We Are All Still Strangers in this Strange Land

What does it mean to be a stranger? A guest in in someone’s home, or on someone else’s land? Or worse - a persecuted minority on your own land?

Sometimes it’s thrilling to be strangers, like a tourist or pilgrim. Other times, it’s terrifying—like a refugee. Many of us have known both in our lifetimes or lineage. And now, more than ever, we’re waking up to the deep wounds carried by those labeled “other”—and the urgent need to heal them, to heal us.

This week, as we began II Chronicles, that question hit home. King David dies. Solomon rises. The torch of power is passed, along with prayers and promises. But it’s one quiet line from David’s final speech that lingers:

“For we are sojourners with You, mere transients like our ancestors; our days on earth are like a shadow, with nothing to hope for.”

(I Chronicles 29:15)

So much gold. So much glory. But David—warrior, king, refugee—reminds us: it’s all temporary. We are guests here. Shadows on the land.

The Hebrew word he uses is gerim—strangers, foreigners, aliens. The same word the Torah repeats over and over: remember you were strangers in Egypt—so treat the stranger with dignity and compassion. We areal shadows here. Treat each other with light.

But just a chapter later, his son Solomon begins to build the Temple—and guess who does the labor?

“Solomon took a census of all the aliens [gerim]… 153,600 were found.”

(II Chronicles 2:16)

These “aliens” weren’t welcomed. They were conscripted. Forced laborers. Likely the conquered Jebusites, Canaanites, Samaritans—locals who didn't belong to the dominant tribe. Gerim in name, but not in empathy.

So the Temple—the holiest space, built for prayer and peace—was founded not just on gold and cedar, but on the backs of those denied freedom. The Torah's call for justice ignored.

And yet... the word gerim evolves. It comes to mean converts—those who choose to join. Strangers become family. Outsiders become sacred.

That tension is still with us. The moral blind spot between remembering our own suffering and inflicting it on others. Between David’s humility and Solomon’s hubris.

This week begins the “Three Weeks” of Jewish mourning—a season to reflect on why the First and Second Temples fell. Not just because of enemies—but because of injustice within. Societies crumble when compassion does.

Right now, across Israel, Gaza, the West Bank, and around the world—this is the question we must face: How do we treat the stranger?

Do we build our homes and hopes through shared dignity—or through denial and exclusion?

David said “ein mikveh”—there is no hope. But I say: there is. Always. By remembering his words and living by them. Walk the talk that we are all strangers and we are committed to each other’s dignity and rights, a fight worth rising up again and again, with courage and love.

If we remember we are all just shadows—we can still become light.

Thanks for joining me, Below the Bible Belt.

Shabbat shalom.

Let justice, hope, and peace prevail.

For all.