Shabbat Shalom, friends—
I’m writing to you from Israel—first I was in Jerusalem, where I spent the week teaching Talmud and Jewish pedagogical methodology to a worldwide network of Jewish schools. Our shared aim was to deepen Jewish literacy while honoring the real diversity of Jews and Jewish movements, and to keep centering our communities and even our host countries in Jewish values. We asked how we could be lights to the nation and bring people to see the beautiful light of our Modern State of Israel all over the globe.
In our study of this week’s parsha (a first for some of the educators!) we learned together how Avraham and Sarah radiated Sabbath light and the power of monotheism into the world, “making souls in Haran” (הַנֶּפֶשׁ אֲשֶׁר עָשׂוּ בְחָרָן, Gen. 12:5), and carrying those souls into the Promised Land. Those families became our people’s ancestors—and their descendants now inhabit the four corners of the earth. Through Jewish connections and participation in Jewish life, and through the study of our sacred texts, we are the agents who must bring to the marketplace of ideas a Torah that pursues justice, practices tzedakah, reocognizes pluralism and seeks to make good neighbors between and among the nations of the world and the Jewish State.
Parshat Vayeira is the Torah of tents and of testimony. It opens with Avraham’s tent thrown wide—four sides open, say our Sages—ready to welcome wayfarers (Gen. 18:1–8; Avot d’Rabbi Natan 7). It lifts up the promise that a single home, warmed by Sabbath hospitality, can change a life. And it gives us God’s reason for choosing Avraham: “For I have known him so that he may command his children… to keep the way of the Lord, to do tzedakah and mishpat—righteousness and justice” (Gen. 18:19). Vayeira then asks whether a single righteous voice can plead for a city (Avraham’s prayer for Sodom), whether a parent’s faith can be yoked to compassion (the Akeidah), and whether God hears the cry of the vulnerable wherever they stand (Hagar and Ishmael in the wilderness). At every turn, Vayeira summons us to expand our tents, our prayers, and our courage and live through tests of great faith.
After the conference, I traveled to Tel Aviv for Shabbat to put up a different kind of tent—on behalf of our Or Zarua community. I rented an Airbnb and made it into an Or Zarua “ohel,” a Sabbath shelter for a special group of young people who, at a moment’s notice, flew to Israel to do the mitzvah of accompanying and burying Captain Omer Neutra, z”l. They came from Camp Ramah, USY, Schechter Long Island, the Midway Jewish Center, and Young Judaea to be at his funeral and bring strength and comfort. They gathered with Omer’s family, recited a chapter of Tehillim beside his coffin, and then watched as Omer’s IDF brothers carried him to his kever, his final resting place. In their presence and their tears, I heard Vayeira’s charge—to be shaliach mitzvah, agents of holiness and solidarity.
Omer gave his life not only as an oleh who joined his people, and not only as a soldier who guarded life, but as a shaliach for all of us, bearing the hope that neighbors can be, in time, brothers and sisters. Sometimes we have to fight for that; we are called upon to defend this idea. Omer’s parents spoke with the piercing dignity of mourners who insist that every hostage must be returned and every body brought for a proper burial. A U.S. Navy admiral at the funeral called Omer “the best of both America and Israel,” a holy bridge of shared values.
What does Vayeira ask of us this Shabbat?
First, to widen our tents. Avraham’s tent stands for hachnasat orchim, welcoming the other—and for a Jewish life that is outward-facing and generous. Our students and educators from North America, South America, Europe, Africa, Israel, Australia, and India are building these tents of learning every day. The young people who dropped everything to accompany Omer, z”l, widened the tent of consolation and honor. Vayeira tells us that such hospitality is not a nicety—it is revelation’s doorway: “And the Lord appeared to him… and he lifted his eyes, and behold, three men” (Gen. 18:1–2). Sometimes the way God appears is through people we choose to feed, house, and accompany.
Second, to deepen our practice of tzedakah u’mishpat. Vayeira’s signature verse (Gen. 18:19) isn’t abstract: it commands a culture. We practice tzedakah when we ensure dignity for the bereaved and when we strengthen those on the front lines of Jewish education. We practice mishpat when we insist that every innocent life matters, that captives must be returned, and that moral clarity—not vengeance—guides our steps. To “keep the way of the Lord” is to thread compassion through courage and to turn grief into dignified action.
Third, to become shlihim—agents—ourselves. Shlichut doesn’t only mean crossing oceans; it means crossing thresholds: from passivity to purpose, from sympathy to service. Omer, z”l, carried a mission of protection and presence. The young friends who came carried a mission of kavod hamet and nichum aveilim—honor for the dead and comfort for the living. Our Or Zarua tent in Tel Aviv is carrying a mission of Shabbat joy in the shadow of sorrow: we set a Sabbath table, will share stories, sing, and learn Torah before these young souls fly back to their lives. In doing so, we sanctify the name of the One who “remembers Sarah” (Gen. 21:1)—who remembers each promise, each person, each prayer.
So here is our invitation, inspired by Vayeira and by Omer’s memory:
Add a measure of Shabbat to your week. Light earlier. Sing one more song. Invite one more guest. Turn your home into a small Abraham and Sarah kind of tent.
Take on a concrete act of shlichut. Accompany someone to a difficult appointment. Bring a meal. Show up at a shivah. Call the person you’ve been meaning to call.
Give tzedakah in honor of a life that called us higher. If you would like to help me set the Or Zarua table for these young shlichim and participate in making Shabbat for those honoring Omer, please contribute to my Discretionary Fund with the memo: “In honor of Omer Neutra z”l.”
Vayeira begins with a tent and ends with a blessing. May our tents be open, our tables be full, and our lives be worthy of the trust God placed in Avraham—to teach our children and our communities “the way of the Lord.” May Omer’s memory be a blessing and a charge. May the Holy One return all captives bodies who are still in Gaza and bring every fallen soldier to kever Yisrael. And may our added Shabbat light—here in Tel Aviv and in every city where Or Zarua dwells—push back the night.
From the Or Zarua Sabbath tent in Tel Aviv, hosting the next generation of Jewish leaders who know when to drop everything and be present, I send love and strength.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Bolton