August 24, 2026|י"א אלול ה' אלפים תשפ"ו When Someone is Trying to Come Home
Print Article“Brothers! You are my brothers!”
Those were not the words I expected to hear on a Shabbos afternoon in Philadelphia.
Last Shabbos, Yael and I spent Shabbos in historic Philadelphia. We stayed next door to Mikveh Israel, the oldest continuously operating synagogue in America. After the Shabbos day meal, we went for a walk through the historic district.
One of the places we visited was Carpenters’ Hall.
It is not as famous as Independence Hall, but it is extraordinary. In 1774, the First Continental Congress met there, bringing together delegates from twelve of the thirteen colonies, two years before the Declaration of Independence was signed at Independence Hall.
Carpenters’ Hall was one of the places where the American story began.
But as we approached, I encountered something I never expected.
Standing outside was an African-American man dressed in colonial-era clothing: a waistcoat, what we would call a vest, breeches, or knee-length pants, and the full look of an eighteenth-century tradesman.
He wasn't simply giving a history lesson.
He was living the history.
He spoke as though he had been there, as though the debates inside Carpenters’ Hall were still unfolding before him, and he had watched the young nation take shape.
Then he noticed us.
We were obviously dressed for Shabbos, and both my friend and I were wearing yarmulkas.
He looked at us and said:
“Brothers! You are my brothers!”
I looked around, thinking perhaps he was speaking to someone else. Then I realized he was speaking to us.
He told us that he belonged to a church called Bethel.
“You know what Bethel means?” he asked.
“The house of God,” I said.
“Exactly!”
He explained that his friends had been telling him that he needed to follow the law of the land. The law was the law, they said. And the law of the land was the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793, which required escaped slaves to be returned to those who claimed ownership of them.
“This is what Congress passed,” they told him. “This is what we follow.”
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn book.
“Is that what the Torah says?” he asked.
He opened it to this week’s parsha, Deuteronomy 23:16:
“You shall not deliver a slave to his master who has escaped to you from his master.”
“I cannot follow the law of the land if it goes against my conscience and goes against the Torah,” he told us.
Then he said, “I cannot wait for Moshiach to come.”
And he actually said Moshiach, not Messiah.
“When Moshiach comes,” he said, “we will finally practice this law correctly.”
Not the Fugitive Slave Act.
This one. The one from Deuteronomy 23:16.
I don't know what everyone else standing there understood about that moment. But I suddenly realized how extraordinary it was.
We had gone for a Shabbos walk to see where America was born. Instead, outside one of those historic buildings, a stranger opened a Bible and reminded us that the Torah had something to say about freedom long before America existed.
But the Torah's message is deeper than simply saying, “Slavery is wrong.”
The Torah says:
“Lo tasgir eved el adonav” –
Do not return a slave to his master.
And then:
“Asher yinatzel eilecha mai’im adonav” –
Who has escaped to you from his master.
Why to you?
The Ramban understands the pasuk as referring to a slave who has fled to the Jewish camp. We cannot return him to a master who serves idolatry. He has come to a place where he can become an eved Hashem, a servant of God.
For the Ramban, the issue is theological: we cannot send someone away from the service of Hashem and back to an idolater.
But the Ibn Ezra goes further.
If a Jew returns this non-Jewish slave to his master, he says:
“Hiney zeh chillel et Hashem” –
“This is a desecration of God's Name.”
Think about that.
The slave is not Jewish. His master is not Jewish. Yet the Jew who encounters him has a responsibility toward him.
Because he is Jewish.
He carries God's name into the world.
Rav Hirsch expands the idea further, describing these laws as cultivating a “ru’ach enoshit bein-leumit,” an international humanitarian spirit.
The Torah is teaching us that our responsibility does not end at the boundaries of our own people. How we treat a vulnerable person tells the world something about the God we represent.
And then comes the Netziv.
He focuses on the words “asher yinatzel eilecha” – “who has escaped to you,” and explains:
“diyek hakatuv eilecha… ela b’ofen she’borai’ach davka eilecha ba’aasher rotzeh l’hitgayer u’l’hikanes tachat kanfei hashechinah.”
The Torah is speaking about someone who is fleeing specifically to the Jewish people because he wants “l’hitgayer u’l’hikanes tachat kanfei hashechinah,” to convert and come beneath the wings of the Shechinah.
And now the pasuk becomes personal.
Someone is running away from one master and toward God.
What does he find when he reaches us?
That is the question of chilul Hashem.
Not only:
Do I believe in Torah?
But:
What does someone who encounters me conclude about the Torah?
And that brings us directly to Elul.
Because we are running, too.
We are trying to escape our master. We are trying to escape the things that have controlled us this year: our anger, our habits, our ego, our mistakes. We are trying to come “tachat kanfei ha-shechinah,” beneath the wings of the Shechinah.
And the Torah tells us what to do when someone makes that journey:
Receive him. Don't send him back. Help him come closer.
That is also what we are asking Hashem to do for us.
We come before Him and say:
“Lo tasgir” –
Don't send me back.
I am trying to leave behind what has enslaved me. I am trying to come home.
And the Torah gives us reason to believe that He will receive us.
But that hope creates an obligation.
When someone is trying to take a step toward something better, do I make that next step easier or harder?
Maybe it is someone trying to reconnect with shul or Judaism.
Maybe it is someone trying to repair a relationship.
Maybe it is someone struggling to change a habit or overcome a mistake.
Maybe it is someone isolated and simply needs to know that someone cares.
We don't have to solve their problems.
We have to make the next step easier.
An invitation. A phone call. A seat at the Shabbos table. A word of encouragement. Sometimes simply withholding judgment and letting someone know that they are welcome.
The man outside Carpenters’ Hall called us brothers, opened his worn book, and pointed us back to the Torah.
Perhaps that was his message to us as we enter Elul:
When someone is trying to come home, don't make them find the door alone.
Because that is what we are asking Hashem to do to us.
We are trying to take a step toward Him.
May He open the door for us.
And may we learn to do the same for others.