Ruth, the Perfect Convert

By Larry Fine

The story of Ruth has been canonized in the Books of the Bible, the Tanach, for a very special and positive reason. Ruth was a Moabite; a member of a gentile nation; yet her personality was so overwhelmingly filled with positive character traits that she has become the prototype of what a Jewish woman should strive for.

Ruth left her noble family, for she was descendant from royalty, she left her family's heritage to endure the hardships of a convert to the young Jewish nation. She endured difficulties and poverty while rejecting an easy life of luxury that included idolatry. She made the decision to follow the laws of Moses in spite of the many difficulties and hardships that it entailed; a life perhaps with no future promise other than that of following the true path, a life with no guarantee of marriage and children, a life wrought with the inconveniences of observance of the divine commandments. And because of her selfless giving and her determination to change to be a Jew, she was indeed rewarded that she should have as her grandson none other than David, the king of Israel.

From the story of this righteous convert, the rabbis of the Talmud and Mishna learn many lessons, especially those in regard to conversion.

Naomi, Ruth's future mother-in-law, together with her wealthy husband Elimelech, left the land of Israel during a period of famine. They took their two sons Machlon and Kilyon to the neighboring land of Moab and there they dwelt for several years. While there, the two sons, Machlon and Kilyon, took for wives two Moabite women, Ruth and Orpah. But G-d saw this leaving the Land of Israel during a time that the people needed Elimelech's support as a grave sin and all three perished, Elimelech and his two sons Machlon and Kilyon in the land of Moab, leaving Naomi with her two daughter-in-laws.

Eventually the famine in the land of Israel subsided and Naomi, now destitute and impoverished, lacking any family in Moab, decided to return to her home lands and her people. She informed her two daughters-in-law that she would be leaving and she advised them to return to their own people, to their own homes to their mothers' families. She could offer them nothing in Israel, she would be returning destitute, and once there, the two girls would have no chance of finding a suitable mate. Orphan tearfully kissed her mother-in-law good-bye and left, but Ruth told Naomi (Ruth1:16)

"Do not force me to leave you, for where you shall go, so shall I go. Where you shall dwell, so shall I dwell. Your people are my people and your G-d is my G-d. Where you die, I will die and there I will be buried. Thus G-d shall do to me, and more, only death shall separate you form me."
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A Convert’s Bible Stories

A well-thumbed book from my Lutheran childhood is now the ideal text for my Shavuot study and reflection

Before I began studying to convert to Judaism, Shavuot was totally unknown to me. But once I learned more about it, I saw a number of reasons to view it as the Jewish holiday that converts could celebrate most enthusiastically.

The Book of Ruth, one of the Bible’s best-known conversion stories, is read every Shavuot. As we commemorate the day when the Jews received the Torah, we are told that all Jews throughout history were present at Sinai, no matter what our background or place in history might be—a particularly comforting notion for people who are more recent members of the tribe. And observance of Shavuot includes intense study of Jewish texts, something we converts know a great deal about.

My bookshelves are filled with a range of Jewish books: two long, packed rows containing instructions on Jewish practice, memoirs, all kinds of historical nonfiction, Siddurim, haggadot, various commentaries, copies of the Tanakh and the Torah—all Jewish texts I studied during my conversion process. But there, tucked between my copy of Etz Hayim and my English/Hebrew JTS Tanakh, is a worn and faded volume that would seem to be in the wrong place—a 1955 edition of Egermeier’s Bible Story Book, a collection of narratives from the “Old” and New Testaments, rewritten for children and produced by the Gospel Trumpet Company, a Christian publisher. Despite its history, this non-Jewish text, which I first read decades before my conversion, carries special meaning for me as a convert on Shavuot.

The book is a memento of my childhood in Dayton, Ohio. Some pages include marginalia in youthful handwriting, mostly my younger brother’s. The title page is adorned with a tunic-attired stick figure, drawn by my little sister sometime before she entered kindergarten. The binding is completely broken—a couple of signatures will slide out of the book if it is not opened carefully. Tellingly, when it is closed, one can see that the edges of the pages of the first two-thirds of the book are darker and more worn than the rest. That is because, though the book belonged to my siblings as well as to me, I was the one who spent the most time with it. Throughout my childhood, I returned again and again and again to the stories contained in what I now know as the Tanakh.

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The growth of interfaith activity since 9/11: Grass-roots groups get personal about faith

By Matthew Brown, Deseret News

On the second Thursday of every month, Abby Stamelman Hocky drives to a stone Quaker meetinghouse in the suburbs of Philadelphia to meet a group of women who share her passion for inter-religious dialogue. They sit on couches around a fireplace, enjoying tea and other refreshments while sharing their Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim and other faith perspectives on a particular topic.

Hocky has made a career of getting people of diverse faith backgrounds working together. As executive director of the Interfaith Center of Greater Philadelphia, she lives out her vision of building mutual trust, understanding and cooperation among faith communities, providing a way they can work together for the common good.

But these monthly meetings, which take place away from the office, represent the interfaith experience she values most.

It isn't just talking about beliefs and practices that gives these gatherings added meaning for Hocky. It's hearing how prayer pulled someone through a personal crisis or finding herself reflecting on her own faith when she listens to expressions of commitment or doubt.

"I have a lot of things I could be doing, but once a month I feel this strong pull to meet with these women," she said. "For me it's a personal source of interfaith nourishment and grounding in my own spiritual world and Jewish life."

Researchers have found that interfaith activity has been gaining momentum since 9/11, when one deadly and violent religious expression prompted people to get familiar with the increasingly diverse landscape of faith in their communities. Scholars who study and work in inter-religious relations have observed that when people grounded in their own faith express their beliefs on a personal level, these interfaith encounters often evolve from one-time events to ongoing, meaningful relationships that foster understanding, bridge differences and enable diverse communities to work together.

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Marrying Out of the Faith

By Stanley Fish

 Back in 1963, my brother Ron was going out with (that was the phrase then) an Irish Catholic girl named Ann who was attending the University of Rhode Island. One day, she was sitting in class and suddenly through the window she saw my father, who, it turned out, had tracked her down by finding out from the university administration what classes she was taking and at what times. He took her to dinner and then proceeded to tell her that it would ruin his son’s life if he were to marry a non-Jewish girl. He then asked if she would be willing to have no contact with Ron for a year; in return, he offered to pay all her expenses during that time. She refused.

Meanwhile I had been asked if I could get Ron into the University of California at Berkeley, where I was then teaching. (My father, as I recall, was for this plan, and may even have initiated it.) I went to the head of the admissions office and said, “My brother has to get out of Rhode Island. Can you admit him here?”

“Sure,” he said, and it was done. (Those were the days; if I tried that in 2013, I would be run out of town.)

If the idea was to separate the two young people, it didn’t work. Shortly after Ron got to California, he sent Ann a plane ticket. When she arrived, they got married and have remained married to this day. She got a job at the university, took a class in Judaism and, much to my brother’s surprise, converted, although it took her a while to find a rabbi willing to give her the required course of instruction. Just the other day she remarked, “It was a hard club to get into.”

In 1963 I didn’t know any interfaith couples, but things have changed, as Naomi Schaefer Riley reports in her new book, “’Til Faith Do Us Part: How Interfaith Marriage Is Transforming America.”
According to Riley’s research — in 2010 she commissioned a large interfaith marriage survey — the interfaith marriage rate in the United States is 42 percent. The book is chock-full of fascinating statistics (“Jews are the most likely and Mormons are the least likely to marry members of other faiths”), but at its heart is a cautionary thesis: the growing number of interfaith couples don’t know what they’re getting into. “Interfaith couples tend to marry without thinking through the practical implications of their religious differences. They assume that because they are decent and tolerant people … they will not encounter difficulties being married to someone of another faith.”

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God Is Not A Christian: Desmond Tutu And The Dalai Lama's Extraordinary Talk On God And Religion

Adapted from THE WISDOM OF COMPASSION: Stories of Remarkable Encounters and Timeless Insights by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Victor Chan by arrangement with Riverhead Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc., Copyright © 2012 by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Victor Chan
The Dalai Lama, wearing an orange visor, was on stage sitting next to Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who had just flown in from South Africa. The Dalai Lama sat in his usual lotus position on a leather armchair that was a size too small for his folded legs. His knees stuck out a smidgen beyond the armrests.

“My main concern,” he said to Tutu, “what’s the best way to talk about deeper human values like love, compassion, forgiveness, these things. Not relying on God, but relying on ourselves.”

Tutu was hunched forward in his chair; he was carefully examining his hands, which were resting on his lap. He was dressed in a dark suit and a striking purple shirt with a decidedly magenta hue. A large metal cross hung below the clerical collar.

The Dalai Lama said, “I myself, I’m believer, I’m Buddhist monk. So for my own improvement, I utilize as much as I can Buddhist approach. But I never touch this when I talk with others. Buddhism is my business. Not business of other people. Frankly speaking”—he stole a glance at the archbishop and declared firmly—“when you and our brothers and sisters talk about God, creator, I’m nonbeliever.” He laughed, perhaps a little self-consciously.

It seemed to me that the Dalai Lama’s feelings about God have changed over the years. In an early interview, when I asked him if he thought there was a God, he answered simply, “I don’t know.” He took the view of an agnostic: he understood that it’s not possible to know one way or another whether God exists.

“In Buddhism no creator,” the Dalai Lama said at the Chan Centre. “But we also accept Buddha, bodhisattvas, these higher beings. However, if we only rely on these higher beings, we would just sit there, lazy.” He leaned into his chair, threw his head back, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

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