תּוֹרָ֣ה אַחַ֔ת יִהְיֶ֖ה לָֽאֶזְרָ֑ח וְלַגֵּ֖ר הַגָּ֥ר בְּתוֹכְכֶֽם׃

“There shall be one law for the citizen and for the stranger who dwells among you.”

 Exodus 12:29

On the day of their liberation, Moses instructed the people to treat citizens and strangers the same. We were once strangers in Egypt, oppressed and enslaved. Transcending the slavery experience required radical openness, demonstrating that the opposite of enslavement is not merely freedom but inclusion into a welcoming society. However, recent events in the United States challenge this ethic of the Jewish religion, echoed by many Christians and Muslims.

In his inaugural address on January 20, 2025, Donald Trump declared, “All illegal entry will immediately be halted, and we will begin the process of returning millions and millions and millions of criminal aliens back to the places from which they came.”

This sentiment echoes the rhetoric of Trump’s advisor, Stephen Miller, who has promised a “shock and awe” approach to addressing illegal immigration in the United States. Ironically, Miller—himself of Jewish descent—may be unaware of the historical parallels between today’s treatment of undocumented immigrants and the plight of Jews coming to America a century ago.

In the early 20th century, Americans regarded Jews with suspicion. Much like contemporary stereotypes about “illegal aliens,” many thought Jews to be undesirable and threatening presence. The passage of strict immigration laws in 1921 and 1924 imposed harsh quotas, severely curtailing the number of immigrants from southern and eastern Europe, particularly Jews.

The restrictions didn’t stop European Jews from seeking refuge in the U.S., however. Instead, they spurred the rise of illegal smuggling networks. Although precise numbers are elusive, historians estimate that tens of thousands—and possibly more—Jews illegally entered the U.S. between 1921 and 1965. Many were seeking shelter from the Nazi onslaught.

Libby Garland’s book After They Closed the Gates sheds light on these stories. Smugglers transported Jews across borders with forged documents, and entry points included Mexico, Canada, and even by boat from Cuba. Havana became a hub for clandestine operations, offering easy access to the Gulf and Atlantic coasts, especially Florida.

This history serves as a poignant reminder: policies that exclude and vilify migrants often drive desperate people to extraordinary lengths, a reality that transcends time and borders. The Passover story reenacted in our seders reminds us that our experience of oppression teaches us to open our hearts and borders as we are able.

The phrase “one law for you and the stranger (undocumented immigrants)” means that everyone residing in the nation, regardless of their immigration status, should be subject to the same laws and legal consequences, implying that there should be neither special treatment nor discrimination against undocumented immigrants.

On Friday, January 24, 2025, ICE agents “raided” a Newark seafood business without producing a warrant. In a press release, Newark’s mayor said a military veteran was among the detainees.  In a most undignified way, ICE agents questioned the legitimacy of his military documentation.

Our Jewish tradition honors issues of fairness, identity, and security. For example, God instructed the Israelites to not tolerate pagan religions — as they were meant to stay separate. A foreigner coming to ancient Israel would have to leave pagan gods behind and start worshiping God. Perhaps the modern equivalent is that immigrants to the United States must demonstrate loyalty to our laws and Constitution. However, sweeping condemnation and separation of residents is anathema to Jewish tradition and American ethics. Once hatred toward immigrants flames out, our national leaders will wittingly or unwittingly rekindle new hatred towards “others”.

Whether citizens or non-citizens, the Torah is advocating for equal application of the law for all inhabitants of the country. This includes due process and protection from harm. However weary we may be of the news, we must speak firmly with a biblical resolve. For all who inhabit this land, our laws should be enforced fairly and humanely.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

וַיָּ֥קׇם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָ֖שׁ עַל־מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יָדַ֖ע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף׃

A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.

Shabbat, January 18, falls just two days before the inauguration of our next and returning President. That day, we read, “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” Amid the many stressors in my life, I reflect on the future of our nation and planet as we approach January 20. My greatest concern is uncertainty: I do not know what our new leader knows. I fear that he does not know Joseph.

At the close of Genesis, we learn about Joseph’s extraordinary character. Joseph was honest, interpreting dreams with integrity and foresight. He was visionary, discerning from Pharaoh’s dreams a plan to safeguard Egypt’s future. Joseph demonstrated adaptability, embracing a new identity and role within Egyptian society.

Most importantly, Joseph knew how to forgive. His brothers, who sold him into slavery, were later welcomed by Joseph into Egypt. Despite initial hesitation, Joseph reconciled with them, offering a model of healing and unity.

Now I worry that our next and returning President may not know Joseph. To know Joseph is to appreciate the lessons of the past and build upon them. To know Joseph is to honor ancestors and extend a hand to adversaries. Knowing Joseph means striving for peace and prosperity for the nation and the world.

By amazing or perhaps Godly coincidence, January 20 is also our national celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday. Reflecting on King’s life, I find him to be “King” who knew Joseph – demonstrated by his humanity, his vision, and his willingness to reconcile with people who refashioned and continued the legacy of enslavement.

The Book of Exodus begins with ancestors and concludes with liberation. Between these bookends, we encounter bondage and tribulation. Yet, the journey ultimately brings the Israelites to Sinai—a place of law, Divine presence, and the beginning of the path home. Though the challenges were immense and the timeline long, the Jewish story teaches us to hold onto hope, to be strong, and to remember Joseph. And on January 20, let’s also focus on expanding the legacy of the King, of civil and human rights.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Christmas coinciding with the first night of Hanukkah might suggest a joyous day. Yet, for me, it unfolded differently. I spent hours with my mother in her rehab room and another hour guiding a friend whose father had entered hospice care after slipping into unconsciousness in a Florida hospital.

I don’t feel cheated out of the celebration. Instead, I am frustrated by how medical providers often handle end-of-life issues.

This week’s Torah portion inspired reflection on how we guide our elders through illness, pain, and depression. Jacob, having mourned his son Joseph for decades, learned Joseph is alive. Jacob prepared to journey to Egypt. God spoke to him, saying:

“I am God, the God of your father’s house. Fear not to go down to Egypt, for I will make you there into a great nation. I Myself will go down with you to Egypt, and I Myself will also bring you back; and Joseph’s hand shall close your eyes.” (Genesis 46:3-4)

Later, Jacob meets Pharaoh, who asks his age. Jacob responds:

“The years of my sojourn [on earth] are one hundred and thirty. Few and hard have been the years of my life, nor do they come up to the lifespans of my ancestors during their sojourns.” (Genesis 47:9)

The contrast between these two conversations is striking. God offers comfort and reassurance to Jacob in his old age. God acknowledges Jacob’s demise is imminent. Pharaoh, by contrast, asks a technical question, devoid of depth or empathy. Pharaoh focuses on the past.

This contrast speaks volumes about how we should approach the elderly. God’s words provide a model for offering presence and understanding, while Pharaoh’s response underscores the failure to engage meaningfully with an elder at the end of life.

The bestseller Outlive: The Science and Art of Longevity by Peter Attia explores the science of living longer and healthier. Attia critiques modern medicine’s focus on treating illness rather than fostering health. Similarly, I’ve observed how many medical professionals, trained to heal, often struggle to simply be present with a patient grappling with the inevitability of life’s end.

I witnessed this firsthand with my mother. She was in great pain when a nurse entered her room and asked, “How are you feeling?” My mother replied, “I want to die.” The nurse responded, “But you are so beautiful,” a comment so disconnected that it left me bemused.

The next day, her doctor asked the same question, receiving the same response: “I want to die.” This time, the doctor replied, “Don’t you want to live for your children and grandchildren?” It was the first time I had heard a doctor use guilt on a Jewish mother as a tool for healing.

I don’t mean to condemn all medical professionals. I am entirely grateful for every act of kindness, thoughtfulness, and healing delivered consistently by the staff and doctors. My dismay was how the skill set of healing was overshadowed when the conversation turned to death.

Seeking a more compassionate response, I called a rabbi experienced in end-of-life care. When Rabbi Rose visited, he listened deeply to mom’s words, understanding her statement as a plea for acknowledgment—not an abstract cry for help, but a need to have her pain and grief seen.

She didn’t need platitudes about her beauty or obligations to others. She needed the kind of presence God offered Jacob. Mom, I’m with you, and I’ll be with you until you can no longer open your eyes.

Similarly, when my friend’s father was “actively dying,” I contacted a rabbi to visit their family. I knew that this family needed presence, reassurance, and compassion—something I wasn’t sure the hospital staff, even on Christmas Day, could provide.

This season brought no miracles. Oxycodone and morphine eased physical pain, but true solace came from Jewish tradition, the Torah, and the wisdom of our Rabbis. They remind us how to be present when life nears its end—with presence and compassion.

I needed a guide for navigating difficult conversations. Comforting the grieving and ill is a mitzvah, but we have to be careful what we say to be helpful and not harmful. I thought of this analogy. We should be like a bowl of chicken soup: warm, nourishing, simple, made with love, and leaving room for more. Here’s what triggered my thinking on this topic.

What Not to Say: Lessons from Joseph’s Story

In the Torah, Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery and then cover up their actions. They bring his bloodstained tunic to their father, saying:

“We found this. Please examine it; is it your son’s tunic or not?”

No assumption of fault and nearly no compassion can be found in their approach. The share bad news in the form of a question, a construct that places distance between those asking and those answering.  Why then would they ask their father to confirm what they already knew? Did they hope to soften the blow or avoid culpability? Either way, it’s an example of an abrupt and dishonest way to deliver bad news. And then,

Notice that only Jacob mourned for Joseph. No wonder he refused to be comforted by his sons and daughters, who did not actually mourn with him. They could not approach his grief and could not offer comfort.

From my own experiences—countless hospital visits and shiva calls —I’ve learned how to approach difficult moments thoughtfully. The key is to say little as described in Proverbs 18:27-28,

A knowledgeable person is sparing with his words;
A person of understanding is reticent.

Even a fool, if keeping silent, is deemed wise;
Intelligent, if he/she seals their lips.

14 Guidelines for Delivering Bad News

1. Be direct. Don’t avoid the issue with euphemisms and platitudes. Say, “X is sick” or “Y has died.”
2. Avoid empty questions. Instead of “How are you doing?”—which can feel trite and unanswerable — just acknowledge the reality (i.e. “this sucks”)
3. Keep it simple. Jewish tradition gets it right: say little. Try something that acknowledges pain like: “what a blow,” or “This is so hard”.
4. Don’t dig for details. Avoid questions about how or why the tragedy occurred. Focus on listening not playing detective.
5. Skip immediate offers to help. Presence is more valuable than problem-solving at first.
6. Hold off on logistics. Tasks like notifying others or organizing food can wait for an hour or two.
7. Trust the medical team. Avoid questioning the medical care right away. It can stir doubts or guilt.
8. Avoid distressing stories. Don’t share your anecdotes about painful experiences. It adds fear, not comfort.
9. Be practical. Coordinate a meal train or a schedule of visitors without involving the grieving person.
10. Keep your emotions in check. Don’t add your concerns or dread to their burden.
11. Respect boundaries. Physical touch is not always welcome. Perhaps you can offer merely to hold a hand before initiating big physical touch like a hug.
12. Plan for follow-ups. Say, “I’ll call on Thursday. You don’t have to answer but I’ll be available,” or “I’ll bake your favorite cookies. And keep them in the freezer.” Concrete and tangible actions matter when offered without obligation.
13. Allow time. Grieving and healing can’t be rushed. Your continued presence over time is the best gift.
14. Leave with assurance. End on a note of continued care and support. There is brilliance in the traditional phrase: “HaMakom Yinachem” – may you find comfort among all who grieve” It acknowledges their pain, and that they are not alone.

A Better Way to Care

Joseph’s brothers set a low bar for delivering bad news and comforting their father. We can do better when coming into the presence of someone who is coping with a crisis. Show up with a full heart, but not a full mouth. Speak less, listen more, and let your actions show your love.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

וַיִּשַּׁ֥ק יַעֲקֹ֖ב לְרָחֵ֑ל וַיִּשָּׂ֥א אֶת־קֹל֖וֹ וַיֵּֽבְךְּ׃
Then Jacob kissed Rachel and broke into tears.

The story of Jacob kissing Rachel at the well is a tale of divine destiny and human connection. However, viewed through the lens of modern sensibilities, this moment can provoke complex reactions, especially in an era of extreme polarization.

Jacob fled his home after deceiving his brother, Esau, and sought refuge with family in the east. Happening upon his cousin Rachel at a well for watering the herds, he kissed her. Today acts like touching, fondling, or kissing without explicit permission are classified as sexual assault—serious offenses with traumatic consequences. For many, Jacob’s impulsive act might appear as an unacceptable breach of personal boundaries. And yet, when read as part of a sacred text, Jacob’s kiss transcends its literal act, embodying deeper spiritual symbolism. Mystics interpret the gesture as a merging of divine masculine and feminine energies, a sacred channeling of cosmic balance.

Still, acknowledging the spiritual lens doesn’t negate the unease such actions might evoke in a contemporary reader. The challenge of our time lies in holding space for alternative interpretations without succumbing to righteousness or judgment.

Had this scene unfolded in today’s media-saturated environment, it’s not hard to imagine the outrage. Remember the Royal Spanish Football Federation President Luis Rubiales? He placed an unwanted kiss on the lips of the gold medal winning soccer team’s star. Rubiales faced widespread criticism for the incident, labeling his behavior “unacceptable” and “simply disgusting,” and calls for him to stand trial.

Were Jacob a modern day personality, social media platforms would erupt with criticism, news outlets would amplify competing narratives, and public figures would be compelled to take sides. The progressive left, committed to ideals of justice and consent, might decry Jacob’s actions, interpreting them as emblematic of male entitlement and patriarchal norms. At the same time, others might dismiss the backlash as overreach, defending the kiss as an innocent, even celebratory, act.

These dynamics echo broader societal debates. The terms “cancel culture,” “virtue signaling,” and “political correctness” are often wielded as critiques of progressive efforts to hold individuals accountable. But beneath these monikers lie genuine aspirations for a fairer and more just world. The friction arises when accountability becomes politicized, conversations grow polarized, and elections are at stake.

Fundamentalists and literalists might argue that the Bible implicitly endorses Jacob’s behavior, framing it within the norms of its time. Others may view the tears that followed the kiss as evidence of its spiritual purity—a moment of divine inspiration rather than human transgression. Still, some will find such arguments insufficient, especially when read alongside modern understandings of consent and trauma.

The recent cultural shifts in America reflect these tensions. Progressives, reeling from electoral losses and societal pushback, often find themselves caught between defending their ideals and grappling with accusations of alienating rhetoric. Critics argue that the left’s insistence on moral absolutes has estranged potential allies, while others suggest that the progressive movement’s ethical clarity is precisely its strength.

So, how do we reconcile these perspectives? Perhaps the key lies in embracing complexity. The story of Jacob and Rachel invites us to read beyond the literal, to hold the text’s spiritual richness alongside our contemporary values. It challenges us to ask: Can we engage with our foundational narratives in a way that honors both their historical context and our evolving ethical standards?

America’s recent political landscape offers a similar challenge. Righteousness alone may not win elections but abandoning core principles for the sake of expedience risks undermining the very ideals that define a movement. The balance lies in finding a prophetic voice that is both compelling and accessible, a voice that can inspire without alienating.

Jacob’s kiss at the well, like many biblical moments, resists simple categorization. It is at once a deeply personal act and a symbol of something far greater. By wrestling with its meaning, we not only deepen our understanding of the text but also of ourselves—and the societies we aspire to build.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame