There’s a reason we come back to the following teaching again and again: Love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. It’s the most often repeated commandment in the Torah—more than keeping Shabbat, more than kashrut, more than any ritual law. Thirty-six times, the Torah reminds us that the way we treat those who are vulnerable, displaced, or different from us is a fundamental measure of who we are.
This Shabbat, we mark Refugee Shabbat. Tomorrow, we have the privilege of hearing from HIAS about the work they do supporting refugees across the world. Their work is extraordinary. But as we listen, I hope we also remember that this responsibility does not rest solely with organisations like HIAS, or with governments, or even with Jewish charities. It is a calling placed upon all of us.
The Torah does not say: appoint someone to care for the stranger. It says, You shall love the stranger. It is an invitation to see, to hear, and to act in whatever ways we can.
Why Does the Torah Insist on This So Much?
Perhaps the Torah knew that this would always be a difficult mitzvah. It’s easy to care for those we know, those we feel a natural connection with. The command to love our neighbour makes sense—we share a street, a community, a life. But the stranger? The one whose language is unfamiliar, whose customs seem different, whose presence challenges our sense of comfort or security? That requires something deeper.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote that the real test of morality is not how we treat those who are like us, but how we treat those who are not.
The Torah could have said, Because you were strangers, you should be wary of strangers. That would have been understandable. But instead, it turns our past suffering into a source of empathy. It says: Because you know what it means to be vulnerable, do not make others feel that way.
And perhaps most strikingly, the Torah tells us that we must not look away. Lo tukhal lehit’alem—you cannot remain indifferent (Deuteronomy 22:3). Rashi takes this further: you must not cover your eyes, pretending not to see. The instinct to turn away is human. It can feel overwhelming to face the full weight of suffering in the world. But looking away is not an option.
A Different Kind of Conversation
In the UK today, the conversation around refugees is often harsh, divisive, driven by fear. Words like “crisis” and “invasion” dominate headlines. And yet, behind every policy debate, behind every statistic, there is a human being—a family, a child, a person who has left everything behind in search of safety.
Our role, as Jews, is not only to offer support but to shift the tone of the conversation. To remind people—especially those who accept the Bible as a foundation of their moral framework—that welcoming the stranger is not an optional kindness, but a core obligation. If we believe that our sacred texts hold meaning, then we must also believe that this mitzvah holds meaning.
This does not mean ignoring complexities. There are real questions about policy, about borders, about resources. But there are also deeper questions: How do we ensure that our laws reflect our values? How do we make space for both justice and compassion? How do we keep human dignity at the centre of the conversation?
Being Present, Not Delegating Compassion
HIAS is doing extraordinary work, but we cannot delegate the entire responsibility to them. Being present—truly present—means asking what we can do in our own communities. It might be as simple as changing the way we speak about refugees, challenging dehumanising language when we hear it. It might mean volunteering, offering support, or finding ways to engage politically.
And it might simply mean listening. Seeing the people behind the headlines. Hearing their stories with an open heart. Because when we listen, we remember that every single person—regardless of their background or their journey—is created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God.
The Mishnah teaches that if a person save a single life, it is as if they have saved an entire world. Every refugee has a world within them—the life they left behind, the life they hope to build, the life they are struggling to protect.
I am asking you to reflect on your role in that struggle. Not because it is easy, but because it is what we are called to do. And when the world tells us to look away, to harden our hearts, to turn inward, we return to those ancient words: Lo tukhal lehit’alem. We cannot remain indifferent. We cannot cover our eyes.
May this Refugee Shabbat open our eyes and our hearts. May we listen, may we see, and may we hold onto the vision that Torah has given us—a vision where love for the stranger is not an afterthought, but a foundation of who we are.
Shabbat Shalom
Sermon for Refugee Shabbat 5785 / 2025
