Od Avinu Chai!

Yosef has just told the brothers that Binyamin will remain in Egypt, and they are free to go.

 

Yehuda steps up and takes responsibility, “I will remain here. Binyamin must return or else our father will die of grief.” He is ready to go to war on behalf of his brother.

 

Yosef can no longer keep his secret and shouts out:

אֲנִי יוֹסֵף הַעוֹד אָבִי חָי

“I am Yosef! Is my father still alive?”

 

The brothers are dumbfounded. Yosef is still alive.

 

The words “ha-od avi chai” are also an indictment of the hypocrisy of Yehuda. Yosef knows Yaakov lives – Yehuda kept repeating this fact over and over. Rather, he is saying, “Now, you’re worried about causing our father grief!?! Why weren’t you so concerned when you left me in the pit?”

 

It is a very dramatic reunion.

 

Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach sees this moment of reunion as providing the Jewish answer to the world. He incorporates the words “Od avi chai” into his song, “Am Yisrael Chai,” which he composed for the Soviet Jewry movement.  He notes that “od avi chai” refers to our Father, God. As long as God is living, the Jewish nation lives. God is forever, and so are the Jews. While “Am Yisrael Chai” has a long history of being used to express Jewish solidarity, Reb Shlomo turned the words into an anthem of Jewish pride, strength, vitality, optimism and hope.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik sees the words “ha-od avi chai” as a question to each of us about our link to the past. In a lecture at Lincoln Square Synagogue in 1975, he related one of his experiences as a young boy in cheder in Khaslavichy, where his father was the rabbi. As the Rav related many times, his teacher was a Chasid and would impart Chasidic lessons more often than teach the simple lessons of the text.

“The episode I am about to relate to you took place on a murky winter day in January. I still remember the day; it was cloudy and overcast. It was just after the Chanukah festival, and the Torah portion of the week was Vayigash. With the end of Chanukah ended the little bit of serenity and yomtovkeit (holiday spirit) that the festival brought into the monotonous life of the town's Jews.

As far as the boys from the cheder were concerned, a long desolate winter lay ahead. It was a period in which we had to get up while it was still dark and return home from the cheder with a lantern in the hand of each boy, because nightfall was so early.

On that particular day, the whole cheder, all the boys, were in a depressed mood -- listless, lazy, and sad. We recited, or I should say chanted mechanically, the first verses of Vayigash in a dull monotone. We were simply droning the words in Hebrew and in Yiddish…

The boy, reading mechanically, finished reciting the question: Ha-yesh lachem av? Do you have a father? and the reply: Yesh lanu av zaken ve-yeled zekunim katan, We have an old father, and a young child of his old age. Then something strange happened. The melamed (teacher), who was half-asleep while the boy was droning on the words in Hebrew and Yiddish, rose, jumped to his feet and with a strange, enigmatic gleam in his eyes, motioned to the reader to stop. Then the melamed turned to me and…said to me: "What kind of question did Joseph ask his brothers, Ha-yesh lachem av? Do you have a father? Of course they had a father, everybody has a father! The only person who had no father was the first man of creation, Adam. But anyone who is born into this world has a father. What kind of a question was it?"

I began, ‘Joseph…’ I tried to answer, but he did not let me. Joseph, I finally said, meant to find out whether the father was still alive. ‘Do you still have a father,’ meaning, is he alive, not dead? If so, the melamed thundered back at me, he should have phrased the question differently: ‘Is your father still alive?’

To argue with the melamed was useless. He began to speak. He was no longer addressing the boys. The impression he gave was that he was speaking to some mysterious visitor, a guest who had come into the cheder, into that cold room…

In modern idiom, I would say he meant to express the idea that Joseph was inquiring about existential parenthood, not biological parenthood. Joseph, the melamed concluded, was anxious to know whether they felt themselves committed to their roots, to their origins. Were they origin conscious? Are you, Joseph asked the brothers, rooted in your father? Do you look upon him the way the branches, or the blossoms, look upon the roots of the tree? Do you look upon your father as the feeder, as the foundation of your existence? Do you look upon him as the provider and sustainer of your existence? Or are you a band of rootless shepherds who forget their origin, and travel and wander from place to place, from pasture to pasture?

Suddenly, he stopped addressing the strange visitor and began to talk to us. Raising his voice, he asked: ‘Are you modest and humble? Do you admit that the old father represents an old tradition? Do you believe that the father is capable of telling you something new, something exciting? Something challenging? Something you did not know before? Or are you insolent, arrogant, and vain, and deny your dependence upon your father, upon your source? ‘Ha-yesh lachem av?! Do you have a father?!’

Who knows more? Do you know more because you are well versed in the Talmud, or does your father…know more even though he can barely read Hebrew? Are you proud of your father? If a Jew admits to the supremacy of his father, then, ipso facto, he admits to the supremacy of the Universal Father, the ancient Creator of the world…’

That is the experience I had with the melamed. I have never forgotten it.”

Ha-od avi chai? Is our past kept alive in the Judaism of today? Do we look to our ancestors for inspiration and motivation or are they mere relics of a bygone era? Who do we look to for authentic, living Judaism?

Radio host Dennis Prager observes, “I’ve been in many Jewish homes. I’ve noticed that Reform Jews often adorn their homes with much Judaica and Jewish art. I often will find a painting of dancing Chassidic Jews on their walls.” He goes on to note. “I’ve also been to the homes of many Orthodox Jews who have a lot of Jewish art. I have never seen paintings on their wall of dancing Reform Jews.”

I don’t think it matters what kind of Jews we put on the wall. What’s most important is for Jews to live Jewishly. That is how we ensure the relevance, vitality, and growth of our community. That’s “Od Avinu Chai.” That’s “Am Yisrael Chai.” That’s how we keep our Judaism alive.

Do You Light a Menorah or a Chanukiyah?

What do we light on Chanukah?

It shouldn’t be complicated, but this is Judaism. When I ask a group that question, I always get two responses. Most people say they light the Chanukah “menorah.” Others answer they light the “chanukiyah.”

What’s the difference?

On the one hand, a “menorah” in Hebrew means a “lamp,” and can refer to any lamp, including the seven-branched candelabra lit every day in the Mishkan and, later, the Beit Hamikdash. This menorah happens to be central to the story of Chanukah. So, even though our Chanukah candelabra is different than the OG menorah, it’s A menorah, and we’re celebrating a holiday centered around THE menorah, so we light the menorah.

On the other hand, the word “menorah” has become closely associated with THE menorah of the Temple. What we light on Chanukah is different. That one had 7 branches, and we’re lighting 8 candles plus one shamash. We can’t call what we light a “menorah.” We need to call it something else. Hence, “chanukiyah” to the rescue. The term can be found in the writings of Rabbi Avraham Meyuchas (1699-1767) and was a term used by the Ladino-speaking Jewish community in Israel at the time. Later in the 20^th century, Hemda Ben-Yehudah, the second wife of modern Hebrew language innovator Eliezer Ben-Yehudah, designated the Chanukah candelabra to be known exclusively as the “chanukiyah.”

I must admit a partiality for chanukiyah. The menorah was the menorah, and we don’t light the menorah. I sometimes go out of my way to describe light the “Chanukah lights” instead of lighting “the menorah.” While I recognize and validate those in the “chanukiyah” camp, I now have a better understanding of the meaning and message of menorah.

Last night, Rabbi Zalman Wolowik of Chabad of the Five Towns shared some Chasidic insights into the original menorah. The Torah describes Hashem commanding the menorah be crafted out of “mikshah,” one piece of gold. It could not be assembled out of multiple pieces of gold. The word “mikshah” shares a root with the Hebrew word “kashah,” which means difficult. Rashi (Shemot 25:31) quotes the tradition that Moshe had difficulty (kashah) figuring out how to make the menorah, so God had to make it for him.   

But what was so difficult about carving a menorah out of one piece of gold? It might be complicated, but Moshe was pretty bright. He had divine assistance. He made use of the services of Betzalel as chief craftsman. Why was mikshah so difficult to comprehend?

The answer is that mikshah did not only refer to one piece of gold. The menorah was to represent the spiritual unity of the Jewish people. Its seven branches all faced one central direction. This represents that all Jews with all their wisdom and different ideas and all of their emotional and spiritual characteristics are meant to operate as one unit. Just as the menorah is of one piece, so are the Jewish people.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe explained that there are two essential laws of the menorah: that it should be forged from a single piece of gold, and that its diverse lights should face each other in harmony with their source. As we strive to illuminate our surroundings, there must be the ever-present awareness of our intrinsic oneness, coupled with an assertion of our individual talents in concert with each other and in fidelity to our mission and identity.

That’s pretty mikshah. Such a proposition was even beyond Moshe’s comprehension. But that’s what the menorah is. The menorah is a symbol of the unified Jewish people. We each bring our fullest selves to serve as an essential part of a unified nation. That’s what the menorah teaches.

So, I now understand better why we naturally light what we refer to as the “menorah” on Chanukah. The menorah teaches us about ourselves. On Chanukah, we commemorate and celebrate the survival, continuity, and relevance of Judaism throughout the ages. It is also time for us to remember our role in that story. We are an essential part of the Jewish nation. What we bring to the community is unique to us. If we don’t, nobody else will. And we need each other to fulfill our potential as a Jewish nation.

I believe this is why Jewish tradition developed in a way that everyone lights the menorah the best way possible. According to the basic law, each home only requires one candle to be lit each night. Regardless of which night of Chanukah or how many people in the house, one candle is all you need. Now, does anyone know anyone who does it this way? Everyone who lights, instead, lights what is considered mehadrin min hamehadrin, the super-duper way to light. Each person lights an ascending number of candles each night. The goal of Chanukah is for each one of us to be our best authentic selves.

So, light. Light your menorah or your chanukiyah, inspired by the eternal message of Jewish potential and unity of the original menorah. Enoy the light, be inspired by the light, and share the light. That’s how we will chase away the darkness and create a bright world for all.

Dream On!

Why did Yosef’s brothers hate him?

Conventional wisdom states that they hated him because Yosef presented himself as better than his brothers.

When we look carefully at the text, however, we see that the brothers begin to hate Yosef even before he tells them his dreams. Knowing that Yosef is a dreamer is enough for the brothers to hate him.

What’s wrong with dreaming?

Rabbi Joseph Soloveichik delivered a lecture in which he discusses Yosef and his dreams. The Rav compares Yosef and his brothers to the Zionists and their religious opponents. The Zionists were dreamers. They saw the need for a Jewish State and took the necessary action to try to make it a reality. The anti-Zionist camp could not tolerate the risks involved. They saw the pursuit of a Jewish State as fraught with danger to the Jewish tradition. It was too risky to take Judaism into the sphere of state-making.

Similarly, Yosef was a dreamer. He saw the tremendous possibility for the worldview of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov to elevate the rest of the world through engaging with it. The brothers were satisfied with the way things were going and were resistant to change. Yosef - like the early Zionists - was a dreamer, a visionary, who was willing to go out on a limb and take risks to achieve great accomplishments.

Dreamers may bother us at times because they are seeking to change the status quo. They want to change something that we also feel needs to be changed – but we’re not dreaming. We’re not the ones working to change things. In a way, we resent the dreamer’s willingness to envision a better reality because we are unwilling to do so ourselves.

Instead of dreamers bothering us, we should become the dreamers.

Our Sages teach that dreams are 1/60 of nevuah (prophecy). We may not be nevi’im (prophets), but we are bnei nevi’im, descended from prophets. Dreams are in our DNA.

We all have a responsibility to dream.

The parsha opens with the words, “Vayeishev Yaakov, Jacob dwelled in the land.” The Sages comment, “Bikesh Yaakov leisheiv b’shalva – Jacob wanted to reside in tranquility.” Yaakov had a difficult life. He had been on the run from his brother, was mistreated by his father-in-law, had a large family to feed, and had just endured a lot of drama with Dina. He figured he deserved a little R&R and to live in peace.

Yaakov was wrong.

God comes along and sets Yaakov straight. An easy life is not the lot of the righteous individual. Life is for work. Life is to find issues causes that require our attention and fix them. Life is for dreaming.

Instead of the tranquil life Yaakov thought he deserved, the Yosef saga unfolds.

Yosef’s brothers seemed to embrace Yaakov’s attitude on life. They hated the dreaming type. Yosef reminded them of what they should be doing but weren’t. They needed to get rid of him.

In the end, Yosef was right. Yosef – and all subsequent dreamers – remind us of the need to think big and dream on. We should not sit back and settle; we need to invest effort and move forward.

Chanukah also teaches this message.

According to the Talmud, one candle per household suffices to fulfill the mitzvah of the Chanukah lights. A better form of fulfillment is to light one candle per person. The best way to fulfill the mitzvah is for each person who lights to light an ascending number of candles each night. This is called, “Mehadrin min ha-mehadrin,” the best of the best way to perform the mitzvah.

Unique among Jewish practices, EVERYONE lights Chanukah candles the best way possible. For other observances, “just enough” will suffice, but not for the Chanukah lights. On Chanukah, each of us aims high and dreams big.

Yosef is the dreamer, and it is Yosef whom we call the tzaddik, righteous. He understood that, to achieve righteousness, we must have a dream for which we are striving.

What is your dream? In what way can each of us move beyond the status quo? It may be Torah study. We can aspire to learn a book of Jewish learning, attend a class, or teach someone else more about Judaism. It may relate Israel. What can we do to be more supportive of Israel? It may be to assist those in need. What actions can we take to help them? Can we donate money or volunteer in a way that creates a more caring community?

Israeli singer Hanan Ben Ari sings, “Gam ani choleim k’mo Yosef – I also dream like Joseph.” It’s a contemporary take on overcoming challenges and achieving goals by following Yosef’s example to imagine big and change the world. We need to dream like Yosef to enhance our lives and the lives of those around us.

Dream on!

More, More, More: Rav vs. Kol

Why do we have so much stuff?

We lived in a Manhattan apartment for many years. I got used to things sometimes being a bit cluttered as we fit a lot of stuff into a relatively small space. When we moved into a house, I figured we would have lots of open space as the same stuff would be accommodated in a larger space.

I was wrong.

There seems to meta-scientific law that stuff expands. The more space you have, the more stuff you get. (Except for those annoyingly neat, minimalistic people.)

In So Much Stuff, archaeologist Chip Colwell investigates how and why humanity went from needing nothing to needing everything. In the beginning, there was “Ötzi the Iceman,” the name given to the well-preserved 5,000-year-old human mummy found in the Alps. He was carrying half his body weight of stuff that he needed. Some of those items – like his backpack, shoes, coat, undergarments, and tools – are the same type of things we carry around today. Whereas 5,000 years ago, the average household had only a few thousand items, today, we have over 300,000.

There are many factors as to why we now have more things. There’s simply more items available due to advances in technology, lifespan, and other factors. Obviously, the balance between needs and wants – and how to define which is which – plays a role and can be very subjective. As Judaism teaches (Avot 4:1), “Who is wealthy? One who is happy with one’s lot.” Whether one’s lot is a lot or too much will depend on perspective.

Yaakov provides a great perspective of how to appreciate what we have.

In advance of encountering his brother for the first time in over 20 years, Yaakov sends Esav a gift. The reunion goes reasonably well.  Esav is impressed by the gift but resists accepting it by saying to Yaakov, “Yesh li rav - I have a lot; you keep what is yours.”

Yaakov insists that Esav accept the gift and says, “God has been gracious to me. Yesh li kol - I have everything.” Esav then accepts the gift.

Here we see two mindsets. Esav views what he has as being significant. Maybe he is even grateful for having plenty and declines taking some of Yaakov’s wealth. Nevertheless, there is always room for more. Yaakov, however, is completely satisfied with what he has. He needs nothing else for he has it all.

Rav versus Kol. We can and should be grateful for having a lot, but can we be so grateful that having what we have is having it all? We should try.

Is it ever OK to “want more?”

The answer to this question relates to the Rav vs. Kol dynamic. Wanting more just to want more so that we can accumulate more is an Esav perspective. Wanting more “l’shem shamayim,” to help others or to improve ourselves or to make the world better is exactly the perspective Yaakov models for us.

I think this dynamic was the root of a strange dispute that arose in the religious community in Israel concerning a very popular Israeli song that is all the rage at weddings and celebrations. The song, Tamid Ohev Oti (God Always Loves Me), is based on a spiritual teaching of Rabbi Shalom Arush and features the chorus, “Od yoteir tov…v’tamid yihyeh li rak tov – God will keep making things better and better…and will always make it only good for me.” (It’s much catchier when you hear it.)

What can be wrong with things getting better and better? Some rabbis were disturbed with the aspiration for more goodness and more goodness and only good things. They claimed that’s not what Jews ask for nor how they ask. We should be satisfied with what we have and recognize “bad things” also have lessons for us to ponder.

I think a song can just be a song, and the controversy seems to have subsided with the opponents backing down. At the same time, our celebration and excitement for “Od yoteir tov,” greater and greater good should be motivated by Yaakov’s perspective. We should appreciate that what we have is what we need and that having more – more blessing, more peace, more kindness, and more love – should be for the right reasons – to live better lives as Jews and make the lives of those around us better.

That’s a lot and that will make things even better. Yesh lanu kol…v’od yoteir tov!

Transforming a Place into a Makom

King David never set foot in Migdal David.

The site, also known as the Tower of David and David’s Citadel, is now a museum and event space. Originally ancient Hasmonean and Herodian fortifications, the current structures were built during the Mamluk and Ottoman periods on top of a series of earlier ancient fortifications destroyed during the Crusades. The site was named "Tower of David" in the 5th century CE by the Byzantine Christians, who believed the site to be the palace of King David. They took the name from Shir HaShirim (4:4), “Your neck is a like a tower of David (migdal David).”

Migdal David has multiple stories to tell, but what makes it special? What makes any place special?

A place is special when it becomes a makom.

Now, this is a tricky proposition because makom literally translates as “place.” Makom, however, means much more.

“Va-yifga ba-makom va-yalen sham ki va ha-shemesh - Yaakov came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set.” (Bereishit 28:11)

On a literal level, it got dark, and Yaakov stopped in a place to sleep. The commentaries are not satisfied with letting a place be just a place. A place can be transformed into a makom.

Rashi says it was The Place. It was Har HaMoriah, the mountain on which Avraham was prepared to offer Yitzchak as an offering that, ultimately, was the site of the Temple. That’s a pretty important makom.

Seforno explains that the place was a familiar, helpful place. It was known as a rest stop for travelers to stop, eat, sleep. Yaakov stopped there because everyone stopped there when they needed a break. The place was a makom, a destination for those in need.

Rashbam keeps it simple and geographical. Yaakov stopped near the city of Luz. That’s where he was.

A makom is more than a place; it is an encounter.

There are sublime, holy encounters.
There are encounters when one receives or gives assistance to another.
There are encounters with God in the ordinary or even the unexpected.

Makom as an encounter explains why we refer to God as Ha-Makom at the Seder (“Baruch Ha-Makom”) or when we comfort the mourner (“Ha-Makom yenacheim etchem…”). In life, we can move from place to place or experience sublime, meaningful, and helpful encounters.

Rabbi Shmuel Goldin shares an amazing story about a visit he made to the Theresienstadt camp. The guide took the group behind what had been a bakery and down some steps to a hidden underground room. Suddenly they found themselves in a small synagogue which had been built by a group of Danish Jews, secretly, under the eyes of their Nazi tormentors. Imagine the courage and devotion of these individuals who risked their lives to create a makom to worship God even at a time when God’s face seemed very hidden!

On the walls of the small shul, passages from the Torah and liturgy had been painted in a fashion common to European synagogues of that time. One was the declaration made by Yaakov (Bereishit 28:17):

“Ma nora ha-makom ha-zeh! Ein zeh ki im beit Elokim v’zeh sha’ar ha-shamayim - How awesome is this place! This is none other than the House of God and this is the gate to heaven!”

A makom in Theresienstadt. A “House of God” and a “gate to heaven” in what would seem to be only a place of death and destruction.

Each place we go is really a potential makom – and a potential Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim.

Getting back to the Tower of David, Migdal David can be a place. This past Sunday, Migdal David became an inspiring, uplifting, joyous makom.

Some 200 family and friends came together to celebrate the wedding of Tom Shemia and Rebecca Douer at Migdal David. Besides the location being beautifully transformed and decorated, I felt as if the stones had come alive. We were living the fulfillment of the Yirmiyahu’s prophecy (33:10-11):

“Od yishama b’arei Yehudah u’vechutzot Yerushalayim, kol sasson v’kol simcha kol chatan v’kol kallah – Once again shall be heard in the cities of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem the sound of joy and rejoicing and the song of the groom and the bride.”

I didn’t even have to use my imagination. Right in front of my eyes were the stones of Jerusalem dating back more than 2,000 years. Built by the victors of the Chanukah story, taken over by Roman conquerors before being used and destroyed by Muslims and Christians, and now it is the site for a Jewish wedding. Everyone in attendance travelled to Israel in hostile times because of a deep connection to the couple and optimism and hope for the Jewish future. I was, thank God, together with Naama and our children along with congregants, life-long friends, and strangers in creating a most meaningful makom.

Each of us will encounter many different places along our life’s journeys. We should aspire to turn each place into a makom, to recognize the sacred potential of every place we inhabit and to make room for God and others in our lives.

Chevron: City of Connection

Have you ever been to Chevron for Shabbat Chayei Sara?

This Shabbat, thousands of people will converge on Chevron (Hebron) to have a “front row seat” as we read how Avraham purchases the land in which he buries Sara, which becomes the Me’arat HaMachpela, the burial place of Avraham and Sara, Yitzchak and Rivka, and Yaakov and Leah. The Midrash teaches that Chevron is one of three places – together with Jerusalem and Shechem - that the nations of the world cannot protest against Israel and say, “You stole the land.”

How has that worked out for us?

The three places purchased to avoid any dispute over Jewish ownership – Jerusalem, Shechem, and Chevron – remain flashpoints of controversy between Israel and the world.

Maybe that’s exactly the point.

The Midrash is not predicting that the nations of the world will not protest. The Midrash is reinforcing for us our right to these places. No matter what the world says or does, Jews have an unbreakable connection to Jerusalem, Shechem, and Chevron.

Chevron, in particular, hasn’t been easy. In addition to the exiles and displacement of Jews throughout history, Chevron has been a challenge as Jews returned to Israel in the last 100 years. The low point was the 1929 massacre which took place on Shabbat, August 24 and claimed the lives of 69 Jews with hundreds injured. 

On that tragic day, as the news of the violence emerged, Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak Kook, together with other Jewish leaders, went to Harry Luke, the acting British high commissioner, to urge him to take action and protect the Jews of Hebron. “What can be done?” Luke asked.

Rav Kook's response was straight to the point. “Shoot the murderers!”

Luke responded, “But I have received no such orders.”

“Then I am commanding you!” Rav Kook roared. “In the name of humanity's moral conscience, I demand this!”

Luke did nothing, and Rav Kook never forgot or forgave him. Not long after this heated exchange, an official reception was held in Jerusalem, and Mr. Luke held out his hand to greet the Chief Rabbi. To the shock of many, Rav Kook refused to shake it. With quiet fury, the rabbi explained, “I do not shake hands defiled with Jewish blood.”

Six months after the massacre, grieving crowds filled the Yeshurun synagogue in Jerusalem. Rav Kook gave a powerful speech about our connection with Chevron.

“[W]e must remember and remind the Jewish people not to forget the city of the Patriarchs. The people must know what Chevron means to us…When the weak-hearted spies arrived at Chevron, they were frightened by the fierce nations who lived in the land. But Caleb…said, 'We must go forth and conquer the land. We can do it!' Despite the terrible tragedy that took place in Chevron, we announce to the world, 'Our strength is now like our strength was then.' We will not abandon our holy places and sacred aspirations. Chevron is the city of our fathers, the city of the Cave of Machpela where our Patriarchs are buried. It is the city of David, the cradle of our sovereign monarchy.

Those who discourage the ones trying to rebuild the Jewish community in Chevron with arguments of political expedience; those who scorn and say, 'What are those wretched Jews doing?' Those who refuse to help rebuild Chevron are attacking the very roots of our people. In the future, they will have to give account for their actions…That proud Jew, Caleb, announced years later, 'I am still strong... As my strength was then, so is my strength now' (Joshua 14:11). We, too, announce to the world: our strength now is as our strength was then. We shall reestablish Chevron in even greater glory, with peace and security for every Jew. With God’s help, we will merit to see Chevron completely rebuilt, speedily in our days."

Very famously – some say prophetically, Rav Kook’s son, Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda Kook, spoke about the importance of Chevron on Yom Ha’atzmaut 1967. Rav Tzvi Yehuda emotionally recalled his inability to fully celebrate when Israel declared its independence in 1948 since holy places such as Jerusalem and Chevron were not included. Just weeks later, during the Six Day War, Jerusalem was reunited, and Israel captured Chevron

This Shabbat, Chevron is attracting thousands of visitors – including many students (like our daughter, Aviva). They are not going for geo-political reasons. They are going because Chevron is the burial place of the patriarchs and matriarchs, the city of King David, and the city which radiates a sense of Jewish authenticity, perseverance, and continuity.

The name Chevron comes from the same root as the word chibbur, which means connection. The importance of Chevron lays in how its origins, history, past, present, and future connect us with our experience as Jews. We are connected to our ancestors and their trials and tribulations. We will succeed – as they did – if we keep that connection strong.

Hospitality is More than Hosting

“Avraham ran to the malachim (angels) to be machnis orchim (offer hospitality)!”

This is the chorus of a Jewish children’s song on “613 Torah Avenue,” an album from my youth. It describes Avraham’s hospitality for the three angels disguised as travelers in the desert in need of food and a break. The Sages describe Avraham, recuperating from having circumcised himself a few days earlier at age 99, scanning the horizon in the hopes of finding a guest. God, to save Avraham the effort, made it hotter than usual outside so that nobody would venture out. But Avraham wanted company! In the end, God sent the angels, and a lesson in hospitality for the ages – and a song – is born.

Judaism places a premium on hospitality.

“Gedolah hachnasat orchim mi-kabbalat pnei ha-shechinah - Hospitality toward guests is greater than receiving the Divine Presence, as when Abraham invited his guests, he requested that God, the Divine Presence, wait for him while he tended to his guests appropriately.” (Shabbat 127a)

Avraham prioritized hospitality and even interrupted his conversation with God to welcome guests. Why is hospitality such a big deal?

Ambrose Bierce, early 20th century writer and cynic, defined hospitality as that “virtue which induces us to feed and lodge certain persons who are in need neither of food nor lodging.” Hospitality is about more than food.

The commentators note that the eshel (tree) that Avraham planted in Beersheva (Bereishit 21:33) was really more of a bed and breakfast. The Hebrew letters spelling eshel stand for: achila (food), shtiya (drink), and linah (rest). The lamed can also represent levaya, which means to escort the guest along their journey. Rambam emphasizes the importance of accompanying the guest after the meal.

“The reward one receives for accompanying guests is greater than all of the others. This is a statute which Abraham our Patriarch instituted and the path of kindness which he would follow. He would feed wayfarers, provide them with drink, and accompany them…Accompanying them is greater than showing them hospitality. Our Sages said: ‘Whoever does not accompany them is considered as if he shed blood.’” (Laws of Mourning 14:2)

Why is escorting so important?

One explanation is that there is a need to protect the guest and ensure they get home alright. On a deeper level, escorting the person shows that the hospitality wasn’t just for food and drink; it also involved genuine concern for the person. Walking the guest out says, “I want to spend time with you. This meal together wasn’t just for us all to eat, drink and be satisfied. I want to cultivate and strengthen a personal connection.”

The famous Chasidic brothers, Reb Elimelech and Reb Zusha, traveled for several years incognito. It was called “galut” and was a mystical experience to accept upon themselves the pain of loneliness and alienation. (It was a common formative experience for many of the great rabbinic leaders.) The brothers traveled around the countryside as anonymous beggars. During this time, they came to one town, and they asked the richest resident for hospitality. He refused them as did many other citizens who had the means to host. Only the poorest man in town opened his home to them.

Several years later, the two rabbis were again travelling together. This time they were among the most famous rabbis of all Europe with thousands of followers. Once again, they visited this same town, and they entered with their horses and wagons and retinue. When they arrived, that same rich man (who did not recognize them) pleaded with them for the privilege of being their host. The rabbis instructed their servants that their horses and wagons were to be housed with the rich man, while they were going to stay with the poorest man in town once again.

When the wealthy man asked for the reason for this humiliation he was told, “We are the same people we were last time. The only difference is back then we were without horses and wagons, and now we came with them. Apparently, it is not us whom you desire to honor but our horses and our wagons. Hence, we are sending them to you, while we are going to the one who extended himself to us as human beings.”

Hospitality is about honoring the humanity of others.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik (Abraham’s Journey, p.168) explains:

“When one gives tzedakah, it demonstrates sympathy, but not a philosophy of human equality holding that all Jews are benei melakhim, princes, regardless of differences in wealthy or knowledge. Hachnasat orchim, however, demonstrates full human equality, the fact that every being has his own dignity and is just as important as any other. It is much easier to give someone money and send him away than to invite him under our own roof. If I invite him in, that means that no matter what his station in life, I am treating him with respect, as an equal. Hachnasat orchim is symbolic of our personal relationships, and that is why the Torah gave us this picture of Avraham.”

It is not every day that we encounter a chance to host strangers in our homes. Times have changed. We don’t have as many people wandering through our villages. At the same time, we always have the chance to perform an act of levaya, accompaniment and companionship. It doesn’t have to be after a meal. We can encounter, validate, and expand a human connection in how we greet people, treat those we don’t yet know, or the way we speak to those we meet – friends, strangers, workers, anyone, and everyone.

Gedolah hachnasat orchim – Hospitality is great when we approach our encounters with others knowing that they are also encounters with God.