This week's Parsha begins with Hashem's command to Avraham: “Lech Lecha - go forth from your land, from your birthplace and from your father's house, to the land that I will show you" (Genesis 12:1).
But there is something unusual about the words “Lech Lecha."
Why doesn't the Torah simply say “Lech," meaning “go"? What does the additional word “Lecha" teach us?
Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 1040-1105) explains that the words mean “for your benefit and for your good." Although Avraham was being asked to make an enormous sacrifice, Hashem was assuring him that the journey would ultimately be to his advantage.
Yet there is a difficulty with this explanation.
Just a few verses later, after Avraham reaches the Land of Canaan, the Torah tells us that a severe famine strikes, forcing him to descend to Egypt (Genesis 12:10).
What happened to Hashem's promise that the journey would be for his benefit?
Rashi addresses the famine, explaining that it was a test of Avraham's faith. Having been commanded to go to Canaan, he now found himself compelled to leave it. Would he question Hashem's instructions?
Hashem's promise that the journey would be for Avraham's benefit did not mean that it would be free of hardship. Indeed, Avraham would face numerous trials before seeing the fulfillment of the Divine promises.
Rashi's explanation of Lech Lecha has a special meaning for me because of something that happened when I first began keeping Shabbat.
It was 1984, and I was 16 years old, raised in a Conservative Jewish home where Shabbat was celebrated but not strictly observed. We made Kiddush on Friday nights, drove to shul on Saturday mornings, and then went about our lives.
That year, on Shavuot, I went for a drive with a friend, violating an unwritten family rule against going out on holidays. When my parents objected, I argued that if we drove and did other activities on Shabbat, why was Shavuot different?
The argument went nowhere, but the question stayed with me. I realized that my observance was based less on principle than on habit and convenience.
That summer, on a nonreligious tour of Israel, I went to the Western Wall on Tisha B'Av. There I saw Ethiopian, Russian, Yemenite and other Jews gathered for the same purpose despite their vastly different backgrounds.
Then I sat among a group of Hasidim reading the Book of Eichah (Lamentations). Some were weeping over the destruction of the Temple nearly two thousand years earlier. At first I could not understand them. Then I wondered whether the problem was not their tears, but my inability to share them.
Finally, one Friday afternoon in early November, while riding a train north from Grand Central Station through Westchester County, I reached a decision. Looking out at the autumn scenery, I realized that I could no longer reconcile how I was living with what I increasingly believed.
When my mother picked me up at the station, I told her that I had decided to start keeping Shabbat.
The following morning, however, my doubts decided to accompany me on the walk to shul.
Was I really prepared to give up the Saturday afternoon street hockey games with friends in neighboring towns? No more television or video games? How would my family and friends react? Was I about to upend the entire rhythm of my life?
Then, as if to underscore just how much things were changing, acquaintances drove past me on their way to synagogue. They waved and whistled, clearly surprised to see me trudging along the roadside instead of arriving by car as usual.
Their reactions only deepened my unease.
“Dear G-d, are You sure You want me to do this?" I wondered aloud. I desperately wanted some reassurance that I was heading in the right direction.
I reached shul, took my seat and waited for the Torah reading.
And then, I heard the opening verse of that week's Parsha, “Lech Lecha."
A shudder went through me.
Here I was, taking an uncertain first step into a different way of life, and the Torah was telling Avraham to do precisely that: leave behind the familiar and venture toward a future he could not yet see.
The Sefat Emet (Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter of Ger, 1847-1905) offers a remarkable insight into this verse.
He cites a question raised by the Ramban (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270): Why does the Torah introduce Hashem's command to Avraham without first telling us anything about his righteousness? What made Avraham worthy of receiving this Divine message?
Drawing on the Zohar, the Sefat Emet explains that Hashem's call of Lech Lecha is not directed exclusively to Avraham. It is a call that goes out to everyone, all the time. What distinguished Avraham was that he heard it and acted upon it, as the Torah tells us: “And Avram went as Hashem had spoken to him" (Genesis 12:4).
I had heard the opening verse of Lech Lecha many times before. But after months of questioning and searching, I suddenly heard it differently. At the very moment I was wrestling with my decision, those familiar words seemed to speak directly to me.
Of course, my own experience cannot be compared to Avraham's extraordinary faith and trials. But his example teaches us something about the nature of religious growth.
We often imagine that certainty must precede commitment. We want to understand precisely what a mitzvah will mean for our lives, how it will affect us, and whether we are prepared for the changes it may bring.
At 16, I thought becoming observant meant giving things up. In one sense, it did. But I had not yet grasped how much there was to gain: the sanctity of Shabbat, the discipline of mitzvot, a deeper connection to Hashem and a more profound sense of belonging to the Jewish people.
That first Shabbat gave me the confidence to continue. Becoming observant was not always easy, but the reassurance I received that morning has stayed with me ever since.
More than four decades later, whenever I hear Lech Lecha read in shul, I am reminded of the Sefat Emet's teaching: Hashem's call is always there. The question is whether we are willing to hear it.