Ger V’toshav: Unfinished Belonging

By: Rabbi Moshe Taragin

Bereishit 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 l’banim teaches that the stories of our forefathers are not only moral lessons, but blueprints for our national journey.

One such historical blueprint unfolds as Avraham arrives in Chevron seeking a burial site for Sarah. He introduces himself with a striking phrase: “Ger v’toshav anochi imachem”—I am a stranger and a resident among you. He had lived for many years in the Land of Israel, often near Chevron, yet he still calls himself a stranger. In part, he remains an outsider, having never purchased land and relying on the goodwill of others who hosted him. In part, this phrase reflects his humility. Despite his reputation and growing influence, Avraham assumes no privilege. He signals that he will negotiate in good faith and offer full payment for the field.

However, Avraham’s use of the word ger carries deeper historical meaning. When Hashem forged His covenant with Avraham, He foretold that his descendants would be strangers in a foreign land and ultimately enslaved in Egypt. That prophecy of estrangement begins even as Avraham lives in the Land of Israel. Though promised the land by divine decree, he 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 Avraham’s emunah: though Hashem promised him the land, he now confronts the reality that others still hold rightful claim to it. Avraham 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 nevuah seems delayed. He trusts that the land will one day belong to his descendants and that Hashem’s word will unfold in its proper time.

He also understands his mission: to model moral conduct in a land bereft of it. He had witnessed societies that degraded women and watched as Sodom, steeped in corruption, was destroyed. Surrounded by moral decay, Avraham sought to model compassion and kindness. He welcomed guests, rescued his nephew, 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.

Avraham’s struggle—to wait faithfully for Divine promises while acting morally in a corrupt world—echoes in our generation. We too 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 Messianists. “Isn’t messianism,” he asked, “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 Hashem’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 Hashem, I can afford to take the long view. I labor to settle our homeland, yet 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 with 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 Avraham, we are striving to become toshavim, to settle the land promised to us. Yet for now, we remain in an intermediate ger-like state, blessed with sovereignty but not yet completely in control of all the land.

Avraham’s story becomes our own. We walk in his shadow, longing for completion, yet living with faith and restraint amid a task that remains unfinished.

The tension Avraham lived—between promise and incompletion—shapes Jewish life, both in Israel and throughout the Diaspora. The Rav, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, saw this same duality, this longing to be toshavim while remaining gerim, as the essence of Jewish identity in exile. We yearn to contribute to the societies around us and to be accepted as full citizens, but we remain distinct, guarding the inner core of our identity even as we engage with the world. Ger v’toshav 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.

History has often reminded us of this truth in harsh ways. We once believed we had become toshavim, 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. But 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 gerim in the land of Spain.

Four and a half centuries later, we were reminded once again of our ger status. For nearly two hundred 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 toshavim, European Jews were cruelly shown that in the eyes of their hosts, they were still gerim.

Today, American Jewry may be confronting its own ger v’toshav moment. Over the last century and a half, Jews in the United States have lived with a freedom and opportunity unmatched in our history.

New York City in particular has long been intertwined with the Jewish experience in America. It is home to the largest Jewish population outside Israel, and the city itself has been profoundly shaped by Jewish life, culture, and values.

The election of a New York City 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. Despite our deep longing for every Jew to return to Israel, we never wish hardship upon our brothers and sisters as a means of prompting aliyah. We hope that Jewish life in America remains stable and secure, so that Jews may choose to come home out of faith and love, not 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 gerim.

History’s lessons return, reminding us that the tension between ger and toshav still defines our story. Until our people are gathered and the land is restored, we remain wanderers yearning for wholeness. 

Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion (Gush), was ordained by Yeshiva University and holds an MA in English literature. His books include To Be Holy but Human: Reflections Upon My Rebbe, HaRav Yehuda Amital.