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December 31, 2022
Author(s): Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger,
Parshat Vayigash
What Went Wrong with the Chili?
December 31, 2022 — 7 Tevet 5783
Temple Emanuel, Newton, MA
In November, a woman posted the following thread to Twitter:
“Several guys moved in next door, students I guess. And I’ve gotten two confused DoorDash drivers for them in the last week, and their trash can was completely overflowing with pizza boxes. I don’t think they cook. I am feeling such a strange motherly urge to feed these boys.”
A minute later, she posted that she had decided to bring over a pot of chili when the weather cooled down over the weekend as a kind, neighborly gesture.
When I first saw the post, I was touched. In my mind, we all live in these disconnected universes, especially after COVID, and the idea that someone would notice what others were throwing away and would care enough to cook for strangers—I found that to be sweet.
But that’s not how others interpreted the post. This kind woman was trolled. Her initial post was retweeted 556 times with acerbic and vitriolic commentary. People accused her of “imposing” her life preferences on others, of being condescending, of being “presumptuous.” One wrote, “IDK how I would feel if a stranger came to my house with a meal I didn’t ask for.” Others took it even farther. In their eyes, she was “coddling,” and encouraging “man-child behavior.” Maybe, they wrote, this was her sick way of assuaging her “White savior” complex.
As is the way of the internet, the thread went viral. For every negative comment, there were posts equally outraged about the death of decency and neighborly acts of kindness. More than 40,000 likes and hundreds of quote tweets later, the story appeared in the Washington Post in an article entitled, “A woman made chili for neighbors, and outrage ensued. Was she wrong?”
Reading the article, I was struck by the question. How could it be wrong to bring over food to a neighbor?
But as I thought more about this crazy article, I couldn’t help wondering if the outrage stemmed more from the fact that this woman posted than from the act of giving food. Instead of just doing something nice, this woman posted to the world about how kind she was in noticing the needs of her neighbors and about how she was going to help them. Without ever speaking to her neighbors, she made judgements about their needs and desires based on her own lived experience and used them to further her public image. The gesture itself—making a pot of chili to share with neighbors—that’s a kindness, but posting about it? Does that cheapen the gesture?
Jewish wisdom teaches us that when we seek to help a stranger, preserving dignity is of the utmost importance. The Rambam, in his Mishneh Torah (10:7), famously ranks actions of charity in order of holiness. In his eyes, the holiest level of giving is to give in the context of relationship—to be in a business partnership where you presumably would get to know the person in need and create the solutions that would work for them, not just what seems good to you. Alternatively, he suggests, helping someone to find a job would also be on the highest level—seeing their need and helping them to fulfill it. If that’s not possible, he writes, then the next highest form of giving is to give anonymously, so that you don’t know to whom you are giving, and the recipient does not know from whom the gift stems. In other words, if the Rambam were alive and reading that twitter feed today, he would encourage this woman to either make and deliver the chili anonymously, without asking for fanfare on social media, or to build a relationship with her neighbors to find out what they truly need and to help them learn the skills they need to succeed on their own (if they need additional skills).
This idea is born out in our Tora: Genesis presents two paradigms of hospitality. On the one hand, there is Lot. Lot, who is so deeply focused on his own well-being that at every turn he chooses the resources, the location, the home, the status icons that will make him look best without thinking of how he could support the people closest to him.
In Lot’s story of hospitality, we find him sitting at the gates of Sodom in the evening. Biblical scholar, Jonathan Safran, notes that when the text says he was “sitting in the gate of Sodom” that meant that he was sitting inside the gate tower. That would have been an L-shaped structure, designed to foil military attack, and crowded with people at the end of the day. Sitting inside the L-shaped gate, Lot wouldn’t be able to see everyone coming and going, but everyone would be able to see him. When the angels arrive, he invites them to stay, but they say, “no thanks, we’ll stay in the square.” Instead of honoring their wishes, he pushes them to come home with him and then prepares them a quick snack. He gives them wine and matzah and calls it a day even though the customary evening meal at that time would dictate a full cooked feast.
In many ways, Lot exemplifies the kind of kindness that created such a ruckus on Twitter. His orientation is not about how he can best support the people around him, but about how he can make sure the people around him see him as someone who is generous. For Lot, it is more important to be seen than to see. And, in his desire to be of service, he is not particularly concerned with how the objects of his generosity feel about his benevolence.
By contrast, the Torah is careful to present Abraham as the ultimate host. We find him sitting at the entrance of his own personal tent, pitched at the terebinths of Mamre. His tent is pitched in the wilderness, in a place where he can see everything, but not necessarily a place where he can be seen. Even though our rabbis teach that he was recovering from his own brit milah, and in significant pain, he chooses to sit in a place where we can see the world around him and can be responsive to other’s needs. He’s in the middle of a conversation with God when he sees strangers on the horizon. Instead of finishing his conversation or fulfilling his own needs, he runs to strangers on the road. He asks them to stay with him, and only when they agree and ask for help and support, does he guide them to his tent. There, in the heat of the day, he and his household prepare a feast for the guests, far beyond the simple lunch that would have been expected.
Abraham’s kindness is not about him. Instead, he is oriented to serve the people around him and to do what will feel best to them. Whereas Lot’s kindness is on display, we have the sense that only Abraham and his household know about the kindness he extends to the strangers. And they, in turn, extend kindness and regard back. After he feeds them and washes their feet, the strangers tell Abraham that he and Sarah will finally be blessed with a child.
Every year, around this time, people around the world set New Year’s resolutions. We commit to exercising more and to eating better. We commit to drinking less and to doing more to help others. So often, our resolutions focus on ourselves—on our needs, our wants, and our hopes. But this year, I wonder what would happen if we resolved to dedicate ourselves to being more like Abraham?
After nearly three years of pandemic existence, there are many ways in which our social muscles have atrophied. We’ve forgotten how to connect with people we don’t know. We’ve internalized a sense of danger, a sense that the mere presence of ‘others’ could be a source of infection. Now, more than ever, we need not only to remember what has been these past nearly three years, but also to reconnect with the possibility of what could be if we were able to connect with the spirit of our ancestor, Abraham. What if, this year, we resolved not to do better, but to connect more and to be more present for the people around us, even and especially those we don’t yet know.
That’s exactly what happened last weekend in Buffalo. Alexander and Andrea Campagna were safely nestled in their Buffalo home, with a fully stocked fridge and plans for a quiet holiday weekend, when they saw a tour bus stranded on the road outside. Two men from the group asked for shovels to dig out their bus, but the Campagnas knew that digging would be futile and instead invited the whole bus to come in and stay for the duration of the storm.
For the Campagnas, this wasn’t a publicity stunt. They didn’t post on social media or seek to share with their neighbors how kind they were in a disaster. Instead, they quietly prepared sleeping accommodations for all ten passengers on that tour bus. And they didn’t stop there. They didn’t just invite the tourists in, they spent the weekend together, getting to know each other. The Campagnas could have stuck with their own holiday food traditions, they could have done Christmas on their own with guests in the house. Instead, they took the opportunity to get to know these strangers. They opened their kitchen and ate the delicious food that their guests prepared using the ingredients in their fridge, they watched football together and swapped stories, and created the most magical Christmas together. As one of the tourists shared with the New York Times, “it was kind of like fate….[the Campagnas were] the kindest people I have ever met.” Now, the Campagnas are hoping to travel to South Korea to experience more of the magic that landed on their doorstep this Christmas, and their guests marvel at the incredible opportunity they had to experience true American hospitality.
On this New Year’s Eve, let’s commit to more than just exercise and more sleep. Let’s commit to putting ourselves out there, to being children of Abraham, to welcoming the stranger. Here’s to 2023 and all the magic it has in store for us!