2024 Yom Kippur Evening
This evening, I want to begin by sharing a story of conflict and resolution, choices and consequences, and the balance between prosperity and peace.
Our Torah contains more than its share of conflict and discord: The Egyptians treated the Israelites with cruelty and violence over the course of 430 years of slavery. God opens up the earth to swallow Korach and his followers after they sought to take power from Moses and Aaron. There’s a war against Amalek, a war against the Amorites, the Midianites … Unfortunately, peace among the nations is not a strong theme in our Torah.
When God famously commanded Abram to lech l’cha - to journey forth to a new land - Abraham left everything from his “old life” behind, except for Sarah his wife, and Lot, his nephew.
After settling in the land of Canaan, Abraham and his nephew grew quite prosperous. In fact, they amassed so much wealth that even their animals began to compete over land and resources.
The Torah tells us that Abraham approached his nephew: Please let there be no strife between me and you, and between my herdsmen and your herdsmen, for we are brethren (Genesis 13:8).
And he continues:
Is not the whole land before you? Please separate from me; if you take the left, then I will go to the right; if you go to the right, then I will go to the left (Genesis 13:9).
Most interpretations view Abraham’s actions as a model of t’shuvah. First, Abraham took the initiative to seek a peaceful solution. He demonstrated humility by allowing Lot to choose his path. Abraham could have asserted authority by reminding Lot that God spoke to him, and not to Lot. Instead, he chose restraint and kindness.
Jewish commentators throughout history, ranging from Rashi in the 11th century to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks in the 20th, have noted that Abraham was heartbroken in separating from his nephew Lot. Other commentators deftly observe that Lot’s choice to settle in Sodom, a city known for its wickedness, serves as evidence that Abraham was morally and spiritually superior to his nephew. But I’ve yet to see any that question Abraham’s premise. Did they need to separate?
I have always seen this story as peaceful. Now, I think it is deceptively peaceful; it is one of the most heartbreakingly sad episodes in our entire Torah.
Abraham and Lot’s solution may have avoided further conflict. But that doesn’t make it one of peace. As I wrote in my Elul reflection, peace doesn’t come about by leaving each other alone - you go your way and I’ll go mine. Peace happens when we realize that your way is mine. I pray that this is the kind of peace that we continue to strive for.
It’s difficult to talk about this story and not think about what is happening in Israel and the Middle East. Tomorrow morning’s sermon will focus on this topic. Right now, as we think of Kol Nidrei, all of our vows, I’d like us to think about the times that we have taken the path of separation rather than reconciliation.
Abraham and Lot’s separation sets a tragic precedent. It seems to grant permission to remove others from our life, saying: Your way is not my way.
Of course, there are people that we need to separate from. Abusive relationships, people that promote racism or homophobia, antisemitism and hatred … violence. But that is not the story of Abraham and Lot.
Abraham and Lot were kin - family. And the tension between them was not caused by ideological disputes over core values, or human rights, or anything of the sort: no, it was caused because both of them were getting wealthy. They didn’t even try to talk to each other and sort it out. They simply erected gates around their communities, and decided zay gazunt - that’s good enough.
It is most decidedly not good enough.
One generation later, the narrative turns to Abraham’s son, Isaac. Like his father, he too grew incredibly wealthy:
Isaac sowed in that land, and reaped in the same year a hundredfold.1
The Philistines, trying to thwart Isaac’s success, clogged up Isaac’s wells with earth. The narrative continues with consecutive moments of whack-a-well, with Isaac digging up new wells and the Philistines quickly coming and stopping them up.
The Torah continues:
The herdsmen of Gerar quarreled with Isaac’s herdsmen, saying “The water is ours.” He called the name of the well Esek, because they quarreled with him. Then they dug another well, and they quarreled over that one also. So he called its name Sitnah.
And he moved from there and dug another well, and they did not quarrel over it. So he named it Rechovot, saying “There is room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land.”2
The solution to strife and disagreement is not: you go North, I’ll go South. It is, There is room for us; we shall be fruitful in the land.
In this story, the Philistines were deliberately sabotaging Isaac’s success, and yet Isaac still wants them to be fruitful.
When Isaac tries to heal the relationship, he uses a notable word, Rechovot. It comes from the Hebrew root for wide. This word implies that there is ample space and room to heal our conflicts. But more importantly, the expanse of rechovot invokes a possibility for opportunity and growth.
Speaking of Isaac, we usually associate him with one thing, and one thing only: the Akeidah. His life was one of trauma and difficulty. And yet, he made the effort to heal broken relationships. Surely we can too.
Rabbi Hillel is quoted in the Pirke Avot with this teaching: Al tifros min ha tzibur, Do not separate from the community.
When being in a community is wonderful, this teaching is not necessary. It’s necessary when we do want to separate. Hillel is telling us that when it seems easier to separate - to go north when they go south - don’t. Instead, dig wells of understanding.
In the toxic polarization of our society, we are far too quick to separate from someone based on any number of issues: Israel, political party, religion, and so much more. Isaac’s solution may be a bit too idealistic, but surely we can do better than Abraham and Lot.
Tomorrow morning, we will hear the powerful words from Nitzavim:
You stand here this day, all of you, before your God; your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every householder in Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from the woodchopper to the water drawer - to enter into the covenant of your God.3
The promise of our covenant is fulfilled when we are able to find some measure of understanding and reconciliation amongst one another. When we do not take the easy way of separation, but the more difficult path of t’shuvah and healing. This is when we encounter God’s presence. The most nourishing wells that we can dig are ones that bring us together. There is indeed space.
Lia Diskin, a philosopher and journalist, tells this story about an anthropologist and an African tribe.
The anthropologist proposed a game to the tribe’s children. He took a bunch of candy that he had brought, put it in a basket, and placed it under a solitary tree. He drew a line on the ground and told the children to wait on that line for his signal. After he said Go, the first person to the tree would get all the candy.
After yelling go, he was very surprised to see all of the kids holding hands, walking together toward the tree. Surprised, he asked why they would do this. A girl told him, How can one of us be happy if the rest of us are sad?
There’s a word for this philosophical worldview: ubuntu. It means, I am, because we are.
We must start creating space to hear the voices of others. We can’t settle for leaving each other alone. I am because we are. The message of Isaac - and certainly a message of the Torah - is that we are not separate but equal. We are equal.
I hope that this year, we can start planting wells of understanding and compassion. It is certainly more difficult than Abraham and Lot’s solution, but it is also more holy. It is the beautiful, heartfelt challenge of t’shuvah: I am, because we are.