Four Abrahams: A Story of Unity

The name Abraham is one that echoes across the ages, spanning cultures and religions.  I arrived in Jerusalem this past summer as an “October 7 Jew,” inspired to make aliyah.  I have enjoyed a relative “bubble” of safety in Jerusalem during a very dangerous war, with missiles flying throughout the country.  This past November, as I prepared for minor surgery in Tel Aviv amidst the tension of regional conflict, I found myself encountering four Abrahams—each one representing a different facet of faith, unity, and selflessness.

These four Abrahams form a tapestry of interconnectedness: the biblical Abraham, my late grandfather Abe from Galicia, an Orthodox Jew named Avraham who offered me kindness in Jerusalem, and an Israeli Muslim named Ibrahim who extended his hand in friendship. Their stories, intertwined with my own journey, have reinforced my belief that unity is not just a concept; it is a reality that can be nurtured when we recognize our shared humanity.

Abraham, the forefather of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, was the first to embrace the idea of one G-d. His journey was both physical and spiritual, leaving his homeland of Ur to go to the land of Canaan, guided by a divine promise. This act was not just an act of migration but one of immense faith.

As we read the Torah portion of Lech-Lecha on the Sabbath just before my surgery, I found deep resonance in Abraham’s journey.  Like Abraham, I had left my homeland—Los Angeles—and was in the process of making Israel my new home. I had stepped into the unknown, driven by faith, a longing for connection, and a belief in unity.  Although I have been a practicing Orthodox Jew for most of my adult life, being a physician and scientist, I have often struggled with faith and spirituality.  As a radiation oncologist who works in a speciality that heavily utilizes physics, using high energy photons to treat cancer, it is not always easy to accept matters of faith.  A bit like Abraham, my faith in a Universal Oneness (G-d), materialized as I journeyed to Israel. Suddenly, I connected quantum physics to theology, especially the concept of instantaneous quantum entanglement throughout the universe, and a “Quantum Oneness” became apparent to me.

One of the most striking aspects of Abraham’s story is his unwavering hospitality. According to the Torah, even as he was recovering from his own circumcision, he rushed to welcome three travelers, offering them food, drink, and shelter. Little did he know, these travelers were angels. Abraham’s actions exemplify the essence of kindness, the willingness to serve others even in one’s weakest moments.

My late grandfather Abe was a Jew from Galicia who immigrated to the United States as a young adult. He is on my mind this week, as I prepare for the second yahrzeit of his daughter, my mother.  Though an atheist, Grandpa Abe held a strong connection to his Jewish identity. He raised my mother in a kosher home, ensuring that our family remained tied to its Jewish roots. In many ways, his journey mirrored that of the biblical Abraham, a man leaving his past behind to create something new for his descendants. His choices paved the way for my own sense of Jewish identity, one that has now led me back to the land of Israel.

On the day prior to my surgery, I went to the Western Wall to pray for a safe surgery and a safe journey to Tel Aviv amidst a war with missiles.  There, I encountered an Orthodox Jew named Avraham leading the service. He welcomed me warmly, and after prayers, he invited me to his home.

At his home, Avraham extended the same kind of hospitality that his namesake did in the Torah. He offered me food and drink, as well as a stunning view of Jerusalem’s religious sites. From there, I could see the Temple Mount, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Al-Aqsa Mosque—symbols of faiths that trace their roots back to the same Abrahamic lineage.

I was stunned when Avraham asked me if I had someone to take me to my surgery the following day.  I had just met him earlier in the day.  Avraham reminded me that kindness and generosity transcend religious observance. His hospitality, like that of the biblical Abraham, was a gesture of pure human connection. To top it off, thinking a bit about my Grandpa Abe from Galicia, I asked Avraham where I could find the Galician roof, rumored to have one of the best views in the Old City.  I couldn’t imagine a view better than the one he had just shown me. To my utter shock, Avraham informed me that I was indeed standing on the famous Galician roof!  

Later that day, I met an Israeli Muslim named Ibrahim. In a moment of profound symbolism, Ibrahim, too, offered to help me get to Tel Aviv for my surgery.  Our conversation shifted to the shared heritage of Jews and Muslims, both descendants of Abraham. Ibrahim spoke of his belief that Jews and Arabs could find a way to coexist at the Temple Mount, just as the Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron has become a shared site of worship. His perspective was one of hope, a belief that peace could be possible if we were willing to make small sacrifices and recognize our common ancestry.

It struck me that in one day, two people named after Abraham—one Jewish, one Muslim—had offered me kindness and support. Both had demonstrated the values of their shared forefather, and their actions reinforced my belief that unity is achievable when we focus on what connects us rather than what divides us.

Reflecting on these encounters, I see a profound lesson in unity. The biblical Abraham, my grandfather Abe, Avraham at the Western Wall, and Ibrahim all represent different aspects of the same fundamental truth: that kindness, selflessness, and faith can bridge even the widest of divides.

Unity does not mean uniformity. It does not require us to erase our differences but to recognize that those differences need not be a source of division. Abraham’s children—Jews and Muslims alike—share a history, a land, and a responsibility to work toward peace.

King Solomon demonstrated his wisdom while mediating a dispute between two mothers, each claiming that a baby was theirs. Poignantly, the true mother was willing to sacrifice her claim to the baby in order to save her child’s life. I like to think of  Jerusalem’s Holy Temple as “Solomon’s baby,” since tradition holds that King Solomon was the builder. Tradition also holds that Abraham almost sacrificed his baby, Isaac, on what was believed to be the Foundation Stone of the what was later the Holy Temple. In my own journey, I have come to believe that achieving unity requires a willingness to sacrifice—not in the form of offerings at an altar, but in the form making compromises for the sake of peace. We Jews don’t want our “baby,” the Temple Mount, to be destroyed. Perhaps a shared arrangement similar to that at the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron, even as a temporary confidence building measure, might be the sacrifice necessary to propel us forward.

If we are to move toward a future of peace, we must embrace the lessons of these four Abrahams. We must be willing to extend hospitality like the biblical Abraham, preserve identity like my grandfather Abe, show generosity like Avraham of the Jewish Quarter, and embrace dialogue like Ibrahim.

As I continue my journey in Israel, I do so with a renewed sense of purpose. The lessons I have learned from these four Abrahams remind me that unity is not an abstract ideal—it is something we create through our actions. We are all part of the same human tapestry, woven together by shared histories and common aspirations.

We are entering the month of Adar and approaching the holiday of Purim. It is a good time to reflect on the resilience of the Jewish people during times of profound adversity.  Since October 7th, we have faced tremendous challenges.  Yet through these trials, we have found a renewed sense of unity. The shared heritage of Abraham, buried in the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron, serves as a powerful symbol of what we can achieve when we come together.

This is our time on this world. It is our opportunity to step forward, inspired by the bravery of figures like Queen Esther.  Tradition holds that the Holy Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Romans almost 2000 years ago on account of baseless hatred.  By transforming baseless hatred into baseless love, we can begin the process of rebuilding and healing.