This post is the third in my series Justice for the Stranger, where I’ve been exploring what Scripture says about immigrants, foreigners, and refugees. In the first two posts, I examined the biblical foundation for treating outsiders with justice and compassion. Here, I want to ask how those same principles might speak into one of the most difficult issues of our time: the conflict between Israel and Palestine.

Why This Question Matters

“What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary. Go and learn it.”— Rabbi Hillel

As I’ve been studying what the Bible says about the foreigner—commands that repeat over and over, urging us not to oppress but to love the stranger—I couldn’t shake a harder question: what does this mean for Israel and Palestine today?

Every time the news flashes images of rockets, ruined neighborhoods, grieving families, or hostages, I find myself torn. Hamas’s violence and terror against Israeli civilians are real and horrific. At the same time, Israel’s responses, while rooted in a legitimate need for security, so often leave Palestinian civilians caught in the crossfire, stripped of dignity, home, or hope. The result is suffering on all sides, with cycles of fear and anger that feel impossible to break.

I realized this isn’t just about politics or borders. For Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike, this is a profoundly theological question. Each of our traditions remembers being strangers, commands us to protect the vulnerable, and calls us to see the dignity of every human life. We share more in this ethic than we often admit.

So I keep asking myself: what if we took that shared ethic seriously? Could justice, love, and dignity for the stranger offer a different way forward—one that doesn’t ignore security needs or excuse violence, but insists on seeing even an enemy as a neighbor who still bears the image of God? Hundreds of years of violence in the Middle-East and love seems to be the one thing that has not been tried.

The Abrahamic Mandate Toward the Foreigner

“None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.” – Muhammad (Hadith, Sahih Muslim 45)

At the heart of all three Abrahamic faiths lies a strikingly similar command: do not oppress the outsider, but extend justice, compassion, and welcome.

Judaism: The Torah repeats the refrain with remarkable insistence. “Do not mistreat or oppress a foreigner, for you were foreigners in Egypt” (Exod. 22:21). Leviticus presses it further: “The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself” (Lev. 19:34). The prophets sharpen the warning, declaring that to deny justice to the foreigner is to invite God’s judgment (Jer. 7:6; Mal. 3:5).

Christianity: Jesus radicalizes the command in His teaching. When asked “Who is my neighbor?” He responds with the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37), shattering the boundary between insider and outsider. Paul later declares that in Christ the walls that divide Jew from Gentile are broken down (Eph. 2:14), and all are “fellow citizens with God’s people” (Eph. 2:19).

Islam: The Qur’an echoes this same ethic. “Indeed, Allah commands you to render trusts to whom they are due and when you judge between people to judge with justice” (Qur’an 4:58). Life itself is sacred: “Whoever kills a soul… it is as if he had slain mankind entirely. And whoever saves one—it is as if he had saved all mankind” (Qur’an 5:32). The Prophet Muhammad reinforced this in daily practice: “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself” (Sahih Muslim 45).

Taken together, these texts form a shared mandate: Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike are called to extend justice, compassion, and dignity to the foreigner, the stranger, the one who does not belong. This is not a marginal teaching but a core expression of covenant faithfulness.

If this is the ethic we all claim, then the real challenge is not discovering it, but daring to practice it.

Separating Hamas from Palestinian Civilians

One of the first challenges in applying the ethic of justice and compassion is learning to distinguish between combatants and civilians. The Bible, the Qur’an, and the broader Abrahamic tradition recognize this tension: evil must be resisted, but the innocent must not be condemned with the guilty.

In the Hebrew Bible, Israel was commanded to resist oppressors like Amalek, yet the law also required careful limits to ensure that justice did not become indiscriminate vengeance (Deut. 24:16: “Parents are not to be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their parents; each will die for their own sin”). The prophets condemned those who “shed innocent blood” (Jer. 22:3).

In the New Testament, Paul affirms the role of rulers to restrain evil (Rom. 13), but Jesus makes clear in His parable of the weeds (Matt. 13:24–30) that human judgment is often imperfect, and separating guilty from innocent requires divine care.

Islamic ethics echoes this principle. The Qur’an affirms the sanctity of life: “Whoever kills a soul… it is as if he had slain all mankind” (Qur’an 5:32). The Prophet Muhammad forbade the killing of women, children, and non-combatants in war (Sunan Abu Dawud 2669). Justice demands distinction.

This is where the tragedy deepens. Hamas commits violence and terror against Israelis, deliberately targeting civilians. Israel has a legitimate right to defend its people. Yet in exercising that right, the line between militants and civilians is too often blurred, leaving ordinary Palestinians—many of whom reject violence—suffering the consequences. The Abrahamic ethic insists: resist evil, yes, but never at the expense of the innocent.

If we collapse all Palestinians into Hamas, we betray justice. If we excuse Hamas’s violence in the name of Palestinian suffering, we betray mercy. Justice for the stranger requires that we hold both truths: protect the vulnerable from terror, and protect the vulnerable from retaliation.

If we collapse all Palestinians into Hamas, we betray justice. If we excuse Hamas’s violence in the name of Palestinian suffering, we betray mercy. Justice for the stranger requires that we hold both truths: protect the vulnerable from terror, and protect the vulnerable from retaliation.

I am not naïve. I understand that in the West we are deeply shaped by individualism, while in many Eastern and Middle Eastern cultures identity is more collective. The distinction we so easily make between Hamas and ordinary Palestinians may not be as clear in a collectivist setting. But what remains clear—and what transcends cultural frames—is the difference between those who engage in indiscriminate killing and those who are bystanders caught in the crossfire. Justice demands that we not blur that line.

When we dehumanize the innocent alongside the guilty, we not only betray justice—we perpetuate the cycle of violence.

What Justice, Love, and Dignity Would Look Like

If the Abrahamic traditions share a mandate to care for the foreigner, then what might that look like in the hard realities of Israel and Palestine today? The answer is not simple, but the principles are clear.

Justice

In the Torah, judges were commanded to “hear the cases of your fellow Israelites and of the foreigners residing among you. Do not show partiality in judging” (Deut. 1:16). Justice was to be impartial, not stratified. Islam echoes this: “When you judge between people, judge with justice” (Qur’an 4:58). For Israel and Palestine, justice means resisting the temptation of collective punishment. It means ensuring due process, fair treatment, and legal protections for civilians—whether Israeli or Palestinian—so that entire communities are not condemned for the actions of a few.

Love

Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37) presses the question of who is my neighbor. The shocking answer: the foreigner, the enemy, the one from whom you would least expect kindness. Likewise, a hadith of the Prophet Muhammad reminds believers: “He is not a believer whose stomach is filled while his neighbor goes hungry” (Sunan al-Kubra, al-Bayhaqi). Love, in the Abrahamic ethic, is not sentiment but costly action: feeding, protecting, sheltering—even across enemy lines.

Dignity

The biblical command to leave gleanings for the foreigner (Deut. 24:19–21) and the Qur’anic principle of the sanctity of life (Qur’an 5:32) point to the same truth: outsiders must be treated with dignity, not as expendable. In practice, this means safeguarding access to food, water, healthcare, and education for Palestinians, while also protecting Israelis from indiscriminate attack. Human dignity is not negotiable; it is the image of God in every person.

Charity and Provision

One of the Five Pillars of Islam is Zakat—obligatory charity. This is not optional generosity but a structural way of ensuring that the poor, the vulnerable, and the outsider are provided for. It echoes Torah’s laws of gleaning and Jubilee, and Jesus’ insistence that feeding the hungry is service to Him (Matt. 25:35). A society shaped by this ethic would ensure that the weakest—including refugees and foreigners—are not left to hunger, homelessness, or despair.

Shared Models of Protection

The Torah’s cities of refuge (Num. 35:15) provided asylum even for foreigners accused of crimes. Early Islam’s Constitution of Medina recognized Jews, Muslims, and others as one civic community (ummah) bound together in mutual defense and justice. Both are models for how societies can uphold dignity in the midst of difference.

Taken together, justice, love, dignity, and charity do not dissolve the complexities of conflict. But they offer a framework that refuses to dehumanize, refuses to excuse violence, and refuses to sacrifice the innocent for the sake of expedience.

In Les Misérables, Jean Valjean’s dignity is restored when someone treats him with mercy instead of contempt. That moment of recognition changes his life and ripples outward into society. In the same way, recognizing the dignity of Palestinians and Israelis alike could become the seed of peace, even in the midst of deep enmity.

Prophetic Challenge to Both Sides

In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Captain Sisko warns that when survival becomes the only value, morality collapses. The prophets made the same point long ago: a nation that secures itself at the cost of justice for the stranger has already lost what matters most.

The ethic of justice for the stranger is not abstract—it confronts real people and real policies. Scripture and the Qur’an alike remind us that nations are judged not only by their power, but by how they treat the vulnerable.

To Israel:

The Torah’s constant refrain is “Do not oppress the foreigner, for you were foreigners in Egypt” (Exod. 22:21; Lev. 19:34). Israel’s modern security concerns are real and pressing, yet the prophets warn that mistreating outsiders leads to ruin (Jer. 7:6; Mal. 3:5). Israel must be vigilant not to become Pharaoh in its treatment of Palestinians, turning the oppressed into oppressors.

To Palestinians:

The Qur’an is clear: “Whoever kills a soul… it is as if he had slain all mankind” (Qur’an 5:32). Hamas’s deliberate targeting of civilians cannot be justified as resistance; it betrays the very ethic of justice Islam enshrines. Even in the pursuit of justice, violence against innocents perpetuates oppression rather than healing it.

To Christians and Jews worldwide:

We often appeal to Scripture selectively. Many evangelicals and fundamentalists loudly invoke the Bible on issues like sexuality or abortion, but remain silent when its clear commands about foreigners and justice are ignored. Faithfulness requires consistency: if the Bible is our authority, we cannot excuse policies that oppress or dehumanize refugees and immigrants.

To Muslims worldwide:

Justice (ʿadl) and mercy (raḥma) are core values of Islam, and zakat (charity) is a pillar of the faith. Advocacy for Palestinian dignity is right and necessary, but it cannot excuse terror or hatred. To defend the oppressed while ignoring the Qur’an’s demand to protect innocents is to distort the faith.

The prophetic challenge is sharp, but it is also hopeful: both sides, and all who watch from afar, are called back to the same God who commands justice, mercy, and humility (Mic. 6:8). The question is not whether these ideals are beautiful—they are. The question is whether we will be courageous enough to try them.

A Forward-Looking Vision of Peace

“There’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”

The Abrahamic traditions do not leave us only with warnings; they also offer a vision of what peace might look like when justice and compassion guide our steps. Each tradition looks forward to a future where violence gives way to dignity and where nations live not in fear but in harmony.

Jewish vision: The prophets longed for a day when weapons of war would be transformed into tools of life: “They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore” (Isa. 2:4). For Israel, true security lies not only in strength of arms but in the pursuit of justice and peace.

Christian vision: The New Testament looks forward to the great multitude “from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb” (Rev. 7:9). In this eschatological hope, foreigners and enemies are no more—only neighbors gathered in worship. The dividing walls are broken, not by power, but by grace.

Islamic vision: The Qur’an affirms that diversity is not a curse but a gift: “O mankind, We created you from a male and a female and made you into nations and tribes so that you may know one another. Surely the most noble of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous of you” (Qur’an 49:13). Islam envisions a world where justice (ʿadl) and mercy (raḥma) govern relationships among peoples, and where no compulsion or oppression mars human dignity (Qur’an 2:256).

Taken together, these forward-looking visions challenge us to imagine peace not as a dream for the naïve, but as the shared horizon of faith. They call us beyond cycles of fear and retaliation toward a future where love for the stranger becomes the foundation of security.

Even amid rockets and rubble, there remains a vision of peace worth striving toward.

The Hard Road of Justice and Mercy

Some may say, “You cannot solve the Middle East. They have been fighting for thousands of years.” That is a convenient excuse—really, a cop out. If that were true, then why try at all? The reality is not that the problems are insoluble, but that they are profoundly difficult, and too often we would rather dismiss them than wrestle with them. If peace is ever to come, we must begin by understanding the region and its people more deeply.

As G.K. Chesterton observed, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.” The same could be said of the Abrahamic mandate to love the stranger. It is not absent—it is simply too hard, so it is often left ignored.

Part of our failure has been thinking too much like Westerners. Former President Jimmy Carter miscalculated in believing that more conservative expressions of Islam would align easily with Western Christian values. But Middle Eastern societies are not governed primarily by Western individualism. They are shaped by collectivist traditions, where honor and shame function as powerful social enforcers. If we fail to understand that dynamic, we will continue to misread motives and miscalculate possibilities for peace.

This does not diminish the difficulty. Loving the foreigner in wartime feels impossible. Extending dignity to those we fear or who have harmed us seems like folly. And yet the Torah, the prophets, the teachings of Jesus, and the Qur’an are unanimous: we are commanded to do precisely that.

True peace will not come through fear or domination. It will not come by securing victory over the other at all costs. It will only come when Jews, Christians, and Muslims take seriously their shared ethic: to act justly, to love mercy, and to honor the dignity of the stranger.

The call is clear. Whatever our politics, we must insist that our leaders be held accountable to this Abrahamic mandate. The stranger is not expendable. The foreigner is not invisible. In God’s economy, they are our neighbor. Until we dare to live as though that is true, the hard road to peace will remain untraveled.

Questions for Reflection

• For Christians: How does Jesus’ command to love your neighbor—even the Good Samaritan who was considered an enemy—reshape how you think about Palestinians and Israelis today?
• For Jews: The Torah repeatedly says, “Love the foreigner, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” How might that command shape Israel’s treatment of Palestinians in the land?
• For Muslims: The Qur’an teaches, “Whoever kills one soul… it is as if he has slain all of mankind” (5:32). How does this ethic challenge both violence against civilians and the call to protect the vulnerable?

Together, these questions remind us that while each tradition speaks in its own voice, they converge in a shared Abrahamic vision: true justice, mercy, and peace come only when we extend dignity and compassion to the stranger.

Related Posts in This Series

This post is part of the series Justice for the Stranger: What the Bible Says About Refugees, Immigrants, and Foreigners.

• Post 1 What Scripture Says About Immigrants
• Post 2 Justice for the Stranger
• Post 3 Israel and Palestine, An Abrahamic View (this post)

Excerpt

Israel and Palestine remain locked in conflict, but Judaism, Christianity, and Islam share a mandate: justice, mercy, and dignity for the stranger. This post explores how the Abrahamic traditions challenge violence, collective punishment, and Western assumptions, pointing instead toward a harder but truer path to peace and reconciliation.