Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Parashat Bo and the Intentions of Panicked Haste


            In one of my first Divrei Torah, I speculated on the timing and what seemed like poor planning of the Israelites in Parashat Bo. They leave in haste, yet they had all this warning that the time to flee would be imminent. Why didn’t they prepare better, make tastier snacks for the road? Why does our festive meal every year have to be commemorated by tasteless matzah to commemorate the haste of the exodus, when really, they should have had breads and cakes already ready to go with them when the time came. In 2012, I likened this to the time a family friend, then about thirteen years old, was the last one to be ready for a multi-family excursion to a Yankee game, and ran into the car dressed with great intention – full fan attire, including Yankees pants over her shorts, hat over perfectly brushed hair, the whole deal. But no shoes. And she will never in her life be able to live down the tale of “Two pants, no shoes,” when she spent a day walking around Yankee stadium barefoot. In 2012, I used this story and the story of the Israelites to caution a sanctuary full of kids and parents to think ahead in their day’s preparations, and be certain to have all the necessary, useful things for their sojournings.
            This year, however, I have read Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg’s commentary on Exodus, The Particulars of Rapture and was struck by her observation on this very problem, which she calls the “ungainly haste.” In her typical fashion, dense with esoteric references, she spends considerable time on the concepts of day and night in the Exodus narrative. In some places, both in this parasha and in later references to the Exodus, it seems God led the people Israel out of Egypt by day. In other places, it says night. What is the meaning of this? And how does it relate to the ungainly haste?
            Zornberg argues, with the help of traditional midrash, of course, that the Israelite slaves of Egypt were free at night. But their first act of freedom is to ignore the plea of Pharaoh to hurry up and leave so that his suffering at the hands of our God might end. Even as liberation comes at night, Exodus only comes in the day. As the tenth plague draws near, God tells the people Israel to sacrifice the paschal lamb, to put the blood on their doorposts so that God knows to pass over those homes as the Angel of Death goes through the land slaughtering the first born. Then, God tells the people to eat the roasted meat, along with the unleavened bread and the bitter herbs, and to do so in haste. Before night has even fallen, let alone before day has broken and the moment for hasty leave has arrived, God is commanding that these actions be done in haste. Matzah is not an accidental symbol of haste, a mistaken food created because the people left so quickly they did not have time to make leavened snacks for the road. Matzah is intentional, the haste is intentional. Rashi adds connotations of panic to his translation of the word “בחפזון” (haste).
With this explanation of the day/night divide, and a vivid image of what the night entails, Zornberg establishes for us the “tableau of leaving, exodus,” a “tableau of release,” and a “tableau of readiness-to-leave.” In short, she paints a picture of the Israelite people biding their panicked time through the night, poised to leave at first light, quivering in darkness and their own silence as their hear the cries of anguish from the Egyptian households. They are ready to go all along, but wait in anticipation of this pre-planned panicked haste.
According to Zornberg, there are three moments in the narrative “when panic haste was central: one was at night – referred to as chipazon deMitzrayim [the haste of Egypt] – and was informed by the terrified pressure of the Egyptians on the Israelites to leave the country; while [another] was the following day – referred to as chipazon deYisrael [the haste of Israel] – the urgent flight of the Israelites by day.” The third is the “chipazon of God’s Presence.” In the narrative itself, it is visualized in the “leaping” (“bechipazon/ufasachti”- “in panic haste/I shall leap”) of the Passover story. Zornberg translates the verb pesicha (notice the connection to the noun pesach) to leap, adding a frenetic energy, a panic haste already to the movement of God, as distinct from our usual interpretation of “to pass over”. Combined with God’s own admission of “bechipazon”, we have a very strong illustration of God’s own wait and hurry narrative.
            Zornberg says the effect of all these strands of the intentional panic haste narrative is to “postpone, till after the Splitting of the Sea, any sense of complete freedom.” I would argue a slightly more nuanced rephrasing. Although it does delay the sense of complete freedom until after the deaths of the Egyptians, I don’t see it as the holding back of freedom, as I read her commentary as suggesting. I read more of a sense of stages of freedom. A people oppressed for generations, they find themselves freed from one master, paradoxically, as Zornberg points out, only at the commandment of a new master. This new master has told them to remain until morning, so that even as the old master urges them out of his land, they timidly test the waters of their new affiliation to God rather than Pharaoh by staying put. One act of liberation against their old, cruel enslaver. As morning breaks, they burst forth, gather the spoils of Egypt and march out of the land of their oppression. A second act of liberation from their wretched lives as slaves. After the Israelites have safely made it across the sea, the waters rush in on the Egyptians, washing away any concern that the Israelites might face repercussions for their acts of defiance to Pharaoh or for their “borrowing” of the jewels and precious metals of Egypt. A final act of liberation. At which point, of course, the people are fully free to start whining about wanting to go back to Egypt and fear that God will be an even more hateful master than Pharaoh was.
“And when your children ask, What do you mean by this rite? You shall say, It is the Passover sacrifice to God, because he passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when he smote the Egyptians” (Exodus 12:26). The commemoration of the Passover is to remember the paschal lamb that offered protection from the Angel of Death. But the Passover as a whole is also a reminder about the stages of freedom and our responsibility to uphold them. Rather than the narrative of the seemingly unnecessary panic-haste being a cautionary tale against poor planning, as I once drashed, I would now posit that it is a story about the forced patience we must endure when fighting for justice in our unjust world. When the African slaves were freed in the United States, it took another hundred years to desegregate and at least pretend to do away with Jim Crow. Fifty years after that, we are still fighting for equality for all races. It is an unacceptably slow process that comes in stages. When the time comes that the nation, government, society as a whole is ready for change, those who are interested in fighting for it charge forward, with a panic haste, despite having been ready for this change all along. When the strong hand of forces unseen come down, they are forced to pause, hold back, tip toe slowly toward the next step, until another flash point flares up so that they can charge forward again. It’s really a bad system, but apparently one that humanity has been working with for thousands of years. The purpose of retelling our own people’s liberation stories year after year is to remind ourselves of the importance of our freedom. What the cost is for liberation. And how we must help others achieve theirs.

            

Monday, December 8, 2014

Rape Culture: the Healing Ritual


Olam hesed yibaneh, yai dai … (Song by Rabbi Menachem Creditor: May the world be built on kindness).
SURVIVOR: Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye is consumed with grief, my soul and my body.
FACILLITOR: Be gracious to survivors, who have been consumed with grief, who strive to cleanse their souls and reclaim their bodies.
SURVIVOR:  I am the scorn of all my enemies and exceedingly of my neighbors, and a dread to my acquaintances; those who see me in the street flee from me.
FACILLITOR: They are taught entitlement to your body and here you walk among them demanding autonomy.
SURVIVOR: I am forgotten out of mind like one who is dead; I am like a broken vessel.
FACILLITOR: To remember you would be to take responsibility for their creeds and deeds that have led to your trauma, so they choose to forget.
SURVIVOR: For I have heard the slander of many; fear was on every side; while they took counsel together against me, they schemed to take away my life.
FACILLITOR: But in spite of their slander, you have been brave. In spite of their counsel, you live on.
Group: Let God’s face shine upon you. Let you not feel ashamed; let the wicked be ashamed. Be of good courage, and let your heart be strong.[1]
Olam hesed yibaneh, yai dai …
FACILLITOR: When Tamar was raped by Amnon, she tore her clothing and bore signs of grief out into the streets, wailing, even as her brother Absalom told her to keep quiet. We come together now to support you in your own decision to be as vocal or quiet about your experience as you choose, even as you, too, perform this k’riah to mark your grief with us. [2]
Survivor tears pillowcase (it may be the very same one on which her head lay as she was assaulted, or it may be symbolic, and old one dug out of the closet or a brand new one bought just for this occasion) and recites:
Rend your garments and not your heart, for God is gracious and compassionate, and full of kindness.
קִרְעוּ בִּגְדֵיכֶם וְאַל לְבַבְכֶם,  כִּי-יי חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם, וְרַב-חֶסֶד[3]

Group: Wherever you go, we are there with you; whatever your need, we are beside you. Be strong, be strong, and may we all be strengthened.
Olam hesed yibaneh, yai dai …





[1] Based on Psalm 31
[2] 2 Samuel 13
[3] Based on Joel 2:13

Friday, December 5, 2014

The Problem of Delay

In Parashat Vayetze, Jacob has his dream of the angels, and at the conclusion of the dream, God blesses him, saying, “I am with you and will keep you in all places where you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you, until I have done that about which I have spoken to you. When Jacobwakes up, he famously says, “Surely the Lord is in this place and I knew it not.” He then goes on less famously to restate, confirm, God’s promise back, saying, “If God will be with me and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat, and garment to wear, so that I come back to my father’s house in peace, then shall the Lord be my God, and this stone which I have set for a pillar, shall be God’s house.” Time passes, Jacob lives and works in Laban’s home, marries two wives and takes two concubines, amasses great fortune, and leaves Laban’s home. Then we come to Parashat Vayishlach, when everything hits the fan. In the span of this one Parasha, Jacob and Esau are reunited, accompanied by much fear and fanfare around Esau’s intentions, Jacob wrestles with the angel, receives a new blessing and a new name and a new injury, his daughter is violated, his sons commit genocide, his favorite wife dies and is buried in haste by the roadside rather than carried to his family’s gravesite, and his oldest son has an affair with one of his concubines. Things are not going so well in the clan of Israel. 
In her commentary on Genesis, The Beginning of Desiremodern midrashist Avivah Zornberg brings a midrash that “insists that the root of all Jacob’s vicissitudes [misfortunes] on his return to the Holy Land is the problem of delay, that dangerous space of unawareness that separates the vow from its fulfillment.” God creates this chaos in Jacob’s life to draw his attention to the fact that he has been on the road, exposed to these dangers for too long. But Jacob just doesn’t get it. Once cunning and sneaky, the Jacob of Parashat Vayishlach is passive and seems a little dense. Finally, God gives up on the subtleties of symbolism and directly says to Jacob, “Arise, go to Beth El.” Essentially God is saying, “It’s time to pay the piper: I have been with you, gave you prosperity and peace, and you have not returned to Beth El to establish My home there, you have not returned to the land of your father, you have not completed the cycle of your fathers to establish the My people in the Holy Land.” 
Much like Jacob’s obligation to fulfill his end of his covenant with God, to return to Beth El to establish it as a holy site and to return to Canaan to establish it as the holy homeland of his people, as Jews, we also have an obligation to fulfill our end of our covenant with God, to uphold commandments andlive up to our creation in the Divine image. While some commandments are unadvisable to follow for various reasons, I have to argue that the commandments to pursue justice, to love your neighbor as yourself, and to not stand idly by the blood of your neighbors, and other such justice-focused mitzvot are not commandments we are allowed to do away with in the modern age. They are still applicable, in every era and in every place. How can we live up to our Divine image, how can we choose life, how can we honor God’s creations, if we ignore those that need our help, if we turn our backs on justice, if we hold onto hatred and violence? We must be careful not to delay to fulfill these obligations. 
Why does Jacob delay? He does not appear to be actively ignoring the signs from God, or disavowing the promise. Zornberg says, “This is a passive, not active, denial. But, effectively, repression is the gravest form of refusal … since it will not engage with –avow or disavow – the vow.” Zornberg discusses at length Jacob’s attachment with “lastness.” When he meets with Esau, he carefully arranges his family in order of importance, with the most beloved being last, which Zornberg equates with Jacob’s emergence from the womb last, holding onto the heel of his brother. I have never before associated with Jacob. He starts off sneaky and deceitful, he is absurdly silent in the narrative around his daughter’s violation and his sons’ committing of genocide, and generally I do not find him to be a particularly sympathetic character. However, here, in Zornberg’s explanation of his “lastness” I read myself. Much like Jacob here, I tend to be one who will “wait… bide [my] time… plan [my] strategies from the rear.” I often do not speak out until I am certain of the facts and players, until I feel sure of my own voice and am ready for the responses I might have to face. Sometimes, this can be an asset, a sign of wisdom. Sometimes, this is also a foolish insensitivity, and can cause me, Jacob, and those like us, to “miss the boat,” so to speak. Jacob feels the need to plan ahead, to be certain of his moves and motives. Not just with Esau; this is what keeps him from returning to Beth El and to his father. He expresses concern about the fulfillment of his father’s blessings, that he is not yet a master over his brother. Despite the fact that he has amassed great wealth and fortune, he is unsure about how he’ll know that it is time to complete his journeying and return home to settle in as the leader of the people Israel. As a result of this unsureness, he brings upon himself and his family tragedy and chaos. He must seek equilibrium, as must we all, between patience and thoughtful planning, and passion and decisive action.
This is the human condition, to be eternally struggling for this balance, “pressed by God’s hand.” We can plan, be cunning and patient with our pursuit of justice. But we must also be passionate, and careful to not delay too long, or else it may be too late. Only in this equilibrium can we find stability, true wholeness and freedom.

Friday, November 28, 2014

Parashat HaShavua – Parashat Va-Yetze


“Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone:
They paved paradise and put in a parking lot.”
            “Jacob left Beer-Sheva and set out for Paran” (Genesis 28:10). Unlike his grandfather Abraham, Jacob does not just “go”, he “leaves.” At the end of Parashat Toledot, both his parents tell him to “rise and go”, with a meaning of “flee”. But the beginning of Parashat Vayetzei does not say, “So he went/goes” or “He fled.” It says: “He left.” He left behind his tangible absence among his remaining family members, and he left behind the struggle and the pain that he caused. Rashi questions the use of this word, and answers it with what Avivah Zornberg calls a “classic midrashic response.” He says, “This tells us that the ‘leaving’ of a righteous person from a place makes an imprint [Zornberg’s emphasis]. As long as the righteous person is in the city, he is its glory and light and majesty. When he leaves, its glory, light and majesty are evacuated.” Zornberg, in her commentary The Beginning of Desire, “The imprint, the full awareness of the indispensable person, is known only after he has removed himself from his place.”
            Last week, the Academy of Jewish Religion held its annual retreat, this year on the topic of “Torah and Terra: Jewish stewardship of the environment.” We spoke a lot about climate change and unstoppable destruction we’ve already put forth into the atmosphere. Climate change science has been discussed for at least 20 years, but only now is the mainstream starting to care. Only now are we starting to realize that we have already passed the point of no return. We can still make changes, make a difference, save the Earth, but the carbon we’ve already emitted is enough to cause irreparable damage. The globe is already warming, the ice caps already melting, the waters already rising. We are losing shorelines. Without drastic changes on a governmental and international level, life as we know it could be over by 2100 (not to say the world will end, but that life will be unimaginably altered to adjust to the new face of Earth). This is the lifetime of the generation being born now. People who are already alive will see the devastation we have created for them. Even with drastic changes, we could find large swaths of land under water and innumerable species extinct by 2100. But we, as a human race/species, don’t seem to be making moves to make those drastic changes in time. We won’t know what we’ve lost til it’s gone.

            Zornberg, with the help of Rashi and the midrashists, continue in a more hopeful vein: the void that Jacob creates is within him as well, and is necessary in order for him to cleave to his mate. In order to find and attach himself fully to his wife, Jacob must separate himself from his family, from his place of origin, from “previous identities and fixities.” Perhaps we, too, can find something new to cleave to in the absence of life as we know it. Maybe we need to be faced with the paving of paradise before we can fully embrace the trees and the birds and the bees. Maybe only after we’re left with the void of our current coastlines will we be able to better develop – with clean building, recycled and recyclable resources, and carbon-free energy – more of our currently uninhabited land. Maybe being forced to move inward and shift boundaries will force us to make peace with our neighbors and create global cooperation in the name of saving what’s left of our planet. More than just hope and speculate, let us work toward any of these options, work toward cleaner energy and ways of development, urge our policy makers and fuel providers to listen to our rising need for drastic change, and work toward peace with those who may be very close neighbors competing for fewer resources in the not too distant future. 

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Parashat Toldot – Torah and Terra

My d'var Torah from Monday night's ma'ariv at the AJR retreat on Torah and Terra. I was told that my delivery was brilliant, so I apologize that those simply reading it may be missing out on key moments of understanding. 

            We all come to this retreat with varying levels of knowledge and observance. Some of us may be learned environmental scientists, or dedicated Jewish-Environmentalist activists, and others may be completely new to the concept of conservation or Biblical laws that dictate we care for nature. But we wouldn't be having the retreat on the topic of Torah and Terra if we generally consider ourselves to be a community of experts on the topic. Personally, I consider myself an environmentalist, and I’m going to guess many of you are in a similar camp. I recycle, I turn off lights when I leave a room, I use reusable canvas shopping bags, I participated in the People’s Climate March. However, I still enjoy a nice bubble bath or a long hot shower, I use all kinds of electronics and do not own anything solar-powered, I don’t grow my own food or even know where most of it comes from half the time, and I have not helped to organize, promote, or otherwise contribute in any meaningful way to environmentalist activism. But I still get to tell people I’m an environmentalist, because I believe that environmentalism is good, right?
            “The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands are Esau’s hands.” In this week’s parasha, Isaac asks in many ways for identification of the son who brings him his meal and awaits the blessing. The last of which is the declaration, “The voice is Jacob’s voice, but the hands are Esau’s hands, and he discerned him not… so he blessed him.” The commentary Matnot Kehuna says that the voice of Jacob is “one of indirection and cunning.” Jacob’s very name is derived from the root meaning “crooked”, “indirect”. Jacob speaks knowing that his deeds are duplicitous, that who his voice reveals him to be and what his hands reveal him to be is not the same person.

            Sometimes, we speak with our true voices, while the actions of our hands reflect untrue representations of ourselves. It may be that in our heart of hearts, we all want to be true environmentalists. We speak as the person we see ourselves as, an idealized version of our ethics. But we act out in the way that is convenient. We masquerade ourselves to impersonate those we see around us, knowing full well that it’s not right, because it is the easiest way to get what we want, what we think we deserve. It would be really hard work to be so mindful of our carbon footprint that we actually make a difference on a global scale! Ain’t nobody got time for that! Meanwhile, we see those around us validating this. Like Rebecca scheming for Jacob in the kitchen, we’ve got governments heaping a solitary option for fuel on us, and shielding from our view the devastation it causes. We can hope things turn out alright for us, like they do for Jacob. That speaking as one person and acting out as another will not cause us any real harm. But the science would disagree. Rather, let us find a way to pull off the goatskins and unify our hands with our voices, and act in accordance with our words. 

Monday, November 10, 2014

Parashat Chayei Sarah - There can be no light without darkness

             Just this week I found myself reflecting on a difficult time in my life, a time when I was facing feelings of suicidality, a time when I felt abandoned by my Jewish community, a time when I questioned my point and purpose in life, a time when I wondered what and where God was. The reflection focused on overcoming those feelings, finding peace again in a different Jewish community, reuniting with God and myself, and feeling a sense of intense liberation at having gone through that and come out the other side.
In her commentary for this week’s Torah portion of Chayei Sarah, Avivah Zornberg recalls the same midrash from Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer that I wrote about in this year’s Rosh Hashanah sermon, and a hand full of others like it. Satan appeared to Sarah, or perhaps Satan in the guise of Isaac appeared to Sarah. Satan told Sarah that Isaac was killed by his own father on Mount Moriah, or perhaps Satan-Isaac told Sarah that Abraham had raised his hand to kill him but the angel stopped him just in time. Maybe Sarah didn’t hear the end of the story, so great was her anguish, and maybe she did but was anguished anyway at the idea that if not for the interference of the angel at just the right moment, her husband would have killed her son. At any rate, in hearing this news, however much of it she heard, she let out wails and cries of varying sounds, corresponding to the sounds of the Shofar, and then she died.
            Zornberg’s point of bringing all these midrashim, unlike my point at the High Holy Days of remembering her cries and those of other women and children in distress, is to show us the “impossibility of full joy in this world” (The Beginning of Desire: Reflections on Genesis, Vertigo – the Residue of the Akedah). Isaac and Abraham have just undergone a horrible experience in Parashat Vayera with the Akedah. Their relationship will probably never recover (in fact, in the Torah, we never really see them speak to each other), and they are each undoubtedly deeply damaged psychologically from it, but still they succeed. Abraham proves his worthiness and devotion to God, and Isaac gets to live: a happy ending to that story, only to be undercut by Sarah’s death as a direct result in the opening of this parasha. Zornberg goes on to speak of the nothingness we encounter in life, the way in which we only find true meaning after accepting this meaninglessness of our lives, or the way in which we experience anxiety and vertigo, uncertainty and panic, if we do not accept this. She uses the phrase “the unbearable lightness of being” as the source of Sarah’s death, but I think this same phrase well-captures what I felt as rebirth after the time of my life described above. Tyler Durden says, “It is only after we’ve lost everything that we are free to do anything”; Avivah Zornberg says, “[D]oubt, interrogation, absence, anguish create the possibility of freedom”. It was this unbearable lightness that caused me to feel like I could float above my world, my depression, my negligent Jewish community. It was only after I accepted that maybe there is no meaning to the world, that perhaps God’s generosity is darkly shaded and roughly textured, that I felt liberated to experience my own generosity to myself, to find new meaning in a self-created world that recognizes and embraces one’s own darkness. As Zornberg says, “To know the brokenness, the hollow resonance of the Shofar, is to sharpen one’s hearing for the affirmations of faith.”
            After Sarah’s death from her unbearable lightness of being, the parasha goes on to tell the tale of Isaac’s marriage to Rebecca. Rebecca is found by a well, and Abraham’s servant recognizes her as the correct woman for Isaac by her radical kindness. She not only gives him some water, but carries water to his animals as well. Her life and her soul are characterized by this light, this goodness. When she follows the servant back to Abraham’s homestead, she sees a man on in the fields meditating as they approach. She asks, “Who is that man walking in the field toward us?” And the servant answers, “That is my master”. So she covers herself with her veil, suddenly feeling bashful in front of her soon-to-be husband. Midrashim famously attribute this to Isaac’s embarrassingly good looks, her humbling in front of this great man, and their true love. Zornberg draws a different conclusion. She says that Rebecca sees Isaac praying in the field, sees and hears the anguish in his prayers, broken up over his mother’s death, and perhaps holding survivor’s guilt as the indirect cause of her death, and she experiences “confusion, doubt, and suspense.” She has never seen this sort of darkness in her “sunlit world of hesed”. They build a life together, though we are left wondering how well these two people, who essentially live in different worlds, can relate to one another?

            Some people don’t ever experience this darkness. Some may but live in denial, in that troubling state of vertigo that Zornberg describes. Some live through it, embrace it, and push past it. We internalize the meaninglessness of life and choose to go forth anyway, and create our own meanings. We are all given birth and death, some of us just want some say in between, even if it ultimately doesn't matter. There is an intense sense of liberation at being able to accept this, that Sarah was unfortunately unable to experience. For any that find themselves on this threshold, forced to face unbearable truths or nothingness, I urge you to push on, to find a comfortable place to sit in that void and wait for light to return. 

Friday, November 7, 2014

Parashat Vayera


“And the Lord appeared to him [Abraham] in the plains of Mamre … and he lifted his eyes and looked and, lo, three men stood by him; and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent door and bowed himself to the ground.”
What does it mean for the Lord to appear to Abraham? What does it mean that when he looked up, three men were already standing next to him? Why did Abraham run to meet them so enthusiastically? In just this short passage, we are able to open ourselves up to a world of questions and potential answers, midrash and meaning, and life lessons.
            First, how does the Lord appear to Abraham? In Lech-Lecha, we read that God speaks to Abraham, but there’s no explanation on how they interact, where the voice comes from, how Abraham experiences God. Here we read that God appeared to Abraham. Abraham saw God, in some way. Some midrashists believe that because this parasha immediately follows the details of Abraham’s bris, God is paying a Bikkur Holim visit, keeping Abraham company as he heals. This midrash helps to emphasize the honor of Abraham as he rushes up to meet the strange visitors. He was hanging out with God, and turned away to greet strangers! We learn from this that greeting weary travelers is of utmost importance, a real mitzvah!
            So, who were the weary travelers? Another midrash suggests that two are the angels that travel on to Sodom and Gemorrah later in the parasha, and the third is God. The progression of the introduction to the parasha, saying “The Lord appeared… and Abraham looked up and saw three men standing by [literally, upon] him” is meant to suggest that the three men and the appearance of the Lord to Abraham are the same thing. Further reinforcing this is the way the men appear. Abraham does not seem to see them approach, he simply looks up and there they are, right by his tent! And this is the desert, there were no trees for them to ninja rope down from or shrubbery to hide behind and sneak up on him. There’s only sand. They appeared out of nowhere. This teaches us the importance of welcoming in strangers without glorifying Abraham’s earnest honor. He did not walk away from God to greet the men, he greeted the men and in doing so, greeted God! It seems he even knew that the men were representatives of God, which makes the importance of greeting them obvious and not necessarily something deserving of praise. However, we might not know when God or angels are in our midst. We learn from this that we should be welcoming to everyone, because we might never know who we are leaving out if we don’t. Beauty and the Beast teaches a similar lesson, so if you feel unconvinced by this midrash, you can always just watch the opening scene to the Disney movie and learn basically the same thing.
            So why did Abraham run to greet the three men so enthusiastically? Was he trying to make a good impression on important visitors? Was he trying to show off his inclusivity skills to God? Was he just a really nice guy? Was he just bored and eager for new faces and stories, perhaps information from whence the travelers came? In the end, it doesn't really matter. Any of these are good reasons to greet new people. Make good impressions, build networks, make friends, gather fresh anecdotes and information, spice up your life with new experiences, be nice to people who may feel left on the outside. These are all things that can be accomplished with a simple hello and a handshake. So, Hello!