You can find the rest of the parsha text on Chabad.org at Vayeira.
Rabbi Shefa Gold
Rabbi Shefa Gold’s “Torah Journeys”
Abraham is visited by three strangers who announce that he and Sarah will
birth a son in their old age. Sodom and Gomorrah are destroyed.
THE FIRST WORD OF THE PORTION tells us that God has appeared. As a seeker of direct connection with the Divine, my heart leaps at the idea of this amazing event and I look for that revelation in my own life. We are blessed this week with a vision of God who comes to us in the form of three strangers.
Our attentiveness to these strangers will determine the extent of our blessing. If we are ready with open hearts, our eyes are watching for opportunities to serve, if our humility is intact, and we have the energies and resources to express the natural flow of our generosity – then we will be given hope, and the fulfillment of our deepest desires. This openness to seeing God in the form of “the stranger” is rewarded abundantly.
IN STARK CONTRAST, we are presented with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, places that represent hatred of the stranger. When God shares with our ancestor the imminent, terrible consequences of this hatred, we are meant to share in the wisdom, to learn from the tragedy.
When inhospitality and meanness rule, and the stranger is not honored, then Divine Presence is unrecognized and inaccessible. When that radiating presence which holds the world together is obscured, everything collapses.
EVEN THOUGH WE WITNESS THIS TRAGEDY, and learn the redemptive truth of how love for the stranger is a requirement for theophany, this same drama must unfold within our very own family. The lesson comes home.
The name Hagar means “the stranger.” She repreesents the stranger in our midst. When we cast Hagar out into the wilderness1, her offspring becomes our enemy. When the stranger is banished, our opportunity for seeing God is squandered. The ability to see God passes instead to the stranger, to Hagar. At the moment of deepest desapir, “God opened her eyes.”2 She is blessed with a vision of God who appears as the living waters of life.
IN RECEIVING THE BLESSING of Vayera, we are both the one who banishes the stranger, and the stranger herself. In finding the compassion to welcome the guest, to open our heart to the one who is different, the best tool we have is our memory of being the stranger ourselves. This memory moves us eventually to a re-integration of those two parts within us, the banisher and the banished.
Much later in the story, Abraham takes another wife named Keturah, which means “spice”. The midrash says that this new wife is Hagar, returning, the-stranger-welcomed-home. She is transformed from being a bitter, desperate stranger to being a source of sweet fragrance.
Welcoming Hagar back into our hearts bestows on us the blessing of seeing God once more.
THE SPIRITUAL CHALLENGE
STANDING AT THE DOOR OF OUR TENT, our first challenge is to remain alert, attentive and open to opportunities for service. We can’t just stand by and watch passively as life ges by; we must run to meet each moment with eagerness and joy.
To take this stance towards life means that I must do whatever it takes to be a clear channel for Divine Love. For me that means giving a lot of attention to self-nurturance – the right food, exercise, rest, meditation, play. The challenge is to love and take care of myself enough to be as effective an instrument I can be in serving others.
The stranger is not always easy to serve. She may be cruel, ungrateful, even unresponsive to your kindness. His manners may offend you. The challenge is to stay true to the spirit of service and to look for the Divine Mystery in every encounter, even if we are not being perceived or received in the way we’d like.
And when we, in our turn, are cast out and treated like a stranger, our challenge is remain steadfast in our search for allies, and to avoid becoming bitter. Eventually, our eyes will be opened to the well of living waters that is ever before us, however obscured.
1 Genesis 21:10
2 Genesis 21:19
Please click on link to website for Guidelines for Practice http://rabbishefagold.com/Vayera.html
THE COVENANT OF REVELATION
From “The Holy Beggars’ Gazette” Vol. 2 No. 3 House of Love and Prayer, San Francisco CA, 1973
The Torah says “vayera elav” and G-d revealed Himself to him. Usually it says G-d spoke to Abraham, G-d spoke to Moses. Here it says va’yeira, He revealed. If I meet a friend and I have to tell him something very important we are not real true friends yet. If I just want to see you even if I really have nothing special to tell you, I just love you and I want to see you. Before Abraham entered into the covenant with G-d, G-d spoke to him when He had something to say. After the covenant G-d said, “I really have nothing special to tell you, let’s just look at each other. I want to reveal Myself to you,”
This is very deep. Some people are in contact with G-d, but the only contact is when they have something to tell G-d, or G-d has something to tell them. It is a stock exchange that is going on. It’s the highest, holiest stock there is, but it is still on the level of business. Being in the covenant with G-d means the relationship with G-d has nothing to do with anything in the world. It doesn’t depend on anything.
Sometimes you meet little people who really know there is one G-d. They do everything right and good and sweet, but their knowing of G-d is only that they know exactly what G-d wants of them at four o’clock, at five o’clock at eleven o’clock. They know everything exactly, but G-d never revealed Himself to them. They may know G-d’s will, but not G-d. Wants are just a manifestation of self. There is something beyond wanting. If your deepest depths which are beyond wanting are a vessel for G-d, then G-d reveals Himself. If your relationship to G-d is only to doing His will, which is very holy, then G-d tells you His will.
Being in the covenant with G-d is beyond will, beyond wanting, beyond everything. If you enter a covenant with G-d it means your entire being is turned to G-d and, so to speak, G-d turns to you also.
The Talmud says it was the third day after circumcision and Abraham, being an old man already, was a little bit sick. It is really beautiful how the Midrash says, “Why did G-d come to see him? G-d came to visit the sick.” How do friends visit each other? How do people console each other? People came to visit me when I was sick. They would say, “You think you have back trouble? I had back trouble, and my aunt had back trouble, and you should have seen … This is not consolation. It is even worse if more people are sick. What kind of consolation is that?
G-od said to the prophet Isaiah nachamu, nachamu ami. “Console, console my people.” Could you please console my people with consolation? Do not console My people with other tragedies. How does G-d come to console people? He doesn’t tell them anything. When G-d visits Abraham to visit the sick He doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, He reveals Himself to Abraham, I am here.
Rabbi Arthur Waskow:
When Abraham Sees God in Oak Trees
(Email sent on October 22, 2007)
The Torah portion that is traditionally read in synagogues this coming Shabbat (Gen. 18:1 through 22: 24) is called “Vayeira” from its first word. This word is usually translated “appeared,” but it comes from the root for “see,” and the same root appears in a different form right afterwards.
The second word is “YHWH.” That is usually translated “the Lord,” but since this sacred unpronounceable Name with no vowels can only be “pronounced” by breathing — “Yyyyhhhhwwwwhhhh” – I translate it as “the Breath of Life” or “the Wind/ Breath/ Spirit of the world.”
The first sentence says “YHWH brought-about-being-SEEN to [Abraham] in [b’] the oaks of Mamre.”
Then the story continues: “. . . and he lifted up his eyes and SAW [va’yar] and here! — three people were standing upon him, and he SAW [va’yar] and ran . . .[to bring-them-near and then to feed them].”
First the oak trees themselves and then the three visitors were the visible, see-able presence of God.
How can the Divine Breathing-Spirit of the world become visible in trees? Think about the rustling leaves, quivering as the wind rushes from them, in them, into them. Quivering as the trees breathe out what we breathe in (oxygen), and then breathe in what we breathe out (carbon-dioxide). This is the rhythm of life upon our planet. As we open our eyes to this rush of breath, we see God.
And it was not till Abraham saw God breathing in these oak trees that Abraham was able to see God breathing in human beings.
Then he and Sarah acted to affirm this holiness by feeding God who of course is never visible except in all that is around us — that is, is ALWAYS visible if we open our eyes. Feeding God by feeding human beings — sharing with earthy human beings the abundance of the earth.
And in response, the human beings who were God’s messengers (“angelos” is simply Greek for “messenger”) told Abraham and Sarah that they would, after all, have a child.
Once Abraham had deeply seen the interbreathing of all life as God, he more deeply saw the intertwining of adam and adamah, the earthy humus and the human earthlings, that feeds us all and celebrates the One. Not till he saw God in this body of earth-human interchange could his and Sarah’s bodies intertwine to seed new life.
(Till then, Sarah had been an “akarah” – a “root” without a sprouting. Perhaps it was not she who was barren; perhaps her rootedness needed some new quickening in Abraham, this vision more connected to the earth, to make her root more fruitful.)
So if this story honors the first expression of Eco-Judaism (and maybe eco-Christianity and eco-Islam, all born of Abraham’s vision), we should honor this story by opening our eyes to it.
Look closely at a tree, at grass. Sniff at its leaves, breathing life into it and out of it. Pray not to the tree but to the whispering, rustling Breath that enters it and leaves it.
Promise to sustain it. Act to sustain it.
Originally posted by Wendy.
This is some of Reb Leah’s commentary about Sarah.
Rabbi Leah Novick
From On the Wings of the Shekinah
“Each of the matriarchs also has her distinctive connection with the Divine Presence. Sarah is portrayed in the aggadic literature as having her own ceremonial tent, where she institutes the candle-lighting ritual for inaugurating the Sabbath , perhaps drawing on much more elaborate temple ceremonies that originated in her native Chaldean background in Ur. In this context, she is the conduit of the light of Shekhinah, which would later be ceremonialized in the temple menorah and throughout history in the eternal light lit over the ark in synagogues, called ner tamid. Because Sarah is merged with the light of the Shekhinah, the sages say, ” her lamp does not go out at night.” In Sarah’s ritual tent, which was sheltered by a cloud of glory, the sages tell us that the candles miraculously stayed lit for a whole week. Sarah is the only woman to have a full chapter in the Torah (Chaye Sarah, Gen. 23 and 24), which chronicles her life and death. Enduring and supernal life is attributed to her because of her intimate connection with Shekhinah, who regulates life and death.
Sarah is praised in the Talmud and the Zohar as the woman who “sees” Shekhinah during the famous annunciation scene when three angelic messsengers come to predict the birth of Isaac. Her handmaiden, Hagar, who cohabits with Abraham, also has direct connection with divinity and encounters an angel at the well of “the God who Sees.” …
Originally posted by Wendy
Rabbi Jill Hammer
From ” The Jewish Book of Days”
“In Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer 30, the well of Hagar is none other than the healing well the Divine made at the dawn of creation. This well later accompanies the Israelites through the desert and becomes known as Miriam’s well. Perhaps this well too comes from the tears of those who grieve.”
VIEWS ON THE AKEDAH
November 8, 2009
At our recent Torah Circle (November 7, 2009) one of the more interesting and passionate parts of the discussion was on the Akedah – the binding of Yitzchak. Most people who spoke saw Avraham’s behavior – agreeing to God’s command to offer Yitzchak as a sacrifice, without putting up an argument – as a negative, a situation where he “failed the test.”
I hold with a more traditional view, which was not discussed yesterday, that Avraham acted with the simple faith that everything that comes from God is for the good, even when we don’t understand it.
As a person of faith in 2009 I try to integrate Avraham’s example into my life in a way that is appropriate today. I use my own judgment as best I can to do what I believe is right and avoid what is wrong. But I also believe that as a finite being with finite knowledge, there are limits to what I can know and understand. If something is coming from God, it is for the good, even when I can’t understand it.
We Jews have a custom of what we say when we hear that someone has died. We say, “Baruch Dayan HaEmet.” Blessed is the True Judge (or Judge of Truth). Even if the person passed away “before his/her time,” even if it seems unjust, even if God forbid it was the result of a terrible accident or worse, we still say “Baruch Dayan HaEmet.” I don’t understand or accept what has happened, and my heart is crying out in anguish. Even so, I still bless You, I still believe in Your goodness.
The discussion about the meaning of the Akedah has been going on for thousands of years in many parts of the world, not only in Judaism, but also in Christianity and Islam, with an amazing richness of views. There is a very interesting summary, with lots of references, in Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Binding_of_Isaac). For a Hasidic viewpoint there are discussions by a number of different rabbis at Chabad.org (http://www.chabad.org/search/keyword_cdo/kid/4555/jewish/Binding-of-Isaac.htm).
Here are a few commentaries in the multi-millennial discussion:
• It was not God putting Avraham to the test, it was Avraham putting God to the test. He actually had no intention of sacrificing Yitzchak. This is derived from what he said to his servants: “You stay here with the ass. The boy and I will go up there; we will worship and we will return to you.” Avraham expected to return with Yitzchak. The test was – what would God do?
• According to the Midrash, Sarah died at age 127 and Yitzchak was born when she was 90, so Yitzchak was 37 years old at the time of the Akedah.
• The image of Yitzchak at age 37 and Avraham at 137 walking up the mountain together to the sacrifice gives a distinct frame for the story. Yitzchak had to be physically stronger than Avraham, so the whole thing could not happen with Yitzchak’s understanding and cooperation. Reb Shlomo once shared a midrash about the conversation that the two of them had about doing God’s will, as they were going up the mountain.
• Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk comments that both Avraham and Yitzchak were tested in different ways. Yitzchak was willing to do the mitzvah of Kiddush HaShem, offering one’s life for the sake of doing God’s will. This is obviously huge, but it is not unique, since many Jews throughout history have also made this choice. For Avraham the test – with enormous consequences – was about how to handle the cosmic double message about life and death. What was he to believe, that God would make him a great nation through Yitzchak, or that God wanted Yitachak, still childless, as a sacrifice? Reb Menachem Mendel says that Avraham had to literally set aside his mind and simply believe with pure and simple faith. Easy to say; not so easy to do.
• A question that came up yesterday, and has come up through the generations, is, “Why did Avraham argue with God about Sodom and Gomorrah, but not about Yitzchak?” One response comes from Rabbi Tzvi Friedman of Chabad:
When God informs Avraham about Sodom and Gomorrah, He is giving him a forecast about what He intends to do: “I will descend now and see, whether according to the cry which has come to Me they have done; [I will wreak] destruction [upon them].” Avraham understood that God wanted him to argue.
But when God speaks about Yitachak, He says, “Please take your son…” Avraham understood that this was not something to argue about.
• Christian Biblical commentators see the Akedah as archetype of the way that God works. They see this event as prefiguring God’s plan to have his own Son, Jesus, die on the cross as a substitute for humanity, much like the ram God provided for Abraham.
• In the Wikipedia article it says that Muslims believe that Ishmael is the one whom Avraham was told to sacrifice. They get this from God telling Avraham to sacrifice his “only son,” which could only mean Ishmael when he was young, before Yitzchak was born. Both father and son passed the test of recognizing that “God is the Owner and Giver of all that we have and cherish, including life and offspring.” Avraham and his son submitting to God’s will is celebrated by Muslims on the days of Eid al-Adha Sacrifice festival.
I find it difficult to relate to the image of Sarah as the passive victim of Pharaoh and
Avimelech. It doesn’t reconcile with the wise, assertive woman who fiercely protected her son Yitzchak’s lineage. In feminist writing Sarah is thought to have been a priestess in the land of her birth. Also Rabbi Jill Hammer, in ” Sisters at Sinai, cites Zohar 1: 102a and says that “She is also said to have converted many women to her new faith.”
Perhaps she willingly went to the homes of Pharaoh and Avimelech in search of women to bring to the faith that she had co-created with Avraham. Perhaps while she was there she shared rituals with the women as in later times of cross fertilization of practices between our ancestors and others, and maybe she adapted some of what she learned into the ceremonies of Sarah’s Tent. In her sacred tent her lamp stayed lit from Shabbat to Shabbat, her bread was blessed, and the cloud of glory sheltered her tent.
From Reb Zalman
The Shechinah can be Seen in the Wayfarer
Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009
The following text by Reb Zalman is for this week’s Torah portion, Shabbos Vayera. [Notes by Gabbai Seth Fishman, BLOG Editor]:
“And He appeared unto him” (Genesis 18:1).
(Shabbos 127a) “Hospitality to wayfarers is more important than an encounter with the Shechinah / in-dwelling of God.”
[NOTE: Avraham interrupted his union with Hashem, (Genesis, 18:1, “Vayera“ / and God appeared), so that he could take care of the visitors who showed up in the meantime (ibid 18:3, “Adonay… please pass not from thy servant.”) The Rabbis took the word Adonay in this context as referring to God. (It is also sometimes translated as referring to the visitors.) The Talmud makes the above conclusion, that one should give precedence, as Avraham did, to an opportunity to fulfill the mitzvah of hachnassat orchim / hospitality to the wayfarers, over a union with God.]
For Abraham came to be a host to the wayfarers amidst that sense of cleaving during the encounter with the Shechinah, for there was a sense that he would see the holy Shechinah in the wayfarers.
[NOTE: As Reb Zalman has spoken in lectures, even greater than the heresy of making God too small is the heresy of making ourselves too small vis-a-vis God. In addition to the good feeling we will have when we perform the mitzvah of hachnassat orchim, we should also remember that the Shechinah is accessible when we do so; in fact she is there in our guests and in all of us.]
Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi
from Yishmiru Daat (2009 revision),
“Parashat Vayera Eilav,” pp. 30-31
Torah Reading for Week of November 1-7, 2009
“Seeing G-d in Ourselves and Others”
by Rabbi Anne BrenerAJR, CA Professor of Ritual and Human Development
Va-yera, the parasha that begins with G-d appearing to Abraham (va-yera alav YHVH) is rich throughout, but I linger on the iconic images in the first lines, which could be used as cover art for manuals for our Caring Communities, Bikkur Cholim (visiting the sick) Associations, and Chevri Kadisha (burial societies). Sitting at the opening of his tent, in the heat of the desert day, while recovering from his circumcision, Abraham saw G-d, in the form of the three men standing nearby. Abraham rushed to welcome them and offer hospitality. They, in turn, provided comfort for his convalescence.
This mutual generosity provided the Rabbis of the Talmud with illustrations for the prescribed human behavior of “walking in G-d’s way,” which they understood to mean that we are to walk after G-d’s attributes- to act in imitation of G-d. Abraham’s bounteous welcome and the reassuring visit of the men to the recovering patriarch became role models for fulfilling this injunction. Their reciprocal kindness emphasizes that the benefits of compassion extend in two directions- enhancing the experiences of both caregivers and the recipients of care.
Each morning, we begin our day by affirming in full voice the practices of a caring community. Our liturgy reminds us of the rewards of these activities, as well as others, such as “rejoicing with bride and groom,” “attending the house of study,” and “honoring parents,” that are enumerated each morning as we begin our Morning Prayer service. We recite these directions for holy behavior along with the promise that these deeds will earn us points both “in this world and in the world-to-come.”
I will leave the rewards in the “world-to-come” for future exploration. I am most interested in the rewards we get in this world. Having been lucky enough to visit Caring Communities throughout the world, I have observed that the ones that are most successful are the ones that emphasize both the caring and the community. Their success is measured, not just by the gallons of chicken soup served or number of hospital beds visited, but also by the longevity of the participation of the volunteers, the strength of their relationships with each other, and the sense of personal satisfaction and growth that those volunteers receive from their involvement with the community. The rewards of community and individual fulfillment are the “this word” bonuses promised by the liturgy.
I have come to believe that the people who provide the most comfort to others have two qualities in common: altruistic self-interest and an ability to see, like Abraham, G-d’s presence in others. The paradoxical phrase “altruistic self-interest” has many implications. It suggests that those who serve others do so, not just “to help the unfortunates” or “to give something back,” but also because they recognize that in helping others they learn about themselves and have an opportunity to grow beyond their comfort zone. They know that comforting a mourner may remind them of unfinished grief issues in their own lives or that visiting a sick person might expose them to their own fears of vulnerability. But they know, as well, that confronting these issues will make them deeper, stronger people, more able to serve others and more at peace with what it means to be human. Our sages say that “he who thinks of death improves himself” and that more wisdom can be attained in a house of mourning than a house of revelry. Those who best serve others cultivate their hearts of wisdom and find companionship when they return to their caring committees to speak of what they have witnessed in others and what it has taught them about themselves. They de-brief together. They study together. They pray together. And, together, they do the soul work that will offer them strength when they face life’s challenges.
These successful caregivers know that, as the Talmud tells us, the round things served in a house of Shiva, are not just emblematic of the cycle of life. They also remind us that “Like the pea, sorrow rolls. Today’s mourner is tomorrow’s comforter and today’s comforter is tomorrow’s mourner.” There is no condescension in service to those in need. There is a recognition that, as Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav said, “all the world is a narrow bridge.” And our greatest gift to each other- and to ourselves- is to provide- and find- companionship on that narrow bridge.
I learned about the second quality, the ability to see G-d in others, when I began my career as a psychotherapist, twenty-five years ago. I attended a lecture given by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D author of Kitchen Table Wisdom and other wonderful books. She revealed that when she first met with a patient, she silently said to herself, “The G-d in me, salutes the G-d in you.” This became my own practice, as I imagined Abraham reciting this phrase to himself as the three mysterious beings approached and he ran to serve them, propelled by his understanding that he was welcoming The Holy One. I imagine the beings themselves recognizing the Holiness that lived within Abraham as he approached and bid them welcome. The G-d in Abraham embraced the G-d in the visitors – uniting sparks of Holiness and lighting up the place at the opening of the tent, as they constituted the first Caring Community. Eager to serve G-d, Abraham saw the presence of G-d in the weary travelers, who reciprocated by seeing the same in the suffering Abraham. This mutual experience of healing is what we seek when we constitute organizations to perform those mitzvot detailed in the morning liturgy which reach out to people in need of community support. These people could be brides, mourners, or any others who face the challenges that come in times when lives are changing.
When we prepare student clergy as well as laity to do this work, one of the first things we ask of them is to look in to the eyes of others in the room. We ask them to see, as Abraham and his visitors saw, not just the superficial things that make all of us different and can cause us to distance ourselves from those who face challenges, regarding them with condescension and pity in a way that does not lift their spirits and bring healing. We ask them to see instead the spark of G-d that we all share. Our students look at each other and appreciate the presence of Holiness, as it resides in the souls of those who have come to walk in G-d’s ways. Seeing YHVH in others, they also see YHVH in themselves. Va-yera alav YHVH!
From Rabbi Rachel Barenblat 2009
The oaks touch branches
like a gaggle of old women
taking comfort in fingers brushing
as they stand and sway.
A man sits in the entrance
of his tent. Heat shimmers
though beneath the trees
if he holds still, it’s not so bad.
Hours later, the rug
is littered with tufts of flatbread
tipped with labneh and zaatar
and shreds of meat left behind.
Outside the door, brass basins
for the washing of feet
shimmer, their water cloudy
from recent use.
Behind the tent, in the grove
a woman leans against a tree
and blinks away tears
but doesn’t speak.
From Rabbi Simon Jacobson
Vayeira: To See the Divine
The Extrordinary Within the Ordinary
Watch a beautiful sunset. Listen to a stirring symphony. Smell a delicate fragrance. Taste a delectable wine. Touch the soft cheek of a child. Those are our five senses at work – taking in and experiencing the aesthetics of our universe. But what else enters through our sensory doors? How stimulated – overstimulated – are we by the multitude of sights, sounds, smells, tastes and touches inundating our daily interactions? And what impact does it have on us? Are we products, perhaps even victims, of the forces seducing our senses? Take television: Does anyone know the far-reaching effects that visual stimulation has on our psyches? How much is it desensitizing us to “see,” “hear” and experience the more sublime aspects of our lives – the invisible and ethereal?
So when we observe the world around us, the people, events and experiences of our lives, what should we be looking for? When we are seeking a loving relationship – or standing before a person we love – how do we assure that we are looking at the important things that matter, and not at superficial externals? And how do we attain such perspective when we are swamped with the endless flow of information assaulting our senses, numbing and distorting our priorities?
This week’s Torah portion contains a fascinating answer to these questions.
The chapter opens with the words “And G-d appeared to Abraham.” What did Abraham see? What does it mean to “see” the Divine?
When we look at any particular object what do we see? First we see the physical features of the object – its shape, color, size and position. We may also notice its functions and the benefits they serve. With more focus, we can discern subtle elements and other aspects that may not have been ostensibly noticeable. Upon further study we develop a “deeper look” at the object and learn its unique composition of elements and molecules, and its biological and chemical makeup. Further down and in we discover its atomic structure, which in turn is comprised of sub-atomic particles. How far down the “rabbit hole” can we go?
Left to our own mortal resources we can only go that far. But with help from an unexpected place we can actually come to perceive – to see – the essence of the object, and even beyond that.
When the Kotzker Rebbe was a young child he was once asked: “Where is G-d?” To which he replied: “Wherever you let Him in?”
To see the Divine is to see the Essence of all reality, and to recognize that this Essence is beyond all reality. “He is the space of the universe, but the universe is not His space.” In some ways it means to see the forest from the trees; the roots from the symptoms; the causes from the effects.
Abraham did two critical things to reach a point that he was able to see the Divine, to the point that “G-d appeared to him.” Firstly, he left his comfort zones (see last week’s The Greatest Journey Ever Taken) and embarked on a lifelong journey away from his subjective inclinations toward transcendence. Secondly, Abraham dedicated his life – and passed on his legacy to his children and generations to come – to focus not on the means, but on the end: To look beyond the seductive distractions of surface life and see what lies within; to search for the essence of things, rather than react to their symptoms. To seek out the purpose of existence and turn that purpose into the driving force of our decisions, rather than allow our existential needs and concerns to determine the course of our lives. Notwithstanding the conventions of the time, not conforming to the pressures around him, not enticed by the sights and sound of the universe, Abraham looked beyond and within them for a higher presence. This higher awareness then translates into action – to living a life of virtue, righteousness and justice.
Once Abraham demonstrated his commitment, once he “paid the price” and did his part piercing through the outer layers and peering deep inside for the deeper reality, then the Higher and Inner Reality reciprocates, “and G-d appeared to him,” revealing the essential forces that shape all of existence, far beyond those that Abraham could ever discover on his own accord.
The great 13th century sage, Ramban (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman), also known as Nachmanides, states a critical axiom – one that would change the landscape of Jewish education were it only emphasized in our schools:
“Know this fundamental principle: All the journeys and events that happened with the Patriarchs [Abraham, Isaac and Jacob] come to teach us about the future…they were shown what would happen to their descendants. For this reason the Torah documents in detail the experiences that transpired with the Patriarchs. No one should think that these are superfluous details; they actually pave the way and map out all the future events that would transpire with their children throughout history. There is nothing that happened to Abraham that would later not occur with his children (Ramban, Lech Lecho 12:6).
How do we apply this principle to the opening of this week’s Torah portion: “And G-d appeared to him,” to Abraham?
Indeed, a well known story suggests that Abraham’s Divine revelation was unique to him alone. When the Rebbe Rashab was a young boy, he went to his grandfather, the Tzemach Tzedek, to receive a blessing in connection with his birthday (Cheshvan 20). When he entered his grandfather’s room, he began to cry. His grandfather asked him why he was crying and he explained that in cheder (school), he had learned that G-d had revealed Himself to Abraham and he was upset, why G-d did not reveal Himself to him. The Tzemach Tzedek replied: “When a righteous Jew at the age of 99 decides to circumcise himself, he is worthy that G-d reveal Himself to him.” The Rebbe Rashab was satisfied with this answer, and stopped crying.
And yet, the Rebbe Rashab did cry, and according to Nachmanides, there is nothing that happened to Abraham that would later not occur with his children, Abraham’s Divine revelation in some way can and will happen to his children.
Abraham paved the way for us to have a similar experience: To see the inner forces that shape our outer realities.
But in order to see your life in this special way, you too have to commit to the same two things that Abraham committed to: One, you must travel away from your own subjective trappings and remove the immediate pressures that block you from seeing what lies within. This includes controlling the flow of images, sounds, tastes, touches and smells, which enter your being and clutter your life. Two, you need to focus on the inner forces and the purpose of it all, ensuring that the means that lead you there are not confused with the end goal. Too often we get so consumed with the tools – earning a living, shopping, preparing – that we are left with no time, energy and space for the purpose of all these tools. Sometimes we may even forget that there is a purpose, like embarking on a journey and then forgetting the destination.
This commitment to the higher goal, as opposed to the means, in turn manifests in a life driven by virtue and selflessness, rather than instant gratification and immediate needs.
Once you demonstrate your commitment to this approach, new doors will open up from within. And then – and only then – will you begin to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Every detail of your life begins to burst with enormous energy. You learn to savor every sight, every sound, every taste, every touch, every smell.
You can look at a wild flower and see a flower, or you can see, as Blake put it, Heaven. You can listen to a bird sing and hear a song, or hear the music of angels. You can gently caress the finger of your beloved and touch a finger, or you can touch eternity.
A new perspective emerges in your life, teaching you how to bridge the visible and the invisible, the sensory and the supra-sensory – how to use your senses to reach beyond your senses and experience new dimensions.
And above all, your new vision allows you to release fresh energy from every experience you encounter: In a life driven by self-interest every situation is numbed and deadened by “what’s in it for me?” In stark contrast, a life driven by seeing the Divine opens your eyes, ears, taste, touch and smell to experience yourself and others in unprecedented ways. You learn to see new things, and see old things in new ways.
Every situation then becomes an opportunity to generate innovative power to help others and improve the world – directing every detail of your life toward the sublime, revealing the Divine purpose in everything, fulfilling the very objective of existence.
From Rabbi James Stone Goodman 2010
Blessing from Vayera*
I will bless you and increase you as the earth
as the sands of the seashore as the sea,
the algae and the horseflies.
I will make you as great as the horseflies, as the algae,
look up now to the sky, you will be as great as the stars
as the darkness too, you will be as great as the darkness,
as great as the sand and the sea and the stars,
the mud and the dark and the green,
the sticky stuff on the surf,
the “the” and the “and”
the early rains and the later rains
the mud the mud the green the sand the dark.
“And G*d appeared to Abraham,” (Genesis 18:1)
and said nothing –
From Rav Kook
VaYeira: The Salt of Sodom
The Torah vividly contrasts the kindness and hospitality of Abraham’s household with the cruelty and greed of the citizens of Sodom. When visitors arrived at Lot’s home, the entire city, young and old, surrounded the house with the intention of molesting his guests. Lot’s attempts to appease the rioters only aggravated their anger.
Washing after Meals
The Talmud makes an interesting connection between the evil city of Sodom and the ritual of washing hands at meals. The Sages decreed that one should wash hands before and after eating bread, as a form of ritual purification, similar to partial immersion in a mikveh (ritual bath). The rabbinical decree to wash hands before meals is based on the purification the kohanim underwent before eating their terumah offerings.
The Talmud in Chulin 105b, however, gives a rather odd rationale for mayim acharonim, washing hands after the meal. The Sages explained that this washing removes the salt of Sodom, a dangerous salt that can blind the eyes. What is this Sodomite salt? What does it have to do with purification? How can it blind one’s eyes?
The Selfishness of the Sodomites
In order to answer to these questions, we must first understand the root source of Sodom’s immorality. The people of Sodom were obsessed with fulfilling their physical desires. They concentrated on self-gratification to such a degree that no time remained for kindness towards others. They expended all of their efforts chasing after material pleasures, and no energy was left for helping the stranger.
Purifying the Soul When Feeding the Body
A certain spiritual peril lurks in any meal that we eat. Our involvement in gastronomic pleasures inevitably increases the value we assign to such activities, and decreases the importance of spiritual activities, efforts that truly perfect us. As a preventative measure, the Sages decreed that we should wash our hands before eating. Performing his ritual impresses upon us the imagery that we are like the priests, eating holy bread baked from terumah offerings. The physical meal we are about to partake suddenly takes on a spiritual dimension.
Despite this preparation, our involvement in the physical act of eating will reduce our sense of holiness to some degree. To counteract this negative influence, we wash our hands after the meal. With this ritual cleansing, we wash away the salt of Sodom, the residue of selfish preoccupation in sensual pleasures. This dangerous salt, which can blind our eyes to the needs of others, is rendered harmless through the purifying ritual of mayim acharonim.
(Gold from the Land of Israel pp. 44-45. Adapted from Ein Eyah vol. I, p. 21)
Copyright © 2006 by Chanan Morrison
From Rabbi James Stone Goodman
Can’t Leave the Story [on Vayera]
November 11, 2011
God appears and then everything that transpires, the whole serpentine story, is God-ambiguous, somewhat difficult though the sequence resolves with the same root-words it began. The stories, the silences, the talk, the absence of talk, the visiting, the blessing, the laugh of Sarah, the argument with God, the flight of Lot, the trickiness of Abraham, the remembering of Sarah, the circumcising of Isaac, the alienation of Hagar and Ishmael, the terrible trek to the mountain of God, all of it a revelation, a vision, an appearance of Godliness. Somehow.
In the blessings, God. In the mess, God too. This is so much life as we know it. Up and down, light and dark, holy and not-yet-holy, silent and loud, somehow all infused in some hidden way with vision.
I am writing this to remind myself when I will need it: through the losses, in the mess, the God-lines, in all of it, the holy and the not-yet-holy, through the whole story, there is vision. God appears and – the entire sidrah – all of it, revelational, every part, it’s all over God, a vision.
Walk away from the Torah for a second. Take a ride on the moon you just rolled across the sky and look at the whole story from without, as it were, take a God’s-eye view, as the Chassidim say, the long look.
The serpentine story line of Vayera, the blessings, the curses, the deceit, the alienation, the resistance, the argument, the righteous, the wicked, the sneaking off, the return, the resolutions, the black fire, the white fire, the spoken, the not spoken, the blessings, the mess – it’s all God. The whole story, all over, Godliness.
God appeared, appeared in a whole bunch of difficult stories. It’s all a vision of Godliness. Abraham, Isaac, Ishmael, Hagar, Sarah, Avimelekh, the people of S’dom, the good, the bad, they can’t leave the story. The story is God – all God, all over.
A vision of prophecy or in a dream — Rambam, The Guide of the Perplexed, II:42.
An opening of eyes – Ramban in his Commentary on the Torah.
From Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies
Rabbi Ronnie Cohen
Petah Ha’Ohel: The Portal
Torah Reading: Genesis 18:1 – 22:24
Haftarah Reading: II Kings 4:1-37
VAYEIRA EILAV ADONAI B’EILONEI MAMREI V’HU YOSHEIV PETAH-HA’OHEL K’HOM HAYOM
[The Lord appeared to him (Abraham) by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot.
(Genesis 18:1 – NJPS Translation)]
Midrash teaches that Abraham often sat at the entrance to his tent, the better to observe from afar weary travelers in need of hospitality…
In our day it is the rabbi who sits at the entrance to the tent of Jewish community…
These are the opening words of At the Entrance of the Tent: A Rabbinic Guide to Conversion by Rabbi Jonathan Lubliner, published by the Rabbinical Assembly this last January (2011). It is a wonderful work, filled with sensitivity and practical suggestions for rabbis who toil in the holy fields of guiding and accepting Jews by Choice. But that’s not what I want to talk about today. I want to focus, instead, on Rabbi Lubliner’s choice of a title for the book, which comes from the first line of this week’s parshah, as quoted above.
The phrase petah ha’ohel, “the entrance of the tent” occurs-in its various grammatical permutations-60 times in the Hebrew Bible, mostly in the Torah, the Five Books of Moses. The first three times, it is in our story: Abraham sitting at the entrance of his tent (Genesis 18:1); Abraham running from the entrance of his tent to greet the three strangers (18:2); and Sarah overhearing from the entrance of the tent the unbelievable announcement that the strangers make to Abraham about her, Sarah, giving birth to a child at this time next year (18:10).
This phrase-petah ha’ohel is more than simply the entrance of a tent: it is the portal, the threshold, the point of contact between two worlds. When applied to a personal house, it marks the border between private and public space; when applied to the sanctuary, it marks the line of demarcation between the sacred and the profane.
When Sarah overhears the annunciation in our parshah, she is using petah ha’ohel as an information portal. She is staying, as befits a woman of her time and culture, within the confines of her tent, in her private domain. And yet, she is at the threshold, and is able to overhear the conversation that is taking place outside the tent, in public.
According to Rashi (the 11th century French rabbi and biblical exegete) and Midrash Aggadah (a medieval exegetical commentary on the Bible), it was the Israelites’ scrupulous observance of the sanctity of petah ha’ohel, this private-public threshold, that is responsible for the passage we are supposed to quote every time we enter a synagogue. Balak, king of the Moabites, was afraid of the Israelites who were coming to his territory after having vanquished the Amorites. So he sent for the prophet Bilaam to curse the Israelites. Bilaam, who was constrained to prophesy only in the manner that God directed, was unable to curse the Israelites from either of the first two vantage points to which Balak took him. Finally, at the third spot, Bilaam could see the entire encampment of the Israelites, and he was so impressed that he said, “Ma Tovu Ohalekha, Ya’akov” (“How goodly are thy tents, Jacob…”-Numbers 24:5), the prayer that is to be uttered upon entering the synagogue. Rashi’s commentary on the verse, quoting the Midrash, is that what so impressed Bilaam in the camp is that the petah ha’ohel, the entrance to each individual tent, was not facing any other, thus preserving each family’s privacy.
We see the same function of petah ha’ohel in the story of Deborah the Prophetess (in chapters 4 and 5 of Judges). Deborah and her general, Barak, lead the forces of the Israelites against the army of Sisera, the general of King Jabin of Canaan. The Israelites are successful, with God’s help, and Sisera has to flee the battleground on foot to save his life. He takes refuge in the tent of Yael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, because there was a treaty between the Kenites and King Jabin. Yael invites him in, feeds him, and has him lie down. He tells her to stand in petah ha’ohel (Judges 4:20), the interface of private and public space, to keep, as it were, the outside world out. Unfortunately, he didn’t realize that his fate awaited him from within the private domain of Yael’s tent, as she kills him in his sleep.
But by far, the most common use of the phrase petah ha’ohel is in regard to the ohel mo’ed, the tent of meeting, which was the locus of the divine indwelling among the Israelites. In Exodus 29, the consecration of Aaron and his sons as priests, and all of the sacrifices attendant thereto, is to take place in front of the entire community at petah ohel mo’ed, precisely because petah ha’ohel is the interface between the divine and the human, between the sacred and the profane. It is at petah ha’ohel that amud he’anan, the pillar of cloud (the manifestation of God’s presence), would meet with Moses (Exodus 33:10).
In the Mishkan (the tabernacle), the altar was situated at petah ohel mo’ed, so that perforce, every sacrifice, every offering, was conducted at this threshold; every time the blood of an animal was spilled out at the base of the altar, it was poured out at this portal, this divine-human interchange (see, for example, Leviticus 4:7). Thus, for example, when the Nazir completes his voluntary period of abstinence (from wine, cutting his hair, and exposure to the dead), he brings his sacrifice to petah ha’ohel (Numbers 6:13). The confrontation between Moses and Korah also takes place at petah ohel mo’ed (Numbers 16:18), because it is a rebellion not against Moses, but against the Divine.
Finally, after the conquest of Canaan under Joshua, the division of the land among the various tribes and clans is effected by lottery in Shiloh, at petah ohel mo’ed (Joshua 19:51), because it is God’s hand that is directing this allocation, and therefore it is done at the threshold of the sacred and profane, the divine and the human.
Our parshah is the very first time that the phrase petah ha’ohel is introduced to us, and it is fitting that it is introduced here. For Abraham and Sarah, the founders of this enterprise called the Jewish People, truly lived at petah ha’ohel. Through the stories about them in the Bible and in Midrash, their personal story, their private lives have become public; their ordinary, humdrum daily existence has become holy. And their efforts to reach out through this portal, through petah ha’ohel, to bring others to the knowledge of the true God, effectively bridged that interface. May we each of us merit to live our lives at petah ha’ohel, at the edge of the sacred, the divine.
Vayeira: Abraham’s Return from the Akeidah
The Akeidah, the Binding of Isaac, was over. Abraham passed this extraordinary test, and descended from the heights of Mount Moriah — both physically and spiritually. The Torah concludes the narrative with a description of Abraham’s return to the world:
“Abraham returned to his young men; and they rose and went together to Beersheba. And Abraham lived in Beersheba.” (Gen. 22:19)
Why does the Torah mention that Abraham rejoined the young men he had left behind with the donkey? And why the emphasis on his return to Beersheba and settling there?
Rejoining the World
The powerful experience of the Akeidah could have caused Abraham to disengage from the world and remove himself from its petty and sordid ways. The extraordinary spiritual encounter on Mount Moriah might have led him to forgo the battle against ignorance and idolatry in the world.
However, this did not happen. Every word in this verse emphasizes the extent of Abraham’s return to the society after the Akeidah.
“Abraham returned to his young men.” Abraham did not relinquish his mission of influencing and educating others. This is the significance of mentioning his return to the young men he had left behind ‘with the donkey.’ Before ascending Mount Moriah, Abraham had instructed them to stay behind. They were not ready for this supreme spiritual ascent. They needed to stay with ‘the donkey’ — in Hebrew, the ‘chamor’ — for they were not ready to sever all ties with their ‘chomer’, their materialistic life.
But now Abraham returned to them. He descended to their level, in order to elevate and enlighten them.
“They rose and went together to Beersheba.” They rose — with raised spirits, with a pure and holy light. And the most incredible aspect of Abraham’s return was that, despite everything that had taken place at the heights of Mount Moriah, Abraham and the young men were able to proceed together – united in purpose and plan of action — to Beersheba.
What is the significance of this journey to Beersheba?
The name ‘Beersheba’ has two meanings. It means ‘Well of Oath,’ and also ‘Well of Seven.’ An oath is a pledge to take action. When we take an oath, we vow that our vision will not remain just a theoretical concept. We promise to translate our beliefs into action.
The number seven similarly signifies completion of the natural world. It took seven days to finish creating the universe. Beersheba is thus a metaphor for the practical application of Abraham’s convictions and ideals.
“Abraham lived in Beersheba.” Abraham stayed in Beersheba, continuing his activities there. His name Abraham — meaning ‘father of many nations’ — was especially appropriate in Beersheba. There he set up his eshel, an inn that brought wayfarers to recognize God’s kindness and to ‘call in the name of God, the Eternal Lord’ (Gen. 21:33).
Where was Isaac?
While the Torah describes Abraham’s return, it is mysteriously silent about Isaac. What happened to Isaac after the Akeidah?
Concealed behind Abraham’s public works was a hidden ray of light. This light was Isaac’s unique trait of mesirut nefesh, the quality of total devotion and self-sacrifice that he had demonstrated at the Akeidah.
While Abraham’s activities were directed towards all peoples, Isaac passed on this legacy of mesirut nefesh to his descendants, a spiritual gift to the Jewish people for all generations.
(Adapted from Olat Re’iyah vol. I, pp. 96-97)
Copyright © 2006 by Chanan Morrison
From Rabbi Mishael Zion
Sandy and the Flooded Home: Heroic Avraham and Average Lot
From Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies
Parashat Ha-Shavua פרשת השבוע
By: Reb Mimi Feigelson, Mashpiah Ruchanit
The Art of Accountability
Torah Reading: Genesis 18:1 – 22:24
Haftarah Reading: II Kings 4:1-37 (Ashkenazic)
II Kings 4:1-23 (Sephardic)
I had put it on record, earlier this week, while learning with my students at Zeigler that I have no problem with the Akeida, the binding of Yitzchak. I believe that this is the sole reason that the recording of the session was mistakenly erased… I said that if I God told me to do something, then I would do it. I quoted the Talmud when it says that prophecy only resides in a place of joy and the fact that Avraham could hear the angel tell him to not harm Yitzchak, but rather offer the ram as an offering, was proof that Avraham was in a state of joy. What would have happened if, God forbid, Avraham’s heart would’ve been locked into sadness and therefore not been able to hear the angel?!
Clearly, I can hear you challenge me on so many levels to what I have just suggested. Though I haven’t ever been asked to raise my child as an offering to God, I have been challenged, as I believe many of you also have been challenged, to surrender parts of my life that seem inseparable to my being and existence, in the service of God.
I have asked myself in the past what was it about Avraham that could open a door to such a request; and what was it about him that was able to say “He’neini / I am here”? This is his response both when God calls out to him to take Yitzchak (Breishit/Genesis 22:1) and when the angel calls out to him to put down his hand that carried the knife over Yitzchak (Breishit/Genesis 22:1). I am more familiar with Adam’s answer, when God calls out to him after eating from the fruit of the tree of knowledge – an answer that looks for excuses and others to blame for our shortcomings (Breishit/Genesis 3:10,12). I am much less at home with the immediate response of presence and accountability.
I return to my question: what is it about Avraham that had the ability to say “He’neini”; where did he draw his strength from?
I believe that one facet of my answer lays in the teaching of Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev (1740-1809) on a pasuk (verse) earlier on in our torah portion: “And God said: shall I hide from Avraham that thing which I intend to do?” (Breishit/Genesis 18:17). I don’t know about you, but I can be pretty sure about myself – if I lived in the time of Avraham and Sara and God was going to turn Sedom and Amora over, I don’t believe S/He would feel compelled to share this information with me. I don’t think that God would deposit such knowledge in my hands. So what was it about Avraham that God felt accountable to him?
Reb Levi Yitzchak invites us into Avraham’s mind and soul, sharing what he believes to be Avrhams thoughts, feelings and therefore, actions. Reb Levi Yitzchak suggests that Avraham, as standing in the presence of God, thinks to himself: “Who am I to stand in the presence of God? Who am I to receive the gift and bounty that I have received from God?” Therefore, the only way he could stand in God’s presence was to be not alone, never alone. Reb Levi Yitzchak offers that Avraham Avinu (our patriarch), with every one of his deeds, carried all of us in his heart and soul. He would give charity with all of us in his mind. He would pray with all of us standing beside him.
I have been taught that in the indigenous traditions, tribal decisions are made based on the welfare of seven generations forward. What will the outcome be, not for our children or grandchildren, but rather far into the future, seven generations into the future? Reb Levi Yitzchak takes this teaching even further – he says that Avraham Avinu saw each and every one of us till the end of generations. When he was praying, we were praying. When he was hosting guests, we were hosting guests. When he was observing Shabbat, we were observing Shabbat!
Based on the Talmud (Yoma 28b), Reb Levi Yitzchak will propose, that we can never feel foreign to a mitzvah, commandment – for we have performed all of them when Avraham performed them! At best we can say that we don’t remember how to do it, but we can never say that we don’t know how to do it… We can never say, “I’ve never done this in my life.”
In this manner Avraham never stood alone in the presence of God. We were there with him. And it is precisely this orientation that made him accountable in God’s eyes. Avraham’s accountability to all future generations, to each and every one of us, allotted him to be the one that God felt compelled to be accountable to!
Thus I begin to find my answer to my earlier question. Avraham draws his strength to say “He’neini” from the precise reality in which God is accountable to him! It is as if by virtue of God having to say to Avraham “He’neini” that Avraham, in return, can say to God “He’nei’ni”!
It is here that we are left with the challenge of asking ourselves, “What would it mean to me to walk in God’s world as a child of Avraham? Who are those that I carry in my heart and being with every step that I take? How far into the future do I look and feel accountable to? How does this impact the way I stand in God’s world? What would holding my heart open to hear the voice of God demand of me?”
As bringing to closure a week where many lives and homes were rattled and devastated by the aftermath of “Sandy”, may we stand in prayer and support, may they not feel that they are standing alone. And may we merit, as we stand together, to hear God’s voice call out to us, leading us to the next step of healing our world and planet.
From Rabbi David Ingber
From Rav Frand
Hospitality: A Mitzvah for the Host
From Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan
Rabbi Laura’s Commentary on the above commentary
The Condiments Mitzvah (2013/5774)
Each year, before Passover, I take a critical look at my refrigerator. Especially at the shelf on the inside of the door, which has accumulated jars of relish, mustard, ketchup, marinade, salsa and horseradish. What a sign of wasteful affluence, I think. Today, however, I have changed my mind.
To feed his guests, Torah says, “Avraham took a bull, tender and good” (Genesis 18:7). Our Talmudic sages ask: Why does Torah add two adjectives to the noun “bull”? Rav says: Avraham took three bulls. Rav Hanan bar Rava says: Avraham fed his guests three tongues with mustard (Bava Metzia 86b).
Though I imagine Avraham’s New York Style Deli at Mamre, another Talmudic passage explains the symbolic significance of the meal. Rav Chisda says: The priestly portions of meat are to be eaten roasted with mustard. An editorial voice adds: Torah describes priests as anointed. Kings, who are anointed, eat roast meat with mustard (Chullin 132b).
Still, I’m not the only modern American reader to embrace the deli interpretation. Rabbi Yissocher Frand asks: If we would not expect to find pickle relish in the refrigerator of a great contemporary spiritual leader, why did Avraham Avinu have mustard in his refrigerator? Rabbi Avraham Pam, z”l answers: Avraham is a giant of kindness. Although he does not need mustard, the average guest coming down the road does want mustard. Avraham feels that he must be prepared for that guest (torah.org).
Rabbi YY Jacobson adds his own midrash based on Hasidic sources: The guest angels were looking for a man of celestial vision, but instead they found someone running around with deli meat and mustard. They then realized that the authentic majesty of human holiness lies in everyday acts (theyeshiva.net).
Such as – I now know – keeping a refrigerator shelf filled with condiments.
From Rabbi Jill Hammer
This was also posted under Rosh Hashanah
The Concubine’s Daughter
From the Maqam Project
Rabbi James Stone Goodman and the Epichorus.
From Brian Yosef Schachter-Brooks
In The World, Not of the World- Parshat Veyeira
There is an aphorism often heard in spiritual circles-
“Be in the world, but not of the world.”
What does this mean exactly?
There are at least two questions that come to mind about this phrase. First, what does it mean to “be in the world”? Aren’t we always already in the world? Second, what does it mean to not be “of the world”? Aren’t all of us of this world? What other world would be “of”?
To understand, let’s look at what our activities ordinarily consist of. Usually we spend our waking hours acting on the world or being acted on. We do things bring about some result. And yet, if our actions are to be sensitive and responsive to the beings around us, there needs to also be an element of just being with the world, not only acting upon it. There needs to be awareness and receptivity. This is the act of being in the world; it doesn’t mean merely existing, it means doing the activity of being with- of being present, aware, and open.
With this receptivity, however, there can be the fear of getting trapped by that which we are open to. Did you ever walk the longer route in order to avoid being seen by somebody? Often we will ignore or avoid people and situations because we fear some negative experience. But there is another way. You don’t have to shut down or hide; you can remain fully open to whatever comes, but also not cling to it. Let things come and let things go. Open yourself, let things come, and then return to openness- let things go. This is being “not of the world”, in the sense that you don’t let things in the world define who you are. You can become intimately involved with whatever comes along and then totally let go of it, let it pass on its way.
This week’s Parshat Vayera begins with a story of Avraham sitting at the opening of his tent in the heat of the day in the Plains of Mamre. Rather than shut himself up in the shade of his tent, he goes and sits at the entrance, looking to see who will come along. Three strangers appear, and he runs to them and bows before them. He invites them to come, rest, wash, eat- “v’sa’adu libkhem- and sustain your hearts”- and then “akhar ta’avoru- afterward, pass on”. He doesn’t only invite them in, he also invites them to leave.
The “tent” is like our sense of self, which can be closed off or open to what is now emerging in this moment. Even in the “heat”, meaning times of difficulty and suffering, you can welcome what this moment brings. Avraham’s tent sits in the vast “plains”- our little self sits in the vastness of this moment. Eternity is stretched out before us. There is infinite potential and infinite uncertainty. And yet, we need not fear what comes. We need not contract into our “tent”. We can be the supreme host like Sarah and Avraham, who epitomized hospitality, welcoming and offering our attention to whatever this moment brings. And then, let it pass on and return our attention to the vast openness. Things and beings and situations come and go, even our “tent” will eventually go, but the vastness remains.
This is the secret of the enigmatic first verse of the parshah- “Veyeira eilav Hashem b’eilonei Mamre- and the Divine appeared to him in the Plains of Mamre.” It says the Divine appears, but then Avraham looks up and sees three strangers approaching. What happened to the appearance of the Divine? But that’s the point: when we are open to the fullness of this moment, there can be the recognition that every appearance is an appearance of G-d. Everything emerges from the vastness and eventually returns there.
So welcome what is, right now. There is only one G-d, and This is It!
From Rabbi Jonathan Sacks
Binding of Issac
From American Jewish World Service
Parashat Vayera 5776
By Jimmy Taber
October 31, 2015
(Reprised from October 23, 2010)
This week, in Parashat Vayera, Avimelech, king of Gerar, faces a grave threat to himself and his household. Avraham enters the town and repeats his prior ill-fated decision to present Sarah as his sister instead of his wife upon arriving in a foreign land. Unaware that Sarah is married, Avimelech takes her for himself. To Avimelech’s great surprise, God confronts him in a dream, threatening to kill him unless he returns Sarah to Avraham. Following an animated exchange Avimelech concedes, but only after God once again threatens death and this time extends the potential sentence to “all that is yours.” Avimelech returns Sarah to Avraham and he and the women of his household are healed from the infertility that had been inflicted upon them as punishment for seizing Sarah.1
Although the Torah’s narrative presents a direct dialogue between Avimelech and God, the midrash reveals a difficult decision-making process in which Avimelech finds himself caught between competing voices:
In the morning, when the king awoke, in agony and terror, he called all his servants and told his dream in their ears. One of their number said: “O lord and king! Restore this woman unto the man, for he is her husband . . .” There were some among his servants who spake: “Be not afraid of dreams! What dreams make known to man is but falsehood.”2
The response of the group of servants implies that dreams were not a universally accepted medium for communicating with the Divine. Thus Avimelech is faced with a difficult choice. He can listen to the lone voice encouraging him to believe that his dream was, in fact, a communication from God and take action by returning Sarah. Or he can listen to the near consensus of his servants who dismiss the validity of his dream and choose to preserve the status quo, avoiding action by maintaining willful ignorance. Ultimately, Avimelech heeds God’s warning and restores Sarah to Avraham, thus alleviating the suffering of the women in his household.3
Avimelech’s struggle parallels one of the most difficult challenges we face today in the pursuit of global social justice. How do we identify which voices are speaking the truth—and how do we respond when those truths implicate our own actions? What responsibility do we take on when, like Avimelech, we hear the dissenting voice of truth urging us to change the decisions we’ve made?
Every day we make personal choices that have global consequences. What food do we buy? What clothes do we wear? These choices are guided by many factors, including convenience, style and price. Yet how many of us think deeply about the impact our consumption has on those at the point of production? We may be familiar with the profound negative impacts free trade has on developing nations, but how great of an effort do we make to buy locally grown foods? We may have heard of the sweatshops across the globe that feed the Global North’s demand for cheap goods, but does this knowledge influence us to purchase fair trade products? How closely do we listen to the voices that inform us of the full impact of our decisions? And to what extent do we choose to incorporate positive changes into our own lives?
It is easy to feel that the power to make an impact in these areas is held solely by larger forces far beyond our control. Governments and international institutions like the World Bank and United Nations create environmental regulations and determine trade policy. Large corporations are responsible for much of the direct exploitation of workers worldwide and dominate the conversation in our country surrounding consumption. But the truth is these actors do not hold all the power. As citizens of a democracy, our political voices can affect the policies of our own government, and as consumers our decisions about what we buy can influence the way in which goods are produced. In fact, we have a moral obligation to pursue change through ethical consumption and advocacy for just trade policies. Change must take place within our personal sphere before it can extend to our greater community.
The story of Avimelech can provide us with inspiration to listen to unpopular voices that oppose the status quo in our own lives. Even when the dominant voices try to invalidate those who speak truth to power, we have a responsibility to listen to the voices of truth and act accordingly. Only through courageous action can we transform the way our personal consumption impacts those beyond our immediate sphere. We are not powerless. We have the ability and the responsibility to change the way we live, and thus create a more just world for everyone.
From Rabbi Jonathan Sacks on Leonard Cohen and Parsha Vayeira
From Rabbi David Kasher
Portrait of a Pair
From My Jewish Learning
Service And Community, In The Desert, Among Strangers
In his covenant with Avimelech, Abraham provides us with an example of how to build peace, justice, and kindness where they seem to be absent.
BY RABBI JONATHAN SPIRA-SAVETT
“Shall I hide from Abraham what I am doing?… For I have known him in order that he may command his children and his household after him, that they may keep the way of the Lord, to do righteousness and justice.” So says God as God contemplates plans for the city of Sodom and its surroundings, whose reputation for evil and whose shrieks of corruption have become more than God can bear.
God knows that for Abraham and his descendents to become responsible for justice in the world, God must first apprentice Abraham, including him in a monumental decision about justice and human beings. (Abraham, of course, ends up challenging God to save the population of the cities if even ten righteous people can be found in the area.)
Justice & Familial Struggle
Parshat Vayera places this passage in the middle of a flow of events that somehow link the issue of justice in the wider world to Abraham’s own family struggles. As the Torah reading begins, Abraham sprints from the door of his desert tent toward three travelers, who turn out to be divine messengers come to announce the birth of a son to elderly Sarah and Abraham.
As the reading ends, Ishmael and his mother Hagar are driven out, because of Sarah’s jealousy and her urge to secure the inheritance of her own son Isaac. God saves the cast-out boy and his mother. God then tests Abraham, asking him to give up his remaining son Isaac as a sacrifice on Mt. Moriah. Yet again God intercedes and saves the boy.
This interplay between the discussion about Sodom and the struggle for peace and justice in Abraham’s household resist an easy lesson.
Toward the end of this week’s reading is an episode most of us don’t remember. Between the banishment of Ishmael and the binding of Isaac, Abraham is approached by Avimelech, king of the neighboring Philistines. Avimelech proposes a treaty, in recognition of past friendship. After the covenant is made official, the Torah relates that “Abraham planted an eshel-tree in Be’er Sheva, and there he called the name of Adonai, Eternal God. And Abraham lived in the land of the Philistines a long time.”
The peace treaty is jarring–it comes as Abraham’s own family seems to be collapsing, and stands in counterpoint to the doom of Sodom and Gomorrah. The rabbis of the midrash (rabbinic exegetical narrative) try to make sense of the episode, and their point of entry is, of all things, the tree.
In one midrash, two rabbis offer their views on what exactly the eshel was. One says: an orchard. The other says: an inn, a way station for desert travelers. Either way, Abraham marks his new bond with the Philistines by getting involved with them, providing and sharing food. For Abraham, the alliance isn’t just with Avimelech, and it isn’t just an agreement to insure against future conflicts. It has to create a new relationship of hesed, of covenantal kindness, between two peoples, starting now.
Maybe Abraham was reflecting on his experience with Sodom. He had argued on their behalf, but from a comfortable distance–looking down into the valley from his home up in the hills. For all his talk of justice, he had done nothing to engage with the evil and corruption right in those cities. Here, Abraham decides to take seriously his own talk about justice, creating community right there in the desert, looking out for vulnerable travelers among the Philistines as well as his own people.
The rabbi who teaches that an eshel is an inn has to justify his creative translation. The three letters of the Hebrew word eshel, he says, each stand for an element of Abraham’s hospitality: aleph for “achilah,” eating; shin for “shtiya,” drinking, and lamed for “l’vaya,” accompanying travelers on their way.
“Then Abraham lived in the land of Philistines a long time.” Not in the cities he had settled in when God first brought him to Canaan, but in the land of the Philistines. Who knows how many strangers Abraham met, what he learned as he shared meals with them, what they taught him as he escorted them toward a safer journey.
If they thanked him, say the rabbis, he would respond: Do you think you have me to thank? Let us thank God together, for it is God’s food we are sharing. And, we might add: It is God who brought me to this land, who separated me from people so that I would have to figure out from the beginning how to order my relationships, how to sustain justice in my own home, which I realize is a place of ayn-shalom, no peace.
What is Abraham’s life, after all, but a twisting story about connection and disconnection? Leaving home, wandering the new land, leaving it in time of famine. Reaching out to travelers, speaking out for ten hypothetical innocents hidden in a culture of evil. In the middle of the desert, Abraham makes a tentative step, staking out a small parcel for peace and devotion to others with no expectations in return. None of them will be announcing miracles to Sarah or good fortune for their descendents. The eshel is a moment of pure service.
It is interesting that in one rabbinic legend, this is the time that Abraham sends messengers to check on Ishmael, and eventually to reunite the family–only for a time, of course, before the terrible challenge from God to offer his other son. But I like to think about that legend, and to imagine Abraham and Sarah with their children at the eshel in Be’er Sheva. Peace in the home, service to others. How to preserve that moment, they do not teach us–Torah forwards that challenge to us.
Reprinted with permission from SocialAction.com.
Shabbat Parashat Vayera
By: Rabbi Adam Greenwald
We Plant Seeds
Before God leveled the twin-sin-cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, God revealed the divine judgment to Abraham. Perhaps surprisingly for God, Abraham does not respond by meekly accept the decree. Quite the opposite, he instead initiates a lengthy debate on behalf of the doomed cities. Over and over he demands that God be absolutely sure that the innocent not be wiped out together with the guilty. In one of the most eloquent protests in history, Abraham cries out: “Will not the Judge of all the Earth act with Justice?!” (Gen. 18:25).
Abraham’s challenge eventually fails, and the cities are indeed destroyed. However, the Jewish tradition is unstinting in its praise of his “holy chutzpah.” Our Sages see Abraham’s willingness to protest as a sign of the depth of his moral sensitivity and one of the reasons that he is fit to be the patriarch of our people.
Elie Wiesel, one of modern Judaism’s true prophetic figures, tells a beautiful story that suggests that Abraham was not the first person to engage in a protest outside of Sodom. In his intriguing re-telling of the tale, there was another morally courageous soul who had once tried to save the cities.
“Long before Abraham came along, there was a certain man, who used to stand outside the gates of Sodom and cry out against it. Day after day, year after year, the man would stand there, all by himself, pleading and demanding that the people change their ways.
Once, after many years, a delegation came to the man and demanded to know what he was still doing there– hadn’t he realized that his protests would not change anything? The man replied: “I came to Sodom to try to change them– and I have long since realized that that won’t happen. However, I must keep trying, because if I leave, they will have changed me.”
Protest is exhausting work – not so much, because it is tiring to hold a sign or march down a street. Instead, protest is exhausting because the results are almost never immediately apparent. Change often comes at a glacial pace, and quite often society’s problems get worse long before they get better. The spiritual work of protest is a matter cultivating audacious hope, of believing that there is something valuable about standing up for what’s right even when it feels like nobody is listening. It’s about refusing to be a bystander in the face of injustice – if we cannot solve the problem, then at very least we can start by not being part of the problem.
This month, the Catholic Church canonized as a saint one of my heroes – Father Oscar Romero. Father Romero was the Archbishop of San Salvador, and was a tireless advocate for the poor and oppressed in his country. On March 24, 1980, he was assassinated while saying the mass at the order of the Salvadorian regime. One of the most famous prayers that he wrote addresses the fundamental challenge of speaking out even when (especially when) you know that complete change will not happen in your lifetime:
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for God’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.
May we be inspired to speak our truth, to stand up for justice, even from the Master of the World. Our accomplishments may not always be immediately visible, but may we be strengthened by the faith that the seeds we plant will ultimately flourish in a new world that is waiting to be born.
SODOM IS EVIL: WHY DIDN’T I SEE IT COMING?
The name evokes evil. Rape. Corruption. Hatred of immigrants.
Of course, you know that now. This week. But you did not know it last week. Not really.
Last week, in synagogue, we read that the people of Sodom are bad (Gen. 13:13). But we felt sorry for them anyway. Because we saw them as victims.
Four kings from the east invade Sodom’s region. They conquer five local cities. For twelve years, Sodom and its allies serve the conquerors. But in the thirteenth year, the allies rebel. Unsuccessfully. The four eastern kings strike back at the locals, including the refaim, emim and other tribes. Then, they take Sodom’s food and property. Sodom’s survivors flee. (Gen. 14:1-11).
But our hero Abraham appears to help them. Because the invaders have captured his nephew. And because he has a treaty with one of the tribes. When he leads the allies to victory, the King of Sodom offers to pay him for his trouble.
Sodom has a nice king.
Or so you might think.
Unless you pay attention to a favourite saying from journalist Sarah Kendzior. “When somebody shows you who they are, believe them.”
Torah’s details show us exactly who the king of Sodom and his allies are. And who the invaders are. How? Through intertextual hints and nuances of Hebrew language.
Here are the names of the king of Sodom and his friends. There’s Bera, whose name means “through evil.” And Birsha, “with wickedness.” Shinab, “father-hater.” Shemever, “destroyer of limbs.” Plus, an unnamed king.
In Biblical Hebrew, the word for “name” can also mean “reputation.” As in a bad one. For example, Torah calls the nefilim and their children “people of the name” (Gen. 6:4). Commentators call them infamous, corrupt. The people of Shinar build the tower of Babel in order to “make a name for ourselves” (Gen. 11:4). Commentators call them greedy.
The king of Sodom and his friends have horrendous names. Obviously, they also have terrible reputations.
Let’s also take a closer look at the foreign invaders who conquer them. One does come from Shinar, land of greed. But, together, what do they do? They conquer the refaim and the emim — local names for the corrupt nefilim. (Num. 13:33; Deut. 2:11).
And what are the names of the invaders? Their reputations, that is? There’s King Amraphel, “speaker of wonders.” Arioch, “striking lion.” Chedorlaomer, “boundary of measure.” And Tidal, the one who “knows about.”
These foreign invaders, it seems, do a bit of good in Sodom. They conquer corruption. Enforce just weights and measures, i.e., honesty in business. They bring knowledge and positive discourse. And they back it up with strength.
How do we, the readers, miss the virtue these foreigners bring? We don’t look at the details. Because ancient politics are just too confusing.
Abraham glosses over the details, too. Of course, he needs to save his nephew. But he also props up a wicked regime. One that hates foreigners, rips apart families, and harms people’s bodies.
But this, as it turns out, it is a bad idea.
Because, “the cry [of the oppressed in] Sodom…is great and their [the oppressor’s] sin is very serious” (Gen. 18:20).
Finally, Abraham understands the city is doomed. Still, he pleads for the lives of the few good people left (Gen. 18:23-33). But it is too late. Justice, knowledge, and civil speech have been driven out.
Friends, are you living in Sodom? Please don’t wait until it is too late to save your city.
From Rabbi jonathan Sacks
God and Strangers
From the Hebrew College
By Rabbi Sharon Cohen Anisfeld
Open your eyes and look for each other.
As I write this week, my heart is trembling with love, fear, and a fierce sense of protectiveness for the transgender people in my life – friends, teachers, colleagues, students, children of friends. I tremble for them because of the latest attempt to erase their experience by taking away the language that might help us begin to see them and understand their lives. I tremble for all of us, because when any of us is erased and rendered invisible, we are all at risk.
Vayera is the parsha of seeing. It opens with a moment of clarity and vision at the entrance to Abraham’s tent, in the heat of the day. We are told that Abraham is sitting and recovering from his circumcision when the three visitors appear. It is precisely in this state of vulnerability and exposure that Abraham encounters the divine. But if the parsha’s opening scene is about seeing and its sacred possibilities, the rest of the parsha prods us to ask hard, even haunting questions about the painful limits of the human capacity to see and be seen.
What is it – and who is it – that we fail to see?
Abraham is deeply attuned to the divine presence and attentive to the needs of the visitors who appear outside his tent. But does he see those “inside the tent” as clearly? The mysterious visitors ask him: “Where is Sarah your wife?” The question seems innocent at first, but takes on darker overtones as the parsha progresses. “Where is Sarah?” we wonder when Abraham hides her identity from Avimelech, risking her safety in order to protect his own. “Where is Sarah?” we can’t help but ask when Abraham takes Isaac to the top of Mount Moriah. “Where is Sarah?” we hear in the silence after they return. The midrash suggests that Sarah is ultimately the one sacrificed on that altar – drawing her last heartbroken breath when she hears what (almost) happened on that terrible journey.
What happens when we cannot bear what we see?
There is something that Sarah sees when she witnesses Isaac and Ishmael playing together that is so painful or provocative that she can no longer endure the very presence of Ishmael and Hagar in her home. What is it that makes her demand that Abraham banish them from sight, cast into a wilderness of despair? A short time later, Hagar averts her own eyes, unable to bear the sight of her son Ishmael dying from thirst. And then there is the image of Lot’s wife, unable – or unwilling – to avert her eyes from the tragedy consuming the city in which she raised her own children. As a result, she is trapped in – or perhaps committed to – a gaze that leaves her frozen forever as a pillar of salt, a witness of waterless tears. Throughout this parsha of seeing, we are reminded of how tempting it can be to avert our eyes from the truth before us, and how searing the act of seeing can be.
What happens when it is not safe to be seen?
When the people of Sodom mob Lot’s home and ask, “Where are the people who came to you tonight?” we understand just how dangerous – even deadly – seeing and being seen can be. Lot hides the visitors from the angry mob, yet then, in a horrifying and perverse foreshadowing of the binding of Isaac, he offers his own daughters to them. When is hiding an act of self-denial and when is it an act of self-protection?
This is the parsha of seeing, but it is riddled with harrowing stories of what happens when we fail to see, when we cannot bear what we see, when it is not safe to be seen.
From within all of them, the voice of the God-who-sees-but-cannot-be-seen calls out and commands: Stop. No more sacrificing of human beings. Open your eyes and look for the ram and the well. Open your eyes and look for each other.
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