My People, My Mountain: B’har

If there was one sentence I wish we could all believe in and live by from the Torah, it would be: “The land does not belong to you; it is Mine.”

Yes, that’s God speaking, as usual, and it is repeated several times in this week’s parsha.

The Book of Leviticus is known for being chock full of laws given over to the Israelite people through Moses on Mt. Sinai. B’har, “On the Mountain,” is no exception.

B’har is all about the laws of Shmita and Yovel, the sabbatical, every seventh and fiftieth year.

These allow the land—and the people—to rest, and all possessions, including houses and slaves, to return to their original owners or to go free and return to their families, respectively.

Of course, I understand why this law has not been followed.

It’s not only inconvenient for the farmer; it may not even be possible to accomplish such a feat as saving enough grain during the first six years of the cycle to have enough for the seventh year.

But the second part about letting all slaves go free and land and houses return to their original owners…what can I say about that other than, it’s also extremely inconvenient (yes, I’m being sarcastic) for those who hold the wealth and power; they not only don’t want to let go of it, but they actually don’t have to because nobody is making them.

It makes me think of the gun laws in the U.S. and the filibuster left over from Jim Crow, that allows laws that are bad for the majority to continue as they are, despite the majority wishing to see change. (Did you hear the discussion on Democracy Now! about law and the mass shooting, this time in Buffalo, NY, last week?)

The same is true for abortion laws; the majority of Americans don’t want abortion rights overturned.

Of course, the way we posses and treat our land reflects the way we treat our people, and vice versa.

And some people are apparently more important than others.

The episode, My Lying Eyes, on This American Life, examines different situations in which people refuse or just can’t see what’s blatantly in front of them.

One is about climate change/crisis. Another is about Ukrainian vs. Latin American refugees at the Mexican border.

My heart aches for Ukrainians fleeing for the their lives. We’re coming on three months of this war!

And I’m happy that so many people have sprung forth with donations for these victims of war, and that U.S. borders have opened for them.

But my heart also aches for the Latino refugees who have been fleeing war for years, not to mention the state of their refugee camps at the border as described in the podcast (Act 2).

If there’s anything the Bible and religion are good for today, as I discussed last week, it’s to examine ourselves, our beliefs, and to be a reflection of the society we live in today, if not to reflect the kind of society we aspire to build.

How are we blinded, not just as a society, but as individuals as well, to the suffering of those not like us?

This week’s parsha, as throughout the Torah, also has the commandment to welcome and include the stranger as much as “our own.”

It’s human nature to care about our own families and communities first. But we’re at a time of reckoning, really, where we’re being asked to care about those beyond our own “peeps.”

Here are some lyrics from the original Woody Guthrie song, This Land is Your Land, that most of us don’t know:

As I went walking I saw a sign there,
And on the sign it said "No Trespassing."
But on the other side it didn't say nothing.
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.

Can we continue to expand our definition of “my people”?

I think the world depends on it.