“Thy People Shall Be My People, and Thy God My God”
Among the best known citations in all literature is Ruth’s touching request to Naomi: “Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God” (Ruth 1:16). The generations of readers who have been moved by the simple force of this plea need little commentary to recognize and appreciate the tenderness that shines through this verse. But a little reflection upon the situation in which this sorrowing mother and her daughter-in-law find themselves can heighten our awareness of the power that true devotion generates.
We need to remember that Ruth, as a Moabitess, probably knew well that she would not be accepted easily in Israel. The injunction of Deuteronomy 23:3 that a “Moabite . . . shall not enter into the congregation of Israel forever” must also have been partially responsible for Naomi’s suggestion that Ruth return to “her people and unto her gods.” In asserting that she is prepared to die rather than leave her mother-in-law, Ruth is not indulging in extravagant rhetoric. She may well lose her life as an unprotected alien in Bethlehem.
The entire first chapter of the Book of Ruth is a beautifully understated model of family tenderness. Background is given concisely in the first five verses. If one reflects upon the amount of heartache that is compressed into these few lines, this deliberately unemotional account of Naomi’s ten years in Moab is unusually effective. The depth of her suffering is suggested in the care that is taken to keep this opening account under total control, as if the slightest expression of feeling might open the floodgates of despair. Naomi’s touching attempt at humor as she bids her daughters-in-law goodbye is another example of the lengths she is going to in order that smiles may replace tears in a parting that must have found everyone on the brink of collapse.
Only when she is safely among her own people in Bethlehem does Naomi give vent to her pent-up feelings in a cry of utter despair: “Call me not Naomi, call me Mara, for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me” (Ruth 1:20). It is hardly necessary to note that Naomi, in Hebrew, means “delight” while Mara means “bitter.” The only solace which Naomi feels at this moment—when the Lord himself seems to be against her—is Ruth, who goes bravely forth to an unknown reception as a gleaner in the field of Israel.
The distrust and suspicion of those she meets there are best summed up in the reply of Boaz’ servant when he is asked about Ruth. He identifies her as “the Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi out of the country of Moab” and makes it clear that he has had his eye on her all morning.
Those who discern budding romance in Boaz’ concern about Ruth as this point would do would do well to read the account again. To begin with, Boaz is obviously grateful that she is not the kind of girl who is trying to distract his reapers, and he promises her that she will not be treated unkindly in his fields. He even confesses that he is quite aware of all she has done for Naomi, but—just as obviously—he hasn’t known what he should do as Naomi’s kinsman under these rather unusual circumstances.
If we remember Naomi’s prayer for her daughters-in-law when she was attempting to say farewell to them—“The Lord grant that ye may find rest, each of you, in the house of her husband”—we appreciate the almost embarrassingly transparent attempt on Naomi’s part to get Boaz to marry Ruth. Naomi is thinking first of Ruth, and in following Naomi’s counsel Ruth is thinking first of Naomi. For the only way Naomi can have the posterity in Israel she so much desires is for Ruth to bear sons who will be considered part of her first husband’s inheritance.
This is truly a story of family exaltation. There are no generation gaps which love must close because none has really opened. At worst, there is a little confusion as each finds the part he is to play, but there is no hint of reluctance as roles become defined. Tradition would dictate that the nearest kinsman provide protection for both Naomi and Ruth, and Boaz is quick to point out that there is a nearer kinsman. Only after this relative refuses to accept his responsibility does Boaz agree to marry Ruth.
Clearly understanding that any children born to his union with Ruth will be considered Mahlon’s rather than his, Boaz goes ahead with the marriage. When a son is born to them, it is worth noting that all the neighbors rejoice because “a son is born to Naomi.”
If, in our modern nearsightedness, we begin to feel a little sorry for both Ruth and Boaz—who do not even get to name their son—we need to consider the truly extraordinary compliment which the inhabitants of Bethlehem pay to Ruth. To bear a son, to a Hebrew woman, was a mark of God’s favor; to have many sons was to be singularly chosen. When the neighbors concede that Ruth’s love for her mother-in-law makes her better “than seven sons,” they acknowledge both the Lord’s apparent acceptance of Ruth and their own unreserved admiration.
Not only has the family of Elimelech and Naomi been blessed by Ruth’s selfless effort to see that her first husband’s line is continued, but, as the Savior promises, spending one’s life in the service of others guarantees personal fulfillment. Such fulfillment may not come in terms which are popularly accepted. It is not hard to imagine for example, that her desire to accompany Naomi to Bethlehem may have seemed quite irrational to Ruth’s contemporaries in Moab. One can almost hear them comment that family loyalty is one thing, but surely Ruth is not going to tie her young life to the aging Naomi. Undoubtedly, dire stories of what had happened to other Moabites who had ventured into Israel were rehearsed to her by well-meaning friends.
It is possible that Ruth attempted to describe her attachment to and responsibility for her mother-in-law, but perhaps she didn’t even try. To those whose concept of other’s motives can rise no higher than their own, it is difficult to explain that the true opposite of love is less hate than selfishness. There is always hope that any strong feeling we have for another, no matter how negative, may be transmuted into love. But the person to whom the world is essentially a mirror in which he alone is reflected is hopelessly turned in upon himself, and his concept of love is reduced to ego-fulfillment.
How little ego we find in this story. Even the “nearer kinsman” is primarily concerned about those who will come after him, and Boaz is a model of sensitive concern for others. It is hard to imagine that little Obed is going to need to be taught love for his parents and grandmother; family devotion will be an integral part of all he experiences.
