If Lot had learned one thing from his uncle, Avraham Avinu, it was to adhere meticulously to the mitzvah of hachnosas orchim, hospitality to wayfarers – and anyone in need of a bed or a meal. Hachnosas orchim is just one of the many activities that fall under the rubric of chesed. Avraham was the amud ha’chesed, pillar of loving-kindness. Avraham devoted himself to it to the point of self-sacrifice. Chesed also gave him the opportunity to reach out to the pagan world spiritually and to teach the pagans about Hashem. Chazal laud Avraham for his extraordinary dedication to serving the three travelers that presented themselves at the door of his tent. This occurred while Avraham was recuperating from his Bris Milah, circumcision. While one cannot argue that Avraham deserves recognition for his actions, we cannot ignore the fact that Lot did the same thing when the angels visited his home in Sodom. Indeed, Lot risked his life to protect them. What distinguishes Lot’s act of chesed from that of Avraham?
The Kedushas Levi (also attributed to Horav Leib Sorah’s) explains that Avraham did not have a selective policy concerning his hachnosas orchim. He was hospitable to anyone and everyone who came to his door – rich, poor, pagan; his door was always open and welcoming. Lot, however, knew his guests were Heavenly angels. It is no wonder that he bent over backwards to serve them. Angels did not visit him every day. Lot’s chesed was discriminating. Avraham’s chesed was open and indiscriminate. He acted in order to do a mitzvah. Lot acted in order to promote himself. He felt good when he reached out, but he was not prepared to reach out to just anyone.
The story is told concerning a tzaddik nistar, covert righteous person, who, although a holy man, was careful not to reveal his righteousness. He wandered from place to place, serving Hashem wherever he was. He stopped in a community and approached a well-known philanthropist and asked if he could spend the night in his home. [The man had no shortage of rooms, no lack of food.] The wealthy man took one look at the tzaddik’s shabby clothes and altogether unbecoming appearance and bid him a good day. He had no room for him. Two years later, the tzaddik revealed himself to the world, and now lines of visitors petitioned his blessings. As a distinguished Rebbe, he no longer traveled by foot; rather, he had a coach that was pulled by four horses and a driver who chauffeured him. This time, when he had occasion to visit the community where two years earlier he had been shunned, the wealthy man who had ignored him earlier approached him and begged him to stay in his house: “It would be a great honor for me if the holy Rebbe would spend the night in my ‘simple abode.’” [When one wants to glorify himself with the presence of a tzaddik, his palatial home suddenly becomes a simple abode.] The Rebbe replied in the affirmative. How surprised the wealthy man was to see the Rebbe’s driver and horses waiting by the entrance to his large barn. The Rebbe, apparently, was residing at the home of a poor, but learned, Jew.
“Rebbe, why was my home not blessed with his honor’s presence?” the wealthy man asked. The Rebbe smiled and explained, “When I was here two years ago and needed a place to sleep you demurred. I was not sufficiently worthy of your attention. This time, suddenly you want me to stay at your home. What changed? I realize that the only real difference between who I was two years ago and who I am today is my horses. When I last came, I was a poor, itinerant beggar. Today, I am a famous Rebbe. Truthfully, the only change that transpired is that now I travel in style. Obviously, what impressed you were my horses. So, I brought you my horses. Let them sleep in your barn!”
The man was more impressed with the outer trappings of the tzaddik than with his inner essence. He was not performing chesed for the poor person. He was offering to perform chesed for himself.
The Mararil Diskin, zl, was a talmid chacham, Torah scholar, whose encyclopedic knowledge of Torah was peerless. He spent every waking moment deeply engrossed in Torah study. He was a saintly Jew whose self-abrogation of materialism and physicality paralleled his devotion to Torah and mitzvos. He was also a gaon in chesed. He did not just “give”; he thought before he gave. He empathized with those who came to him and sought the most beneficial avenue to help them. When he left Brisk (where he was Rav) and emigrated to Yerushalayim, it was not long before he realized the plight of its many orphans. He then established the Diskin Orphanage, where he and his rebbetzin became surrogate parents to those helpless children.
The Rav’s home was open to anyone. At any time, one could find individuals who had been struck by life’s adversities, sitting in his home, being served by the rebbetzin, while he continued with his learning. One time, the Rav noticed that an elderly, impoverished Jew was having great difficulty chewing his bread. The man no longer had teeth, and the bread was too hard for his gums. The Rav arose from his chair, sat down next to the man, took a slice of bread, removed its hard crust, and gave the bread back to the man. The man’s face lit up, realizing that he could now eat the bread. This went on for an hour, as shunned, the wealthy man who had ignored him earlier approached him and begged him to stay in his house: “It would be a great honor for me if the holy Rebbe would spend the night in my ‘simple abode.’” [When one wants to glorify himself with the presence of a tzaddik, his palatial home suddenly becomes a simple abode.] The Rebbe replied in the affirmative. How surprised the wealthy man was to see the Rebbe’s driver and horses waiting by the entrance to his large barn. The Rebbe, apparently, was residing at the home of a poor, but learned, Jew.
“Rebbe, why was my home not blessed with his honor’s presence?” the wealthy man asked. The Rebbe smiled and explained, “When I was here two years ago and needed a place to sleep you demurred. I was not sufficiently worthy of your attention. This time, suddenly you want me to stay at your home. What changed? I realize that the only real difference between who I was two years ago and who I am today is my horses. When I last came, I was a poor, itinerant beggar. Today, I am a famous Rebbe. Truthfully, the only change that transpired is that now I travel in style. Obviously, what impressed you were my horses. So, I brought you my horses. Let them sleep in your barn!”
The man was more impressed with the outer trappings of the tzaddik than with his inner essence. He was not performing chesed for the poor person. He was offering to perform chesed for himself.
The Mararil Diskin, zl, was a talmid chacham, Torah scholar, whose encyclopedic knowledge of Torah was peerless. He spent every waking moment deeply engrossed in Torah study. He was a saintly Jew whose self-abrogation of materialism and physicality paralleled his devotion to Torah and mitzvos. He was also a gaon in chesed. He did not just “give”; he thought before he gave. He empathized with those who came to him and sought the most beneficial avenue to help them. When he left Brisk (where he was Rav) and emigrated to Yerushalayim, it was not long before he realized the plight of its many orphans. He then established the Diskin Orphanage, where he and his rebbetzin became surrogate parents to those helpless children.
The Rav’s home was open to anyone. At any time, one could find individuals who had been struck by life’s adversities, sitting in his home, being served by the rebbetzin, while he continued with his learning. One time, the Rav noticed that an elderly, impoverished Jew was having great difficulty chewing his bread. The man no longer had teeth, and the bread was too hard for his gums. The Rav arose from his chair, sat down next to the man, took a slice of bread, removed its hard crust, and gave the bread back to the man. The man’s face lit up, realizing that he could now eat the bread. This went on for an hour, as the Rav peeled the crust and spoon-fed the elderly Jew. Furthermore, how in the midst of his learning was he able to notice that the man was unable to chew because the crust was too hard? One of the Rav’s students questioned his Rebbe’s taking an hour off from his precious learning to feed an elderly Jew. The Rav replied, “Good question! This question, however, should have been posed to Avraham Avinu, who, while being visited by Hashem Himself, interrupted the conversation to attend to three angels disguised as Arabs. When Avraham was speaking with the Shechinah, Divine Presence, he became devoid of all physicality. How was he even able to perceive the guests that stood at the doorway to his tent?
“The answer to both question (the Rav’s noticing the poor man’s chewing problem and how to alleviate it, and Avraham’s perceiving the angels while he was so engrossed in his meeting with Hashem) is: when one must perform chesed – he sees! If you want to do chesed and your heart empathizes with the plight of your brethren, then, even when you are in the midst of your avodas Hashem, service to the Almighty – you will sense the needs of another Jew!” Sensitivity for another Jew should permeate a person to the point that it breaches through anything in which he is involved – even avodas Hashem!
