The Book of Ruth begins with quiet devastation. Famine, exile, death. A woman named Naomi leaves her homeland in search of survival and returns years later with nothing—no husband, no sons, no future. Her name, which once meant “pleasant,” now feels like a cruel echo. “Don’t call me Naomi,” she says upon returning to Bethlehem. “Call me Mara”—bitterness.
But in the wreckage of her story, another one begins. It’s easy to miss because it is so small, so intimate. Two women—her daughters-in-law, Ruth and Orpah—stand beside her at a crossroads. Naomi urges them to return to their families, to begin again in Moav. She has no more sons to offer, no more protection, no more hope. “Go home,” she tells them, and they weep.
And then something profoundly Jewish happens. Orpah kisses Naomi goodbye and leaves. Ruth clings. The Hebrew is powerful—v’davkah bah. Ruth doesn’t just stay; she cleaves to Naomi. And then, with language that should be carved into the granite of Jewish memory, she speaks: “Where you go, I will go. Where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people. Your God, my God. Where you die, I will die. And there I will be buried.”
It’s a moment so beautiful, so selfless, that it’s tempting to turn it into poetry and leave it at that. But this moment is more than poetic. It is defiant. It is irrational. It is covenantal.
Orpah is not wicked. She is not a villain. She does what most people would do. She listens to Naomi, honors her with tears, and chooses to return to the life she knew. And who could blame her? She is grieving. She is exhausted. She does what is safe, what is expected, what is human.
But Ruth—Ruth chooses something else entirely. She binds herself to a people not her own, walks into a land that is foreign, follows a future that is invisible. She chooses the Jewish story when it has absolutely nothing to offer her. No protection. No social standing. No clear reward. Only the company of a bitter, aging widow and the uncertain God of a displaced people.
Ruth is not just choosing Naomi. She is choosing us.
There is, I think, something unbearably modern about this ancient fork in the road. Because we, too, are standing at a crossroads. Every generation of Jews arrives here, though the signposts change. Some of us, like Orpah, walk away. Not out of hatred. Not always even out of indifference. Sometimes we are just too tired. The demands of Jewish life can be heavy, and the world is seductive in its promises. Assimilation is not a threat—it is a comfort.
And then there are Ruth Jews. They stay. Or rather—they choose to stay. Actively. Relentlessly. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s lonely. Even when the community frustrates them. Even when Judaism is out of step with the times or with their social circles. Ruth Jews send their children to Jewish schools, even if it’s not the easiest option. They show up at minyan, at rallies, at vigils, at meals. They donate. They volunteer. They study. They argue. They cry for Israel and demand more from Israel. They know this isn’t a perfect people. They stay anyway.
We don’t talk enough about the choice. We talk about Jewish identity as though it’s a blood type or a birthright. But Ruth wasn’t born Jewish. She chose it. She chose it with her body, with her journey, with her loyalty, with her words. And so must we.
What would it mean to build a Jewish community not around those drifting near the edge, but around those who are all in? For decades, our institutions have been structured to accommodate the Orpahs—to make it as painless as possible not to leave. But what if we shifted our focus? What if we asked: What does it take to build a community worthy of Ruth? What would our schools, our synagogues, our federations look like if they were designed for those who cling—not those who drift?
And here’s the twist: Ruth is not just a beautiful story. She is the beginning of something. From her, the line continues to David, to Messiah, to redemption. Jewish history doesn’t hinge on a multitude. It hinges on the fierce, irrational loyalty of one woman. One decision. One “yes.”
In every generation, we stand at that fork in the road. It doesn’t always feel dramatic. Sometimes it happens quietly, in the choices we make about how to spend a Saturday morning, where to send our kids to school, what we’re willing to stand up for, what we’re willing to fight for. But make no mistake—those are Ruth moments.
The path of comfort or the path of covenant. The safe return or the sacred risk. Orpah or Ruth.
The Jewish future will not be written by the millions who wandered. It will be written—again—by those who stayed.
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