Parshas Vayera: Please Pass the Salt
Avraham sat at the doorway of his tent in the heat of the day.
When he saw three travelers approaching, he ran to greet them.
The first thing he offered wasn’t advice or money.
It was bread.
"וְאֶקְחָה פַת־לֶחֶם וְסַעֲדוּ לִבְּכֶם"
When he saw three travelers approaching, he ran to greet them.
The first thing he offered wasn’t advice or money.
It was bread.
"וְאֶקְחָה פַת־לֶחֶם וְסַעֲדוּ לִבְּכֶם"
“And I will fetch a morsel of bread, and you shall strengthen your hearts.”
(בראשית י״ח : ה׳)
Rashi says that throughout Tanach, bread is called the food of the heart.
Because bread doesn’t only nourish the body; it reminds the heart how to keep going.
Avraham saw the guests and ran to greet them,
but it was Sarah who baked the bread.
He welcomed them in; she made the welcome real.
She took flour and water and turned them into something alive,
-----
This week I've been thinking about my grandfather, Reb Mottel Chein A”H, whose 87th birthday would have been last Shabbos.
The one I once called melach, the salt inside the lechem.
He wasn’t only steady; he lived with intention.
Every act had meaning.
He was careful to dip his bread in salt every time he washed, not just on Shabbos—a quiet remembrance of the Bris Melach, the covenant of salt.
He never saw it as missing out. This was what mattered most.
Quiet strength, yes—with the kind of focus that comes from knowing what you’re here to do.
He lived to build, to keep showing up with warmth, carrying the work the Rebbe gave all of us: to bring Moshiach Now.
This year, his Tehillim would be Perek 88 - “Shir Mizmor Livnei Korach.”
It’s the only psalm that doesn't mention hope or circle back to light.
It ends:
"הִרְחַ֣קְתָּ מִ֖מֶּנִּי אֹהֵ֣ב וָרֵ֑עַ מְיֻדָּעַ֥י מַחְשָֽׁךְ"
“You have distanced from me friend and companion; my acquaintances are in a place of darkness.” (תהילים פ״ח : י״ט)
No rescue, no tidy finish—just the ache of being human.
And yet the first word is Shir, song.
Even in this ultimate darkness, it’s still called a song.
That’s the kind of faith we need most:
to keep singing before we see the dawn,
to keep baking, trusting the rise will come inside the heat.
We’re meant to ache a little.. to let the ache become growth.
To ache for what’s still missing, for a world not yet whole, still waiting for redemption.
-----
Not every story ends with light.
Only in novels or movies do the characters vanish when the credits roll.
But life isn’t fiction.
To take the dry and the wet, the salt and the fire,
and turn them into something that can feed another soul.
To add our own verse of hope and light to the song that never ended.
Flour is memory.
Water is kindness.
Salt is strength.
Fire is hope.
Bread is life.
Holiness is learning how to hold them together,
to mix, to wait, to Rise. slow.
This Shabbos happens to be my mother’s birthday,
the 17th of Cheshvan, the day the Mabul began.
The world once flooded on that date, not to end it, but to begin again.
There’s something fitting about that.
Happy birthday, Mom.
Rashi says that throughout Tanach, bread is called the food of the heart.
Because bread doesn’t only nourish the body; it reminds the heart how to keep going.
Avraham saw the guests and ran to greet them,
but it was Sarah who baked the bread.
He welcomed them in; she made the welcome real.
She took flour and water and turned them into something alive,
something that could feed another soul.
That’s what holiness looks like when it’s real:
not just fire on the outside, but life that rises from within.
That’s what holiness looks like when it’s real:
not just fire on the outside, but life that rises from within.
Lot’s wife looked back toward the fire that consumed everything she knew — her home, her city, her past — and she turned into a pillar of salt.
Chazal say she sinned with salt, and so she was punished with salt.
Salt preserves; it holds on. It pickles what was.
Instead of stepping into what could be, she reached back for what had been — and became what she reached for.
She turned into memory itself.
Avraham and Sarah faced forward and built something new.
Lot’s wife looked back and stayed in the past.
That’s not to say forget your stories or pretend things didn’t happen.
Look back to understand, to learn how to walk forward with more care.
But sometimes, in moments of fire, you just run — and figure out the small things later.
True holiness isn’t about escaping the heat; it’s about creating within it.
-----
After all that salt and fire, I think about what it takes to rise again.
When I mix dough, I notice how each part has its own role.
Flour gives it strength. It’s what holds everything together, the base that carries memory and story.
Water brings it to life. It moves through every bit of flour, loosening, opening, teaching the mix to stretch and breathe.
Salt keeps it grounded. It reminds the dough who it is, drawing out flavor and keeping things in balance.
And then comes fire.
The heat brings everything to its final form: the story written in crust and crumb.
This week I've been thinking about my grandfather, Reb Mottel Chein A”H, whose 87th birthday would have been last Shabbos.
The one I once called melach, the salt inside the lechem.
He wasn’t only steady; he lived with intention.
Every act had meaning.
He was careful to dip his bread in salt every time he washed, not just on Shabbos—a quiet remembrance of the Bris Melach, the covenant of salt.
A reminder that holiness can last even in small, ordinary moments.
He knew that salt’s job isn’t to stay on the shelf, it’s meant to mix in, to bring out flavor, to give structure and strength.
That’s who he was: a man on a mission.
Not always in grand words, but in practical action.
He went on weekly Mivtzoim all the way until he couldn’t, learned at different shiurim, and would even leave smaller family events early if they overlapped with his “work.”
He knew that salt’s job isn’t to stay on the shelf, it’s meant to mix in, to bring out flavor, to give structure and strength.
That’s who he was: a man on a mission.
Not always in grand words, but in practical action.
He went on weekly Mivtzoim all the way until he couldn’t, learned at different shiurim, and would even leave smaller family events early if they overlapped with his “work.”
He never saw it as missing out. This was what mattered most.
Quiet strength, yes—with the kind of focus that comes from knowing what you’re here to do.
He lived to build, to keep showing up with warmth, carrying the work the Rebbe gave all of us: to bring Moshiach Now.
This year, his Tehillim would be Perek 88 - “Shir Mizmor Livnei Korach.”
It’s the only psalm that doesn't mention hope or circle back to light.
It ends:
"הִרְחַ֣קְתָּ מִ֖מֶּנִּי אֹהֵ֣ב וָרֵ֑עַ מְיֻדָּעַ֥י מַחְשָֽׁךְ"
“You have distanced from me friend and companion; my acquaintances are in a place of darkness.” (תהילים פ״ח : י״ט)
No rescue, no tidy finish—just the ache of being human.
And yet the first word is Shir, song.
Even in this ultimate darkness, it’s still called a song.
That’s the kind of faith we need most:
to keep singing before we see the dawn,
to keep baking, trusting the rise will come inside the heat.
We’re meant to ache a little.. to let the ache become growth.
To ache for what’s still missing, for a world not yet whole, still waiting for redemption.
-----
Not every story ends with light.
Only in novels or movies do the characters vanish when the credits roll.
But life isn’t fiction.
Our world, our mission — it’s real.
God keeps writing,
and we get to keep writing too.
To take the dry and the wet, the salt and the fire,
and turn them into something that can feed another soul.
To add our own verse of hope and light to the song that never ended.
Water is kindness.
Salt is strength.
Fire is hope.
Bread is life.
Holiness is learning how to hold them together,
to mix, to wait, to Rise. slow.
To keep showing up, doing our part, to bring Moshiach Now!
-----
This Shabbos happens to be my mother’s birthday,
the 17th of Cheshvan, the day the Mabul began.
The world once flooded on that date, not to end it, but to begin again.
There’s something fitting about that.
She was born into the storm of post-war Jewry, but also into the promise that life could go on.
Wishing her a year ahead that feels rich in every way;
good health, heart at ease, and continued joy in the life she’s built.
Happy birthday, Mom.
And to everyone else reading this,
wishing you a year of good bread, open hearts, and quiet moments that remind you you’re still rising.
Good Shabbos,
Berke Chein