Vayera – Here I am

In January 1945, nineteen-year-old Naphtali Lau arrived at Buchenwald with his
seven-year-old brother, Lulek, who would eventually become Rav Yisrael Meir Lau,
the Chief Rabbi of Israel.
Their father had been murdered, and their mother had been separated from them. Naphtali had taken
responsibility for keeping his little brother alive.
Knowing that children were not supposed to be among the adult male prisoners, Naphtali wrapped Lulek
in a feather quilt their mother had given them and hid him inside a sack that he carried into the camp.
Imagine being seven years old, curled up inside a sack, hearing the screaming of the guards and the
barking of the dogs, with no idea what was going to happen to you.
When they entered the camp, Naphtali discovered that the Germans were burning everything the
prisoners had brought with them. He would have to give up the sack. Rav Lau remembers hearing his
brother call out, "Lulek, come here!"
He climbed out of the sack, and one of the guards noticed him. The guard wanted to know what a little
boy was doing in a camp for adult men.
Naphtali explained that the child had no father and no mother. Then he asked, "What was I to do? Leave
him outside in the snow, by himself?"
W E E K L Y D V A R T O R A H • V A Y E R A
Here
I Am
4 G S E N I O R M E C H A N E C H
Rav Mordechai Burg
4 G · N A T I O N A L T O R A H N E W S L E T T E R · V A Y E R A 3
יִ נְ ב יִ נֵּ נִ ה
"Here I am, my son."
B E R E I S H I S 2 2 : 7

When Somebody Calls
Let us for a moment imagine what it was like to witness Avraham and Yitzchak as they journeyed to the
Akeidah. Avraham and Yitzchak are walking up the mountain. The wood is on Yitzchak's back, the fire and
the knife are in Avraham's hand. And then Yitzchak turns to his father.
יםִצֵעָהְו ׁ שֵאָה הֵּנִה רֶמאֹּיַו יִנְב יִּננִֶּה רֶמאֹּיַו יִבָא רֶמאֹּיַו יוִבָא םָהָרְבַאל־ֶא קָ חְצִי רֶמאֹּיַו
הָלֹעְל הֶּׂשַה הֵּיַאְו
"And Yitzchak spoke to Avraham his father and said, 'My father!' And he said, 'Here I am, my son.' And he
said, 'Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?'"
B E R E I S H I S 2 2 : 7
Avraham knows exactly why they're going up the mountain. Yitzchak does not. Avraham is carrying the
weight of a mitzvah that no father could possibly imagine receiving. He is tasked with sacrificing his
beloved son. Yitzchak calls out to him, Avi. My father.
As a father, I cannot imagine what hearing that word must have felt like for Avraham. He knows what
awaits them at the top of the mountain, and he cannot give his son the reassurance that a father would
ordinarily want to give.
Somehow Avraham answers, יִנְב יִּנֶּנִה. Here I am, my son. Only then does Yitzchak ask his question. We have
the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the korban?
Rashi explains that hineni is the way chassidim answer. It's a lashon anavah, an expression of humility,
and a lashon zimun, an expression of readiness. I think the two translations are deeply connected.
Humility means recognizing that the moment is not about me. Even with everything Avraham is carrying,
he is able to make room for what his son is experiencing. And in that humble space, he is ready to
respond to whatever his son needs from him. He doesn't yet know what Yitzchak is going to ask, but he is
making himself available.
Think about how difficult that can be. When somebody we love comes to us with something painful, we
often feel an immediate need to make things better. We want to say the right thing, offer a solution, or
somehow take away their suffering. And when we realize that we can't, we sometimes withdraw
emotionally because we don't know what else to do.
One of the loneliest experiences a person can have is to be going through
something painful and discovering that the people closest to him cannot
bear to hear about it.
It's not necessarily that they don't care. Sometimes they care so deeply that our pain makes them
anxious. After a while, we stop telling them what we're going through. We can feel how uncomfortable our
pain makes them, and we don't want to put them in that position.
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But often, what a person needs most is to know that their pain doesn't make us disappear. Avraham
cannot make the moment any less frightening, but when his son calls, he is there, and he is ready to give
him whatever he can of himself.
This helps us appreciate the very next pasuk.
וָּ דְחַי םֶהיֵנשְּׁ וכְלֵּיַו
"And the two of them walked together."
B E R E I S H I S 2 2 : 8
Rashi explains that Yitzchak now understood that he was going to be the korban, and yet they continued
walking together, b'lev shaveh, with an equal heart.
There's a concept in attachment theory called a secure base. When a child grows up knowing that the
people he depends upon will be emotionally available when he needs them, he gradually develops an
inner sense of security. Even when life becomes frightening, he knows that he has somebody to turn to.
Of course, not everybody grows up with that experience. Some people learn very early that sharing their
pain only makes things more difficult. They become extraordinarily independent because they have
learned that depending on somebody else can be dangerous. From the outside, that independence may
look like strength, but underneath it can be a painful conviction that when things become overwhelming,
they're on their own.
Naphtali Lau was a nineteen-year-old prisoner in Buchenwald with absolutely no guarantee that he
could keep his brother alive. But he couldn't leave his little brother alone in the snow. In that unimaginable
darkness, Rav Yisrael "Lulek" Lau had a brother who was determined not to abandon him. That's what it
means not just to say hineni but to live it.
The Navi Yeshayahu says:
יִננִֵּה רַמאֹיְו עַּושְַּׁת הֶנֲ עַי ה׳ַו אָרְקִּת זָ א
"Then you will call, and Hashem will answer; you will cry out, and He will say, 'Here I am.'"
Y E S H A Y A H U 5 8 : 9
Yeshayahu