of them practicing funny religions.  They’re some of those people too.  Them and those foreigners.  Can’t forget them.  But the ones we gotta really look out for are those people who go around in disguises.  Those people could be right next to you, and you wouldn’t even know it.  They wear regular clothes and have regular jobs, but they secretly do weird stuff.  They might vote wrong or read books instead of watching TV.  Just look at what some of those people call Art.  It’s enough to make you wonder.

So be careful out there.  Take a close look around.  I’m sure you’ll find some of those people everywhere you go.  I overheard a group of those people talking the other day and, guess what, they were talking about You People.

Has anyone here ever thought that way about “those people”, people at whom you happened to glance for a fleeting instant when you passed them by in the street, or whose conversations you overheard for a few moments?  Have you found yourself shaking your head, or rolling your eyes, or simply averting your gaze?  I’m sure each of us in this sanctuary has been guilty of dismissing others in that fashion at some point or another. 

Now turn the situation around.  Has anyone here ever felt like you were one of “those people”?  Like one of those people who walks into a room, is not included in the goings-on, and instantly feels out of place?  One of my more vivid memories of feeling this way in recent years was when I went to a non-denominational Martin Luther King Jr. National Holiday Celebration at the Charlotte Convention Center.  After about 20 minutes of the ceremony, and the third or fourth invocation, prayer, or song that prominently mentioned Jesus, with my kipah prominently on display on my head, I felt like “one of them people practicing funny religions”.  Let me tell you, it was not a comfortable feeling.  Feeling like a stranger in a room full of people coming together to honor someone who taught so many the importance of inclusivity is no fun at all.

While we can chalk some of that experience up to living in the Bible Belt, and argue that something like that might be less likely to occur here in Maryland, the experience I described is not unique.  Moreover, the reality is that knowing what it’s like to feel totally out of place is hardly a new phenomenon in Jewish history—it dates back to the land of Egypt, and to our formative years as a people.  In today’s parasha, Mishpatim, we read, “V’Ger lo tilchatz, v’atem y’datem et nefesh ha-ger”, you shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, “Ki gerim heyitem b’eretz Mitzrayim”, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.  An almost identical statement is found elsewhere in our parasha.  In fact, in the Talmud we are reminded that, all told, the Torah teaches us this sentiment not once, not twice, but a whopping 36 times!  Why is the statement repeated, and repeated so often?  In The Women’s Torah Commentary, Rabbi Nancy Fuchs-Kreimer notes that we are reminded again and again of our humiliating origins because the historical experience of our people having been slaves in Egypt gives us a crucial context to frame our moral obligations to friend and stranger alike.  It is human nature to emphasize our relationships with one’s own family and friends, and to be less concerned with, and maybe even unnerved or frightened by, those who may seem strange and different to us.  This is why the Torah keeps coming back to the instruction that we are supposed to act counterintuitively.  And the reason is itself particularly unsettling—you may think the stranger is different from you, but you are wrong.  YOU and I are the stranger.  YOU and I are among Ken Smothers’ “you people”.
We remember schlepping heavy bricks and experiencing the whips of the Egyptian taskmasters.  We understand what it feels like to be oppressed, and therefore, no matter how powerful and secure we are, we are commanded not to put other “strangers” in that position.  Most literally, this simple, oft-repeated commandment certainly teaches us not to physically oppress those whom we regard as different.  But our obligation extends well beyond the realm of physical oppression.  It speaks quite pointedly to many issues of inclusion in our modern world, such as:   How do we treat people with different skin color, or of different sexual orientation?  How do we treat the physically challenged, and how do we treat people of different faiths?  The command to welcome a stranger can most certainly be understood to include openness to people, ideas, or even experiences that, at first glance, may seem “strange” or somehow threatening. 

On an even more basic level, this commandment applies to how we treat the wide variety of new people we encounter in our daily activities and how we greet unfamiliar faces in our B’nai Shalom community.  Our goal should be to strive for true openness and hospitality, and if that still proves elusive, then we should at least be graceful and authentically polite.  When our inclination is to turn our heads while passing a stranger on the sidewalk, why not look that person straight in the eye and smile?  Instead of only mingling with our close friends and family during Kiddush at shul, why not find someone you’ve never met before to greet, wish a Shabbat Shalom to, and even schmooze with?

It’s never a good feeling to feel like an outsider, to be ignored, or, worse, like someone is whispering about you when you walk in the door or down the street.  I opened my remarks with a poem, and I want to close them with another one, this from a bright and menschlikh Hebrew High school student at Temple Israel in Charlotte, written during class one night.

Is it too much to ask for a subtle greeting?
Is it too much to expect a mere hello?
Is it too much to make me feel acknowledged?
But I know it’s not too much to do what you always do, and to say what you always say, and I hear—
Welcome to loserville, population me
Welcome to loserville, alone I will always be
Welcome to loserville, a place for introverted fleas
I’m stuck in loserville, ‘til someone reaches out to me

When you see me sitting there, do you ever wonder how I feel
Does it ever occur to you that how I act here isn’t real
Outside of your shadow on the other side of the page
I really can be quite lively
But here it’s just a false façade, as I still hear—
Welcome to loserville, why yes this place is real
Welcome to loserville, it’s truly how I feel
Welcome to loserville, it’s a pretty sour deal
I’m stuck in loserville, and my fate is surely sealed
Is it too much for you to simply try?
Is it too much to have an open mind?
Is it too much to change your harsh perspective?
I’ve tried for years, but it appears
That my struggles turn to tears, and from your apathy I hear—
Welcome to loserville, as it seems I’m here to stay
Welcome to loserville, where the skies tend to be gray
Welcome to loserville, wishing for a brighter day
I’m stuck in loserville, where I can’t go out and play
I’m stuck in loserville, memories of good life fade away

While this poem was written by a teenager, its words have the potential to speak to teens and adults alike in any social context.  Let us do our part, here inside this building and in all of our daily interactions, to acknowledge each other and minimize the whispering and the accompanying uneasiness.  I pray that we may be even more vigilant in keeping in mind the very essence of who we are, and always have been, as Jews: strangers, or Ken Smothers’ “those people”.  So, too, may our individual and collective experiences of being excluded and marginalized continue to remind us of the need to be uncompromisingly committed to an approach of openness, outreach, understanding, and inclusion.