Exactly ten years ago, on July 1, 2012, I began my tenure at CTI. A few days later, on July 4, I moved into the Rabbi’s house. I was feeling somewhat like Abraham, our ancient father, who moved to the land of Canaan and maintained his double status as a ger and a toshav—an alien and a resident. Like Abraham, all Jews — perhaps all people — can ask themselves at some point, “When is this land my land?”

For Jews in particular, the Age of Enlightenment in the 18th century raised again the question of citizenship status. In 1790, President George Washington declared in an official letter that Jews in America shared full equal rights. A year later, revolutionary France emancipated its Jewish population.

In his song from the 1940’s, Woody Guthrie wrote, “This land is your land, this land is my land, from California to the New York island… this land was made for you and me.” It is, in a way, a prayer for Utopian reality, where all people feel they belong.

This land is my land also means taking care of the land, so the land can take care of us. For centuries, Jews yearned for their own land. In the meantime, they had to be content dwelling in foreign lands.  But now, they had to meet head-on the opportunities and challenges a modern society had to offer. At what point can we say, this is my land? Can we ever become indigenous to the land, still maintaining both ideas of ger and toshav.

In the Book of Numbers, 10 out of the 12 men that Moses sent to scout the land in Canaan could not see themselves dwelling there. They perceived only the ger, not the toshav. They couldn’t see that land as their land even when it was given to them. Another generation had to pass before they would feel as toshav. People with high upward mobility can move and change lands more easily. But being part of the land means not fleeing when things get tough. If it’s your land, stay and protect it. “The meek shall inherit the earth,” not only those who can’t leave it physically, but also those who stick to it in their hearts can declare this their land.

Over the centuries, this debate has manifested itself through our prayers. For example, the question of omitting Tachanun (supplications) on certain non-Jewish holidays, such as the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. Both holidays are happy occasions that are shared among all Americans; therefore, no supplications are uttered, as we do in some of the Jewish holidays that are more secular or universal in nature. Purim, Hanukkah and Tu B’Shvat are among them. The Conservative Movement’s Siddur Sim Shalom (for weekdays, p. 44) is the most expansive among Conservative sources on this topic, noting “…and festive days on the civil calendar.” Saul Lieberman, for many years professor of Talmud at the Jewish Theological Seminary, said that Tachanun should not be recited on Independence Day or Thanksgiving, the former being a secular holiday, and the latter a holiday that has religious antecedents even though it is no longer associated with a specific non-Jewish religion and is observed largely secularly today.

Perhaps the key lies in a mixture of religious sentiment. keeping our identity as ger through celebrating the Jewish holidays, and at the same time rejoicing with secular rulers on their happy occasions, as toshav — citizens. The excitement that made Jews celebrate Franz Joseph’s birthday pre-WWI, pray for the British royal family today, or recite the Prayer for our Country here in America is the expression by Jews for the good of what was becoming their land, too.

Happy Fourth of July 5782.

Rabbi Gadi Capela