- Clergy
- Shabbat
I recently came across the incredible story of Bodin Allen, a two-year-old boy from Seligman, Arizona, who, on a recent afternoon, wandered away from his home and traveled more than seven miles across rough, unfamiliar wilderness. For over sixteen hours, his family and rescuers searched desperately, but it was a rancher's dog, Buford, who found Bodin and stayed by his side until he was discovered on the rancher’s property, seven miles from his home. The boy was found with only minor scratches, thanks to the dog's unwavering protection.
The story struck a chord with me. We are confronting a painful reality unfolding in our country. In recent weeks, I have read about troubling incidents where children have been caught in the complexities of our immigration system. A two-year-old American citizen was separated from her father and sent to Honduras with her mother, despite her legal right to remain in the United States. In another case, a ten-year-old girl with brain cancer, also a U.S. citizen, was deported to Mexico while traveling to receive critical medical treatment in Houston. These children, like Bodin, were vulnerable and deserving of protection, yet their experiences were profoundly different.
We are currently in the midst of the Book of Leviticus, a book dedicated to both the concept of purity and, more importantly, the values and actions a community must adhere to in order to create a holy society. We are a people who spend the majority of our central text wandering through a barren wilderness, just like that little boy, Bodin, in Arizona. As we learn in this week's Torah portion, we have an obligation to look out for one another and assist each individual in navigating the wilderness with dignity and compassion.
Our Torah portion this week, Tazria-Metzora, speaks directly to how we treat those who find themselves separated from the community. The portion details circumstances in which individuals with certain conditions must temporarily separate themselves from the greater Israelite camp. Yet importantly, the kohen (priest) is instructed to go outside the camp, to examine those who have been set apart, to monitor their healing, and ultimately to facilitate their return and reintegration into the Israelite community. They are not to remain outside the camp permanently. The Torah teaches us that even when separation occurs, it must be accompanied by ongoing care, attention to healing, and a commitment to eventual restoration.
This teaching feels particularly relevant as we consider the complex immigration challenges we're facing. Whatever policies we may individually support, our tradition is clear: separation without a path to healing and restoration fails to honor the Divine image instilled in every human being.
As Jews, we carry a particular awareness of what it means to be strangers in foreign lands. We are repeatedly reminded that, "You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." Our collective memory of vulnerability has led to an obligation to see the humanity in every person who seeks safety, stability, and a better future.
The political divisiveness in our country does not exempt us from addressing the deeper, more complex questions with which we are presented on an almost daily basis. In fact, this is precisely the time when we must move beyond policy disputes and deepen our conversations to address the questions and values underlying decisions being made on the national, local, and even personal levels.
This Shabbat, I'm thinking about three questions in particular:
- How do we ensure that children and families navigating our immigration system are treated with dignity and compassion?
- How can we, like Buford the dog, be present for those who are lost or vulnerable?
- What does it mean to honor both the rule of law and our obligation to care for the stranger?
Tomorrow, when I'm walking my own dog in the neighborhood, I'll be thinking about Buford, who not only found that little boy in Arizona, but stayed vigilantly by his side, offering protection and companionship until help arrived. In a simple act of presence and protection, that dog embodied the very essence of what our tradition asks of us: to locate those who are vulnerable, to stay with them in their moments of fear and uncertainty, and to ensure they find their way back to safety and community. We, too, can be guardians in the wilderness, ensuring that no one, regardless of where they come from, faces their journey alone.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Joel Nickerson