When the Open-tent Model Fails Parshat Mishpatim

Over the past 16 months, in the wake of the war with Hamas, Israeli artists have responded through song, reflecting a spectrum of emotions—from personal grief to theological protest, from lamentation to militant resolve. Some songs, like Ze Aleinu by Subliminal or Charvu Darvu Nes, speak of war, revenge, Amalek, and strength. They are charged with aggression, echoing the hardened sentiments that have taken hold of the national consciousness.

Here in Israel, it is almost impossible to find images of Gazan civilians in mainstream media. In times of war, nations rarely highlight the suffering of the other side—it does little to sustain morale and advance the war aims. And yet, the question remains: What place does the "other" hold in Jewish tradition? Should every outsider be viewed with suspicion, as a potential enemy? Does survival take precedence over openness—shielding us from vulnerability but also severing the possibility of connection?

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It is natural to seek revenge in response to the unfathomable brutality of October 7th. It is natural to disavow the world’s gestures of friendship and retreat into isolation. The vision of a Jewish destiny rooted in hope, reconciliation, and moral leadership—now feels almost naive, a distant dream. The temptation to revert to an exilic mindset, to see antisemitism as proof that we must turn inward and focus solely on our survival, is tempting and compelling.

But we must also remember that the impulse to see every stranger as a threat has, at times, led to history’s greatest atrocities. How do we strike the right balance?

This dilemma brings to mind a couple in Jewish tradition who embody two contrasting models—Abraham and Sarah. Abraham’s tent was open on all sides, a symbol of boundless compassion and engagement with the world. He welcomed every stranger and wanderer, embodying the Jewish ideal of openness. Sarah, by contrast, recognized the real and present danger posed by the "other." She stood as a sentinel at the entrance, sending Hagar and Ishmael away to protect her own, shutting her ears to their cries and silencing ethical sensitivities in the name of survival.

Today, we are justified in questioning the viability of Abraham’s model. Were we too naïve? Did our humanity, our compassion, our trust in the other blind us to the reality of radical evil? Has Abraham’s open tent been permanently shattered, leaving us with no choice but to follow Sarah’s path?

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This week’s parsha, Mishpatim, references this very paradox:

"You must not mistreat or oppress the stranger in any way. Remember, you yourselves were once strangers in the land of Egypt." (Exodus 22:21)

"You must not oppress strangers. You know what it feels like to be a stranger, for you yourselves were once strangers in the land of Egypt." (Exodus 23:9)

The command to care for the stranger is one of the most repeated in the Torah. In fact, our national enslavement in Egypt seems to serve as the foundation for this imperative.

This paradox—our need to protect ourselves versus our ethical mandate to see the humanity in others—is embedded within the Torah itself. At the end of Beshalach, Israel’s first battle is against Amalek. The Torah commands us to remember and destroy them. And yet, the very next chapter introduces Yitro, a Midianite priest, who comes because he hears of Israel’s miracles.

The juxtaposition is striking. One moment, we are commanded to obliterate an enemy. The next, we are welcoming an outsider who acknowledges our God, shares a meal with us, and offers governance advice that we adopt. Amalek represents the enemy who dehumanized us, who attacked from behind, who showed no regard for morality. But Yitro? Yitro is the other who brings wisdom, peace, and partnership.

These two figures—Amalek and Yitro—exist within our world today. Do we close ranks and shut out all outsiders, assuming they are all Amalek? Or do we distinguish, recognizing that while some seek our destruction, others may bring insight, support, and even friendship?

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Jewish tradition does not offer a one-dimensional answer. It presents a dialectical response. Sometimes, survival requires unwavering strength and self-protection. Other times, it demands an open hand and a willingness to listen to those outside our immediate circle.

Parshat Mishpatim details the intricate laws that follow the revelation at Sinai. Nestled within its legal codes are repeated commands to love the stranger and to pursue justice for the widow, the orphan, and the marginalized. The Torah does not advocate for pure militarism nor blind universalism. It demands a thoughtful, case-by-case engagement with the other. It asks us to oscillate between the Abraham and Sarah model. To ask when are mandated to listen to the clinical and unpromising voice of Sarah and when are we to stand at our open tent, arms extended to those that pass by?

But where does that leave us today? Amalek must be confronted. Evil must not be tolerated. But does that mean we shut out all voices from the outside? Do we reject even critical allies? Do we dismiss all perspectives that challenge us? Or do we recognize that, while the present reality may demand a focus on security and survival, our long-term vision must still strive for a more just and expansive future?

The Torah does not hand us easy answers. It demands that we engage in the difficult work of interpretation. We are God’s partners in shaping the world, and that responsibility requires both humility and openness. May we find the wisdom to strike the right balance—because the cost of getting it wrong is not just ours to bear, but could shape the future of our people and of humanity itself.

Shabbat Shalom