Your Mission in Life

We often think of time as something that slips away—but in truth, every mitzvah, every act of purpose, adds time to our lives. That’s the secret hidden in the words “Lech lecha.”

In The Pilot Seat

During the 1950s, the United States was involved in several armed conflicts, whether the Korean War from 1950 to 1953, or the start of the Vietnam War at the end of the decade. 

At the time, the Rosh yeshivah of Yeshiva University, the late Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, of blessed memory, encouraged his students to volunteer with the U.S. military. His argument was that the United States is a “medinah shel chesed,” a benevolent society, and since it’s so good to the Jews, it’s obligatory upon us to defend it and recruit ourselves to the American military. Rabbi Soloveitchik established that of each class at YU studying for rabbinical ordination, five students should volunteer to serve as religious officers/chaplains in the U.S. military. Those five would be chosen by a lottery of all the students’ names. 

So in 1958, one of the students whose name was drawn was a young man by the name of Henry Isaacs. Well, he found himself in the recruitment office, passed all the tests and exams and was found suitable to serve in the military. He was then informed that the military needed a chaplain in the U.S. Air Force, and he was ready to join. 

But there was only one problem… his father was opposed to the idea. Like many other religious parents, Rabbi Isaacs’ father held (like others during the 1950s) that the U.S. military was no place for a yeshivah student. Henry Isaacs didn’t know what to do. His rabbi had instructed him to volunteer, but his father had ordered him to not do it. 

So Henry Isaacs decided to approach the Rebbe. He relates how in 1958, the Rebbe was still considered a young Rebbe at the time—but whose reputation was already such as one to whom many streamed to his door, even people who were not religious and even not Jewish. He wanted the Rebbe to mediate between his father and his rabbi. He knew that his father greatly respected the Rebbe and would thus accept whatever the Rebbe said. 

So young Rabbi Isaacs got a meeting secured with the Rebbe thanks to his Chabad friend Rabbi Alter Metzger, and because he was already engaged to be married at the time, he advised his bride to join him for the appointment with the Rebbe—since his decision would affect her future, too. She happily agreed, and the appointment was scheduled for 1:00 in the morning. 

The young couple arrived at 770 and were shocked to discover a line of people waiting from all walks of life. When they entered the Rebbe’s office, Rabbi Isaacs told the Rebbe about his dilemma, saying that he greatly respected his rabbi and certainly respected his father, but that he now didn’t know what to do.

The Rebbe replied as follows: “If you were an airplane pilot, you’d be responsible not just for yourself but for all the passengers on the plane. If you feel that you can fly the plane safely, then you have an obligation to sit in the pilot’s seat. But if not, you have no right to sit on that seat.” The Rebbe continued and said, “In your case, if you feel that you can help Jews in the Air Force, then that is what you need to do.” 

Henry Isaacs was very moved by the Rebbe’s answer, A: because the Rebbe used a pilot as an analogy, and he was about to join the Air Force, but more so, because the Rebbe didn’t explicitly state whether he should get recruited or not. Rather, the Rebbe told him that he was obligated to examine himself and see if had the capacity to be a chaplain—and if he could indeed serve as a religious officer, then he was obligated to do so. 

When he told his father what the Rebbe had said, his father said that if the Rebbe agrees, then he too approves. And so Henry Isaacs joined the Air Force and served for two years as a Jewish chaplain at the now-nonexistent Loring Air Force Base in northeast Maine. 

Well, when Rabbi Isaacs finished his tour of duty, the Jewish community in Bangor, a three-hour driving distance from Loring, offered him a rabbinical position in town. Rabbi Isaacs accepted the offer—and ended up serving as the community’s rabbi for close to 40 years. Throughout most of that time, he also managed to visit Loring Air Force Base once a month, establish a Hebrew school in Bangor, and draw close many Jews over the years. Rabbi Isaacs says that if not for the advice of the Rebbe, he would have never ended up in Maine, and certainly not as a practicing rabbi. (My Story, #299.) 

And that brings us to this week’s Torah portion of Lech Lecha. 

Avraham’s Origins

This week’s parshah begins with G-d commanding Avraham, “Lech lecha”—go forth. But who exactly is this Avraham? Where did he come from?

To find out, we need to look at the end of the previous Torah portion, Noach. There, we’re told “the rock from which Avraham was hewn”: Avraham was one of three sons born to Terach—Avraham, Nachor, and Haran.

Then the Torah (Bereishis 11:28) tells us of a tragedy in Terach’s family: “And Haran died during the lifetime of Terach his father, in the land of his birth, in Ur Kasdim.” From this, we learn that Avraham’s family originated in Ur Kasdim, an ancient city located in what is now southern Turkey or somewhere in today’s Iraq.

But why does the Torah find it important to tell us about Haran’s death? Why do we need to know what happened to him? Rashi quotes the famous Midrashic story we all know: when Avraham began to discover that the universe has a Creator, he decided to make a point—by smashing all of his father’s idols.

Terach, who held an important position in the court of King Nimrod, reacted like a loyal Communist: he reported his own son to the authorities for vandalizing the national gods. Nimrod, never one to take theological rebellion lightly, decreed that Avraham be thrown alive into a fiery furnace—for daring to defy the established social order built on the worship of multiple false gods.

When they asked Avraham’s brother Haran whose side he was on, he tried to play it smart. He thought to himself, If Avraham survives, I’m with him. If not, I’m with Nimrod. As Rashi continues: “When Avraham was saved, they said to Haran, ‘Whose side are you on?’ Haran said, ‘I am on Avraham’s side!’ [So] they cast him into the furnace, and he was incinerated.”

Following that tragedy, the Torah tells us: “And Terach took Avram his son, and Lot the son of Haran, his grandson, and Sarai his daughter-in-law… and they went forth from Ur Kasdim to go to the land of Canaan.”

In other words, after King Nimrod burned one of his sons to death, Terach realized that Ur Kasdim was probably not the ideal place to raise a family—and decided it was time to move.

The Destination

But then why did Terach head toward Canaan? Why not anywhere else? How did Canaan even come to mind—especially since, at that time, it wasn’t exactly the place people were lining up to move to.

The answer may be found in Rashi’s commentary on the verse in our parshah (Bereishis 12:6), which states: “…and the Canaanites were then in the land.” Rashi explains: “The Canaanite nation was gradually conquering the Land of Israel from the descendants of Shem, for it had fallen to Shem’s share when Noach apportioned the land to his sons.”

So there you have it. The Land of Canaan originally belonged to the descendants of Shem—and since Terach was a descendant of Shem, that land was actually his family’s inheritance.

What’s more, in a Canaanite city named Shalem (later called Yerushalayim), there lived a king named Malkitzedek, whom Rashi (Bereishis 14:18) identifies as “Shem, the son of Noach.” In other words, Terach wasn’t moving to some random place—he was essentially heading “back home.”

But while Terach did hit the road toward Canaan, he never actually made it there. Instead, he stopped—and got stuck—in Charan, located in what’s today either Turkey or Syria.

Tracing Abraham’s Command

The portion of Noach ends with the words: “Vayamas Terach b’Charan”—“And Terach died in Charan.” And immediately afterward, our parshah begins: “Vayomer Hashem el Avram, ‘Lech lecha’…”—“And G-d said to Avram, ‘Go forth.’”

At first glance, the simple reading suggests that Terach died, and then Avraham received the command to continue the journey.

Rashi raises an important question: according to the timeline, Avraham actually left Charan sixty years before Terach passed away. If that’s the case, why does the Torah mention Terach’s death before the command of “Lech lecha”?

Rashi (Bereishis 11:32) explains that the Torah presents the story out of order “so that the matter should not be publicized,” meaning people shouldn’t say, “Avraham abandoned his elderly father and failed to honor him.”

But we can still ask: why did Avraham leave his aging father behind? What about the commandment to honor one’s parents?

The answer is that Avraham had received a direct command from G-d: “Lech lecha”—go forth. He had a mission—to spread awareness of the Creator and to teach the world about one G-d. That divine calling took precedence, and so Avraham had to move on to Canaan, even if it meant leaving his father behind.

Adding Time

Now, throughout the entire Torah, the expression “Lech lecha”—“Go forth”—appears only twice, and both times it is directed to Avraham Avinu. The first is G-d’s very first command to Avraham, and the second is G-d’s final command to him—at the Akeidah, the Binding of Yitzchak. There, in Bereishis 22:2, the Torah tells us that G-d said to Avraham, “Go forth to the land of Moriah.”

The Midrash notes this parallel. Rabbi Levi teaches: “The first trial of Avraham was like the last trial—the first was given with the words ‘Lech lecha mei’artzecha’ (‘Go forth from your land’), and the last was given with ‘Lech lecha el eretz haMoriah’ (‘Go forth to the land of Moriah’).”

And right after that, the Midrash adds something fascinating:

“What is Lech lecha? The letter lamed equals 30, and chof equals 20; together they total 50, and multiplied by the two occurrences equals 100. G-d hinted to Avraham that when he reached the age of 100, he would be blessed with a fitting son.”
(Midrash Tanchuma, Lech Lecha 3)

In other words, in the merit of fulfilling both Lech lecha commands—which together add up numerically to 100—Avraham merited to have a son at the age of 100.

We might also observe that Avraham received his first Lech lecha command at age 75 and lived until 175. That’s a full 100 years—again, “Lech lecha” years—granted to him to complete his divine mission.

And what’s the message for us, my friends?

When a person does a mitzvah, he might feel he’s giving up time for it—time that could’ve gone to work, rest, or another task on his to-do list. But the truth is the very opposite. The time invested in a mitzvah is not lost time—it’s earned time. It’s the kind of time that doesn’t drain life; it adds life.

Every mitzvah brings vitality, blessing, and endurance. As the Talmud (Taanis 31a) teaches, “He who increases, is increased.” And Rashi explains: “One who adds extra hours at night to study Torah adds life to his life.”

When we give our time to G-d, He gives it right back to us—expanded, enriched, and multiplied.

Good Shabbos!