Parshas Chayei Sarah 5781
Avraham has barely breathed a sigh of relief—his son coming within a hairsbreadth of being sacrificed on Har HaMoria—when he learns of the death of his beloved wife Sarah. One can only imagine the wave of shock, grief, and sadness he would have experienced, and the tears he would have immediately shed over the loss. And yet those tears appear delayed. Not until Avraham eulogizes his wife does the Torah report his crying over the loss.
וַתָּמָת שָׂרָה בְּקִרְיַת אַרְבַּע הִוא חֶבְרוֹן בְּאֶרֶץ כְּנָעַן וַיָּבֹא אַבְרָהָם לִסְפֹּד לְשָׂרָה וְלִבְכֹּתָהּ.
And Sarah died in Kiryas Arba, which is Chevron, in the Land of Canaan. And Avraham came to eulogize Sarah and to cry over her.
Is Avraham’s crying truly delayed? Is the reality of the loss slow to sink in? Why don’t Avraham’s tears immediately flow?
Rav Soloveitchik suggested that the Torah here is not describing the chronology of various aspects of Avraham’s mourning as they unfolded. Rather, these are two wavelengths of mourning experienced by Avraham, corresponding to two very different roles that Sarah filled in his shared life with her.
On the one hand, Sarah was the co-CEO of their outreach enterprise. When Avraham brought guests into their home, it was Sarah who would prepare the fare and create the comfortable, inviting backdrop against which Avraham would convincingly discuss the truth of monotheism. In the beginning of Parshas Lech-Lecha, Rashi described how male students would study with Avraham and female students with Sarah until finally entering fully into the service of the one true G-d. In the public sphere and on the world stage, there could be an Avraham only because there was a Sarah. In this capacity, Avraham mourned Sarah through eulogy, articulating her many virtues before the gathered crowds who had come to mourn Sarah alongside him. Sarah the public figure was mourned in a public venue.
But Avraham also cried. He cried while alone in his tent because he missed his wife. Not the principal, administrator, or world-renowned speaker; just his wife. He missed her presence in their own private home, and he missed their conversation. He was saddened by the emptiness that now filled their tent and his life, areas that she had once vibrantly occupied. Beyond the extra places she set for the myriad guests, he now mourned the empty seat at their table that she once filled but was now bare. ולבכתה—and he cried.
This past week, the Jewish People lost two public figures of immense significance. HaRav Dovid Feinstein was among the greatest poskim of America, and his influence was ubiquitous. His halachic decisions have impacted every religious Jew in the country—perhaps even the world—whether we are fully conscious of that impact or not. He was a true Gadol B’Yisrael whose knowledge of Torah was other-worldly and surpassed only by his extraordinary humility.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks was unparalleled in his proliferation of Torah thoughts and ideas. He was a master author and orator, who tirelessly put his talents to work for G-d and the Jewish People. His remarkable erudition and ability to communicate lofty ideas clearly and eloquently allowed him to touch, educate, and influence many thousands of Jews in a way that others could not. Rabbi Sacks may have been the most internationally recognized Orthodox Jew on the planet, and served as an important ambassador on behalf of the Jewish nation.
In losing such important luminaries as these great men, we must first enter the space of הספד—of eulogy. As public figures their work and dedication meant so much to the Jewish public at large. Considering that dimension of their lives cannot end with recognition alone, but must drive us to consider: How do we fill that void? What extra measure of learning and teaching can I assume to help close the chasm that’s been left behind by their passing? How do I care just a bit more for my fellow Jew and fellow man to ensure that the world not become a darker place in the absence of such extraordinary people? Where can I assume some personal responsibility for continuing their holy work?
But let us not forget, either, the reality of ולבכתה—the personal crying and mourning that those closest to them now endure. These public figures were private figures, too. They left behind spouses and children, grandchildren and friends, whose own private, personal lives will be emptier and lonelier for having lost them. It would be unfair and inconsiderate for their grief to be overshadowed by the loss sustained in the public sphere.
Even as we consider how the Jewish public will move on, let’s remember the tears of the private few to whom these losses mean something else entirely. Offer a tefilah on their behalf that Hashem bless them with comfort during a time of profound personal loss. To be properly נושא בעול עם חבירו—To bear the burden alongside one’s friend (Avos 6:6), we must be mindful not only of the public loss, but the private one as well.