Matters of Life and Death

Matters of Life and Death: Parshat Chayei Sarah
Rabbi Hilly Haber

Chayeh Sarah opens on a note of darkness and sorrow, with the news of Sarah’s death. Our sages link her passing to the binding of her son Isaac on Mount Moriah. They imagine that when Sarah hears the news that Isaac was almost sacrificed by his father Abraham, an existential dread washes over her—a chilling reminder of the fine line we all walk between life and death. In that moment of shock and despair, her soul departs.

Following Sarah’s death, we sense an underlying anxiety in the actions of our patriarch. Concerned for his wife, and for his own mortality, Abraham negotiates with the Hittites to purchase land on which to bury Sarah, himself, and the future generations of his family.

Chayeh Sarah closes with the news of Abraham’s death and burial alongside Sarah, marking the end of an epic journey that set the story of our people into motion:

“Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you,” God told Abraham, “I will make of you a great nation, And I will bless you; I will make your name great; and you shall be a blessing.”

As Abraham and Sarah answer God’s call, their identities shift. They are called gerim, sojourners; and Ivrim, the word for “Hebrews,” derived from the verb “to cross over.” They are travelers; they are border-crossers. People of movement and transformation who are reimagining their futures and their place in the world. They take on new names: the added letter heh, symbolizing the name of God, turns Abram to Abraham and Sarai to Sarah, adding sacred purpose to their journey.

As their role in the world expands, so too does their sphere of ethical concern. Abraham and Sarah become known for their hospitality, for inviting strangers into their tent and providing respite from the harsh desert around them.

Answering God’s call also comes with risks. As sojourners, without a tribe to care for them or land to call their own, they are subject to the violent whims of tyrants along their journey. The Torah later emphasizes that Israel’s identity is grounded in Abraham and Sarah’s experiences of alienation. Even when the Israelites settle in the promised land, the Torah instructs them to still think of themselves as gerim: “The land is Mine; [says God] you are but strangers resident with Me”. And forever after, we are instructed to give special care to the gerim, the strangers in our midst.

Because we are children of Sarah and Abraham, their story is our inheritance, our call to moral action; it awakens in us a keen awareness that chaos and safety are sometimes only a hair’s breadth apart.

Over the last few weeks, I have heard from parents in our congregation who are worried for the safety of their transgender children, and from anxious members of our LGBTQ community. They are scrambling to apply for Federal IDs that match their gender identities and ordering copies of their marriage licenses and adoption paperwork.

Many of you have also reached out to inquire about the safety of the families in our extended Central community who are seeking asylum. One asylum seeker told me, “if we lose our case and are sent back, we will surely die.” Uncertainty, anxiety and panic pervade the air we breathe.

To be clear, I am not arguing for open borders or talking about who can play on what sports team.

In this fragile moment in our country’s history, the ancient lessons of our people can teach us how to respond to the uncertainties which animate this time. These sacred texts illuminate the dignity and agency of every person.

While we may not understand someone’s pronoun choice or agree on how or if a young person should medically transition, we can hold our ancestors’ story alongside the stories of our trans kids, and say, “Like Abraham and Sarah, you have imagined a new future for yourself, one that affirms who you are and who you want to be in this world. You are stepping into a new identity that brings with it exciting possibility and enhanced vulnerability. Like Abram becoming Abraham, you have taken on a new name to match your transformation. Your evolution is brave, complex and you are not alone. You walk a well-worn and sacred path, showing the world what it means to live authentically and joyfully. You are a blessing.”

And while we understand the need for border security, we can hold our people’s story alongside those of the newest New Yorkers and say, “You too are Ivrim, border-crossers, who are carving out a new future for yourselves, your children, and your descendents. Like Abraham and Sarah, you understand the fragility of this life^. You have braved the wrath of tyrants and the unforgiving wilderness to get here. We see in your story the unfolding of God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah, ‘go forth from your native land…and I will bless you.’ You walk a well-worn and sacred path, the same one many of our parents and grandparents walked to bring us to this land of refuge, this land of promise for so many.”

When Abraham worried about a future that looked grim, God urged him, “Look towards the heavens” (Gen.15:5). And God promised, “Your descendants will be as numerous as the stars of heaven and the sands on the seashore.” When Abraham looked up to the stars, he saw us: the dazzling lights of his future spreading across the sky. He saw us, and he went forward—despite uncertainty, despite moments of despair. He did not panic, and he did not forget his sacred purpose in this world.

We, too, will go forward, moved by the compassionate call of our tradition, inspired by the sacred transformations and border-crossings that remind us who we are as a Jewish people.