Perashat Vayera 5780

Perashat Vayera 5780

Saturday, November 16, 2019 Author: Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

I think Morrocans are better off than Syrians.

Before you throw rocks at me, or fire me, hear me out. 

I try to live my life without regrets. Every once in a while I fail.

I just returned from a magnificent wedding in Morocco. Walking the ancient streets, visiting a synagogue over 500 years old, and even attending a traditional henna in a palace which is over half a millennia old gives you an interesting perspective, one where I think Morrocans are better off than Syrians. It came to me in the middle of a celebration of a people who grew up in Casablanca and Marrakesh, who could return at will to their country, be accepted and welcomed to pray at their ancient synagogues and visit the tombs of their great-great-grandparents and the holy saddikim that guided them. 

It was such a special and warm feeling as we were transported back in time down an impossibly charming crooked cobblestone street called Dar Talmud Torah. And then immediately came the regret, and, if I'm honest, a twinge of jealousy.
You see my father grew up in Halab, Syria. When I was young we heard all about the streets, sounds and smells of a country the Jews had called home for nearly 3000 years when it was conquered by King David! I have videos of my family in the Knis, synagogue, and of my great uncle Rabbi Aharon Farhi shlit'a leading the selihot prayers. People share warm memories of my grandfather, and of his store where he sold the needed staple foods at a set price, even if the costs to him went up, so that poor families could survive. I heard stories of the jail where my grandfather fought to get innocent members of the community, including its Rabbi, out for unfair arrests. I dreamed of visiting the street where my father was attacked on the night he decided he would attempt a daring escape to get to Israel. I've always wanted to see it with my own eyes, to give physical form to fanciful imagination.

Years ago, a very small delegation from our community travelled there and saw the history they had been told about come to life before their very eyes. I wish I had joined them. I had thought of it many times but never made the move. Now, with much of the country, turned to rubble in its raging civil war many of the surviving structures have been damaged and are facing demolition. I wonder if I will ever get that chance again. Who knows? That chance may be gone forever. 
In this way, Morrocan Jews have it better than Syrian Jews. I should have gone when I had the chance. I didn't, and now, regretfully, I can't.

It made me think of something I read in this week's perasha. 

And he (Abraham) raised his eyes, and he saw, behold three men standing before him. And he saw, and he ran toward them from the entrance of the tent and he bowed to the ground.

There is a famous question that many seek to answer. After the pasuk tells us that Abraham saw, why does it say again "and he saw"? What else did he see?  And if what he saw at second glance was significant enough of a sight to warrant telling us about, why not tell us what it was that he saw?

The Ben Ish Hai (1835 - 1909) offers a novel explanation using the approach of the Alshich (1508-1593).

Abraham lifted his eyes and behold suddenly, as if from nowhere, three men were standing before him. Abraham realized that these men were so quick footed they had appeared literally in the blink of an eye. He had just raised his eyes, and they were there. If they had appeared without his having noticed where they came from, in the blink of an eye, they might just as quickly leave. Just as I didn't see them coming, maybe I might not see them going. So Abraham decided the only way to ensure he got the missvah ofhachnasat orchim, welcoming guests, was to not blink. To stare at them while running toward them so they wouldn't disappear into the dust of the dunes from which they had seemingly apparated! And if they did, he would see exactly which way they went.

The second vayar, then, doesn't mean to look. It means not taking your eyes off of something. Those meanings are not the same thing, neither in intention, nor in purpose. 

That expression, in the blink of an eye, is not only found in this context. It's something you hear told quite often from the older generation to young parents. They caution us, that our little, cute, innocent children will be all grown up "in the blink of an eye". "Believe me,'' they say, almost imploring us to learn from their mistakes, "time goes by so fast". 

Perhaps there is only one response to things that appear and disappear so quickly, to not take our eyes off them. To see it so deeply that we have etched it eternally in our memory. Equally important is that it is etched eternally in the child's memory that there was someone focused, laser-like, on them, someone who could not take their eyes off them, someone who thought they were worthy of that undivided attention.

This is not only about kids. It is about our youth and health, our passions, wealth and relationships. Am I running, dancing, traveling while I can? Am I getting the quality time with friends and family, especially parents and grandparents, who are older, while I can?

In the blink of an eye what in our lives might be gone? And once identified, how might we draw focus to it, and not take our eyes off it, so that when it is gone we would feel no regrets having had the chance to drink our fill, and know we had used the time we had with it wisely?

Don't wait until it is too late.

While we may never get the chance to visit Halab and lay eyes on our history, at the very least we can try to lay eyes on our future.

Shabbat Shalom, 
Rabbi Shlomo Farhi