Rabbi Yoni Levin

Uplifting Questions

Avraham Avinu was a man of extraordinary faith and unwavering conviction. As Chazal teach, he had willingly entered the Kivshan HaEish, the fiery furnace, rather than compromise his beliefs (Bereishis Rabbah 38:13). He had faced the greatest trials with courage, steadfastness, and complete trust in Hakadosh Baruch Hu. Yet, when it came time to perform the mitzvah of bris milah, Avraham sought advice.

Rashi, at the beginning of our Parsha, explains why Hakadosh Baruch Hu appeared to Avraham specifically in Elonei Mamre. It was because Mamre had advised Avraham concerning the mitzvah of bris milah, and in recognition of that counsel, Hashem revealed Himself in Mamre’s territory. But why did Avraham need advice in the first place? Here was a man who had walked into a blazing furnace without seeking anyone’s assistance, a tzaddik whose faith had remained unshaken in the face of death. Yet suddenly, when confronted with the mitzvah of bris milah, he found it necessary to consult Mamre?

The Bas Ayin offers a profound insight.

The Mishnah (Avos 4:1) teaches that a person should learn from every individual. Sometimes, this means seeking guidance because we genuinely lack the knowledge or understanding necessary to make a decision. We turn to someone wiser or more experienced, hoping to benefit from their insight. But there are other times when we already know the answer. And yet still, even then, there can be unique value in asking, for perhaps a surprising reason.

When someone of Avraham Avinu’s stature approached another person and sincerely sought his counsel, something remarkable happened. That individual felt respected. He felt appreciated. He recognized that his perspective mattered and that he has something meaningful to contribute. Consider what it must have meant for Mamre to be approached by Avraham Avinu, a man whose righteousness and reputation were renowned throughout the world.

This was the significance of Avraham’s consultation. Avraham understood that bringing people closer to Torah is not accomplished solely through teaching and preaching. Sometimes, the most powerful way to inspire another person is simply to make him feel that he matters. By seeking Mamre’s advice, Avraham gave him a sense of value and esteem.

The lesson extends far beyond Avraham Avinu. There may be occasions when we already possess the answer to a question, yet we can still seek another person’s perspective. We can invite someone to contribute to a discussion, join a chavrusa, or become part of a chaburah. Through these gestures, we communicate something profoundly meaningful: You are important. And when people experience that sense of worth, something within them begins to change.

This was the greatness of Avraham Avinu. He understood that one of the most powerful ways to bring another person close to Hashem was to help that person discover his own value. Because the greatest gift we can give another person is not always an answer to his question, but the opportunity to answer ours.

Rabbi Mordechai Salfer

Looking Back, Living Forward

I had the recent opportunity to sit down with someone who had experienced a devastating loss. His father had passed away suddenly, without warning, leaving him overwhelmed by grief. This was not a young man. He was an older individual with grown children and a family of his own. Yet the loss had shaken him to his very core. Having already lost his mother, he now found himself without either parent. I went to spend some time with him, hoping to offer a measure of chizuk and encouragement.

During our conversation, he mentioned that he was privileged to maintain close relationships with several extraordinary gedolei Torah. These were distinguished individuals who had personally reached out to him following his father's passing, offering to speak with him and provide encouragement. I asked him whether he had taken advantage of those opportunities. "Not really," he admitted. "I just wasn't up to it. Each time someone reached out, I told them that I wasn't ready to speak."

I listened, and then shared the familiar mashal.

There was once a man caught in a terrible flood. As the waters rose around his home, he climbed onto the roof, desperately hoping to be rescued. Before long, a motorboat approached. The rescuers called out to him, urging him to climb aboard. "No, thank you," he replied. "I have faith Hashem will save me." The boat departed, and the waters continued to rise. A short while later, a helicopter appeared overhead. The crew lowered a rope and called for him to grab hold. Once again, he refused. "Hashem will save me," he insisted. Eventually, the floodwaters engulfed the house, and the man drowned.

When he arrived before the Heavenly Throne, he cried out, "Hashem! I trusted You completely. I waited for You to rescue me. Why didn't You save me?" And the response came. "Who do you think sent the boat?"

I turned to the man sitting across from me. "Look at what is happening. You have extraordinary gedolei Torah reaching out to you, offering their time and encouragement. Perhaps these are the very hands that Shamayim is extending toward you. But you have to be willing to reach out and take hold of them."

I then shared with him another thought.

The Tanna D’vei Eliyahu (Ch.16) states: “There was joy in the world due to three things: the malach hamaves (angel of death), yetzer hara, and the existence of the lavatory.” In what way is joy to be associated with the malach hamaves?

The awareness of mortality serves a vital purpose. It reminds us that our time in this world is limited and that every moment is precious. We cannot indefinitely postpone the responsibilities and opportunities of life.

From the moment a person is born, the passage of time begins. When we are young, life seems almost endless. We imagine that there will always be another day and occasion to accomplish what we have postponed. But as the years pass, our perspective begins to change. A person reaches the age at which his father passed away or his grandfather left this world. And suddenly, the reality of life's limitations becomes more immediate. He begins to recognize that time is not something he possesses without limit. In a sense, the Malach HaMaves is always behind us, reminding us that life is moving forward and that our opportunities are not infinite. And that realization should inspire us to live with greater purpose.

Of course, when someone experiences a loss, there is a time for mourning. The Torah itself establishes the framework of aveilus, recognizing the emotional and spiritual significance of grief (see Moed Katan 27b). A person must be given the space to mourn. But mourning is not intended to erase the life that remains before us. There comes a point when we are called to begin reengaging with our responsibilities, our relationships, and the opportunities that Hashem continues to place in our hands. That return may be gradual, and the pain may remain, but the possibility of moving forward remains as well.

During our conversation, the man shared a beautiful thought he had once heard from Rav Don Segal.

The Torah (Bereishis 19:17) tells us that when Lot and his family fled the destruction of Sodom, they were instructed not to look behind them. Yet Lot's wife turned around, and she became a pillar of salt. Beyond the specific circumstances of that episode, there is a powerful lesson in the imagery. Sometimes, looking backward can leave a person frozen in place. When we become so absorbed in what has been lost that we can no longer recognize what remains, we risk becoming immobilized by the past.

Such a reminder presents itself to us daily. When reciting Baruch She'amar, there is a custom to hold the two front tzitzis (see Magen Avraham, Orach Chaim 51:1; Mishnah Berurah, ibid.) Why specifically the two in front? Why not gather all four?

Perhaps we can think of this practice as a reminder of how to begin each day. When we stand before Hashem in the morning, our first responsibility is to focus on what lies ahead. What is awaiting me today? The focus is on the present day, allowing the previous night and day to move to the past.

There will certainly be occasions when we must revisit the past. But we cannot allow yesterday to consume today. The two tzitzis before us can remind us to direct our attention toward the possibilities that remain within our reach.

The past deserves to be remembered, but the future deserves to be lived. As long as Hashem continues to grant us life, He continues to grant us opportunities, and our task is to embrace them and make every precious moment count.

Rabbi Aryeh Royde

Please and Partnership

Parshas Vayeira contains a fascinating and often overlooked detail that offers a profound insight into the nature of chesed and the foundation of a Jewish home.

Throughout the Parsha, we encounter numerous extraordinary episodes, from Avraham Avinu sitting outside his tent following his bris milah, eagerly awaiting guests, to the destruction of Sodom and the dramatic events of the Akeidas Yitzchak. Yet, woven throughout these seemingly unrelated narratives is a remarkable linguistic pattern: the repeated use of the word na, meaning “please.”

When Avraham welcomes the three visitors, he implores them, “Al na ta'avor me'al avdecha—Please do not pass over your servant,” asking them not to pass by his home without accepting his hospitality. He then offers them water, saying, “Yukach na me'at mayim—Please take a little bit of water,” inviting them to refresh themselves. Even when Hakadosh Baruch Hu commands Avraham concerning the Akeidah, He employs this same expression: “Kach na es bincha—Please take your son.”

Indeed, the word na appears with striking frequency throughout Parshas Vayeira, no less than eighteen times. It is almost as though the entire Parsha is characterized by an extraordinary atmosphere of courtesy, sensitivity, and consideration for others.

Yet, amid this repeated emphasis on politeness, we encounter two curious exceptions.

When the three visitors arrive at Avraham's tent, he immediately springs into action, determined to provide them with the finest hospitality. Turning to Sarah, he declares, “Mahari shelosh se'im kemach soles—Quick, three se’ahs of fine flour,” instructing her to hurry and prepare cakes. There is no na, no “please.” He simply tells her to hurry.

Similarly, when Avraham selects a tender calf for his guests, the Torah relates, “Vayiten el hana'ar vayemaher la'asos oso—And he gave it to the lad and he hastened to prepare it,” describing how he gives it to the Yishmael, who immediately got to work. Once again, there is no request accompanied by the customary expression of courtesy.

Why this apparent inconsistency? Avraham Avinu, the very embodiment of chesed, speaks with extraordinary politeness to strangers, yet when addressing the members of his own household, he dispenses with the word “please”! Surely, his wife and children were no less deserving of kindness and consideration than the strangers who appeared at his doorstep.

Perhaps the answer reveals something profound about the nature of Avraham's household.

When a person asks someone else to assist him with a personal undertaking, it is natural to say “please.” After all, he is requesting that another individual set aside his own concerns to participate in something that primarily belongs to the person making the request. The word “please” acknowledges that distinction.

But Avraham's hachnasas orchim was not merely his personal mitzvah, with Sarah and the other members of his household serving as assistants. It was a shared mission, an undertaking that belonged equally to the entire family.

The moment guests arrived, the entire household sprang into action. Avraham welcomed the visitors and attended to their needs. Sarah prepared the food, while Yishmael immediately undertook his assigned responsibility. Everyone understood his role, and everyone participated in the same mission.

Avraham did not need to approach Sarah as though he were asking her to help him fulfill his own mitzvah. Nor did he need to persuade Yishmael to assist with a responsibility that belonged exclusively to Avraham. They were not outsiders being recruited to support his personal aspirations. They were partners in a common purpose.

This, perhaps, is why the Torah describes their interactions differently. The absence of na need not reflect any deficiency in courtesy or respect. Rather, it underscores the extraordinary unity of a household in which every member understood that chesed was not simply something Avraham practiced, but something the entire family lived.

And herein lies an invaluable lesson for every Jewish home.

A person may aspire to create a household overflowing with chesed, a home whose doors remain open to guests, whose table welcomes those in need, and whose atmosphere reflects generosity and concern for others. Yet such aspirations inevitably require the participation and sacrifice of other family members. Guests must be accommodated, meals prepared, schedules adjusted, and personal comforts occasionally set aside.

If the undertaking remains exclusively one person's mitzvah, while everyone else is expected merely to facilitate his ambitions, even the noblest aspirations can become a source of resentment and strain. But when chesed becomes a shared family mission, everything changes. Each member recognizes that he or she is not simply assisting someone else's spiritual pursuit, but participating in a collective expression of the family's values.

This does not diminish the importance of speaking respectfully to one's spouse and children. On the contrary, genuine partnership depends upon mutual consideration, appreciation, and sensitivity. Rather, the lesson is that a home dedicated to chesed must be built upon shared commitment rather than unilateral expectation.

Avraham Avinu teaches us that the greatness of a Jewish home is not measured solely by the generosity of the individual who opens its doors, but by the unity of the family that stands behind them. For the most enduring acts of chesed are not merely those performed by one remarkable individual, but those embraced by an entire household, united in the privilege of serving Hakadosh Baruch Hu’s children together.

Rabbi Yaakov Rahimi

Pure Kindness

Chazal teach us that there are different levels of chesed. There is ordinary chesed, an act of kindness performed for another person, and then there is an elevated form of kindness known as chesed shel emes, kindness of truth (see Bereishis Rabbah 96:5; Rashi, Bereishis 47:29).

But what exactly distinguishes chesed shel emes from any other act of kindness? After all, every genuine act of chesed is real.

The distinction lies not necessarily in the action itself, but in the intention behind it.

A person may perform a beautiful act of kindness, yet somewhere in the back of his mind, there remains an unspoken expectation. Perhaps he hopes that the recipient will remember his generosity and return the favor someday. Perhaps he anticipates that when he himself needs assistance, the person he helped will be there for him. Or perhaps he hopes that his kindness will earn him appreciation, recognition, or respect.

There is nothing inherently wrong with these considerations, and the kindness he performs remains a genuine mitzvah. Even when a person performs chesed with the hope of receiving reward from Hashem, he is still engaged in something spiritually significant and worthy.

But there is a higher level.

Chesed shel emes represents kindness performed with absolute purity of intention. It is giving without expecting anything in return. There is no silent expectation of, “Remember what I did for you.” No calculation of what one might eventually receive in exchange. The person performs chesed for one reason alone: because another human being needs kindness, and extending that kindness is itself the purpose.

He gives simply because giving is right. He helps simply because someone needs help. He performs chesed not as a means of obtaining something else, but as an end in itself. That is the extraordinary ideal of chesed shel emes: kindness unburdened by personal calculation, performed solely for the sake of kindness itself.