I SPENT SHABBAT WITH FAMILY

A Jewish couple was celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. During the feast, the woman stood up and said: "I'd like to make a toast to myself for sticking it out with this man for fifty years, and I want to tell you, that the fifty years of our marriage have felt like two days."

The crowd was very moved by her words. But one man asked, "Why like two days, and not like one day?"

"The fifty years of our marriage," replied the woman, "felt like two days: Tisah B'av and Yom Kippur."

There seems to be a constant troubling pattern in the life of our fathers and mothers. Whenever they came to a new location, they claimed that they were brothers and sisters, rather than spouses, so that their lives would be spared. Abraham says so clearly:

“And it came to pass when God caused me to wander from my father's house that I said to her: This is your kindness, which you shall do with me: To any place that we come, say about me, 'He is my brother.'" The Torah records three times this happened. But from Abraham’s words, it is clear that this happened every single time they came to a new location.

The moral question is one issue. What we will discuss is the spiritual meaning of this? Why is this ongoing pattern of our patriarchs and matriarchs?

Our sages teach us that our fathers and mothers have laid the ground for all of our experiences in future history. The Patriarchs and Matriarchs have trail blazed the path, empowering us to confront our own experiences with serenity, dignity, and nobility. Each of our experiences was endured by them in some fashion, and the way they dealt with it guides us in our own journeys.

This then is the deeper meaning in Abraham’s words to the Philistine king: “And it came to pass when G-d caused me to wander from my father's house that I said to her: This is your kindness, which you shall do with me: To any place that we come, say about me, 'He is my brother.'"

Abraham wandered, and his children have wandered. In fact, for most of our history, we have sadly been wandering. We never can fully settle in one place. At some point, we were forced to fetch our wandering stick and move on. There is no one country outside of the Land of Israel that Jews have remained there steadily and permanently throughout their entire history.

How can we survive such an ordeal? Most nations, when exiled to countries where they became the minority, and without the political and military infrastructure to maintain their national identity, forfeited their identity within a few generations at best. Yet millennia later, our nation survived and thrives. We returned to our homeland after 2000 years in exile, and throughout the entire world, Jews are living people. How?
Ah, this was the trailblazing path forged by Abraham and Sarah, and Isaac and Rebecca. “And it came to pass when God caused me to wander from my father's house that I said to her: This is your kindness, which you shall do with me: Wherever we go, say about me, 'He is my brother.'"

This is what saved us, says Abraham. This is what will protect you, he says to all of his children. “Wherever we go,” in your long and winding exile, “say of me, he is my brother.” Wherever Jews will be, they should look at each Jewish boy and man and say, you are my brother. Look at every Jewish girl and woman and say: you are my sister!

This is our mission statement here. We want every Jew who walks into this door to feel that he or she has come home. They are not among strangers. They are among brothers and sisters.
Deena Yaalin tells this story:

As I settled into my seat on Flight 1272 bound for Chicago, I glanced at the passengers filing down the aisle. My Jew-radar immediately went off; in addition to the business travelers toting their laptops and briefcases and the pleasure travelers wearing shorts and Walkmans, I spied several suede kippot, a shtreimel, and ankle-length skirts.

Despite our shared heritage, I didn't bother acknowledging them. They were strangers. And I live in New York, where strangers seldom exchange greetings, even if they recite the same prayers.

The plane rolled toward the runway and I waited for takeoff. No such luck. The pilot announced the flight was being delayed three hours due to stormy weather conditions in Chicago. I glanced at my watch nervously. Usually, I avoid flying Friday afternoons for fear I won't arrive in time, but on summer weekends when Shabbat doesn't begin until 8 p.m., I figured I'd be safe. I figured wrong.

A half-hour before arrival, the pilot announced O'Hare Airport was shut down and we were landing in Milwaukee until we could continue on. My stomach sunk. Candle-lighting was an hour away. I'd never make it on time.

It was time to introduce myself to the other Jews. We're going to get off in Milwaukee, a young man told me. The chasid had called Milwaukee's Chabad rabbi, who offered to host any stranded passengers for Shabbat. Come with us, he urged. I nodded with relief but returned to my seat crestfallen since I had planned this weekend with my family for months.

My non-Jewish seatmate, noticing my despair, inquired what was wrong. When I told him the story, his jaw dropped.

"Let me get this straight," he said, "You're getting off the plane in a town where you've never been with people you don't know to stay overnight with complete strangers?"

For the first time that day, it occurred to me just how lucky I was.

When the plane landed, the pilot announced we were disembarking first for religious reasons. Passengers stared at us, dumbfounded. My seatmate bid me farewell as if he didn't think I'd survive.

But I quickly realized I was among friends. As I attempted to carry my bags off the plane, a woman insisted on helping me. When we crowded into cabs to take us to the rabbi's house, the chasid insisted on paying for me. And when the cabs pulled up at the home of the rabbi and rebbetzin, they ran outside to greet us as if we were long lost relatives.

The sunset on Milwaukee as they ushered us into their home, where a long table was set for Shabbat with a white tablecloth, china, and gleaming kiddush cups. When I lit the Shabbat candles, a wave of peace washed over me. With all that had transpired, I was warmed by the notion that the world stops with the first flicker of Sabbath light.

Over a traditional Shabbat feast, the rabbi enchanted us with tales of the Baal Shem Tov and informed us that our re-route to Milwaukee was due not to the world of weather but of Divine providence.

We lingered over our meal, enjoying our spiritual sanctuary in time after the stressful day Zemirot (Shabbat songs) filled the room. We shared disappointments about our unexpected stopover. Most of the group was traveling to Chicago for their friend's aufruf ("calling up" the groom to the Torah on the Shabbat before a wedding) and wedding and were missing the aufruf. The chasid and his wife were missing a bar mitzvah.

We nicknamed ourselves the Milwaukee 15 and wondered if future generations would retell the story of the flight that didn't make it in time for candle lighting.

Saturday night, we made a regretful journey to the everyday world. But before we began the final leg of our journey, I called my husband to tell him all that had transpired.

"Who did you spend Shabbat with?" he asked worriedly.

I pondered how to explain who these former strangers were who had given me object lessons in Shabbat hospitality and in the power of Shabbat in bringing Jews together.

And, then as swiftly as a 747 can leave the tarmac on a clear day, I realized the truth: miles away from my parents, husband, and home, I had accomplished what I set out to do when I booked my ticket: I had spent Shabbat with family.

This is what Abraham and Sarah, and Isaac and Rebecca, were advising us. Wherever you go in the world, look at me and tell me you are my sister. Look at me and tell me you are my brother. Always remember you have family everywhere. That will nurture you, protect you, and surround you with a halo of eternity.

We need Avraham’s and sarah’s exile strategy now, perhaps more than ever. With all of the social media and 24-hour connectivity, so many of us still feel isolated. It seems like the more we connect, the more we are isolated because so many of the connections are superficial and skin deep. We don’t have real friends. We have facebook friends. We long and thirst for a good, caring word from another person, to know that someone truly cares about us. We want to hear someone call us: “Brother!” or “Sister!”

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev teaches that the verse in Song of Songs,
“Tell me, you whom my soul loves”

means, on a deeper level, that each Jew is secretly crying out to the other: “Tell me that you love me with all of your soul!”

None of us are mind readers. We cannot rely on those we love to know that we love them in our hearts if we say nothing. We must tell them. A wife must hear from her husband that he loves her. There are men who are shocked when they hear that their wives have no idea whether they are loved or not. But their wives want to call out to them, “Tell me that you love me! I know in a general sense that you love me but at any given moment, I do not know whether those feelings are still there. Let me hear you say, ‘I love you so much!’” A child must hear from his or her parents, “I love you more than anything!” 

And a husband needs to hear this from his wife. She can’t say, “What does he think? Do you know how much I sacrifice for him?! So you know what I do for the guy?” True, but I thirst to hear that you love me with all your soul.
We must turn to each other and say, “Sister, how are you feeling today?” “Brother, I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?” What’s bothering you? Why do you look down?

People are so isolated today. With one genuine warm word, with one gesture, with one embrace, with one authentic favor, with one raw expression of love, you can heal a soul, change a life, and kindle a fire.
“Wherever you go,” Abraham reminds us, “tell them you are my sister, and I am your brother.” Where ever you go, tell me you are my brother; tell me you are my sister. This was our recipe for survival then; and it is still our recipe for survival today.  

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky