{A memorial to Rebbetzin Henny Machlis}
Welcoming guests overrides even welcoming the Shechinah – Shabbat 127a
When we first learn that “Noach was righteous in his generation,” we applaud his stature until the rabbis, on deeper reflection, note that “in his generation” suggests the bar was fairly low for righteousness when he lived. Abraham, however, is said to have been “righteous” without any qualification. He was truly righteous, in any crowd.
What made Abraham such a “standout”? What was his greatest gift? His faith? His willingness to heed God’s call and leave his home and family in pursuit of the destiny God promised? When that promise was finally fulfilled in his old age, was it his taking his beloved son Isaac be sacrificed? His wisdom in insisting on paying for Sarah’s burial place, so that no man could ever suggest our first stake in the Promised Land had not been duly purchased? Or was it exemplified that hot day in Mamre when he welcomed the three strangers to his tent?
Our sages deem the welcoming of the stranger to our homes to be among the greatest of mitzvot. Abraham and Sarah created a home filled with such chesed and rachamim and with devotion and joy – a place that epitomized shalom bayit.
For generations we have held out the example of our great patriarch and matriarch as the ideal, the impossible model for this foundational mitzvah. And yet my wife, Clary, and I – along with thousands and thousands of others – have experienced a feeling similar to what must have been experienced by Abraham’s guests when we were welcomed into the home of Henny Machlis, a”h.
My wife and I always spend the month of Tishrei in Jerusalem. Each year, as surely as the new moon arrives, my beloved friend Rabbi Mordechai Machlis asks that we join their Simchat Beit Hashoeva on Sukkot. But not just that – he invites me with the honor of sharing divrei Torah with those who come to celebrate in this unique and incomparable house and sukkah of boundless love, compassion, and rachamim.
To be completely honest, although I felt the fullness of the honor he sought to give me, I hesitated. To stand at a podium at the level of the Machlis household was to be called upon to deliver a d’var Torah in the home of Abraham and Sarah. I felt unworthy – inadequate for such a role. What insight, what wisdom, could I add to the truth experienced by the tens of thousands of guests who had passed through their home?
And so I always demurred. But last year before Sukkot, Rav Machlis personally came to me. “Please,” he asked, “a d’var Torah from you would mean so much…” How could I refuse? And so I spent a great deal of time thinking of the words I could speak, the lesson I could teach, the truth I could pass along.
I came to inspire, but it was I who was inspired.
I came to uplift, but I was the one elevated in spirituality and emotion.
I came to teach, but it was I who learned.
I focused my remarks on the “daled minim,” the four species of Sukkot. Each, as we know, has unique characteristics. The etrog, taste and aroma; the arava, none; the hadas…the lulav… all making it clear that despite the gifts and characteristics of the individual elements, it was only when combined as a unified whole that the lulav, etrog, hadasim, and aravot can be used to fulfill the mitzvah of Sukkot.
As I spoke, I looked around at the people who had come to gather at the Machlis home. There before me I saw the personification of my lesson. All Jews together. Heimish. Modern Orthodox. Reform. Unaffiliated. Questioning. In rebellion. There was no judgment. All felt the warmth of the Machlis home equally; all were loved and welcomed.
At that moment I felt my heart fill to near bursting, sensing what it would feel like to live in Messianic times.
My d’var Torah was filled with deeply felt words and lessons; however, the Machlis home had already brought those lessons to the fullness of life – had transformed them from printed page into flesh.
When we left that evening, the Abramsons, friends who had joined Clary and me, clearly felt what I had felt. “Did you ever see such love shared with every kind of Jew found on this earth?”
I could not answer. I could only shake my head in agreement and awe.
“Every type of Jew adored, respected, and loved. No one judged. Every one of us embraced.”
Again, I had no words. Not that they were necessary. The aura of that moment continued with us for a long, long while.
Once again, this past Sukkot, just a handful of weeks ago, I was asked to deliver a d’var Torah. But I could not bring myself to speak. Not this time.
This time my reticence had nothing to do with any sense of worthiness. This year, my reticence was because the great tzaddikah Henny Machlis had been brought so close to the end of her earthly journey and I could not bear to see her suffer so. To me, it was inconceivable and overwhelming that this woman, this force of nature who had made so many thousands of Jews feel welcomed and at home, could be so weakened.
She had fought for a long time against her illness, always with grace, faith, and sweetness. I wanted to remember her enormous smile as it had radiated the previous Sukkot, even as she knew her body was being devoured by her illness.
I wanted to hold tight to the image of her just last year, standing in our home alongside one of her devoted and loving daughters, surrounded by all of my dreidels. I wanted to remember her even though I had to turn away as she uttered a fervent prayer, asking with total and absolute faith that she and all others in need be worthy of miracles – represented by the countless dreidels – and with the very same breath wishing miracles for our household.
A number of commentators have written about Henny Machlis since her passing. They noted that the trademark Machlis chesed was not restricted to Shabbat. Nor was it extended only to “proper” guests. Their welcome was extended to religious Jews, unaffiliated Jews, tourists, the homeless, recovering (and barely recovering) drug users. It was not unusual to find homeless people sleeping on their couches, some for weeks at a time.
They took care that those guests whose mental instability might pose a potential danger to their fourteen children slept outside the house, in the family van. Rabbi Machlis has related how when he left for his teaching position in the morning he would know the number of “guests” accommodated in the van by the pairs of shoes in the windshield.
There was food and comfort for all, whether ten, twenty, eighty, or two hundred. Somehow, more places were set, more chairs found, and more food kept coming from the kitchen. (There is always more room and food – limits have a funny way of stretching when they need to.)
However, as Techiya Levine wrote in a posting on Aish.com, it was more than the amount of food that distinguished the Machlis household, it was the “…abundance of joy, love, respect and wisdom. The amount of light that emanates from that small home is blinding.”
She continued by listing just some of the life-changing lessons Henny Machlis embodied. She learned it is possible to live in a near-constant state of joy. Imagine, a joy-driven life! Such must have been the way Sarah oversaw her household. To those who scoff at the possibility of such a state of joy, Henny Machlis pointed the way by example.
Such joy comes directly from being a giver. If you ever feel down, reach out to someone else rather than hope someone reaches out to you. You will be amazed at how good you will feel.
We live in a hyper-critical age, yet Henny Machlis exemplified the possibility of only seeing the good in others and viewing everyone as precious. Family, friend, or stranger, observant Jew or cynic – she made you feel beloved and welcome.
Even with fourteen children of her own and, typically, more than one hundred dinner guests, she always made time to learn Torah.
Despite her incredible kindness to so many people, Henny made sure her family knew they came first. She did this while teaching them to become givers themselves. How? There was a small family Shabbat meal before they hosted the incredible numbers of guests, a meal duuring which the focus and attention could be directled solely to the children. Seders too were small family affairs. Henny made sure everyone in need was accommodated at a seder, but that special meal was always smaller in the household.
She always showed respect and love for her husband, a unique tzaddik in his own right. Regardless of the number of guests or how much had to be done, she always stopped to listen to her husband share words of Torah.
Such grace. Such kindness. Such strength. It is so difficult to imagine that this wonderful woman is no longer with us. But her flame continues to shine.