Perhaps one of the biggest and most complex questions facing Jews around the world these days and maybe always - is the challenge of assimilation with the other people of the world. How do we maintain our unique sense of identity while living with other people, cultures, faiths and symbols? Can a country or community open to multiple expressions maintain its sense of self?
The delicate balance between isolationism and universalism shows up in this chapter, a surprisingly big part of the prayer led by King Solomon to celebrate the inauguration of the newly built temple in Jerusalem.
The previous chapters give us step by step description of the project’s process. When the Holy Ark is deposited in the chamber assigned to it -- the temple is officially activated, and the cloud of smoke that fills the halls from endless sacrificial offerings is proof that God is in the house.
The king begins his powerful prayer by addressing the deity who dwells in the cloud.
And yet, the royal prayer does not focus on sacrifices at all. Instead, he describes the Temple as a house of prayer—prayers from the people, from the priests, from those close by and from captives far away. And then, he adds a phrase - a literally extra -ordinary flourish.
Solomon asks that God listen not only to the prayers of Israel—but also to the prayers of foreigners, those who are not part of the people, who wil come from afar, drawn by the divine name:
וְגַ֣ם אֶל־הַנׇּכְרִ֗י אֲ֠שֶׁ֠ר לֹ֥א מֵעַמְּךָ֣ יִשְׂרָאֵל֮ הוּא֒ וּבָ֣א ׀ מֵאֶ֣רֶץ רְחוֹקָ֗ה לְמַ֨עַן שִׁמְךָ֤ הַגָּדוֹל֙ וְיָדְךָ֣ הַחֲזָקָ֔ה וּֽזְרוֹעֲךָ֖ הַנְּטוּיָ֑ה וּבָ֥אוּ וְהִֽתְפַּֽלְל֖וּ אֶל־הַבַּ֥יִת הַזֶּֽה׃
וְאַתָּ֞ה תִּשְׁמַ֤ע מִן־הַשָּׁמַ֙יִם֙ מִמְּכ֣וֹן שִׁבְתֶּ֔ךָ וְעָשִׂ֕יתָ כְּכֹ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־יִקְרָ֥א אֵלֶ֖יךָ הַנׇּכְרִ֑י לְמַ֣עַן יֵדְעוּ֩ כׇל־עַמֵּ֨י הָאָ֜רֶץ אֶת־שְׁמֶ֗ךָ וּלְיִרְאָ֤ה אֹֽתְךָ֙ כְּעַמְּךָ֣ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְלָדַ֕עַת כִּֽי־שִׁמְךָ֣ נִקְרָ֔א עַל־הַבַּ֥יִת הַזֶּ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֥ר בָּנִֽיתִי׃
“Or if a foreigner who is not of Your people Israel comes from a distant land for the sake of Your great name, Your mighty hand, and Your outstretched arm, if one comes to pray toward this House,
May You hear in Your heavenly abode and grant whatever the foreigner appeals to You for. Thus all the peoples of the earth will know Your name and revere You, as does Your people Israel; and they will recognize that Your name is attached to this House that I have built.
II_Chronicles.6.32-33
In the middle of a ceremony steeped in national pride and territorial triumph, this prayer opens a window to a wider lens. Solomon recognizes that others—non-Israelites, strangers—might seek YHWH too. That they be acknowledged, and their prayer should be heard. That the Temple, this sacred space, should belong to them as well.
Why would he include this expansive aspect to his prayer? Did he intend to build a temple of all faiths - or simply be inclusive enough to be popular for more people? There is something about this prayer that is deeply moving and feels resonant and urgently needed today. But are we reading too much into it?
Perhaps this prayer exists because Solomon, or the authors who wrote this prayer many generations later, understood the nature of the world he was inheriting and the kingdom he was building.
His father David had fought wars to consolidate tribal identity and territorial borders. But Solomon was a different kind of king. His reign was defined by diplomacy, trade, and cultural exchange. He married foreign princesses. He imported cedars from Lebanon. He made Jerusalem a regional capital of commerce. His court was diverse. And the Temple he built—lavish, layered with influence and resource—was built not only for the tribes of Israel, but as a symbol of divine presence in a much wider world. It was good business to open the gates to the world, it was the next phase in their evolution.
It’s no accident, then, that Solomon’s prayer echoes the voice of Isaiah, who would later proclaim on behalf of God, a future vision -- “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.” (Isaiah 56:7). That vision of a shared sacred center, open to the prayers and yearnings of every human heart, speaks against the forces of exclusion that also shaped our past—and still shape our present.
When the Book of Chronicles was written, centuries later during the Second Temple period, that debate was alive and urgent. On one side, voices called for purity, for separating from foreigners, and resisting Roman rule, for expelling those who were not part of the “holy seed.” On the other hand, prophets and sages, including some who were engaged in the project of editing the bible, invoked the stories of Ruth the Moabite and Solomon’s own universalist vision, insisting that the God of Israel is also the God of all.
That debate has not ended.
Today, we see suspicion toward “the other” gaining strength all over the world—from asylum seekers and foreign workers to indigenous people and immigrants. Israel is torn between its Jewish voices that abhor the other and the democratic moral voices that demand a fair and just society with no supremacy or norms of inequality.
Nationalism hardens borders, both literal and spiritual. And so few social sanctuaries remain open to all, with prayer as the bridge that transcends identity to focus on our common ground.
That’s why Solomon’s words matter right now. Even if it’s not likely that he meant for interfaith equality or for a temple open to all deities and people. Or perhaps he did and history did away with that notion as more national agendas took hold of the people’s hearts.
We can still dream big.
That’s why this passage matters during these Three Weeks, as we grieve the loss of sacred space, sovereignty, and unity. This prayer reminds us that we can—and must—build differently and have our eyes on the shared prize of the sacred - not a temple or a sacred site but the idea that is embodied within that temple and its legacy left for us to reimagine.
We no longer offer burnt sacrifices today or during these three weeks. But we will offer tears to remember what was and imagine what still could be: A sacred center that belongs to all—where our faith in the Divine reflects our belief in the dignity of every human being.
Imagine what would this and other wars look like if this idea of shared humanity as a divine command was so ingrained in our personal and public psyches? What if Solomon’s prayer extended beyond that temple that he built and other kings demolished to be the core concept that we revere beyond all borders?
Beyind cliches and tired tropes of togetherness — this prayer left us words with which to build a better world, prayers and pleas to push us beyond borders, ideas to inspire love, keep us from despairing, and a daring dream that demands our dedication to the vision that must be reality — all people united by a shared vision peace.
How else will we ever heal?
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Dear Rabbi, thank you for inspiring us daily with your words that push beyond the present divides of extremism, enmity, and superiority.
This is so true and so beautiful. Thank you, Amichai.