A Rock Feels No Joy
Parashat Vayera, Genesis 18:1 - 22:24
Rabbi Paul L. Saal, Congregation Shuvah Yisrael, Avon, CT
Paul Simon once sang,
I am a rock, I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.
In those few lines, he captured something hauntingly prophetic — the isolation of the modern soul.
We are surrounded by technology that promises connection, and yet we often find ourselves more alone than ever. The screens that light our faces have dimmed our hearts.
But this week’s Torah portion, Vayera, offers a radically different image of what it means to be human — not a rock, not an island, but a bayit patuach, an open home. It’s the picture of Avraham Avinu sitting at his tent door in the heat of the day, healing from his circumcision, yet running to greet three strangers.
Abraham sits beneath the oaks of Mamre, in the region of Hebron — sacred ground where heaven and earth seem to touch. He’s 99 years old, weary and sore, resting in the midday heat. Yet when three travelers appear, he runs to meet them, bows low, and says, “My Lord, if I have found favor in your sight, do not pass by your servant” (Gen 18:3).
The rabbis in Bereshit Rabbah 48:9 note that Abraham left the Shekhinah — the Divine Presence that had appeared to him — to greet these strangers. From this they teach: “Greater is hospitality to guests than receiving the Divine Presence.”
It’s an astonishing claim: welcoming others is itself a way of welcoming God.
Abraham doesn’t wait for them to approach. He anticipates the need. He rushes to prepare food and water; Sarah kneads and bakes cakes. Together, they embody the mitzvah of hakhnasat orchim, the sacred duty of hospitality.
Rashi, commenting on Genesis 18:1, explains that Abraham’s tent was open on all four sides so that travelers from every direction could enter freely. His home was literally and spiritually open to the world.
Faith, then, is not only what we believe — it’s also how we treat others. It’s not about what we hold, but for whom we hold space. Abraham and Sarah remind us that the door of the tent is the gateway to the soul.
If Abraham and Sarah could see our world today, I think they might weep. We’ve traded tents for walls, and neighbors for networks. We are more “connected” than any generation before, yet loneliness has become the epidemic of our age.
We “friend” but rarely befriend. We “follow” but seldom walk alongside. We “like” but struggle to love.
We have institutionalized compassion. We’ve delegated care to agencies, community to programs, and moral formation to schools or screens. But no algorithm can replace the warmth of a human heart.
Pirkei Avot 1:5 teaches:
Let your home be wide open and let the poor be members of your household.
That’s Torah’s way of saying: don’t outsource compassion — live it.
Abraham’s tent was not efficient, but it was holy. And holiness often looks inefficient to the modern eye.
The Haftarah for Vayera tells of another open home — that of the Shunammite woman (2 Kings 4:8–37). Scripture calls her a “great woman,” but her greatness lies not in wealth or power; it lies in discernment and generosity.
She perceives that Elisha, the prophet, is a man of God, and without being asked, she persuades her husband to build an upper room — furnished simply with a bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp. That small gesture of kindness becomes a dwelling place for divine blessing.
Ramban (Commentary on Genesis 18:1) notes that her hospitality mirrors Abraham’s: both are visited by divine messengers, both receive the promise of a son, and both experience miraculous renewal of life. In both homes, human kindness becomes the soil for divine encounter.
Later, when the Shunammite’s child dies, her faith refuses to yield to despair. She travels to Elisha, believing that the God who gives life can restore it. Through her faith and the prophet’s intercession, the boy lives again.
The Midrash Tanchuma (Vayera 4) teaches that the Shunammite’s table, bed, chair, and lamp symbolize Torah and light — the study of Torah, good deeds, prayer, and the illumination of the soul. By welcoming the prophet, she welcomed God’s word into her home. Her simple hospitality opened a channel for resurrection power. When we make room for others, God makes room for miracles.
Yeshua of Nazareth embodied this same spirit of hakhnasat orchim. He ate with tax collectors and sinners, invited fishermen to follow Him, and broke bread with Pharisees who opposed Him. He welcomed children to His arms and healed the lepers whom society shunned.
In Matthew 25:35, he says, “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
Hospitality is not peripheral to the gospel — it is the gospel lived out.
And in Revelation 3:20, Yeshua stands at the door and knocks, saying, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.”
Every open home becomes a mikdash me’at, a little sanctuary, a place where heaven touches earth.
The Zohar (I:102a) teaches, “when a person opens their home to guests, the Shekhinah dwells within.” Yeshua echoes this same truth: where love and hospitality abide, the presence of God is manifest.
True faith requires the risk of relationship. To love is to be vulnerable, but to refuse love is to be lifeless. Abraham ran toward relationship. The Shunammite woman built space for it. Yeshua offered his very life for it.
Let us, then, be people of open tents and open hearts — people who choose covenant over comfort, faith over fear, presence over protection. Let our homes be places where strangers become friends, and friends become family. Let us be known not for our walls, but for our doors.
Paul Simon’s rock never cries. But Abraham laughed, and so did Sarah. The Shunammite woman wept and rejoiced. And Yeshua, the image of the living God, wept and rejoiced with us.
A rock feels no pain, but a heart of flesh — that is where God chooses to dwell. As it is written in Ezekiel 36:26: “I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.”
May we live with hearts open to God and to one another.
May our tents be wide, our tables long, and our joy full.
Because an island never cries, but a family of faith, bound in love and hospitality, sings for joy.
Scripture citations are from the English Standard Version, ESV.