Racial strife is nothing new. We sometimes speak as though our moment is uniquely fractured, as though division and suspicion are inventions of modernity. But the truth is more sobering. From the earliest days of human society, we have struggled with difference, with the presence of what the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas called “the dissonant other.” That is, the one who does not fit neatly into our categories, who disrupts our sense of order, who challenges our comfort simply by being different. Our difficulty has never merely been political or social. It is deeply human and profoundly spiritual.
For our people, this struggle is not theoretical. It is memory. We know what it is to be the stranger. We know what it is to live in a land not our own, to be marked as different, to be misunderstood, to be feared. The Torah reminds us again and again that we were strangers in the land of Egypt. That experience was not incidental. It was formative. It shaped our moral imagination and placed upon us a sacred obligation never to forget what it feels like to be the other.
I saw something of this firsthand growing up in Mount Vernon, a small city just north of the Bronx in New York City. It was not a place where tensions quietly simmered beneath the surface. They were real, pronounced, and often unavoidable. The city was marked by racial tensions, by demonstrations, and at times by violence. As a young person, I learned that diversity does not automatically produce unity. You can share streets, schools, and public spaces, and still live deeply divided lives. Proximity does not guarantee relationships.
That reality did not remain in the past. My wife and I encountered something unsettling not long ago while traveling. We were at an airline counter checking our luggage. We already had our tickets, and our profiles included our passport numbers and TSA information. Everything that needed to be known had already been provided. And yet, we were asked a question that felt jarring and out of place. “Were you born in this country?” It was not asked when our tickets were purchased. It came unexpectedly, and it carried a weight far beyond its words. In that moment, we were not simply passengers. We were being evaluated, categorized, set apart. It was a small moment, but it revealed how quickly one can be moved from belonging to being othered.
This is where the insight of Emmanuel Levinas becomes especially illuminating. Often, when we encounter the other, we do not truly see them. Instead, we see a reflection of ourselves. Sometimes that reflection reveals what we most dislike about ourselves, the parts we have not reconciled, the traits we quietly reject. And when we see those reflected outwardly, they can provoke anger, even hatred. At other times, the reflection reveals what we long to be but feel we have not yet achieved, and that can awaken a sense of inadequacy or resentment. In both cases, the other becomes a mirror, and our response is shaped less by who they are and more by what we see of ourselves in them.
But what if that is precisely where we go wrong. What if the other is not meant to be a reflection, but a complement. Not a mirror that throws us back upon ourselves, but a distinct presence that completes a larger picture. Like a single pixel in an image, insignificant on its own perhaps, but essential to the fullness of what is being formed. When we begin to see others in this way, distinction and difference are no longer threats to be managed. They become necessary elements of a greater whole. The dissonance we feel is not something to eliminate, but something to understand.
This perspective brings us back to a haunting line from the Haggadah, recited each year at our Passover tables. “All who are hungry, let them come and eat.” It is a beautiful declaration of openness and generosity, but it presses a question upon us. Do we really mean it. Do we live as though that invitation is real, or has it become a ritual phrase spoken safely among those who already belong.
If we peel back the layers of our assumptions, we see that this tension is ancient. It is present in the story of Kefa and Cornelius. Kefa is shaped by a world of distinctions, clean and unclean, insider and outsider, honor and shame. These categories preserved identity and community, but they also created boundaries that were not easily crossed. Cornelius, however, is a Gentile, an outsider, and yet he is described as a man of devotion, one who fears God and is remembered for his generosity to the poor. He embodies righteousness, even though he does not fit the expected mold.
When Kefa is confronted with the reality that someone like Cornelius could be welcomed into the community of God, it is not a small adjustment. It is a profound disruption. For the talmidim, this moment signaled something of eschatological importance, the beginning of the end of days, not because the world was ending, but because the boundaries that once defined the people of God were being opened in a new and unsettling way. The question was no longer simply who we are, but who is welcome among us.
The prophet Micah speaks directly into this tension. “He has shown you, O man, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” This is not a call to abstraction. It is a call to action. It is a call to a life that reflects the character of God in the way we treat others.
This resonates deeply within Jewish thought. The great sage Hillel the Elder teaches, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me. But if I am only for myself, what am I.” In that single teaching, Hillel captures the balance between personal responsibility and communal obligation. We must care for our own lives and our own people, but if our concern stops there, we have missed the heart of Torah.
There is also the Jewish practice of Mussar which includes Cheshbon Hanefesh, taking an inventory of our souls. What matters is not merely what we believed, but what we did. Faith is not measured in ideas alone, but in actions. It is embodied in how we treat the hungry, the stranger, and the one who stands outside our circle. This brings us again to the language of the Haggadah. “All who are hungry, let them come and eat.” This is not sentiment. It is a demand. It asks whether our tables are truly open and whether we are willing to be interrupted by those who do not belong to us.
We must also recognize that we have become beneficiaries of a powerful moral vision in this country. The words of Moses, “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land,” are inscribed on the Liberty Bell. They echo a biblical vision of freedom that extends beyond any one group. And inscribed on the Statue of Liberty are the words of Emma Lazarus, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free.” It is a vision of radical welcome, a declaration that the outsider and the displaced have a place.
Yet once again, the question presses itself upon us. Do we mean it. It is one thing to engrave words on monuments, but it is quite another to embody them in our lives. It is one thing to celebrate ideals. It is another to practice them when it costs us something, when it disrupts our comfort and challenges our assumptions.
In the Besorah according to Matthew, Yeshua says, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” It is an open invitation, not to a select few, but to all who are weary. The question is whether we are willing to reflect that same openness. Are we willing to become a community where burdens are shared and where those who are weary find rest among us.
This is not easy work. It requires humility. It requires courage. It requires us to rethink how we see the other. Not as a threat, not as a mirror, but as a necessary presence that enlarges our understanding of what it means to be human. If we take seriously our own story, if we remember Egypt, if we hear the call of the prophets, if we heed the wisdom of our sages, and if we listen to the invitation of the Haggadah, then we cannot remain as we are.
“All who are hungry, let them come and eat.” This is not a slogan. It is a test of who we are becoming. Because in the end, the measure of our faith is not how well we define ourselves over against others, but how faithfully we make space for them. Not how carefully we maintain our boundaries, but how courageously we extend our tables. And in doing so, we may discover that the dissonant other is not a threat to our identity, but a revelation of it. In welcoming the stranger, we remember who we have always been, and perhaps we begin, at last, to heal.