Dear TBZ Community,
This week we read Parashat Vayera, the Torah portion that begins with Abraham sitting at the entrance of his tent, recovering from his circumcision, when three mysterious visitors appear before him:
וַיִּשָּׂא עֵינָיו וַיַּרְא וְהִנֵּה שְׁלֹשָׁה אֲנָשִׁים נִצָּבִים עָלָיו וַיַּרְא וַיָּרָץ לִקְרָאתָם מִפֶּתַח הָאֹהֶל וַיִּשְׁתַּחוּ אָרְצָה
And [Abraham] lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, three men were standing before him; and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent door and bowed himself to the ground (Genesis 18:2).
Abraham welcomes the strangers with overflowing hospitality. In the heat of the day, he offers water, bread, rest, and comfort. In our tradition, these simple gestures of decency define righteousness itself and become the model for the mitzvah (commandment) of hachnasat orchim (welcoming guests).
These visitors, however, are not merely travelers; they are messengers of God, bearing both promise and peril. One announces that Sarah will give birth to a son, and another reveals the coming destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah:
וַיֹּאמֶר יְהֹוָה, זַעֲקַת סְדֹם וַעֲמֹרָה כִּי-רָבָה, וְחַטָּאתָם, כִּי-כָבְדָה מְאֹד.
And the Lord said, ‘The outcry of Sodom and Gomorrah is great, and their sin is very grievous’ (Genesis 18:20).
God describes a world that has become intolerable, violent, corrupt, and cruel. God stands ready to respond to their wrongdoing with destruction, as God did in the days of Noah. And it is here that Abraham does something astonishing: he argues with God.
וַיִּגַּשׁ אַבְרָהָם וַיֹּאמַר, הַאַף תִּסְפֶּה צַדִּיק עִם רָשָׁע?
And Abraham drew near and said, ‘Will You sweep away the righteous with the wicked’ (Genesis 18:23)?
What follows is one of the most profound moral conversations in all of Torah. Abraham pleads for mercy, asking if the cities might be spared for the sake of fifty righteous people. He continues asking: what about forty-five, forty, thirty, twenty, even ten righteous people? Each time, God concedes that if such goodness exists, destruction will be averted.
At the heart of Abraham’s plea are two small but extraordinary words: אוּלַי יֵשׁ (“perhaps there is”).
אוּלַי יֵשׁ חֲמִשִּׁים צַדִּיקִם בְּתוֹךְ הָעִיר
Perhaps there are fifty righteous people within the city (Genesis 18:24)…
Abraham stands before God and insists: perhaps not everything is lost. Perhaps there is still righteousness to be found. Perhaps the goodness of a few can redeem the many.
We often think about this story as a negotiation between God and Abraham, but it is more than that. It is an act of spiritual defiance. God shows Abraham the world’s corruption, and Abraham replies that he still believes in its potential. Abraham’s faith is not blind; it is hopeful courage in the face of despair. It is the trust that, even within brokenness, there may still be enough goodness to save the world.
I am deeply moved by these words, אוּלַי יֵשׁ (perhaps there is), not only as a question, but as a practice of hope and humility, of not succumbing to despair. It is not about certainty. It is about trembling hope, a reaching toward what might yet be possible. It asks us to imagine a reality beyond what we can see, to trust that light still flickers within the cracks.
In our own moment, we are challenged to hold this posture. We live in a time of deep exhaustion – political, moral, and spiritual. So much of what we witness around us can feel unbearable. The divisions in our country cut deep; the divisions within our Jewish community ache even more. We fear for our safety, for our democracy, for our sense of belonging and wholeness.
This week’s election in New York City has created a deep division within the Jewish community, especially in New York, but with reverberations for Jews across the country. And what we seem to be lacking these days is our capacity to be like Abraham: to argue with humility, to ask of the other (and of ourselves) the question of אוּלַי יֵשׁ.
Maybe there is something else.
Maybe there is something you have not imagined.
And maybe there is something I have not imagined.
What is so powerful about Abraham is that he argues with humility, not with certainty. And we need that so much.
There are days when it feels as though the ground itself is shifting beneath us, when the noise of anger and mistrust drowns out our capacity for tenderness. We see the pain, the polarization, the relentless conflicts, and we wonder: can this really be repaired?
It is tempting, in such moments, to turn away, to believe that the damage is too great, that the future will only darken. But Abraham’s voice calls us back: אוּלַי יֵשׁ . Perhaps there is still something to save.
Perhaps there is still compassion that can be rekindled. Perhaps we can still listen and understand across our differences. Perhaps our prayers, our learning, our acts of care (even the smallest ones) matter more than we know.
Abraham refused to accept the destruction of his world as inevitable. He stood before God with moral audacity, with love, and with humility, insisting that even a small remnant of righteousness could make a difference. That same spiritual courage is what we are called to reclaim: to resist despair not by denying the pain, but by believing that repair is still possible.
When we say אוּלַי יֵשׁ, we push back against fatalism. We open our hearts to curiosity, to engagement, to the stubborn work of hope. We affirm that goodness can still be found, that justice can still be pursued, that we can still meet one another in the space of human dignity and care.
May we, too, learn to live with that kind of curiosity and humility. And, at the same time, the courage to stand for what we believe. The power to hold our convictions and still add a question mark to them, recognizing our own humanity and the humanity of those we may see as standing across from us.
May we look at our communities, our country, our world, and say:
אוּלַי יֵשׁ חֶסֶד. אוּלַי יֵשׁ תִּקְוָה. אוּלַי יֵשׁ עֲתִיד
Perhaps there is loving-kindness. Perhaps there is hope. Perhaps there is a future.
And may that belief guide our actions, soften our hearts, and sustain us in the sacred work of building a better world.
May this Shabbat bring renewal and blessing.
May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity.
May this Shabbat bring moments of stillness, clarity, and connection.
May we reach for one another gently, lovingly.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia