You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.
Shemot 23:
One can’t help but wonder why the Jews throughout the thousands of years of their history were never able to develop into a stable, secure nation as other nations did. The constant attacks upon the Jewish people’s very existence, their small numbers, the lack of its homeland for nearly two thousand years, not to mention its internal difficulties, are unprecedented in world history. Even today, with the re-establishment of the State of Israel, with its power and its unprecedented achievements, we Jews remain a nation in constant flux, never sure where the next day will take us, confronted with crisis after crisis. We are incapable of predicting our future in any conventional sense.
Our nation has the remarkable capacity to be constantly at the brink of extinction, and yet not only to survive, but to thrive. This tiny nation not only endures and outlives its enemies, but also dazzles the world with its achievements and contributes to humanity in a manner that is totally out of all rational proportion to its numbers.
The quicksand on which all of Jewish history stands makes us wonder whether this condition is not essential to the very existence of the Jewish people.
A repeated commandment
One commandment repeated numerous times in the Torah is the one that requires the Jews to be concerned about the welfare of the stranger in their midst.
According to one opinion in the Talmud, this commandment is repeated forty-six times in the Torah.[1] Since no other commandment is repeated anywhere near that often, we must conclude that there is something in this imperative that is central to the mystery of the Jews and Judaism.
What is significant is that Jews are asked to look after the stranger on the basis of their own experience in the land of Egypt: “You know how it feels to be a stranger, since you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”[2] Here we are confronted with a crucial aspect of Jewish moral imperative. The demand of what appears to be the most important of all commandments can have sufficient authority only when it is based on an appeal to personal experience.
Indeed, it does not take much effort to realize that all of Jewish history is founded on the existence of “strangerhood.” Avraham, the initiator of Judaism, was called to become a stranger by leaving his home and country so as to find his identity. Early Jewish history is the story of a nomadic people who, even after they reached their destination, was forced to leave it on many occasions and to live once more as strangers. They were forced to live for hundreds of years “in a land not their own”[3]—Egypt. Under these circumstances, their identity is deepened. Only for intermittent periods do Jews actually live peacefully in their own homeland. Even the Jewish raison d’être, the Torah, was not given “at home”, but in a desert, in an existential experience of “foreignness.” It is as if the Torah’s commandments, without exception, find their justification, meaning, and fulfillment only when we know and experience what it means to be a stranger. Jewish history over the past two thousand years has forced the Jews to once more live as strangers in other people’s lands.
The stranger lacks security, a feeling of home and existential familiarity. Paradoxically, it is this lack that creates the climate through which people can become sensitive to the plight of their fellow human beings. It is the realization that there can be hope for morality only when humanity is somehow unsettled. The quest for security can impede our search for meaning and purpose. The absence of security can impel us to unfold our moral capabilities. Clearly, it is this that underlies the constant repetition of the commandment to look after the stranger “because you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”[4]
Living on the edge
For a nation to remain sensitive and concerned about the condition of the “other,” it must never be fully secure, and must constantly be aware of its own existential uncertainty. Thus, Jews must be strangers. It is in that way that they can become a moral beam of light to the nations of the world—which, after all, is the reason for their Jewishness. The Torah is a protest against human overconfidence; it is aware that the world becomes less secure the more people start to feel too much at home and consequently forget their fellow human beings.
Perhaps the recent upheavals that have denied the Jewish people stability and security are a Divine plea for Jews to become more sensitive towards the stranger and to their fellow human beings. Jews must live on the edge of eternal existence and insecurity even while living in their own homeland. We must realize that God made us into a people of archetypal strangers in order to make us capable of living by the imperatives of the Torah.
Most problems in society are the result of seeing the other as a stranger. Social injustice and crime are the result of seeing the other as an outsider. Most people do not understand what it means to be a stranger and how far it extends. The philosopher Francis Bacon wrote: “For a crowd is not a company and faces are but a gallery of pictures and talk a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.”[5] Many people feel alone even as they are surrounded by others, and some suffer their loneliest moments while standing in a crowd.
This awareness should become a major basis for the future Jewish-Israeli society. To be an eternal nation while living with a lack of security is the great paradox that makes a real Jewish moral society possible. Nevertheless, once Jews create an inner awareness of their archetypal condition as strangers, and create a society in which the stranger is fully cared for, they may proportionally remove the external circumstances which surround them so as to make the Jews aware of that very mission. The more the stranger is looked after, the less the need for the Jewish people to experience “strangerhood.”
To put an end to the solitude of the other, one needs to be somehow a stranger oneself. Even God seems to be unable to exist in solitude and is therefore endlessly in search of humankind as His companion.
[1] See the commentary of the Malbim on Vayikra 19:33.
[2] Shemot 23:9. See also the discussion in the Gemara in Bava Metziah 59b.
[3] Bereshit 15:13.
[4] Shemot 23:9
[5] Francis Bacon: “Of Friendship,” an essay.
Questions to Ponder
- Rabbi Cardozo posits that the lack of security and constant experience of “strangerhood” is essential for developing sensitivity toward others. Do you agree? Might insecurity have the opposite effect, making us more fearful of the other? What conditions do you feel are necessary for individuals or communities to cultivate deep moral sensitivity and empathy?
- The essay suggests that Jewish identity is deeply intertwined with the experience of being a stranger. Do you think this is still a condition for Jewish identity in the modern world, where many Jews live in relatively stable and secure conditions? Is it necessary to maintain a sense of strangerhood to preserve Jewish identity, or can this identity evolve without the same level of existential uncertainty?
- Do you agree that the sensitivity to the plight of others arises from a personal experience of being a stranger? Can you recall instances in your own life where feelings of displacement or unfamiliarity have heightened your awareness of the struggles faced by others? How has this awareness influenced your interactions with those around you?
- Many modern commentators translate the word “ger” in the Torah as “convert” and interpret the repeated commandment to look after the “ger” as a commandment to be kind to converts. However, the Torah very often appends to these commandments “for you were gerim in Egypt”. Clearly at the time of the Giving of the Torah, the word did not mean “convert”. How do you interpret the repeated emphasis on caring for the stranger in Jewish texts? Why do you think the meaning of the term changed over the centuries?
- Rabbi Cardozo implies that the historical and ongoing experiences of Jews as strangers are part of a Divine plan to cultivate moral sensitivity. How can this perspective be reconciled with the suffering and injustices faced by individuals and communities? Can this view be seen as justifying or accepting hardship, and what are the ethical implications of interpreting human experiences through the lens of Divine intent?
