To Belong and to Bless (Chayei Sarah)
Rabba Daphne Lazar Price and Rabbi Menachem Creditor
Parashat Chayei Sarah, “the life of Sarah,” begins with her death. Abraham mourns and weeps for his beloved, and then, in his grief, confronts a practical need: he must find a place to bury her. Until this moment, Abraham and Sarah had lived in the land without owning a piece of it. Now he approaches the Hittites and describes himself in language that holds a profound tension:
“...Ger v’toshav anochi imachem, I am a stranger and a resident among you. (Gen. 23:4)”
How can one be both?
A ger is a newcomer, someone who doesn’t quite belong, and as such, lacks agency. A toshav is a resident, someone rooted in a place. Abraham stands between these identities. He has journeyed to this land in response to God’s call, he has not yet acquired property and so he must ask its inhabitants for a place in which to honor his dead wife.
His vulnerability is unmistakable. He is grieving Sarah, negotiating with his neighbors, and seeking a measure of permanence in a place where he remains, in some sense, a stranger. And the tension does not end with Abraham. His grandson Jacob would later seek to settle in the land where his ancestors had but sojourned (Gen. 37:1). Rashi imagines Jacob longing for a measure of tranquility, only to discover that peace is not so easily secured.
Who among us does not recognize that longing? Every human being deserves a place to live without trembling, a place to put down roots, to love, to mourn, and to hope. For Jews, the journey toward such belonging has often been marked by displacement and danger. Modern Zionism emerged from the recognition that Jewish safety and self-determination could not depend solely on the goodwill of others. Jewish power became necessary because Jewish vulnerability had become unbearable. And yet, as Rabbi Yitz Greenberg teaches, power brings its own moral challenge. We need the power to choose life and protect life. We must also ask ourselves, honestly and continually, how we exercise that power (“Judaism and the Ethics of Power,” 1999).
Abraham offers a model worth considering. God has promised the land to his descendants, but Abraham does not seize the burial place or wait for a miracle. He negotiates with Ephron and pays for the field and its cave. He acts to meet his family’s need while engaging the people among whom he lives. His purchase does not resolve every question about land, promise, or power. It does suggest that even deeply held commitments call for responsibility toward others. Faith can move us to act, and the way we act matters.
The Cave of Machpelah, where Sarah is buried, as are Abraham, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob and Leah, remains a place of profound holiness and painful history. Hebron has witnessed terrible violence, including the massacre of Jews in 1929 and the murder of Muslim worshippers by a Jewish extremist in 1994. To honor our ancestors there, we must also confront the human cost of hatred and the desecration caused when violence is clothed in religious language.
Our tradition calls us to hold fast to Jewish belonging and to moral accountability. These commitments require us to keep asking how we can protect life, exercise power with restraint, and leave room for the humanity of others.
Perhaps that work begins in our own personal relationships. In a time when political differences can fracture families and friendships, we can promise one another that our relationships will not be conditional on agreement. Torah is larger than any one of us, and we need one another to hear its many truths.
May we move through the world with care, courage, and the best intentions. May we act with humility when the way forward is difficult. And may we leave our children a world more rooted in life, justice, and peace than the one we inherited.
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