November 1, 2026|כ"א חשון ה' אלפים תשפ"ז Making Room: Creating Space for Blessing By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

One day over the summer, Yael told me very excitedly that she had found a great deal. Now, whenever she starts a sentence with the words “I found a great deal,” I get a little nervous. And when she added that she found it on Facebook Marketplace, I got even more nervous.

But she explained that she had found someone selling a huge collection of Barbie dolls and accessories for an incredibly low price. And then she said four words that would end the conversation: “It’s for the grandkids.” The seller lived in New Jersey, so I figured, no problem. Of course, what Yael hadn't yet realized was that there is New Jersey just over the bridge, and then there is deep into New Jersey.

It took a while before she finally found enough hours in the day to make the trip. And when she did, she came home with a car packed with Barbie dolls, clothes, and accessories, all collected from a rather creepy garage. In fact, the situation was unsettling enough that I had to stay on the phone with her the entire time she was loading everything into the car.

But I understand the motivation. Yael wants our home to be a place where our grandchildren feel welcome, where they can come over, play, and enjoy themselves. And really, what little girl doesn't love Barbie?

There was just one small problem: We have nowhere to put them.

We have the dolls, the clothes, the accessories, and everything else that comes with the Barbie universe. We have the desire to welcome our grandchildren, but we hadn't actually made the space to accommodate them. And so, months later, most of our Barbie collection is still sitting in our living room, waiting for a home, somewhere in our home.

And as I looked at all those Barbie dolls taking up space in our living room, I began thinking about a much bigger question:

Do we really make room in our lives for the people and opportunities we say we want to welcome?

This week's Haftarah offers two remarkable stories about making room.

The first concerns a widow who comes to Elisha in desperation. Her husband has died, and a creditor is threatening to take her two children as slaves. Elisha asks what she has in her house. She answers that she has nothing except a small jar of oil.

Elisha tells her to borrow empty vessels from her neighbors, as many as she can, and bring them into her home. She begins pouring her oil into the vessels. The oil keeps flowing until every vessel is full. When there are no more vessels, the oil stops.

The widow makes room to receive. She gathers empty vessels, and those vessels become the containers for a blessing she could never have imagined.

The second story concerns a woman from Shunem who recognizes Elisha as a holy man. She invites him to eat at her home and eventually suggests that she and her husband build a small room for him, furnished with a bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp.

She makes room for another person. Elisha promises that she will have a son, and the promise is fulfilled. Later, when the child dies, Elisha returns and miraculously restores him to life.

And then there is Avraham Avinu. When he sees three travelers, he runs to greet them, invites them to rest, and prepares a meal. Chazal (our Sages) describe his tent as open on all four sides. Avraham made room for guests from every direction.

Three examples of making room. The widow makes room to receive a blessing. The Shunamite makes room to welcome a guest. Avraham makes his home a place of hospitality.

But here is the question: If making room can bring such blessing into our lives, why are we so afraid to do it?

Why are we afraid to make room?

Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest and writer, offers an answer. I'm borrowing his wisdom, not his theology.

In Reaching Out, Nouwen defines hospitality as creating "a free space where the stranger can enter" and become a friend instead of an enemy. He suggests that one reason we struggle to do this is that we are already too full.

We are filled with opinions, convictions, prejudices, worries, and jealousies. We are so afraid of open spaces and empty places that we fill them with our thoughts before anyone else has a chance to enter. We imagine what might go wrong, anticipate the inconvenience, and worry about what someone might think of us.

Sometimes the reason we cannot make room for someone else or something else is that we have already filled the space with ourselves.

Remember the widow's vessels. They had to be empty before they could be filled. Sometimes we need to create that same space within ourselves: room to listen, room to connect, room to grow.

Of course, caution is not the enemy of hospitality. The Torah tells us v'nishmartem me'od l’nafshoteichem, to protect ourselves. Our shul has a security guard and CSS. We have a responsibility to protect our families and community.

Avraham Avinu understood this. Rashi explains that Avraham thought his visitors were Arabs who worshipped the dust on their feet. That is why he asked them to wash their feet before entering his home.

But his caution did not stop him from welcoming them. He did not close the door. He asked them to wash their feet, and then he invited them in. His precaution determined how he would welcome them, not whether he would welcome them.

There is another kind of fear: the fear of hoping.

When Elisha promises the Shunamite woman a son, she responds, Al tichazev bishifchatecha — please do not disappoint your maidservant. After living with disappointment, even the promise of something wonderful can be frightening. She is afraid to hope.

Perhaps we know that feeling. We have been disappointed before. We have tried to build a relationship and been hurt. We have tried to change and failed. We have wanted something deeply and learned not to expect it.

But if we refuse to hope, we may never make room for the possibility of something wonderful.

There is a second obstacle. We think making room takes too much.

We imagine that to welcome someone, we need a beautiful home, an elaborate meal, or an entire free afternoon. We think that to grow spiritually, we need to make a major commitment and change our entire routine.

But what did the Shunamite woman build for Elisha? One small room. What did she put in it? A bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp.

That was enough.

I think about the Barbies still sitting in our living room. I keep thinking I need a real solution: a playroom, a closet, a plan. But the Shunamite didn’t wait for a playroom. She built one small room and put four things in it. Maybe all I need is one shelf.

The widow, too, began with what she had: one small jar of oil. She did not need to have everything. She simply gathered one vessel after another.

We often keep the door closed because we are waiting for perfect conditions. We think we need more time, more money, more confidence, or more knowledge. But sometimes all we need is one small opening.

So what gives us the courage to make room?

The Gemara in Shabbat 127a teaches that gedolah hachnasat orchim yoter mi’kabalat pnei haShechinah: welcoming guests is greater than receiving the Divine Presence. The Gemara learns this from Avraham. Hashem has appeared to him, and in the middle of that encounter Avraham sees three strangers. He says, Al na ta’avor me’al avdecha, please do not pass from Your servant, and runs to welcome them.

The Me’or Einayim asks: Hashem fills the entire world. Where would He go? What is Avraham asking?

He answers that Avraham was not asking Hashem to stay. He was asking that he himself not lose his connection to Hashem as he turned to his guests. He wanted to do this mitzvah with deveikut, attached to Hashem.

That is a powerful answer to our fear. We imagine that making room means losing something: our time, our comfort, our control, perhaps even our spiritual focus. Avraham teaches us that we can ask Hashem to accompany us. Making room for another person need not take us away from Hashem. It can become a way of drawing closer to Him.

That is a powerful answer to our fear. We imagine that making room means losing something: our time, our comfort, our control, perhaps even our spiritual focus. Avraham teaches us that we can ask Hashem to accompany us. Making room for another person need not take us away from Hashem. It can become a way of drawing closer to Him.

The Shunamite woman's story brings this idea to life.

When her son dies, she carries him upstairs and lays him on Elisha's bed, in the very room she had built for him. She then goes to find Elisha. He returns with her, prays to Hashem, and the child is restored to life.

Think about that room. She built it to welcome a guest. She made space in her home for Elisha without knowing what would come of it. Later, when she experiences the greatest tragedy of her life, that same room becomes the setting for her son's revival.

The room she created to welcome another person becomes the place where she experiences Hashem's salvation.

We may think we are simply making space for someone else. We may think we are giving up some time, comfort, or personal space. But when we make room with the intention of doing a mitzvah, we may discover that we have created space for Hashem to enter our own lives in ways we could never have anticipated.

The Haftarah gave us two women and two kinds of space. The Shunamite made room to give. The widow made room to receive. Most of us need both.But this message is not only about grandchildren or guests. The Haftarah gave us two women and two kinds of space. The Shunamite made room to give. The widow made room to receive. Most of us need both.

First, make room to give. Before next Shabbat, choose one person and make room for them. Offer a seat at your table. Make a phone call you have been putting off. Invite someone who might otherwise be alone. And do not wait for people to find your door. Avraham's tent had four entrances. Go out and invite them in.

Second, make room to receive. Make room to learn and grow as a Jew. Maybe it is one more weekday minyan, ten minutes a day of Mishnah, or learning the parsha with Rashi. Perhaps it is studying shemirat halashon, learning the halachot of Shabbat, or simply bentching more slowly.

I know how difficult it can be to begin something new. When I committed to Daf Yomi, started another chavruta, took on another shiur, or began working on my doctorate, I had to find the time and make the space. It was hard to start, but once I began, I discovered how worthwhile it was.

We all hear the voices that hold us back: There isn't room. It's too frightening. I don't have enough time. I'm not good enough. If I take this on, I'll have to change everything.

When you hear those voices, ask yourself: Is this a real obstacle, or am I filling an empty room with worries? Am I waiting for perfect conditions when all I need is one small opening?

The widow began with one jar of oil. The Shunamite built one small room. Avraham opened his tent. None of them knew everything that would follow. They simply made room.

And before we take that step, we can say Avraham's words: Hashem, al na ta'avor me'al avdecha. Hashem, please do not pass me by. Stay with me as I make room for another person, for another mitzvah, and for the opportunity to grow.

Because we do not have to make room alone.

May our homes and our hearts always have room for one more guest, one more mitzvah, and one more reason to hope. And may Hashem never pass us by.