Abraham's Tent and the Rest of Shabbat: Parashat Vayera

David Ben-Ami

Shabbat Shalom. Welcome to a Shabbat edition of Daily Torah. It's the twentieth of Cheshvan, and this week we read Parashat Vayera. There's nothing to get ready for in the next few minutes. Let the shoulders drop. Let the day be as long as it is. We'll sit with one story, the way you might sit in the shade.

David Ben-Ami

The parashah opens in the heat of the day. The Hebrew is k'chom hayom, literally the heat of the day. Abraham is sitting at the opening of his tent, under the terebinths of Mamre, and the Torah says that God appeared to him. That's all. No instruction yet, no promise, no command. Just a man in a doorway and the Presence arriving.

David Ben-Ami

Rashi, quoting Rabbi Hama son of Hanina in the Talmud, tractate Bava Metzia, page 86b, tells us what kind of day this was. It was the third day after Abraham's circumcision. He's an old man, in pain, recovering. And the sages read God's appearance as a visit to the sick. Before anything else in this portion, before angels and cities and a long awaited child, the Holy One sits with a man who is hurting.

David Ben-Ami

But then comes a question. Why is Abraham sitting at the tent flap in the noon heat, when he should be resting indoors? Rashi says he was looking out to see whether any traveler might pass, so that he could bring them in. And the Talmud adds a tender detail. God made the sun fierce that day so that no guests would trouble him. But Abraham was so distressed that nobody came, that God sent three men. That's the sages' interpretation, a story told around the text, but it tells us something true about this house. Even in pain, even in the heat, Abraham's tent was a place that leaned toward the road.

David Ben-Ami

Then he sees them. The Torah says he ran. A man three days past surgery, running. He bows low and says, please, don't pass by your servant. Let a little water be brought, wash your feet, rest under the tree, and I'll fetch a morsel of bread to sustain your hearts. Then he hurries to Sarah, and she bakes cakes from fine flour, and there are curds and milk and tender meat, and he stands by them under the tree while they eat.

David Ben-Ami

Now listen to what the sages made of that first request. The word Adonai in verse three can mean sirs, or it can mean God. Jewish tradition chose to read it as God. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explains, that means Abraham turned to the Presence that had just appeared and said, in effect, please wait for me, I have guests. And so, in tractate Shevuot, page 35b, Rav Judah says in the name of Rav: gedolah hachnasat orchim yoter mikabalat pnei haShechinah. Greater is hospitality to wayfarers than receiving the Divine Presence.

David Ben-Ami

That sounds almost shocking. But Rabbi Sacks says the point is that Abraham didn't leave God to serve strangers. He found God in the strangers. Serving heaven and welcoming a traveler were not two things for him, but one. And Rabbi Shalom of Belz noticed something lovely in the wording. When the visitors first arrive, the Torah says they stood over him, nitzavim alav. Later, as they eat, it says Abraham stood over them, omed alehem. By giving them bread and shade, he stood higher than angels.

David Ben-Ami

So what does this have to do with a Saturday morning? Everything, I think. We often picture menuchah, the rest of Shabbat, as stillness, as an absence. But look at Abraham and Sarah's tent. Tradition pictures it with openings on all four sides, so no traveler would ever feel unseen. Menuchah isn't an empty house. It's a house with the door open and the table ready, where nobody is being hurried along.

David Ben-Ami

Think of the Shabbat table as that tent under the tree. Two loaves of challah, a cup of wine, voices singing at their own pace. The heat of the week stays outside. A child leans against a parent. A guest, perhaps a stranger, is given the good chair. And for these hours everyone at the table is received as someone holy, simply for being there, not for what they've done or finished.

David Ben-Ami

The Torah's picture has a gentle shape. Midday shade, a meal, afternoon quiet. Then the light slants and the day starts to lean toward evening. Shabbat does the same. After the afternoon repose, after the third meal, when the sky darkens and three stars appear, we come to Havdalah. A braided candle, many wicks joined in one flame. A cup of wine. A little box of sweet spices.

David Ben-Ami

The word havdalah means separation, the line between the holy and the ordinary. But notice that we don't close the door on Shabbat with a slam. We smell the spices, so that the sweetness comes with us into the week. Think of the fragrance of Abraham's tent, bread and shade and welcome, lingering in the air after the guests have gone on their way. The tent isn't taken down. We carry it with us.

David Ben-Ami

Before we part, let me offer a blessing, the one the priests gave to Israel, and one many parents whisper over their children at the Shabbat table. Yevarechecha Adonai v'yishmerecha. May the Eternal bless you and keep you. Ya'er Adonai panav elecha vichuneka. May the Eternal let His face shine upon you and be gracious to you. Yisa Adonai panav elecha v'yasem l'cha shalom. May the Eternal lift up His face toward you and give you peace.

David Ben-Ami

May your home be an open tent today. May there be warmth at your table, and rest that reaches all the way down. May the one who sits beside you, family or guest or stranger, feel seen. And may the Presence, who waited patiently for Abraham while he welcomed his guests, find you at ease under your own tree. Shabbat Shalom, and menuchah shlemah, a rest that is whole.