Hayyei Sarah

All Class of 2026 Senior Sermons

For many of us, this moment in the Torah feels deeply human. Abraham’s acts of mourning and burial show that grief, ritual, and dignity are intertwined from the very beginning of our tradition. The Torah does not simply record that Sarah died; it teaches us how to honor a life and how to move forward with compassion.

Because of this, the eighth-century C.E. halakhic compendium known as the �����’i���ٴdz� of Rav Ahai Gaon chose this parashah as the occasion for an exposition on the laws and practices of aveilut, mourning. The �����’i���ٴdz� is one of the earliest of the medieval halakhic works, dated to the eighth century; it is organized according to the Torah’s parashiyot, in a style that poses a question (hence the name) and explores talmudic and other material in order to formulate instruction on practice. It was a way for everyday Jews to see how the Torah’s stories could translate into lived, ethical action. Studying the �����’i���ٴdz� is an excellent way, week in and week out, to be instructed in and reminded of the central values underlying Jewish law.

What Rav Ahai had to say on the subject of death and mourning gave rise, as the Talmud itself typically did, to many dicta that, while seemingly tangential, continued an underlying theme. In this case, the �����’i���ٴdz� presented a list of historical enactments (based on texts in the talmudic tractates of Mo’ed Katan, Ketubot, and Sanhedrin) that were all united by a concern for human dignity.

Rav Ahai begins with an enactment attributed to Rabban Gamliel, who saw that the elaborate conventions attending burial were so burdensome that poor families would abandon their dead to the mercies of the community because they could not afford those expectations. Even today, the cost of funerals and mourning rituals can create anxiety for families already struggling with loss. The rabbis, sensitive to the emotional and economic weight of grief, sought to make dignity—not display—the defining feature of Jewish mourning.Therefore, Rabban Gamliel, hoping to set an example, gave instructions to his own family that at his death, he was to be buried in plain linen shrouds. This very democratic leveling of the socioeconomic strata is the source of this Jewish practice still in use to this day.

From there, Rav Ahai cites several other enactments that were made “for the honor and dignity of the poor,” to prevent unnecessary embarrassment to those of meager means. Expectations for gifts of food that would be brought to a house in mourning were lowered, so as not to embarrass those who had little to bring. When the wealthy were themselves in mourning, they were told to pour the customary wine for the comforters to drink with the mourners into the simplest and cheapest possible vessels. All so that when the poor were in mourning, they would not be humiliated by their necessary use of inexpensive cups.

And perhaps most poignant of all is the following: The faces of the wealthy dead used to be visible whereas the faces of the poor—who often died of malnutrition—were covered up so as not to reveal the discoloration that starvation brought on. The Sages eliminated this disparity by ruling that all of the deceased should be covered by a simple shroud, so as not to impinge on the honor and dignity of the poor.

These enactments remind us that human dignity (kevod haberiyot) is not an abstract ideal; it is preserved in the smallest gestures of equality and empathy. To ensure that every person, regardless of means, could be buried and mourned with honor was itself a radical moral act. In a world often stratified by wealth and status, Jewish law made compassion the great equalizer.

Rav Ahai compiled this Talmudic material as part of the exposition of mourning practices occasioned by the Torah’s first story of burial and mourning. But more than that, it was an opportunity for him to instruct future generations in the importance of kevod haberiyot, human dignity. In his teaching, we see a theology rooted not only in reverence for God but in reverence for each other—a belief that our treatment of the vulnerable defines the moral strength of a community.

In our own moment, when economic and social inequality continues to shape so many aspects of life and death, this ancient sensitivity feels remarkably modern. The rabbinic insistence on dignity for all reminds us that compassion and justice must begin with the most intimate human experiences—loss, care, and mourning.

The rabbinic call to uphold human dignity across every difference remains as urgent now as it was in Rav Ahai’s time. 91�첥’s upcoming convening on this very theme invites us to bring these teachings into conversation with our contemporary struggles for equity and compassion.

Here is information about the 91�첥 Convening, Upholding Human Dignity in Troubling Times: An Interreligious Convening

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Hayyei Sarah

All Class of 2025 Senior Sermons

But Abraham rose, as he had to, from his wailing, because there was a necessary and sacred task to perform. And at that moment of needing to bury his dead, an enormity confronted him. Here’s how Abraham put it: “ger vetoshav anokhi”—I am merely a stranger (ger), come to be an alien resident (toshav) here. I have no place; I have no accumulated rights and privileges. Abraham was at the mercy of the locals, who could either give him—actually sell him for a pretty penny—the plot of land he needed, or who could deny it to him altogether. He was of no status in this new place. So much so that it did not yet even come into consideration that he might have a place in which to live, or to settle. No, he could only imagine a place in which to bury his dead in this land to which he had come. And why had he come there? The Torah, in its typically laconic style, simply told us (Gen. 12) that God had sent him. It presents Abraham’s journey as a simple story of destiny. The Rabbis, however, in their own characteristic way of filling in the unstated, imagined something more lifelike in the midrashim that they spun for us. They imagined that Abraham was persecuted, hounded, his life threatened in his birthplace. Thrown into a literal, or metaphorical, fiery furnace for the beliefs that others rejected and hated. And here he was, a refugee, someone who could not go back to a place in which he could not be assured of safety. He was here on a mission of building a family and a life in order to rescue himself. 

The precariousness of Abraham’s lack of status continued into the next scene, in chapter 24. We are usually taken with Rebecca showing her kindness and her suitability to marry into Abraham’s clan. But we forget the essential anxiety that animated the entire tale. Abraham knew that his son Isaac could be swallowed up. His faith could be quashed, nipped in the bud, were he to marry into a local family, if they even allowed him to. As an immigrant, he would have no cultural robustness with which to withstand the majority. He knew—as Jews throughout the centuries have known—that his child needed to partner with someone from the old country, who would speak with the same accent, and who would be both a consort and a safe harbor for him. 

So yes, the Torah’s story in Hayyei Sarah is about the insecurity and the defenselessness of the immigrant, the refugee. And it should remind us that while our distant ancestor lived the fears and vulnerabilities of the immigrant, and while our more proximate forbears did as well just a few scant generations ago, this is a story that is about more than just us.

There is no greater sense of defenselessness that haunts Jews than the reality of antisemitism. So we remember crimes such as the mass murder of Jews in Pittsburgh six years ago. But we must also remember that that murderer was driven to act after years of wallowing in his hatred of refugees, of immigrants. People who, like Abraham, were driven on a precarious journey from their birthplace by both extreme danger and a dream. And who, also like Abraham, must wonder where, or whether, they might be able to bury their loved ones who might die along the way, let alone whether and where they might ultimately be welcomed and given the opportunity to see their hopes fulfilled.

Why did that hatred become a rage against Jews? HIAS (formerly known as the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) had around that time adopted the slogan “We used to welcome refugees because they were Jewish. Today we welcome refugees because we are Jewish.” And therefore, just as those who approve of, and aspire to, that compassion point to Jews with admiration, those who cast the evil eye on hapless and frightened refugees, and call them invaders, also point to Jews, but with fury.

“Ger vetoshav”—the descriptor of the stranger and resident alien. This is the vulnerability and exposure that our ancestors knew all too well, and that binds us to those who experience and shudder from it today, as talk of mass deportations and family separations gains traction.

It is good to consider one other aspect of that phrase ger vetoshav. Abraham used it to describe his status of being a mere transient, a visitor, an immigrant in his surroundings. But the phrase appears at another place in the Torah as well. In Leviticus 25, God echoes Abraham’s words by saying to the Israelites, “gerim vetoshavim atem imadi”—you are, with me, gerim and toshavim. The plain meaning is that God is saying to the Israelites, and indeed to all humans: remember that you are visitors, merely resident in my world. You are tenants, not owners. But, looking at the phrase in a hyper-literal way, one notes that a ger is a transient, and a toshav, coming from a root that means “seated,” would seem to denote a settled resident. Taken literally in this way, the two words sound as if they are in opposition to one another. How can the Israelites be both? 

The 18th-century rabbi Yaakov Krantz, better known as the Maggid—the preacher—of Dubno, read it in that excessively literal way, and by embracing the opposition between ger and toshav, he offered us a remarkably incisive teaching. He taught us that God was saying this: You humans, and I—God—are, taken together, gerim—transients, and toshavim—settled residents. But which one of us is which? That’s the crucial question that only humans can answer. If we consider ourselves to be toshavim—entitled, settled owners of our world—then God will be the ger, the stranger. That is, an awareness of a commanding, obligating Presence will be a mere transient, in and out of our lives in cameo roles. But we can, alternatively, cultivate the deep and abiding conviction that we are, after all, ���������—visitors—humbly invited into God’s world to offer our skills in improving it, adding to its beauty, and bringing comfort and security to those whose lives are most precarious. If we can internalize and accept that we are not, in Tom Wolfe’s immortal phrase, “Masters of the Universe,” and know how much God needs us to spread more goodness and compassion, then our being gerim will cause God to be a toshav, a permanent presence in our lives.  And in the lives of those who will come after us, and in the life of the world that we will help to create.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Parshat Hayyei Sarah

All the Class of 2024 Senior Sermons

Biblical commentators make two main claims about the identity of Keturah. One claim is that Keturah is, in fact, Hagar, who is brought back into Abraham’s life after being sent away earlier in Genesis. Here, she has a new name, which could symbolize a few different aspects of her character arc. Genesis Rabbah, an early work of midrash, explains:

“And her name was Keturah”—Rav said: This is Hagar. Rabbi Neḥemya said to him . . .  “But is it not written, ‘and her name was Keturah’?” [Rav] said to him: “That is because she was perfumed [mekuteret] with mitzvot and good deeds.”

(Genesis Rabbah 61:4)

Hagar is renamed Keturah due to her numerous good deeds, which surround her like perfume. Perhaps this describes how Hagar repented from idolatry, and her good deeds rose up to God like the incense [ketorah] that would later rise from the altar. Rashi, however, cites the next section of Genesis Rabbah, addressing the other meaning of keturah, which means “closed” or “bound.” Genesis Rabbah states that after she was sent away from his household, Hagar “closed her opening,” remaining celibate until Abraham took her back as a wife (61:4). Although Rashi approaches her name from a different linguistic angle and adds another detail to Hagar’s life in the intervening years, he agrees that Keturah is the new name of Hagar.

On the other hand, commentators like Ibn Ezra and Rashbam say that Keturah is not Hagar. The name is not meant to tell us anything about Hagar’s transformation, but to simply mark a new person in the story. The verse starts with the verb “vayosef,” meaning that Abraham added “an additional” wife, not that he remarried a previous wife. The book of Jubilees, an apocryphal book likely composed in the 2nd century BCE, describes Abraham’s marriage as follows: “And Abraham took to himself a third wife, and her name was Keturah, from among the daughters of his household servants, for Hagar had died before Sarah” (19:13). Jubilees states explicitly that Keturah is a third woman, distinct both from Hagar and Sarah, both of whom have already passed away.

Whether Keturah is really just Keturah or a new iteration of Hagar, why is it important for us to learn that she married Abraham after Sarah died, and after Isaac married Rebecca? Genesis Rabbah uses this verse to emphasize our responsibility to have children, even at an old age (61:2–3). Additional commentators on the verse, including Chizkuni, explain that we read about Abraham’s additional marriage only after Isaac married Rebecca; this instructs us that parents who are widows should first secure the marriage of their children before finding themselves a partner.

Beyond teaching us how an older parent may remarry and continue to have children, I see Abraham’s marriage to Keturah as another way Parashat Hayyei Sarah emphasizes the unique marriages of our patriarchs and matriarchs. Although Abraham marries again, Keturah’s children are later called the “offspring of concubines” (Gen. 25:6, 1 Chronicles 1:32). Her offspring are given mere gifts upon Abraham’s death, not an inheritance. Keturah’s inclusion in the narrative serves to further emphasize how special Sarah was to Abraham, and how the line of the Israelite family was continued through Sarah’s son, and through Isaac’s marriage with Rebecca. Even if Keturah is really Hagar, a woman who remained chaste and committed to God, her actions do not merit the continuation of Israel through her offspring.

If the Torah had not included Abraham’s marriage to Keturah, we would still know that Sarah’s child is the one to carry on the Israelite family. However, including Keturah and her children provides a backdrop against which Abraham’s relationship with Sarah stands out even more. There was another woman in Abraham’s life—maybe multiple women—and he had many more children who might have inherited his legacy. The fact that Isaac is the sole inheritor out of a whole group of Abraham’s children highlights Isaac’s singularity. It is a testament to the unique and devoted connection between Abraham and Sarah; it is a fitting close to a parashah which begins with Abraham devoting himself to Sarah’s burial, and to finding a good match for Isaac.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

Abraham asks his servant to travel back to Aram Naharayim, Abraham’s birthplace, to find his son a mate. Abraham stipulates that the bride should be a blood relative. In addition, he makes his servant swear that the wife he finds for Isaac will agree to leave her birthplace and family and move to Canaan, where Abraham and Isaac now live. Abraham understands that for God to fulfill His promise that the Jewish people will become as numerous as the stars in the heaven (Gen. 15:5), future progeny must not be born in Aram Naharayim but in Canaan.

The servant, elsewhere called Eliezer (Gen. 15:2), sets off on the voyage. He prays that God will lead him to the right bride. A well-known scene at the well follows. Rebecca shows up with a water jar on her shoulder. Eliezer comments that she is beautiful. She graciously offers water to him, a stranger, and to his camels. She also offers him lodging overnight. He gives her a gold nose ring and bracelets and follows her back to her family’s home.

Bethuel, her father, and Laban, her brother, upon hearing Eliezer’s request that Rebecca marry Isaac, accept the proposal (v. 51). Eliezer gives generous gifts to Rebecca, her mother, and her brother (v. 53). The next morning Eliezer wishes to leave with Rebecca but her mother and brother suggest that she instead depart in ten days. They then call her in “and ask her [what she thinks]” (Gen. 24:57). “Will you go with this man,” (v. 57) they want to know, and she replies, “I will go” (v. 58). The question for the commentators is, what does Rebecca mean when she answers the question in the affirmative?  And do these words suggest that a woman’s consent is required for marriage?

According to Rashi, who bases himself on a midrash, she is saying that she consents to go with this man and marry Isaac. Others say that she was agreeing not to delay for ten days but to leave right away.

I think there is a third, more likely interpretation. The point repeated several times over, at the beginning of the chapter, is that the bride Eliezer brings back for Isaac must leave her birthplace and move to Canaan, as did Abraham himself when God called out to him (Gen. 12:1). Only if she does so will her future child be able to continue the line of people to whom God made several promises. When she says “yes,” knowing that her father and brother have already accepted a marriage proposal on her behalf, she is saying that she is willing to leave home and family behind, at great personal cost, and go and live with Isaac in Canaan. She understands that that is what God is asking of her.

This decision, most remarkably, places her on par with Abraham, who also heeded the voice of God and left his family and birthplace behind. In fact, Rebecca is more like Abraham—more a courageous person of faith—than her husband Isaac. When she answers “yes, I will go,” she is saying that she sees the future unfolding of Jewish history and the role she is being asked to play in it. Given the reports of her actions in coming chapters, in particular how she secured the firstborn blessing for her second-born son Jacob, I think it is more correct to say that the three patriarchs of Genesis are not Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, as generally thought, but Abraham, Rebecca, and Jacob.

Returning to the question posed earlier: can we learn from Rebecca that a woman must consent to marriage? The answer is both yes and no. It is clear that Rebecca was married off by her father and brother without her consent. However, Midrash Bereishit Rabbah (60:12) does derive from v. 57 that a woman must consent to marriage. And the rabbis of the Talmud later institute the rule that a woman has to agree to a marriage for it to be valid (BT Kiddushin 8b). Broadly speaking, if we read v. 57 together with v. 58, they jointly say that Rebecca understood the huge sacrifice she was being asked to make, leaving home and family behind, and, without hesitation, heroically accepted these terms.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

The commentator Abraham ibn Ezra interprets the word to mean “go for a walk.”  Biblical scholar and former 91�첥 professor Nahum Sarna explains that this interpretation is based on the Arabic cognate, saha, meaning “to take a stroll.” We can imagine Isaac using this moment at the end of each day to have some time to himself to process the significant life events he had recently experienced. At times, seclusion from others allows us to be in touch with our innermost feelings and reflect on our own needs.

In contrast to this interpretation, Nahmanides prefers a connection to the root for talking, sihah. He explains that Isaac was out in the field with his friends chatting. That is, Isaac found comfort and support in being surrounded by friends.

Rashbam connects Isaac’s action to the word for shrub or plant, siah. He references the creation story: “when no shrub of the field was yet on earth and no grasses of the field had yet sprouted, because the LORD God had not sent rain upon the earth and there was no man to till the soil” (Gen. 2:5). Rashbam explains that Isaac was out in the field engaging in the creative act of working the land. The proactive deed of generating life and sustenance perhaps served Isaac well as he worked to return his life to a routine.

Rashi, citing the classical rabbinic midrash, suggests that Isaac was out in the field praying. The rabbis base their understanding on Psalm 102:1: “A prayer of the lowly man when he is faint and pours forth his plea [siho (שיחו)] before the LORD.” The Babylonian Talmud Berakhot 26b connects Isaac’s prayer to the establishment of minha, the afternoon prayer service. According to this view, Isaac turns to God in the aftermath of the Akedahand the death of his mother.   

Seeking to understand Isaac’s actions, the medieval commentators offer us four models for coping with trauma and challenges in our lives. This idea takes on a modern idiom in (“Song of the Grasses”), a beautiful Israeli folk song composed by Naomi Shemer and based on the writings of R. Nahman of Bratzlav. The lyrics compare the individualized nature of prayer to the uniqueness of a single blade of grass: “Know that each and every blade of grass has its own song.” Solitude or companionship, action or prayer: there is no one way to respond to challenges. We all must choose our own path.

Returning to Isaac, the Torah tells us that he indeed ultimately finds the comfort for which he is searching. Rebekah, his new partner, becomes a source of support and love for him: “Isaac then brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he took Rebekah as his wife. Isaac loved her, and thus found comfort after his mother’s death” (Gen. 24:67). 

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).