One verse, five voices. Edited by Nina Litvak and Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist
”You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
– Ex.22:20
Kira Sirote
Author of “Haftorah Unrolled”
The Jewish Nation was not born in the Land of Israel. The first time we were called a nation was when Pharaoh said: “this nation Israel has gotten to be too numerous.” We became a family in Israel, but we became a nation in Egypt.
God promised Abraham: “your descendants will be strangers in a land not their own.” Well before Pharaoh, well before Moses, even before Joseph, it was the plan all along.
Why? Why couldn’t we be like a normal nation, like the Japanese or the Swiss, who became a nation in their own land?
God didn’t want a normal nation; He wanted “a kingdom of priests and a holy people.” The problem with priests, however, is that they tend to believe that their holiness grants them not only privilege but outright dominance over other people. They’re true humans, and everyone else is a lower being. They’re in and everyone else is out. Strangers are not only distrusted, they are despised.
So God sent us to Egypt, where we would be the strangers in a land not our own. He took us out, chose us and made us holy and told us in no uncertain terms: strangers are not beneath you. Strangers are not the other. Strangers are not prey.
We are commanded to cultivate our memory of being strangers and aim to reach a level of empathy that is well beyond that of Japan or Switzerland, or any other “normal” nation founded in their own homeland.
Rabbi Ari Averbach
Temple Etz Chaim – Thousand Oaks
If the Torah merely commanded that we don’t oppress strangers, we could all agree on its importance in creating a moral society. But the second clause, reminding us that we were gerim (strangers, outsiders, immigrants – multiple definitions, depending on which translation you prefer), is what makes this line remarkable.
We want to think that Judaism is revelation at Mount Sinai. A big, beautiful moment that reminds us of how powerful we are – that we have a personal relationship with the Creator of the World; that we are chosen. But the most repeated idea in Judaism, what we are constantly reminding ourselves, is that we were gerim. We say it in every prayer service. A more optimistic faith would reminisce about Abraham and Sarah’s epiphany or the sea splitting. But instead, we dwell on the fact that we have a history of being oppressed. That we know what it’s like. And now it is our sacred (and seemingly impossible) responsibility to never treat another with that pharaonic brutalization.
To be honest, I don’t know what it’s like to be a stranger (or outsider or immigrant). And I need this reminder that Judaism revolves around how we treat those who are so easy to subjugate. Our sacred call in the Torah and in our liturgy is about how we know what it’s like to be oppressed. This is your mission, if you choose to accept it: remember how bad it was, and never let that happen to anyone else.
Rabbi Rebecca Schatz
Associate Rabbi, Temple Beth Am
You shall not wrong or oppress a stranger. Period. End of sentence. The next verse does not qualify the need to treat the orphan and the widow with respect. So, why do we need to be reminded of the emotional reason to rid ourselves of xenophobia? The human condition is, unfortunately, to be afraid of anything different from us. We are afraid of the unknown and we are afraid of that which seems “strange,” defined as “surprising and making something or someone hard to understand.”
In 2026, we are creating wars and building societies of people afraid of one another. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks z”l famously said: “to be a Jew is to be a stranger … God made you into the world’s archetypal strangers so that you would fight for the rights of strangers – for your own and those of others. Why should I not hate the stranger? Because the stranger is me.” The qualifier in the verse is to recognize that you too will, and have been, oppressed unless you welcome everyone into conversation. As Pirkei Avot teaches, it is not our duty to finish the work, but it is our obligation not to neglect it. We must do better. Love the other as you love yourself. Lean into curiosity rather than fear differences.
Rabbi/Cantor Eva Robbins
Co-Rabbi N’vay Shalom & Faculty AJRCA
Fresh from their experience as slaves in Egypt, G-d wants to reinforce the memory and demand exemplary behavior, ensuring that revenge not be the response to pain and suffering, but empathy and generosity of spirit, preventing retaliation and retribution that so frequently is the response to anguish and adversity; to not enslave others because of the experience. Some feel that this is a perfect reminder in these times, as the media shows us images of undocumented immigrants being oppressed, man-handled and transported away from their homes and families as if they were strangers in this land. Often running away from autocratic regimes turned unsafe and dangerous, they come to this country as strangers but soon find a home with friends, neighbors, schools and even work that gives them new meaning and identities.
In response to what can seem like unlawful and inhumane treatment, citizens are supporting, feeding and even trying to prevent cruelty, then becoming targets themselves, even shot to death. Jew and non-Jew alike commit themselves to this directive ‘to not wrong or oppress the stranger,’ even “treating them as one who is born here … Love him as yourself.” (Lev. 19)
The most historic act of enforced slavery has become an inspirational tale for so many cultures, encouraging rebellions, including our own country, rejecting monarchal leadership for democracy highlighted by an invitation, “Give me your tired, Your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free …” (Emma Lazarus) With pride, our parsha has become a symbol of hope and opportunity and must become our resounding call NOW.
Dr. Sheila Tuller Keiter
Judaic Studies Faculty, Shalhevet High School
Hillel argued on one foot that the entire Torah could be encapsulated in “Love your fellow as yourself” (Lev 19:18). One could make a solid mono-pedal case for the eminence of this verse. The Torah, mitzvot, and our collective history all demand this moral imperative: Treat all humanity with dignity and respect. Our Jewish mission is to model this for everyone. It took millennia before Western society caught up. Only with the Enlightenment could Thomas Jefferson declare, “all men are created equal” in 1776.
In mid-19th century Germany, Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch considered this verse, perhaps anticipating the rhetoric of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. a century later: “… personal and civil rights, and personal worth, are not dependent on descent, place of birth or property ownership – indeed … they are independent of any external, incidental factor which bears no relationship to the individual’s true character. These rights are determined solely by the individual’s moral and spiritual qualities.” We must judge others not by nationality or skin color “but by the content of their character.”
But there’s a flipside. Hirsch continues: “All your misfortunes in [Egypt] were caused by the fact that you were foreigners there, and that as such, in the view of the other nations, you had no right to land, honor or existence. … ” Yes, argues Hirsch, we have the moral imperative to treat all people equally, but the only guarantor of Jewish rights is Jewish sovereignty. The Jew must defend the vulnerable, and he must defend himself.
