This week's Torah portion, Balak, offers us one of the most striking examples of how our assumptions can blind us to truth, and how divine plans often unfold in ways we never expected. The story of Balaam and his donkey provides a powerful lens through which to examine our current challenges, particularly the complex immigration policies unfolding in our own backyard.
Balaam had known his donkey for years, a faithful, reliable companion who had served him well. Yet when the donkey suddenly stopped three times on the road, refusing to proceed, Balaam's frustration boiled over. Balaam struck his trusted friend repeatedly with his staff, interpreting the donkey's behavior as stubborn defiance rather than protective wisdom. "What have you done to me? If I had a sword in my hand, I would kill you right now!" Balaam cried out (Numbers 22:29).
Only when Gd opened Balaam's eyes did he see what the donkey had seen all along, an angel with a drawn sword blocking their path. The donkey's apparent obstinacy was actually salvation. "The donkey saw me and turned away from me these three times. If she had not turned away, I would have killed you by now but spared her" (Numbers 22:33).
This ancient story resonates powerfully today as we grapple with the opening of "Alligator Alcatraz," the new detention facility in the Everglades. Like Balaam, we risk seeing only what confirms our preconceptions, missing the deeper truth that lies beneath the surface.
Our Jewish tradition teaches us to follow the laws of the land, dina d'malchuta dina. Yet we must also remember that "You shall not oppress the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt" (Exodus 22:20). The Torah commands us regarding the stranger no fewer than thirty-six times, more than any other commandment. This is not coincidence but divine emphasis on a fundamental truth, how we treat the vulnerable reflects who we are as a people.
The challenge before us is not simple. Yes, we must distinguish between those who exploit our system and those who seek to contribute to it. Pursuing dangerous criminals who happen to be undocumented is different from pursuing a high school student who fled persecution seeking the American Dream. There is a profound difference between removing threats to our communities and separating families whose only crime was crossing a border in search of safety.
Yet even as we make these distinctions, we must remember that those who disagree with us are not necessarily our enemies. Just as Balaam's initial mission was to curse Israel but Gd transformed his words into a blessing (Numbers 23:11-12), our heated debates about immigration policy can become opportunities for greater understanding if we approach them with open hearts.
Those who advocate for stricter enforcement often do so from genuine concern for community safety and rule of law. Those who call for compassion do so from equally genuine concern for human dignity and our moral obligations. Both perspectives contain elements of truth, just as both tzedek (justice) and rachamim (mercy) are divine attributes.
The Torah teaches us "Tzedek, tzedek tirdof"—"Justice, justice, shall you pursue" (Deuteronomy 16:20). But it also reveals Gd's thirteen attributes of mercy: "Lrd, Lrd, Gd compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness" (Exodus 34:6). Our tradition demands that we hold both in tension, seeking justice while extending mercy.
Like Balaam, we must be willing to have our eyes opened, to see beyond our initial assumptions and recognize the angels (or the humanity) that others perceive. Only then can we move from the curses of division to the blessings of understanding, transforming our discourse from one of accusation to one of shared commitment to both security and compassion.
May we find the wisdom to see clearly, the courage to act justly, and the strength to love our neighbors, all our neighbors, as ourselves.