Parashat Chayyei Sarah
I have had many memorable Thanksgivings, but there is one I will never forget. Alissa and I were dating long distance; she was in Florida, and I was back in the old country…New York. During my first Thanksgiving in New York, rather than fly home, the family decided to fly up to New York and spend Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle in Long Island (also called the first Jewish settlement outside of the city). Alissa’s sister joined us, a symbol of our family’s coming together. Everything was fine, until the meal came. My aunt cooked her specialty, a delicious kosher prime rib, and for those who didn’t eat meat, roasted chicken on the side. And of course, all the traditional fixings: kasha varshnishkes, many types of beet salads and borscht, potatoes, three types of kugels, and for dessert, chocolate babka.
Our family was in heaven, a true American feast, but Alissa and Tara kept looking back into the kitchen as each dish came out, waiting for the real Thanksgiving meal to appear. Where was the turkey, the stuffing, the cranberry sauce, the green beans, or any green vegetable for that matter, and where, for heaven’s sake was the pumpkin pie?!?
That was the last time Alissa wasn’t in charge of the menu for Thanksgiving.
Thinking back to my childhood Thanksgiving, I realize that our Jewish family had a different view of Thanksgiving. For us, even though we were citizens, were still felt a little strange. For our family, Thanksgiving as an American holiday was about food, and freedom. My grandparents starved for years of their lives. My parents lived with very little, but in America, one thing was plentiful: food. They were grateful that in just a generation, they could make a life for their family, and be accepted as equals for the first time ever.
For Alissa’s family, whose great-great-grandparents came to this country, Thanksgiving is a time of not just gratitude for having bounty but also engaging in this food ritual of Thanksgiving, connecting us to one shared story. As Americans, it’s the food we eat that connects us; we’re eating turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie, and what my grandparents would call goyishe food.
This experience stayed with me, not just because of the menu dispute but because it highlighted deeper questions about identity. As I thought more about Thanksgiving in the context of my childhood and Alissa’s family traditions, I realized how our unique Jewish-American perspectives shape our understanding of this holiday.
So, here’s my question: which meal is more authentic for Thanksgiving? Is it the food we are eating, or the intention behind the meal that makes it Thanksgiving? And perhaps we can ask ourselves more profound questions: what gratitude should feel as Americans to this country, and what it means to be a Jewish-American today, after October 7th.
This tension between gratitude for belonging and the awareness of difference isn’t just about Thanksgiving. It’s a question that has defined Jewish life in many contexts, and it resonates deeply in this week’s parashah, Chayyei Sarah. We read about one of Abraham’s final acts: buying land to bury his wife Sarah in what will one day become Israel.
The parashah opens with a story of purchasing real estate. Abraham knows he is promised the land, but he also knows that he must act on that promise and carries insecurity with him. What I thought was interesting was the language that Abraham uses:
גֵּר־וְתוֹשָׁב אָנֹכִי עִמָּכֶם תְּנוּ לִי אֲחֻזַּת־קֶבֶר עִמָּכֶם וְאֶקְבְּרָה מֵתִי מִלְּפָנָי׃
“I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site among you, that I may remove my dead for burial.” (Genesis 23:4)
I am a stranger. Considering how distrustful people are of outsiders, why does Abraham introduce himself in this way?
Rashi comments that he was merely informing them of his intentions: “I am a stranger having come from another land, but I have settled down amongst you.” In other words, I’m a stranger now, but I hope to be more in the future. But the midrash takes a different view: it imagines Abraham’s inner dialogue: “if you agree to sell me the land then I will regard myself as a stranger and will pay for it, but if not, I shall claim it as a settler and will take it as my legal right, because the Holy One, blessed be He, said to me, (12:7) “Unto thy seed I give this land" (Genesis Rabbah 58:6).”
In the midrash, Abraham is always confident about his place in the land, regardless of what he says. But, it is hard to read past the plain meaning of the text: I am a stranger.
Here, we see a foundational tension in Abraham’s identity: balancing his confidence in God’s promise with the insecurity of being a stranger in the eyes of others.
This duality of being a ‘resident alien’ has followed us throughout history, but there was a moment in our American story that offered a profound shift in how we saw ourselves as Jews and residents in a land. That moment came in 1790, with George Washington’s letter to the Jewish community of Newport. For the first time, we were truly welcomed to become part of a country as equal citizens.
On August 21, 1790, President George Washington wrote a letter to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Island, and its leader, Moses Seixas. Seixas had written a letter to Washington four days earlier. In this letter, Seixas described the benefits that his community received under the new Constitution and expressed his “deep sense of gratitude to the Almighty” for “a Government . . . erected by the Majesty of the People,” committed to the “liberty of conscience,” and “deeming every one, of whatever Nation, tongue, or language equal parts of the great governmental Machine.”
Photo by Library of Congress on Unsplash
President Washington responded in a short letter; I will read you two paragraphs (but click here to read the entire letter)
“The Citizens of the United States of America have a right to applaud themselves for having given to mankind examples of an enlarged and liberal policy: a policy worthy of imitation. All possess alike liberty of conscience and immunities of citizenship. It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights. For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.
It would be inconsistent with the frankness of my character not to avow that I am pleased with your favorable opinion of my Administration, and fervent wishes for my felicity. May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and figtree, and there shall be none to make him afraid. May the father of all mercies scatter light and not darkness in our paths, and make us all in our several vocations useful here, and in his own due time and way everlastingly happy.
What I find fascinating about this letter is that, for the first time, Jews were beginning to not feel like strangers, but to Washington, he simply could not conceive of not accepting Jews as citizens. Citizenship requires being a good citizen, your actions, not your blood. But perhaps the most important statement he made was, if you want to be a citizen, you can bring the ‘Jewish’ with you, you don’t need to leave it behind to become an American. You won’t just be tolerated, you will be accepted.
Jewish Historian Dr. Jonathan Sarna adds the following caveat:
“Bigotry and persecution, of course, did not thereafter miraculously disappear. American Jews continued to have to fight for their religious rights well into the twentieth century, and manifestations of anti-Jewish prejudice have continued to the present day. But important changes nevertheless took place. Slowly, America came to understand itself in broader and more inclusive religious terms that pushed beyond the perimeters of Christianity.” (Sarna, Jonathan D. American Judaism: A History)
Reflecting on these ideas of what it means to be Jewish in America, I had the privilege during my visit to Israel this summer to hear Tal Becher, former chief negotiator for Israel, share a profound insight on what sets America apart for Jews.
As an outsider looking in, he said what made America exceptional for Jews
wasn't a word, but a hyphen. We are able to call ourselves, Jewish-Americans, like an Italian-American, African-American, etc.. In other words, this was a country that celebrated difference and did not merely tolerate it.
We believed that if we were contributors to American society and if we were champions of the rights of other citizens in America, minorities in particular, then we would be safe. As Becher said, “As Jews, we would be indirect beneficiaries of creating a society that was pluralistic, where the vulnerable and the minorities were seen, and therefore we would thrive.”
But everything changed for us on October 8th, when Jews were protested against even before Israel could regroup to fight back. Suddenly, the oppressed groups that progressive Jews fought for and marched for during their times of need suddenly abandoned us.
These insights challenge us to reflect on our dreams as Jews in America. What does it mean for us to be Jewish-Americans today, to balance our pride in our identity with the challenges of being part of a pluralistic society? Does something need to change in our calculus?
Perhaps we can learn from Abraham, the first Jew; a man who was proud of his difference, and who brought that difference with him to the land, but he never forgot who he was. When he was welcomed to the land, he was also proudly himself.
Rabbi Sinai gave us some advice, the same advice he gave to his kids, “be yourself, everyone else is taken.”
Becoming an American, from our very beginnings here, was never about losing the Jewish, it was about bringing it with us, and we did that in a huge way. Jewish-Americans have made invaluable contributions to American society because they brought the Jewish with them.
We cannot give up on the dream of building a pluralistic society where the minorities and the vulnerable are not just protected, but celebrated, but in order to do that, we have to know who we are.
You can’t stand up for others if you do not stand up for yourself. That means learning more about who you are on the inside, reclaiming the Jewish, in Jewish-American.
Standing up for ourselves, for the Jewish, doesn’t make us less American; it makes us more American because we are standing up for ourselves and others.
Abraham’s story of claiming his place, George Washington’s letter to the Hebrew congregation in Rhode Island, and our experiences today lead us to a central question: How do we live proudly as Jews while embracing the ideals of a pluralistic society? And as we celebrate Thanksgiving, how can this holiday help us reflect on those ideals?
As we gather around our Thanksgiving tables, whether they feature turkey and cranberry sauce or kugels and chocolate babka, let us remember that our dual identity as Jewish-Americans is like the meal itself: a blend of flavors and traditions that together create something uniquely ours, a testament to both gratitude for our freedoms and pride in who we are.
On Thanksgiving, we express gratitude for the freedoms we enjoy in this land—a land that has allowed us to thrive as Jews without leaving our Judaism behind. And as we face a world where those freedoms feel fragile, we are called to stand up as both proud Jews and proud Americans.
Let us bring our full selves—our history, our faith, and our values—to the table. May we honor the dream of a pluralistic society where all can sit safely under their vine and fig tree, unafraid. And may we find the strength, like Abraham, to hold onto our identity, to act on our promises, and to inspire those around us to build a world of justice, compassion, and unity.
This Thanksgiving, let us not only give thanks for our bounty but recommit to the work of protecting it—together.
Shabbat Shalom and Happy Thanksgiving.
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