Every Soul You Meet

Have you ever noticed how quickly we size people up?

It happens almost automatically. We take in someone’s appearance, how they move, how they speak—and without meaning to, we start assigning value. In a world that prizes youth, independence, and productivity, it’s easy to see someone’s worth as tied to what they do, rather than who they are.

But what if a person’s value has nothing to do with ability, achievement, or status?

When actor Bruce Willis announced his retirement due to aphasia, the public response was telling. People who once knew him as a tough, fast-talking hero suddenly saw a more vulnerable man struggling to communicate. And yet, the outpouring of love wasn’t because he could no longer act—it was because people remembered who he is. There was a quiet recognition that dignity doesn’t disappear when circumstances change.

Moments like that call something out in us. Not pity. Not politeness. But reverence.

There’s a powerful teaching found in the opening of the book of Genesis: “Let us make man in our image.” It’s just a short phrase, but it says everything. Every human being reflects something sacred—something greater than biology, ability, or circumstance.

This truth doesn’t change with age or illness. It doesn’t fade when someone struggles to speak, or when the world stops paying attention. It’s not earned, and it can’t be lost. It simply is.

I once heard a young man with special needs say, “People talk to my aide, not to me.” He wasn’t angry—just honest. And it struck me: we don’t need to insult someone to erase their dignity. Sometimes we do it simply by looking past them.

But the sacredness we each carry doesn’t dim just because someone else fails to see it.

One of the great insights of faith is that preserving dignity isn’t only about avoiding harm—it’s about recognizing holiness in the everyday. In how we speak. In how we listen. In how we see the person standing in front of us.

My tradition teaches that to embarrass someone publicly is like shedding blood. Why? Because to strip someone of their dignity is to harm more than their feelings—it wounds their essence.

We see this in the simplest interactions: rushing past the elderly person walking slowly, ignoring the grocery store clerk, speaking over someone with a speech delay. These aren’t always acts of cruelty. But they’re moments when we fail to see the image of G-d in another.

The beautiful thing is, restoring that dignity doesn’t take much. A warm hello. Holding someone’s gaze. Asking a question—and waiting for the answer. These small acts affirm something eternal: that the person in front of us matters.

And once you start seeing people this way, you can’t unsee them. You begin to notice the quiet sadness behind someone’s rushed goodbye. You start to hear the fatigue in a voice that used to sound confident. You slow down—not out of obligation, but out of awareness. Because suddenly, you realize you’re standing on sacred ground. Not in a sanctuary, but in a grocery aisle. Not during a sermon, but in the middle of everyday life.

You may be the only person that day who truly sees that someone. And that encounter, as ordinary as it may seem, can change the direction of their day—or even their sense of self. That’s not hyperbole. We’ve all had moments where a kind word or a patient pause reminded us that we’re still human, still seen, still valuable.

There’s an ancient teaching from the Talmud that says, “Whoever saves one life is as if they’ve saved an entire world.” Because each person is a world. Unique. Unrepeatable. And when we treat them that way, we reflect something sacred—not just in them, but in ourselves.

That’s why this isn’t just about how we treat others. It’s also about how we carry ourselves. When we walk through the world with reverence—speaking gently, listening longer, judging less—we become bearers of light. And others feel it.

So, the next time someone slows you down, or you’re tempted to speak for someone instead of to them, pause. Look again. See the soul.

They may not remember what you said. But they’ll remember how you made them feel.

And that feeling—that glimpse of dignity—is holy.

Yonatan Hambourger is a rabbi and writer dedicated to serving spiritual seekers of all backgrounds on behalf of Chabad of Rural Georgia. You can contact him at y@tasteoftorah.org.