I have the privilege now of offering some words of Torah, reflecting on the same parashah, the same Torah portion Bjorn will speak about tomorrow, as he shares with you all, his community, his process of Yisrael — of wrestling with God, as that word means, wrestling with God’s words as reflected in Torah, engaging in the lifelong process of what it means to be Jewish—both being influenced by and influencing the stream of tradition.
Bjorn’s parashah is known as Vayera, from its very first word—וַיֵּרָ֤א אֵלָיו֙ יְהֹוָ֔ה בְּאֵלֹנֵ֖י מַמְרֵ֑א
Adonai, God, Vayera, appeared to him by the terebinths, the oak trees, of Mamre; now known as Hebron. God appeared to Abraham by the Oak Trees of Mamre.
Regular attendees of Society Hill Synagogue will recognize this verse as part of the story we study each year on our Open House or New Member shabbatot, sabbaths, because what follows suggests that God’s “appearance” is manifest through the guise of three strangers wandering in the hot sun, whose presence Abraham welcomes with open arms—he goes to great lengths to welcome them in, and the story signals to Jewish people, and to humanity forever after the virtues of hachnasat orchim of going to great lengths to show hospitality and welcoming to guests in our midst.
But we’re actually going to study this verse today for a different purpose. The ancient rabbis do something fascinating with this verse. It comes in the course of a discussion about whether it is truly possible l’halech, to walk or to follow, after God, as it says in the Book of Devarim, Deuteronomy, אַחֲרֵ֨י יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֛ם תֵּלֵ֖כוּ “After YHWH your God you are to walk.” But, says Rabbi Hama son of Hanina, a third century sage in the Talmud, is it actually possible for a person to follow the shechina, the Divine Presence? Hasn’t it already been stated:
יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ אֵ֥שׁ אֹכְלָ֖ה ה֑וּא “Adonai your God is a devouring fire,” and one cannot approach fire.
Rather, Rabbi Hama says, this verse, “After YHWH your God you are to walk/to follow,” teaches that one should follow the attributes of Hakadosh Baruch Hu, Holy One, whose name is blessed. For example, he says, just as it says in Bereshit, Genesis that “the Adonai God made for Adam and for his wife garments, and clothed them,” we should provide clothing for those who need it. Just as it says, in Bereshit “And it came to pass after the death of Abraham, that God blessed Isaac his son” that we, too, should console mourners. And finally, it cites our verse, וַיֵּרָ֤א אֵלָיו֙ יְהֹוָ֔ה בְּאֵלֹנֵ֖י מַמְרֵ֑א Adona Vayera, appeared to him by the the oak trees, of Mamre, for the teaching that God, bikur cholim. God visits those who are ailing. Who is ailing in this verse? Abraham. For if we look in the immediately preceding verse it says וְאַ֨בְרָהָ֔ם בֶּן־תִּשְׁעִ֥ים וָתֵ֖שַׁע שָׁנָ֑ה בְּהִמֹּל֖וֹ בְּשַׂ֥ר עׇרְלָתֽוֹ׃ Abraham was ninety-nine years old when he circumcised himself, in response to God’s command that he do so as a sign of the berit, the covenant between them through which Abraham will be the father of a multitude of nations. And God visits him, vayera adonai elaiv, as Abraham is ailing, and so when it says אַחֲרֵ֨י יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֛ם תֵּלֵ֖כוּ “After YHWH your God you are to walk,” one of the ways we are to do that is to show up for those who are ailing, just as God did for Abraham.
Regardless of the particular quirks of this particular ailment, it’s worth reflecting on the implications of this teaching—the call to visit those who are ailing in emulation of the divine—in this moment.
A lot of people are ailing right now; a lot of people are in pain. From those who are most directly devastated by this war at ground zero, the victims and families of the massacre of October 7, Israeli soldiers, Palestinian civilians. Many people are experiencing a profound level of pain.
Here in the United States, 6000 miles away, there is a different sort of pain and exhaustion—the pain of feeling isolated and alone, the pain of fear for one’s loved of ones, the pain of death and destruction taking place those many miles away, the pain of the sense that one’s identity is not taken fully taken into account, the pain that people don’t really see what it means to be Jewish, what it means to be Israeli, what it means to be Palestinian, muslim, arab. All of this causes pain.
And, of course, many of us have illnesses, ailments, that have nothing directly to do with this conflict. Cancer. Recovering from surgery. Heartbreak.
So what does bikkur cholim, God’s act of visiting the one who is ailing, laying out a model for us to do so, mean in this context?
Rabbi Harold Kushner writes that “visiting the sick may not physically alter the course of an illness, but the knowledge that people care may ease the suffering and discomfort of one who is ill or recuperating. The presence of a caring friend lessens a sense of suffering. When the sages envision God visiting Abraham to lessen his discomfort, they may be implying that sometimes all we can give an afflicted person is the gift of our caring presence, and when we do that, we are following God’s ways.”
Speaking to this crisis, and to the in which people in this community of society hill synagogue experience it, of course no one that we personally know can single handedly take away this war, take away the antisemitism; we can’t remove the underlying cause of the grief, at least on a practical timeline—but it makes a huge difference, psychically, spiritually, when people in our show up, signal that they care; they see it; they get it. That makes a huge difference.
My wife Caroline and I tease one another, because we each say that the other is not fluent in the other’s “love language.” For the uninitiated, love languages are a concept developed by family counselor and author Gary Chapman which suggests that different people have different ways they most fully feel loved. For some of us, he says, it is quality time; for others it is physical affection; for others its words of affirmation—compliments. I’m a “compliments” person, Caroline is, she will be the first to tell you, not.
And yet, as someone who loves, knows, and sees me, she showed up the other day, by composing a Facebook post that effectively said, I see how hard Nathan is working at home and on behalf of the congregation, holding others’ grief and anxiety, while also parenting two young kids, and I want to let you all know so that you see it, too.
Being seen in this way, knowing that people see what we are going through—whether it is a physical illness, whether it is a sense of global and local isolation, with people not getting what it means to be Jewish in the 21st century, whether it is grief after the loss of a loved one—in each of these circumstances, whoever is visiting us, whoever is seeing us can’t take away the underlying source of grief; of pain. But they can signal that they get it. By showing up, they allow us to feel less alone, like we have a witness to our journey, and in so doing, they lift our spirits in profound, enduring ways.
In this moment, and in all moments, we have the invitation both to let others in, to allow them to see our pain and grief and exhaustion, not because they can take it away, but because they can be present to it, giving us the resources to know our experience is shared, even in an indirect way and we have the invitation, dare I say the mitzvah, the sacred call, to show up for others in this way—to wonder who in our lives is in need of a visit, a call, an expression of outreach, giving them the chance to let us in, to share with with us what they’re going through, so that we can witness it, too.
And of course, we’re also invited to experience the understanding, according to Jewish tradition, that we’re seen by God. וַיֵּרָ֤א אֵלָיו֙ יְהֹוָ֔ה means and God appeared to Abraham, but the vision works both ways; in that moment, God is seeing Abraham as much as Abraham is seeing God. We can invite ourselves to experience, to the extent it helps us, being witnessed in our pain, in our grief, in our exhaustion, by a loving caring God; perhaps not one that intervenes to change the conditions of the world; our experience of world history, of disease, of grief suggests God might not always, if ever, work like that. But perhaps one that gets it—that knows each and every iota of our experience; that wants us to know we are not alone—that we are supported and loved, by those around us, by ourselves, and by the Divine.
We have before us the invitation both to see those who need us, and to be seen by those we need. Let’s answer the call of Vayera, of Seeing and Being Seen. Shabbat Shalom.
