Welcoming the Stranger

To be read after the telling of the Exodus story and before the second cup of wine

Introduction

As we recount our people's journey from oppression to freedom, we are reminded that the story of the stranger seeking refuge is as relevant today as it was in ancient times. The Torah commands us no less than 36 times to welcome the stranger, "for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." Tonight, as we celebrate our liberation, we take a moment to consider those who still seek freedom and dignity in our own time.

Reading

Reader 1: We read in Exodus 23:9, "You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt."

Reader 2: Today, millions of people flee violence, persecution, and poverty. They cross deserts and oceans, risk their lives, and leave behind everything they know—just as our ancestors did—in search of safety and a better life for their children.

Reader 3: At our borders and in our communities, families are separated, children are detained, and those seeking asylum are turned away. Our current immigration system is broken, causing needless suffering and denying basic human dignity to those who come seeking refuge.

Reader 4: As Jews who have known the bitterness of oppression and the sweetness of freedom, we cannot stand idly by. We are called to create a more just and compassionate immigration system—one that treats every person with dignity, keeps families together, and provides a path to citizenship for those who have made their homes here.

Reflection

Let us dip a finger in our wine and place a drop on our plates for each of these modern plagues affecting immigrants today:

• Family separation
• Detention of children
• Deportation of those who have lived here for decades
• Denial of asylum to those fleeing violence
• Exploitation of undocumented workers
• Xenophobia and racism in our public discourse
• The militarization of our borders
• Lives lost in dangerous desert and ocean crossings
• The pain of living in fear and in the shadows
• The trauma carried by those who have fled war and persecution

Communal Pledge

Together, we commit ourselves to:

• Advocate for comprehensive immigration reform that provides a path to citizenship
• Support organizations that provide legal aid and humanitarian assistance to immigrants
• Speak out against policies that criminalize and dehumanize immigrants
• Welcome newcomers into our communities
• Remember that we, too, were once strangers

Blessing for Immigration Reform

May we have the courage to open our hearts and our doors to those seeking refuge. May we work to build a society that honors the humanity in every person, regardless of where they were born. And may we never forget that our own freedom is bound up with the freedom of all people.

Raise the second cup of wine

We lift this cup in solidarity with all who seek freedom, and we commit ourselves to working for a world where no one must flee their home in search of safety, and where every stranger is welcomed as a neighbor and friend.

“You too must befriend the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:19)
Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, the 16th century commentator from Prague known as the Kli Yakar,
wrote that anyone who was never a stranger in his life cannot feel the pain of the stranger and does not
suffer together with the stranger. Anyone who himself has been a stranger, though, knows in his very core
the agony of the stranger, and would never allow anything which he himself finds hateful to happen to
5
INTRODUCTION
another.
It’s precisely because we have seen our own people dominate the news cycle for so long that we cannot
stay silent. It’s because we have witnessed violence and bloodshed in our community that we cannot stay
silent. It’s because we have heard our brothers and sisters blamed and defended, vilified and glorified, that
we cannot stay silent regarding the tragic events taking place in Ferguson, in New York, in Ohio, in
Wisconsin, and elsewhere throughout the country.

“You too must befriend the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:19)

Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, the 16th century commentator from Prague known as the Kli Yakar, wrote that anyone who was never a stranger in his life cannot feel the pain of the stranger and does not suffer together with the stranger. Anyone who himself has been a stranger, though, knows in his very core the agony of the stranger, and would never allow anything which he himself finds hateful to happen to another.

It’s precisely because we have seen our own people dominate the news cycle for so long that we cannot stay silent. It’s because we have witnessed violence and bloodshed in our community that we cannot stay silent. It’s because we have heard our brothers and sisters blamed and defended, vilified and glorified, that we cannot stay silent regarding the tragic events taking place in Ferguson, in New York, in Ohio, in Wisconsin, and elsewhere throughout the country.

Ha Lachma Anya

This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. All who are hungry, let them come and eat, anyone who is needy should come and make Pesah. Now we are thus, but next year we should be in Israel. Now we are slaves, but next year let us be free.

Embracing the Stranger

Alepha Beta of Ben Sirach (10th century midrash aggadah)
All who are needy : Your table should always be spread for anyone who would come and it will be fitting for God’s presence to be spread above it.

Exodus 23:9
You shall not pressure strangers, for you know the being of the stranger for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.

Leviticus 19:33-34
When a stranger lives with you in your land, you shall not torture them. The stranger living with you should be as a citizen for you. And you should love him as you love yourself for you were slaves in Egypt. I am God, your God.

Rashi, Leviticus 19:34
For you were slaves : A blemish that you possess, you should not point out in your friend.

Deuteronomy 10:19
And you should love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.

Leviticus Rabba 9:3
A story is told about Rebi Yanai who was walking on the road and saw a particularly distinguished man. He asked him to visit his home and the man agreed. He brought him home, and fed him, and gave him wine and. He tested him in Bible and found he knew none; in Mishnah, and found he knew none; in Aggadah, and found he knew none; in Talmud, and found he knew none. He said to him, why don’t you lead the prayer after meals, the man said, Yanai should be saying the prayer in his own house. Yanai asked, can you repeat what I’m about to say? The man said yes. Yanai said: A dog has eaten the bread of Yanai. The man replied: My inheritance is in your possession and you withhold it from me?! Yanai said: what inheritance of yours is with me? The man said: Once I passed a school and heard those inside saying “The Torah was commanded to us by Moses, it is an inheritance for the congregation of Israel.” It doesn’t say the congregation of Yanai, rather the congregation of Jacob.

Points for discussion:

• Why does Yanai initially invite this man to his house?
• How would you characterize Yanai’s interaction with his guest?
• What would you articulate as the moral of this story? What is the midrash trying to teach us?
• Is there a part of you that is like Yanai? Is there a part of you that is like his guest?
• How does the experience of the Passover seder help us to see opportunities for teaching and learning from all who are present?

You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt (Exodus 23:9)

Strangers, Forever! (from Rabbi Chaim Seidler Feller)

  What might we remember this year at Passover? The most important idea that ought to be front  and center at our Seders is that we were and still are strangers, gerim. As a community we’ve  forgotten what that means and are no longer conscious of the obligations that devolve onto  former slaves who have reveled and thrived in freedom. When it is convenient and we stand to  benefit we tend to remind everyone that we were the victims of history. The rest of the time we  simply take our place and act as if we’re entitled. Where is the active memory, the awareness of  who we really are and what our tradition has taught us we ought to be? How do you maintain a  consciousness of being a stranger when you are so successful and comfortable?

The Netziv, R. Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin (1816-1893, father of R. Meir Bar-Ilan and head of  the renowned Volozhin Yeshiva for 38 years) writes incisively in his Haggadah commentary that  the referent intended by the proclamation: “It is this [promise] that stood by our ancestors and  us,” is not what follows, that “in every generation they stand against us to destroy us,” but what  precedes, that is, “Know that your children will be strangers in a land that is not theirs.” In other  words, when we lift up our cups to declare what we have learned from our history and what is to  be our destiny, we assert that it is not antisemitism that has sustained and motivated us but our  self-identification as strangers, as gerim, that has framed our worldview and shaped our values. 

In fact, it was our basic training in Egypt as strangers that provided us with the wherewithal to  survive countless persecutions and a history of torment and second-class ‘citizenship.’ It wasn’t  the antisemitism that kept us Jewish, but our built-in capacity to navigate the world as outsiders,  as the perennial other.

The lesson is poignant and profound. It means that even when we feel at home and have  achieved a degree of comfort, we are obligated, if we want to maintain our Jewishness, to sustain  a sense of discomfort, for that is the nature of being Jewish. Discomfort, not because they hate us,  but as a consequence of a psychological state of marginality, of being simultaneously a part of  and apart from, in and out of society, integrated and acculturated but not assimilated. Judaism is  to be carried as a badge that reminds us never to settle-in completely, not to get too close to the  centers of power and to always maintain a distance, a strong sense of distinction. Such a complex  identity would foster humility, prod us to strive for excellence and compel us to develop a deep  identification with the vulnerable - the eternal other - for they are us.

“In each and every generation one must display oneself (according to Maimonides’ text) as  though s/he personally left the slavery of Egypt.” Indeed, we are the slaves, the downtrodden,  whose mission it is to represent the vulnerable. The lesson we learned is that, since we suffered,  we bear the special responsibility to make sure that others don’t suffer as we did. The Seder is a  physical performance dedicated to impressing the memory of our traumatic experience in Egypt  on our psyches so that we are naturally predisposed to empathizing with the underdogs and  acting on their behalf. At our grand celebration of liberation, we transmit the wisdom of our  tradition that has taught us never to count ourselves among the subjugators but always among the  liberators.