Parashat Emor
17 May 2025 / 19 Iyyar 5785
This weekly parasha raises an important question, a question that has crossed Jewish history throughout its length: who truly belongs in a community? Or, from a different angle, in an increasingly complex world, how do we express a sense of belonging? What does it mean to be Jewish, and how do we manifest our identity? Can we freely choose to join a community? And, a sore point for our inclusive communities, are converts ever fully accepted? In Judaism, these questions carry special significance because we are always among other minorities in the lands of our dispersion.
And for those who decide to join our tribe, even though our tradition offers ways to honour non-Jews, becoming part of the Jewish people requires careful thought, a lengthy path of study, and a demonstrationnstration of commitment. The Talmud teaches us to treat converts as fully Jewish, yet many communities struggle with this mitzvah. This failure has consequences, as we see in this week’s parashah, Emor.
At the end of Emor, we read about the blasphemer who curses God. At first glance, the story seems straightforward: a man curses God’s name, is detained until God declares his punishment, and is then stoned to death outside the camp. The tale became the model for capital punishment in both Torah and rabbinic tradition.
But looking deeper reveals a puzzling complexity. The Torah says this man was “the son of an Israelite woman and an Egyptian man” who “went out among the children of Israel” and fought with an Israelite. We don’t understand why they fought or how it led to blasphemy. We don’t understand why the author identifies his mother while keeping his own identity anonymous. And crucially—why mention his Egyptian father? Remember, in Torah, Jewish identity passed through the father, not the mother.
The midrashim explore his background, suggesting his father was the Egyptian whom Moses killed in Egypt. Be that as it may, not having an Israelite father meant he had no tribal inheritance or fixed place in the camp. Despite these challenges, Ramban (quoting Sifra) tells us he converted through immersion and circumcision. Yet he remained an outsider. Midrash Sifra suggests the dispute began when he sought acceptance among his mother’s tribe of Dan—and was rejected. That struggle to truly belong reminds me of stories I’ve heard from people desiring to become Jewish in more traditional settings and how often, regardless of their commitment and hard work, they never felt part of it. There was always something missing.
These interpretations make the blasphemer more sympathetic. While never condoning blasphemy, they help us understand what drove him to curse God. His father was killed by the community’s leader. His mother’s tribe rejected him. He was known only as “the Egyptian’s son”. Is it surprising that he eventually lashed out against the God of those who excluded him?
While the blasphemer is responsible for his actions, the community also holds some responsibility. God commands all witnesses to place their hands on his head before execution, similar to the ritual with sacrificial animals. This gesture signals their rejection of his sin but also acknowledges their presence—and perhaps their partial responsibility. Had they treated him differently, perhaps God would not have been cursed, and no one would have died. Excluding someone can lead to unexpected and terrible circumstances.
Though we no longer execute blasphemers, this story speaks powerfully to us today. When we create insiders and outsiders in our communities, when we create artificial divisions that hurt, we plant seeds of pain that may yield bitter fruit later. If we see ourselves as the Israelites in this story, we must do better than they did. We must learn from their mistakes and open doors rather than closing them. The door still exists, and the boundaries of the tent are still clear and visible, but the width of the door makes all the difference.
There is not a unique way of being Jewish. If we look around us, in our community, we’ll see that we all come from diverse backgrounds, that our Jewish identity is defined in so many different ways.
Diversity is not a threat. Diversity is an opportunity to open our minds and widen our horizons. On Thursday evening, I took part in an interfaith gathering at the Thames Hospice. I was at a table with a Sikh, a Buddhist, and an atheist English woman, and we talked about what is meaningful in our lives. We came from different backgrounds, and yet we shared the same humanity. There is something profound that unites us despite our differences. There is a delicate balance between particular identities and a wider sense of belonging to humankind. We need to be rooted in a land, a people, but also to remind ourselves that the Other is not a stranger. The Other is someone who may have a different skin colour, accent, or lifestyle, but in each of us, there is a spark of the divine. Each of us has been endowed with the same dignity.