As I struggled to help my nine-year-old daughter understand the uniquely Jewish character of our nomadic, yet grounded existence, I found myself reflecting upon how to explain Jewish identity.  Certainly, every generation and every Jew defines Judaism differently, perhaps according to belief, practice, history, culture, or birth.  These differences suggest a threat to unified personhood.  Yet Jews are a people who have survived longer than any other, and, even more miraculous, we are the only people to do so without a land of our own.  Ironically, today most Diaspora Jews have not only one land to call home, but two — citizens of a home nation with citizenship open to them in the land of Israel.   Yet, though some may lull themselves into a sense of identity based on statehood, history teaches that this is a fleeting, perhaps foolish belief.

In his book The Journey Home, Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman teaches “being ‘at home’ is a spiritual, not just a physical matter.”   Somehow, no matter where or when Jews have existed, during times of fortune or times of danger, we have embodied our Jewish home within our very being.  Despite the variation of personal beliefs and practices among Jews and the great distances of time and space between us, our four thousand year history has left its imprint, binding us with a common origin and purpose.  As a fledgling people, Jews established a home built upon the pillars of Israel’s covenant with God, sending us forth upon a journey which would be deeply imprinted upon the Jewish psyche.

Torah: Jews’ Earliest Wanderings

Living as a people without a land is an aberration of world history.  Yet, homelessness is also symbolic of the human condition.  The Torah begins with an illustration of this universal experience.  The origin of humanity is Eden, a womb-like paradise both nourishing and limiting.  Forced out, humans are born into independent living.  Breathing free, yet yearning for the comfort of security, we seek out belonging in a vast world.

The first step of Jewish journeying begins in the twelfth chapter of Genesis: “God called to Abraham, ‘Lech lecha — Go forth from your land and your birthplace and your father’s house to the land I will show you, and I will make you a great nation.’”    Abraham and Sarah made the bold decision to leave everything they knew for the complete unknown.  They journeyed toward a mysterious destination, inspired by the promise of their destiny, to be a people united in covenant with the one God.  In leaving what they had known as home, they discovered themselves.  Few Jews remember Abraham’s country of origin — Ur of the Chaldeens — but this divine call to go forth echoes through the ages.  From the start, where Jews come from is not as important as the steps we take forward.

Eventually, Abraham and Sarah settle in Canaan.  Three generations later, famine brings Joseph and the children of Israel to Egypt, and the book of Genesis draws to a close. The book of Exodus opens with the story of our Egyptian bondage and our dramatic journey to freedom.  God reminds Moses of the covenant forged with Abraham, and once again, it is the journey, rather than the destination which drives Israel forward; the remaining four books narrate our desert wanderings.  At the conclusion of Deuteronomy we find ourselves standing by the Jordan River, just across from Eretz Yisrael.  But here the parchment of Torah ends.  Though the Bible continues with the linear story of the Jewish conquest of the land and the establishment of our sovereignty in Jerusalem, the ritual practice is to return to Genesis, left only with a fleeting glimpse of the land promised as our home.  This vision of home beyond our reach remains with us as we once again relive our birth in Eden and our first true exile.  The cycle of journeying continues.

Carrying Home on our Shoulders

God reveals the Torah to us in the midst of our wandering.  And though we may imagine Mt. Sinai as imposing, tradition teaches that it was an unimpressive mountain that looked like any other in the desert wilderness.  The site of revelation carries far less importance than the experience itself.  We keep God’s sacred teachings in an ark, constructed with fixed poles for portability.  By its very nature, the Ark can be carried from place to place, and since then, Jews have carried Torah wherever we have traveled.  Torah remains at our core, an ever-present reminder of who we are.

This stronghold was first tested in 587 BCE after the destruction of the First Temple and Babylonian Exile.  Our response to utter physical and spiritual devastation set the pattern of survival that would carry us through the centuries to follow.  Babylonian Jews created a new life for themselves in a foreign land, building homes, creating professions and raising families.  Most remarkably, they maintained their Jewish identity by adapting their Judaism to this new circumstance.  Sacred writings from this time expressed the people’s despair and openly questioned their belief in God’s mercy.  But instead of abdicating responsibility for their situation onto God, they confronted their own need to take control of their destiny.  They elevated the prophetic voice, calling for renewed attention to learn and live the values of their Torah, emphasizing the spirit of the covenant over the details of the laws themselves.

This laid the groundwork for the radical transformation of Judaism following the destruction of the second Temple in 70 CE.   Biblical Judaism was a land-centered cultic religion, based upon rituals of sacrificial offerings.  The laws reflect a farming community living in a sovereign nation.  Suddenly, Jews find themselves without a Temple, dispersed throughout various countries, and often living in urban settings.  But Jewish ingenuity and faith in God’s promise enabled the people to reinterpret the teachings of the Torah by maintaining their essence while adapting them to contemporary reality.  In short, Judaism is reforming.  Teachers, known as rabbis, replace priests; prayer replaces sacrifice.  Every Jew bears authority to perform ritual and every Jewish home becomes a mikdash me’at, a small temple.  Communally, Jews form synagogues, taken from the Greek synagogue, meaning “assembly.”  The Hebrew equivalent, bet ha’knesset, reveals a stronger emphasis on the role of this institution, meaning “home of assembly.”

Throughout the succeeding centuries, two major groups of Jews evolved: the Ashkenazim and the Sephardim.  New religious movements developed such as Hasidic, Reform, Orthodox, Conservative, and Reconstructionist. In the nineteenth century, our religious yearning for a return to Zion evolved into secular Zionism, which ultimately brought us the modern State of Israel.  This did not result in a worldwide aliyah of Jews to their homeland.  The establishment of a Jewish state brought us renewed strength, but the majority of Jews chose to remain in Diaspora.  Menachem of Chernobyl writes, “Purity of prayer and intention put people in the land of Israel, not physical presence.”  Again we see that the landless Jewish identity perseveres; Jews embody home within themselves.

Tragically, Jewish exile continued throughout history.  With repeated violent outbursts of anti-Semitism, Jews were continually forced to flee their homes and to seek new lands of refuge.  When some 16,000 Jews were expelled from England by King Edward I in 1290, many ultimately found refuge in Poland.  The Polish ruler Boleslaw Pobozny  had invited Jews to settle in Poland in 1264 and granted them unprecedented rights and privileges.  Generations later Poland became a harsh and bitter landscape for Jews — a land of pogroms and the site of some of the worst atrocities during the Holocaust.  Spanish Jews who fled to Cuba to escape the Inquisition had to later flee their island home and resettled in Rhode Island, establishing the first synagogue in America.  Even today, persecution forces Jews to seek safety in other lands.  Ethiopian Jews leave their villages for Addis Ababa, living in “temporary” dwellings for years, waiting for permission to join their families in Israel.

Today, we find Jews throughout the world — often in unexpected places.  But, whether they are living in India, Uzbekistan, Bolivia, Denmark, Israel, or here in the United States, we remain one people, united in our covenant with God.

An Evolving Miracle

So what maintains a people?  No country or government, neither military nor economic strength, can alone provide the strength and security to not only endure but to continue to thrive and grow.  The Babylonians are gone.  The Romans are gone.  The Ottoman Empire is gone.  Yet, Jews remain.

How is it that we have survived in our homeless state?  How is it that we have prevailed again and again over hardship and suffering?  How have we maintained our Jewish character during times of acceptance and assimilation?  The answer is an evolving miracle that has already triumphed for more than four thousand years.  The answer embraces mystery and simplicity, bound up together in one of God’s names, HaMakom, “the place.” As Jacob exclaimed in a flash of awareness, “God was right here with me — in this place between the home of my youth and the destiny which lies ahead — and I didn’t even know it!”

A Firm, Indefinable Identity

In 1940, the German born, Jewish composer, Herman Berlinski, sought to flee Nazi-occupied France for America.  In a 1998 interview for the Milken Archive, the musician described a French security officer’s confusion in determining his national identity.  “He had the following documents,” said Berlinski. “First, he had my birth certificate, which is German.  Then, he had my Polish passport…because I was a Polish citizen.  Then, I had documentation that my father was living in America and had full citizenship there.  And he had in front of him a carte militaire, because I had served in the French Foreign Legion.  And he didn’t know where the city of Leipzig, where I was born, was.  My life was in this man’s stamp.  And I said, ‘You know what? I am a Jew.  The French papers, the Polish passport, the German birth certificate — all the papers which identify me mean absolutely nothing. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m Jewish.’”

Perhaps this is the lesson Jews must remember and teach our children: we must engage in a struggle to understand the wonder of our existence for all our lives.  But what we know without question is that we are Jews.  Wherever and whenever we may be, as our journey continues, our identity remains certain.