Vayera
Gen. 18:1 – 22:24

By Jen Smith, Torah Blogger

In Parshat Vayera, amidst miracles and moral upheaval, we encounter a quiet, luminous phrase: El Roi – the God who sees me.[1] These are the words of Sarah’s handmade, Hagar, an Egyptian servant who must have felt afraid or invisible, used, and abandoned. And yet, it is in the wilderness, a place devoid of promise, where Hagar is truly seen. Not by Sarah, nor Abraham, but by God.

Though often overshadowed by the moment of Abraham’s covenant or the apocalyptic destruction of Sodom, the story of Hagar in the wilderness might be (in my opinion) one of the top three most profound moments in the whole book of Genesis. And here’s why: in this moment, the Torah gives a voice to the unseen and illustrates a universal truth about the human experience: to be seen is to be known, and to be known is to be loved. To be human is to experience a deep, existential yearning to be truly seen.

The Hebrew root word, ra’ah, means both to see and to perceive. It’s more than visual recognition – it’s spiritual awareness. When Hagar gives God the name of El Roi, she affirms a divine presence that doesn’t just bear witness but also understands.

The rabbis of mystic Judaism have long taught that this divine sight is mutual. The Zohar describes a reciprocal gaze, noting that when we lift our eyes toward heaven, the heavens gaze back. This is a reminder that when we perceive holiness in the world, the holiness within us awakens to meet it. To be “seen” by God, then, is not merely to be watched or observed passively; it is to have the essence of who we are mirrored back to us through divine compassion. And that reflection invites transformation.

We live in a world obsessed with visibility – likes, followers, performance. Yet, beneath it all lies a different hunger: the desire to be truly known. To be seen not for what we do, but for who we are.

The mystical idea that we are made b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, means that God’s gaze already lives within us. Far from the external looking in, divine “sight” is the spark inside, calling us to introspection. When we practice sacred reflection, we begin to perceive ourselves with the same compassion that God offered Hagar. We can look at our own flaws and fears not with judgment, but with loving awareness.

The Hasidic masters taught that when a person truly knows themselves, they begin to know God, because after all, the soul and the Divine share the same root. Even the ancient Greeks were captivated by this duality, with Aristotle noting that “knowing thyself is the beginning of all wisdom.” In this context, being able to see ourselves for who and what we are is a spiritual act, and it’s the first step in restoring the divine image within.

Abraham’s hospitality in Vayera begins with the act of seeing: “He lifted his eyes and saw three men standing near him.” And before any words are spoken, there is recognition. The same Hebrew root ra’ah connects these moments: Abraham seeing the strangers, and Hagar being/feeling seen by God. The Torah seems to suggest that divine vision flows through human vision; meaning (I think) that when we truly see another person, especially someone who feels invisible, we become partners with El Roi. Maybe this is our spiritual calling – to become vessels of divine seeing. To notice the overlooked, to honor the quiet truths in others, and to reflect the light others may have forgotten they carry.

To be “seen” by God is to be met with a love so complete that it reveals the essence of who we really are at our core. To “see” as God sees is to meet others (and ourselves) through that same lens of radical compassion. When we remember that each human face mirrors the Divine, our seeing becomes sacred. And in that sacred seeing, heaven and earth meet – not in visions of grandeur, but in the quiet miracle of being fully known.

This Shabbat, may we hear the whisper of El Roi that reminds us that we are always seen, and we are already whole. And may we always remember to see ourselves through the same lens of softness and compassion, so that we may merit to glimpse the sparks of holiness that have been there all along.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Genesis 16:13

Lech-Lecha
Genesis 12:1–17:27

By Jen Smith

When God first speaks to Abram, the words are startlingly simple: Lech-Lecha…Go forth from your land, your birthplace, and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. (Genesis 12:1)

There’s no roadmap. Instead of opening the chapter of Abram’s story with declaration of faith or theology, the Torah begins with movement, characterized by a divine nudge: Go.

The great mystical text, the Zohar, teaches us to consider these words differently: Lech Lecha does not just mean “go forth,” it also means “go to yourself.” In other words, God isn’t just sending Abram out into the desert – He’s sending him inward. The spiritual journey is never merely about distance or direction; it’s about discovering who we are when we strip away the external (our habits, identities, and expectations) and listen for the quiet inner voice of the soul.

Around this same time of year, as nights grow longer and pumpkins glow from porch steps, Jewish folklore offers us another story of creation: the legend of the Golem of Prague.

In that tale, the 16th-century sage Rabbi Judah Loew, the Maharal of Prague, shapes a figure out of clay to protect the Jewish community from persecution. Using God’s sacred names, he breathes a spark of life into the clay form. Suddenly, the Golem comes alive as a powerful and obedient entity, if also devoid of soul.

Eventually, the rabbi must erase the holy letters from the Golem’s forehead, returning him to dust. For all his strength, the Golem lacks the one ingredient that makes a person human – the divine breath of discernment, compassion, and moral choice.

In a way, Lech-Lecha represents the very opposite of the Golem story. The Golem is a creation without consciousness, while Abram embodies consciousness awakened. The Golem can act, but he cannot evolve. Abram, by contrast, becomes the first Jew precisely because he dares to become more than what he was made to be. He listens to the voice that says: Lech lecha – go find your truest self.

Jewish mysticism teaches that God did not create the world once, long ago; instead, we learn that creation is ongoing. Each breath and each moment is another pulse of divine energy flowing through the cosmos and through us.

When Abram leaves everything familiar behind, rejecting the Gods of his father, he becomes a partner in that unfolding act of creation. Hardly the picture of blind faith in this story, Abram’s faith is dynamic and participatory. Instead of waiting for proof or comfort, Abram embraces his journey by creating meaning through motion. And that’s what it means, even now, to live as a Jew: understanding at our core that rather than being grounded in answers, faith is about daring to walk, to question, to build, and to repair. It’s about seeing our own ordinary, human hands as tools of divine artistry.

In the Golem legend, Rabbi Loew writes the sacred word emet (truth) on the Golem’s forehead to bring him to life. When he erases the first letter, leaving only met (death), the Golem returns to dust and reveals a universal principle: truth is what sustains life. When we forget the truth, we disconnect from the soul, becoming the lump of clay again.

As we enter the darker season of the year, both Lech-Lecha and the legend of the Golem remind us of two sides of the same human experience: the courage to create and the humility to ensure that what we create is imbued with soul.

We live in a world of technology, algorithms, and artificial intelligence – modern golems of our own making. They can process and perform, but they cannot feel, pray, or love. The Torah’s wisdom is timeless: what makes us truly alive is not what we can build, but who we choose to become.

I love that Lech-Lecha always arrives just as the nights grow longer and the air turns colder; a time when we, too, are invited to go inward. The legend of the Golem feels right for this season; what animates us isn’t the clay from which we are made, but rather, the breath of life that nudges us forward on our journeys to become the truest versions of ourselves.

So this Shabbat, as we read Lech-Lecha, may we each hear the whisper that calls across millennia and into our own hearts: Go forth. Leave behind the familiar. Travel toward your essence. Bring your soul into the world’s clay. Because every time we act with integrity, compassion, and courage – every time we choose to see the divine spark in another – we become, in our own way, a living answer to God’s first call to Abram.

Shabbat Shalom!