In the middle of Sefer Shemos, the Torah presents us with a profound directive: “Do not oppress the convert” (Shemos 22:20). Hashem warns us not to mistreat the ger, the convert, the outsider who chooses to join Klal Yisrael. And why? “Because you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
Rashi explains further. We are enjoined to remember what it was like to be a stranger, vulnerable in a foreign place. So do not cause the convert pain, not even with words.
The commentaries raise an important question. Do we really need a reason not to oppress a ger? Isn’t that intuitive? Must the Torah persuade us not to mistreat the vulnerable? Isn’t decency obvious?
And yet, the Torah does offer a reason: because you were once there too. Why?
When someone new arrives in your town, someone who doesn’t quite “fit” yet—whether in background, in comfort with Yiddishkeit, in language, or in familiarity with customs—we often extend kindness from a place of sympathy. We feel for them.
But the Torah demands more. Hashem doesn’t just ask us to be nice. He demands empathy. Don't just feel for the ger; feel with them. Remember what it was like when you were new. Relive the insecurity, the displacement, the fear. Not just intellectually, but emotionally. Relationally.
To be a Jew is not just to help others, but to carry the burden with them. To step into their shoes, to lean your shoulder under their load. And this lesson is especially urgent in these times. We are not merely praying because missiles are flying and cities are under fire.
We are praying because mothers are holding crying babies at 3:00 a.m., because six-year-olds are developing PTSD from sirens that won’t stop, because fathers are stranded in foreign countries with their hearts torn in two.
We are praying because brides have had weddings canceled, because young adults are cut off from parents, because elderly people are alone in apartments, trembling in fear. And it’s not “them.” It’s us.
This isn’t empathy from a distance. It’s not sympathy from safety. It’s oneness. When we say Tehillim, we don’t just pray for our brothers and sisters; we pray with them. Their fear, their confusion; all of it lives inside our hearts, too.
But there’s another layer:
Rav Moshe Sternbuch writes that one of the spiritual dangers of being outside of Eretz Yisrael is that we focus too much on the war and too little on the meaning behind it.
We start thinking that wars are won by military might, strategy, intelligence and technology.
But, “While some trust in chariots, some in horses, we invoke the name of Hashem.”
This isn’t defeatism. It’s clarity. The very first enemy to ever seek our destruction without mercy was Amalek. And how did we win? Moshe didn’t pick up a sword. He climbed a mountain and raised his hands in prayer. And the Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 29a) asks: did Moshe’s hands win the war? Of course not. But when the Jewish people looked upward and dedicated their hearts to their Father in Heaven—they prevailed. If not? They fell.
Missiles don’t win wars. Neither do tanks. Our wars were never meant to be fought with weapons. They were meant to be fought with clouds of glory, with splitting seas, with G-d’s revealed hand.
We are tired. But our tefillah is not “Hashem, hit harder.” Our prayer is: “Hashem, reveal Yourself.” We’re not just asking for a military victory. We’re asking for redemption. “Nation shall not lift sword against nation, and they shall no longer learn war.”
We want to stop surviving and start living in a world where Your presence is known. We want more than survival; we want Geulah.
So when we daven, let our empathy be real. Let our eyes rise above the battlefield, beyond the politics, and fixate only on the Shechinah. Let us whisper with full hearts: “Avinu Shebashamayim—we’re done with the darkness. We don’t just want to win. We want You.” And maybe, just maybe, Hashem will say back: “You got it. You understand. You know it’s not your strength; it’s Mine. You want Me, not just My help.”
And then, with the sword of our lips, we will pierce the heavens and be zocheh for Hashem to reveal Himself fully. May it be soon, and may we merit to walk together to Eretz Yisrael—not as a nation at war—but as a people redeemed.
