The Book of Genesis is more than a record of the past. The lives of our ancestors set patterns that continue to shape Jewish history. Their experiences became models that repeat across generations. This concept of “ma’aseh avot siman la banim” (“The deeds of the fathers are a sign for the children”) teaches that the stories of our founders are not only moral lessons but also blueprints for our national journey.
One such historical blueprint unfolds as Abraham arrives in Hebron seeking a burial site for Sarah. He introduces himself with a striking phrase: “Ger v’toshav anochi imachem” – “I am a foreigner and a resident among you."
He had lived for many years in the Land of Israel, often near Hebron – yet he still called himself a “foreigner.” He remains an outsider, having never purchased land and relying on the goodwill of others who hosted him. But this phrase reflects his humility. Despite his reputation and growing influence, Abraham assumes no privilege. He signals that he will negotiate in good faith and offer full payment for the field.
Patience as an act of faith
However, Abraham’s use of the word “ger” (foreigner, stranger) carries deeper historical meaning. When God forged His covenant with Abraham, He foretold that his descendants would be “strangers” in a foreign land and ultimately enslaved in Egypt. That prophecy of estrangement begins even as the first patriarch lives in the Land of Israel.
Though promised the land by divine decree, Abraham finds himself a guest within it – living among others who still hold rightful claim. Even when finally given the chance to acquire property, it is limited to a small burial plot – obtained only after long, painful negotiations.
This moment tests Abraham’s faith in the promise of the land given him by God. He now confronts the reality that others still hold rightful claim to it. Abraham does not force his claim or demand immediate ownership. He respects the current residents and accepts the slow pace of divine promises. His faith is deep enough to remain calm when the fulfillment of prophecy seems delayed. He trusts that the land will one day belong to his descendants and that God’s word will unfold in its proper time.
He also understood that his mission was to model moral conduct in a land bereft of it. He had witnessed societies that degraded women; he watched as Sodom, steeped in corruption, was destroyed.
Surrounded by moral decay, Abraham sought to model compassion and kindness. He welcomed guests; rescued his nephew, Lot; refused spoils of war; and preferred peace treaties to coercion. To act unjustly would betray his moral mission. Confident in divine prophecy and committed to moral integrity, he does not seize the land but acquires it honorably, paying full price.
The long view
Abraham’s struggle – to wait faithfully for divine promises while acting morally in a corrupt world – echoes in our generation. We also see our return to this land as rooted in a divine promise and as part of a redemptive process foretold to our ancestors.
I was recently interviewed by a journalist from the United States who asked why some people react so strongly against “messianics.”
“Isn’t messianism,” he wondered, “synonymous with aggression toward others who live in the land?”
I explained quietly that it is precisely my “messianic belief,” my confidence in the fulfillment of God’s promise, that allows me to respect the rights of others who also live here. Because I am certain that history’s end is guided by God, I can afford to take the long view. I labor to settle our homeland, but I do so with the quiet confidence that its destiny is already written. That certainty enables me to act with patience and restraint. The term “messianic” should not carry a pejorative tone; it reflects faith in ancient prophecies and trust in their unfolding within history.
Sadly, many of our neighbors refuse to live peacefully alongside us, making it harder to safeguard the rights of those who do seek coexistence. Our first responsibility is to protect our people. Yet conceptually, there is no contradiction between messianic belief and respect for the rights of others.
Like Abraham, we are striving to become locals and to settle the land promised to us. For now, however, we remain in an intermediate ger-like state: blessed with sovereignty but not yet complete settlement.
Abraham’s story becomes our own. We walk in his shadow – longing for completion, yet living with faith and restraint amid what remains unfinished.
Between promise and incompletion
The tension Abraham experienced – between promise and incompletion – shapes Jewish life, both in Israel and throughout the Diaspora. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik saw this same duality – the longing to be native while remaining foreigners – as the essence of Jewish identity in exile. We yearn to contribute to the societies around us and to be accepted as full citizens. Still, we remain distinct – guarding the inner core of our identity even as we engage with the world. “Ger v’toshav” (foreigner and native) thus describes not only our unfinished settlement in the Land of Israel but also the enduring tension of Jewish life in foreign lands.
No matter how deeply we integrate or how loyal we are to our host countries, history reminds us – often painfully – that we are still seen as different.
Shattered illusions
History has often reminded us of this truth in harsh ways. We once believed we had become native, only to discover how fragile that acceptance could be. The first example was in medieval Spain. Jews had lived there for nearly seven centuries, deeply woven into Spanish culture and instrumental in its ascent as a global power. However, a wave of violence in the late 14th century shattered that fragile acceptance and was followed, a century later, by expulsion. Centuries of belonging vanished in an instant, reminding us that we were always just foreigners in the land of Spain.
Four and a half centuries later, we were reminded once again of our ger status. For nearly 200 years, Jews had helped build modern Europe – advancing science, culture, and liberty. Yet Hitler revived Europe’s oldest hatreds and turned them into a movement of annihilation. After generations of striving to become full citizens, European Jews were cruelly shown that in the eyes of their hosts, they were still foreigners.
A fragile haven
Today, American Jewry may be confronting its own “ger v’toshav” moment. Over the past century and a half, Jews in the United States have lived with freedom and opportunities unmatched in our history.
New York City has long been intertwined with the Jewish experience in America. Home to the largest Jewish population outside Israel, the city has been profoundly shaped by Jewish life, culture, and values.
The election of an NYC mayor who expresses hostility toward Israel is a troubling development, reflecting a possible shift in America’s political climate. No one can know where this will lead.
Notwithstanding our deep longing for every Jew to return to Israel, we pray that Jewish life in America remains stable and secure so that Jews may choose to come home out of faith and love, not from fear or compulsion.
This latest election marks a “ger v’toshav” moment for American Jewry – a stark and sobering reminder that even in the safest of lands, we remain strangers.
History’s lessons return, reminding us that the tension between foreigners and residents still defines our story. Until our people are gathered and the land is restored, we remain wanderers yearning for wholeness.
The writer, a rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion (Gush), was ordained by Yeshiva University and has an MA in English literature. His books include To Be Holy but Human: Reflections Upon My Rebbe, HaRav Yehuda Amital.