I am a child of immigrants. So are you, I imagine. Most of us here in America are.

Some came looking for a better life. Some wanted an education. Some were brought here enslaved, unwilling. Some came of their own choice, terrified, fleeing horror and war and murder.

Most came with very little in the way of possessions.

They didn’t speak the language. They didn’t know how to get from here to there. They were strangers in a strange land, uncertain of nearly everything.

And yet. Look around.

Today, generations later, we are settled, safe, productive. We pay taxes and vote. We have built communities and cities and local governments, and while we were at it, we made a pretty darn good nation.

But we seem to have forgotten our beginnings. Forgotten that we didn’t start out this way.

We’ve forgotten that once upon a time our ancestors were immigrants and slaves. We’ve forgotten the long treks, the seasick weeks on lurching ships, the hunger, and the fear.

It’s okay to forget. That’s what humans do; we leave pain and hardship in the past. It’s why a woman can endure the pain of childbirth and decide to have another baby.

But it is not okay to become hard and harsh, afraid that the newcomer will take something away from us.

In this week’s Torah portion, Abraham buys a cave (and the field above it) to bury his beloved wife Sarah. He is offered the cave as a gift, but insists on paying.

He doesn’t want anyone to question his ownership of the site.

When I taught this story to a group of adults this week, one person asked a simple question: How could Abraham be sure? There was no paperwork, no deed to file with the county.

“Well,” I said, “they negotiated publicly, before the entire community. Everyone knew.”

“So what?” said my student. “How would the next generation know?”

I didn’t have a good answer. Word of mouth? The Bible? A sign by the mouth of the cave? None of which seems especially reliable.

And sometimes, what we forget is as important as what we remember.

Communal memory is long, but it can become fuzzy and vague. Details disappear. Stories change. And when outsiders question the legacy of memory — I am reminded of those today who question the Jewish people’s right to live in Israel — disputes arise. Differing versions of the truth emerge.

We Americans have forgotten something essential about our own beginnings. Nearly all of us are immigrants or the descendants of people who came from elsewhere, whether willingly or unwillingly. We also are a nation whose history includes the displacement of those who were here before us.

That history should teach us something about our obligation to today’s would-be immigrants.

An open hand and an open heart from the community are less expensive (not to mention far less destructive) than building prisons or sending people away.

I think our nation would be much better off if we practiced radical hospitality.

Let’s be like Abraham. Not only the Abraham who carefully negotiated the purchase of a burial place, but also the Abraham who ran to greet three tired strangers arriving his tent.

Let’s greet the stranger at our door. Welcome them. Ask what they need.

And help them find a place among us.

The Jewish Open Tent is my creation. An open door to Jewish learning for all who want to enter. You’ll find more at my website: https://jewishopentent.com

Rabbi Jennifer Singer