This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Saturday, November 7, 2026.
There are moments when I wish my heart would pick a lane. Grateful or grieving. Hopeful or afraid. Certain of what I believe or willing to hear something that unsettles me. It would make answering “How are you?” considerably easier. Instead, we carry feelings that seem to pull in opposite directions, wondering whether being torn means we have somehow lost our way. I know this has been a familiar feeling for many of us this week, in fact.
Parshat Chayei Sarah begins with Sarah’s death. Abraham must find a place to bury the woman with whom he built a life. He approaches the local inhabitants with a striking description of himself: “Ger v’toshav anochi imachem.” “I am a stranger and a resident among you.” (Genesis 23:4) The portion then follows the search for a wife for Isaac, Rebekah’s courageous departure from home, and eventually Abraham’s death.
But I keep returning to Abraham’s introduction. A stranger AND a resident? Which is it? Does he belong, or doesn’t he?
Perhaps Abraham’s words name something we recognize. We can belong somewhere and still feel alienated within it. We can love a community and struggle with its choices. We can hold convictions deeply and feel uncertain about how to live them faithfully. Abraham stands before his neighbors carrying both belonging and distance. And from that complicated place, he asks for what he needs. He does not wait until his heart is settled to take the next necessary step.
Later, Isaac brings Rebekah into Sarah’s tent, loves her, and finds comfort after his mother’s death. (Genesis 24:67) The Torah gives us no reason to imagine that love erases his grief. Instead, the tent that held absence makes room for relationship again.
Our text explains what it means to feel torn. We can ask what faithfulness requires of us today, even when we cannot resolve everything we feel. We can reach for someone without having the perfect words. We can make room for joy without betraying our sorrow.
This Shabbat, resist the pressure to offer a tidy account of our hearts. Instead, tell someone you trust where you’re struggling. Let us listen when another person shares a tension we can’t ease. And let us choose one act that gives our deepest values a place to live.
Abraham secures a burial place. Isaac opens a tent to love. Neither can restore the world they knew, but both help make a future possible. May we find courage to do the same.
Shabbat shalom.
