In the book of Bamidbar (Numbers), we find ourselves wrestling with just that: Who gets a share of the Promised Land?
The verse in Bamidbar 26:53 states: "To these shall the land be apportioned as an inheritance according to the number of names." At first glance, it seems all-encompassing. Should everyone be included? Israelites, Cohanim (priests), Levi’im (Levites), even converts, women, and those with ambiguous or mixed gender identities (referred to as tumtumim and hermaphrodites)?
But as we delve deeper, the Torah itself seems to place limitations. "And the L-rd said to Aaron: In their land you shall not inherit" (Numbers 18:20). This excludes the Cohanim. Similarly, "In the midst of the children of Israel they shall not have an inheritance" (Numbers 18:24) excludes the Levi’im. Then, "By the names of the tribes of their fathers shall they inherit" (Numbers 26:55) seems to exclude converts and bondsmen. And finally, "To a man, according to his numbers, shall his inheritance be given" (Numbers 26:59) appears to exclude women, tumtumim, and hermaphrodites.
So, what's going on here? Are we seeing a contradiction? The sages of the Talmud grappled with these questions, offering different perspectives.
Rabbi Yoshiyah suggests the land was apportioned to those who left Egypt. The phrase "By the names of the tribes of their fathers shall they inherit" supports this idea. So then what about "To these shall the land be apportioned"? He understands that to exclude minors, those below the age of twenty when the census was taken.
Rabbi Yonathan offers a different take. He argues that the land was apportioned according to those who actually entered the land. "To these shall the land be apportioned," supports this. But what about the verse, "By the names of the tribes of their fathers"? Rabbi Yonathan says that the L-rd changed this inheritance from all other inheritances in the Torah. Usually, the living inherit from the dead. But here, the dead inherit from the living! It's a radical shift in perspective.
Rebbi offers a compelling analogy. Imagine two brothers, both Cohanim. One has one son, the other has three. They go to the granary to collect their portions. The first brother gets one sa'ah (a measure of grain), while the other gets three. Afterwards, they trace their lineage back to their grandfather, and then share equally. The initial division reflects the immediate family size, while the later equalization acknowledges their shared ancestry.
Then comes Rabbi Shimon b. Elazar, who attempts to harmonize these seemingly conflicting views. He proposes that the land was apportioned to both those who left Egypt and those who entered the land. If someone was among those who left Egypt, they got a share with that group. If they were among those who entered the land, they got a share with that group. And if they belonged to both groups, they received a share from both! This way, both verses are satisfied.
These different interpretations, preserved in texts like the Sifrei Bamidbar and later elaborated upon in works such as Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, highlight the complexities of interpreting sacred texts. What seems like a straightforward decree reveals layers of nuance and differing opinions when we examine it closely.
What does this ancient debate tell us today? Perhaps it's about more than just land. It's about the ongoing struggle to balance inclusivity with specific needs and circumstances. It's about the tension between honoring the past and adapting to the present. And ultimately, it's about the enduring human challenge of deciding who gets a seat at the table, and how we ensure fairness and justice for all.