Our country’s history is one of immigration. The Mayflower brought one of the first groups of immigrants to the United States. By the early 1600s, European immigrants spread out over the Thirteen Colonies. Some, including the Puritans and the Pilgrims, came for religious freedom. Others came against their will. Americans’ views toward immigration and immigrants have changed throughout the centuries and they will continue to do so.

In 1790, Congress passed the first law about who should be granted US citizenship. At that time, “any free white person of ‘good character,’ who has been living in the United States for two years or longer, [could] apply for citizenship.” In the 1800s, some states passed their own immigration laws until, in 1875, the Supreme Court gave the responsibility to the federal government. With this change, various populations were barred from immigrating. 

Unfortunately, history is repeating itself. Now US immigration is governed by the Immigration and Nationality Act. This dictates who can enter the United States, how long they can stay, and their process for citizenship. It sets limits on the number of permanent visas issued annually. 

Immigration isn’t limited to the history and laws of the United States — it is a large component and value of Judaism. Our collective Jewish memory carries the trauma of closed borders — we have been labeled as illegal, dangerous, and unwanted throughout history. In 1939, the MS St. Louis was denied entry to Cuba, the US, and Canada. This ship carried more than 900 Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi Germany. A third of the passengers were later murdered in the Holocaust.

We have relied on the courage of those who risked their own safety to help us. We have crossed borders at night, used forged papers, bribed officials, adopted new names and languages — all to survive. What is now deemed “illegal immigration” was the only option for our ancestors. 

We Jews have been exiles since the beginning and our value system rests on taking care of the ger, the stranger, the ‘alien,’ or the other. Originally in biblical times, the term, ger, was meant to designate gentiles among the Israelites. Now the ger is a social designation of another as an immigrant, an other, a person who is different, or an outsider.

We are told to take care of the stranger 36 times in the Torah — it is foundational to our faith — because we were strangers in Egypt. Throughout our texts, we are told to care for the widow, orphan, and the foreigner or the stranger. It is our obligation because they have no natural or familial lines of protection. Deuteronomy tells us to treat strangers in our midst as “equal before the law.”

Similarly, Leviticus teaches us to “love thy neighbor as yourself.” The term ‘neighbor’ is not limited to our literal geographic neighbors, but can apply to anyone, as Rabbi Joachim Prinz states: “Neighbor is not a geographic term. It is a moral concept. It means our collective responsibility for the preservation of man’s dignity and integrity.” As Jews, we know what it is like to be oppressed, therefore we must lift up and protect, when necessary, the immigrants in our country. 

If we look at the character of Hagar, one of the subjects of our Torah portion today, we can see a clear example of an immigrant in our history. The word immigrant and stranger is written into the name Hagar. Broken down into Ha-gar, her name literally means the stranger. Hagar, who is Egyptian, is taken in by Avram and Sarai as a slave girl and as a servant to Sarai. The amount of time that Hagar is with Avram and Sarai is unknown. 

What is the purpose of Hagar’s character? If she and her son Ishmael weren’t included, the story would have been the same. Perhaps her inclusion makes us beg the question of how long does an immigrant need to be in one’s family or community for him/her to be accepted as part of the community? How long is one considered a stranger? Ultimately, it is about the relationship created and it needs to start with how the immigrant and/or stranger is valued in a family, a community, and in the world.

We don’t learn about the nature of Avram, Sarai and Hagar’s relationship until Sarai struggles to conceive and turns to her for help. Sarai tells Avram, “I shall have a son though her.” Sarai asks her to conceive a son with Avram, so she becomes his wife but remains Sarai’s servant. Even though she was elevated as another wife to Avram, they are not equals. Later in Genesis 25, Hagar is counted as a concubine, which is higher than a slave but lower than a wife. 

When Hagar gives birth to Ishmael, Sarai is immediately jealous and resentful. Sarai says, “I myself put my maid in your bosom; now that she sees that she is pregnant, I am lowered in her esteem.” And Avram tells her, “Your maid is in your hands. Deal with her as you think right.” As a result, Sarai treats her harshly and Hagar runs away. 

Both Sarai and Avram are at fault, neither of them treat Hagar correctly. Sarai sinned in oppressing Hagar and Avram did so by allowing it. Hagar didn’t have a choice and couldn’t make decisions when she was in their care. We have a parallel in the modern-day: We as a country are at fault for how immigrants have been and are being treated — we have oppressed them and allowed others to oppress them. In 2023 and 2024 alone, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) removed and deported over 7,000 undocumented immigrants from Los Angeles for immigration violations and criminal convictions.

There are many examples of this in our history, but let’s focus on the events of this past summer — what was deemed a “summer of resistance.” To start, President Trump has cracked down on immigration, setting aside $45 billion to increased efforts to detain immigrants and deport them over the next four years. On June 6, the ICE operation handcuffed more than 100 men and women in a Los Angeles Home Depot parking lot. In response, protests erupted in Los Angeles following ICE raids targeting individuals suspected of illegal immigration. It is not about agreeing or disagreeing with the new policies set in place. Instead, it is about recognizing the terrible methods being used to hunt down immigrants. These methods are examples of the erosion of our democracy, applicable laws and human rights. 

The Jewish communities in the surrounding area have stepped up to help and to speak out against these actions. Members of Nefesh congregation volunteered to accompany immigrants to meetings with immigration officials and to doctor’s appointments. Leo Baeck Congregation, Nefesh, IKAR, and Temple Israel Hollywood are part of LA Voice, mobilizing religious congregations and clergy to protect immigrant rights. Rabbi Ken Chasen of Leo Baeck Congregation wrote, 

“the terror that has taken hold of brown-skinned Los Angelenos is not selective. It reaches those of all faiths and of no faith. And it does not distinguish between citizens and legal residents and undocumented immigrants. It is a plague upon everyone who might be taken by those possessing power to look like they could be here illegally, which is the textbook definition of racism.” 

The raids aren’t only terrorizing their intended targets — they terrorize anyone who looks like their intended targets. History has shown us that when governments normalize cruelty against one group, others are never far behind. Our Jewish value of loving the stranger becomes a matter of self-interest because a society that allows any minority to be persecuted will soon allow every minority to be persecuted. Because not all Jews are white-presenting, the victims are not all them. Some of them are us.

In addition to racism, this has also become an issue of adherence to the law. The Jewish principle, dina d’malchuta dina, means that the civil law of one’s country is binding to Jews within that country. This mandate extends to the government — loyalty to the law of the land is a two-way street. We are called to be law-abiding citizens and residents; and those who have power are called to be law-abiding with the use of their power. Where the government flaunts its disdain for the law, so will the people. Detaining people without cause, showing up with faces masked to conduct indiscriminate raids, imprisoning people in horrible conditions without due process and hoping that they will ‘self-deport’ are all a violation of the law. This is all done by government representatives in the name of enforcing immigration law. 

The actions of our country’s Administration and ICE affect more than immigrants. For example, in Los Angeles, there are 1.7 million undocumented people, a population the size of West Virginia. They make up 14% of Los Angeles’ construction industry; 7% (1 million) of food and hospitality workers, and 13% of the agricultural workforce. Los Angeles relies on these workers to fill many jobs. Some of them are not undocumented workers. We cannot stand by and let them be oppressed and sent out of the country without due process. 

Our own liberation as a people was made possible by a series of brave acts of resistance done by individuals not of our own people. Examples include the midwives of the Exodus story who did not get rid of any of the Israelite babies as instructed. There is Pharoah’s daughter who rescued Moses from the Nile and raised him as one of her own. They lived under an authoritarian regime and every thing they did to help our people was done as an act of defiant protest. 

We, as a people, know what it means to be afraid and what it means to live despite trauma, violence, and oppression. Our people are immigrants throughout Torah — we are all refugees from somewhere else. We, as a people, move around often — there are three books of the Torah dedicated to our wanderings. Early on in Genesis, Cain is described as a “ceaseless wanderer.” We should have a heightened sensitivity to the issues that now dominate immigrant life in the U.S. as hundreds of immigrants are deported everyday leaving families broken and stranded. 

The current assault on immigrants in the US is about fear, control and power. We have a commitment to love, protect and stand up for our neighbors, which includes immigrants. When we allow terror to dictate whose lives are worth defending, we are letting our values be attacked, too. A medieval rabbi teaches, “the person who oppresses and the one who witnesses the oppression but remains silent is the same.” And so we must respond to these acts of violence, but not in the same manner. Instead, we must respond with love. We are commanded to pursue justice when its easy, but especially when its not. And we must remember the value of btezelem Elohim, every human is created in the image of God and deserves to be treated as such. 

Deuteronomy and the text of the Haggadah tells us “my father (Jacob/Yisrael) was a wandering Aramean.” We know what it looks like to be lost and to be searching for something better and safer. Our safety is bound up in our solidarity. Medieval commentator, Rashi, offers a different understanding of this text. He argues that the text reads, “an Aramean [meaning Laban, Jacob’s father-in-law] tried to destroy my father [Jacob].” Both narratives are true of the Jewish people — we wander and our population has been affected by other peoples — it is in this pool of tension we stand. 

Returning to the character of Hagar, you might wonder, did she do anything wrong? No, but she is portrayed as doing so. Hagar does receive some justice at the end of her story — God provides for her, setting an example for all of us to emulate. Hagar has a lech lecha moment: she is forced on a journey, similar to Avram’s earlier in our story, to an unknown land. On this journey, God finds her and Ishmael and makes a covenant with her in which she receives a promise that she will have numerous offspring, just as Avram received in his blessing. In response, Hagar gives God a name. This is the first and only time when a human names God. She names God, El roi, ‘God who sees me’ in response to God naming her son Ishmael which means ‘God hears.’ A more poignant interpretation of this name reflects Genesis 16: “Do I truly see after being seen?” God saw her as an immigrant who was treated poorly by her family and that her problems needed to be rectified.

Later, Avram and Sarai are given new names with the addition of the Hebrew letter hey. This letter is part of God’s name. In changing Avram and Sarai’s names, God has distributed a piece of the Divine name equally between the two of them. Hagar already has the letter hey in her name. In fact, the meaning of Hagar’s name offers us a choice — we can accept her as one where ‘Adonai dwells within’ or as ‘a stranger.’

Consciously or not, Hagar has within her a piece of the Divine that is evident the moment she flees from Sarai. In her act of running away, she stops by a spring of water where she encounters God. Chapters later she and Ishmael are again sent away into the wilderness. When her water runs out, she loses faith and sits down thinking that she and her son will die. But her “God of Seeing” opens her eyes and shows her a well. 

Not only is defending the stranger in the Torah, our guidebook, it is written into our values as Jewish Americans. Fellow Jew, Emma Lazarus, wrote the poem that now adorns the Statue of Liberty — A New Colossus. She wrote the poem as an expression of empathy for Jewish refugees fleeing antisemitic pogroms in Eastern Europe. Lazarus was of Sephardic descent, and in the 1860s, when she was growing up, there was an uptick in antisemitism affecting her and the Jews in her community directly. Lazarus was referred to as ‘the Jewess.’ In response, Lazarus invented her own way of being Jewish. She made a connection to Jewish people of various backgrounds and classes; and she felt obligated to help newly arrived Jewish immigrants, becoming an activist in the 1880s. She learned about the plight of Prussian Jews and advocated for refugees at Castle Garden — New York’s pre-Ellis Island immigration processing center. Lazarus got to know Jewish immigrants in person at a time when calls for immigration restriction were growing.

The Statue of Liberty stands as a ‘mother of exiles,’ a symbol of immigration and opportunity in our country. Its welcoming flame tells us no matter where you’re from, there is no such thing as a good or bad immigrant. Lazarus and our Statue of Liberty imprints upon us Lazarus’s own words: “Until we are all of us free, we are none of us free.” Our path to liberation as Jews and as Americans is wrapped up in the liberation of everyone.

At the start of a new year, let’s use this opportunity to take responsibility for our immigrant population. The text of the Vidui, our confessional text on Yom Kippur, is recited in the plural, not in the first person, even though we have not done all the actions listed. We as individuals have only done a subset, but we take on the collective guilt of our community’s actions. The transgressions of others affect us as a community and as a country. We are all responsible for each other and we are required to act collectively. We can use the relationship between God and Hagar as an ideal. It is one of protection and inclusion. May we as a country stand together to welcome others across our borders and into our communities.