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Reflections on watching the homes of the rich burn
The devastating fires that swept through Los Angeles have left many of us reeling. As flames consumed homes, businesses, and lives, it’s natural to seek meaning amid such chaos. After enduring years of calamities from COVID to the events of October 7 and the subsequent war, many of us feel physically, spiritually, and psychologically exhausted. We yearn to understand the confusion that fills our world.
While disasters like these can reveal the best in people, unfortunately, they can also bring out the worst.
Sadly, some individuals have displayed schadenfreude, taking perverse satisfaction in the suffering of the wealthy in Malibu and Pacific Palisades. Such a view is misguided not only because not everyone in those areas belongs to an imagined “elite.” Many less fortunate people lost everything, along with significant damage to plants and wildlife. More importantly, Jewish values emphasize that all suffering is alike; there is no distinction in times of crisis.
The rabbis of the Talmud almost mythologize the destruction caused by fire, comparing it to the angel of death sent to Egypt. In a few weeks, we will read in the weekly Torah portion that “none of you shall go outside of his house until morning” (Exodus 12:22). If God intended to kill the Egyptian firstborn, why did the Jewish people need to stay inside their homes marked with blood? The Talmudic sage Rav Yoseph explained, “As soon as freedom is given to the angel of destruction, he no longer distinguishes between the just and the unjust,” as noted in Ezekiel 21:8: “I shall wipe out the righteous and the wicked.” (Bava Kama 60b) Rav Yoseph’s comments are connected to a description of the devastation caused by fire and other natural disasters. Once the “angel of destruction” is released in the world, all can suffer.
Indeed, the fires in Los Angeles affected both the wealthy in their mansions and the impoverished in their modest homes. For the Torah, rich or poor makes no difference; Jewish tradition underscores that pain is universal, and our responses must reflect this truth.
Some have hastily drawn strange political parallels, laying blame or mocking the suffering of others. I once heard my teacher, Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, respond to another thinker’s inappropriate search for sin in suffering. Rav Aharon suggested that when someone claims to know the cosmic reasons behind another’s suffering, they harm the reign of the Almighty. In his majestic essay, “Kol Dodi Dofek,” Rabbi Joseph Dov Soloveitchik proclaimed,
“Man is obliged to resolve not the question of the causal or teleological explanation of suffering in all its speculative complexity, but rather the question of the rectification of suffering.” (p. 11)
In other words, Jewish tradition teaches us not to ask why or how tragedy occurs, but rather what we can do to help.
Now is not the time for second-guessing while homes lie in ruined heaps. On a mundane level, there will be plenty of opportunity to scrutinize the tragic events and find ways to prevent them in the future. But at this moment, the laws of tzedaka provide an authentic Jewish framework for responding to those in need.
The Torah teaches,
If a poor man, one of your brothers, is with you within any of your gates in your land which Hashem your God gives you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand from your poor brother. But you shall surely open your hand to him and lend him sufficient for his need (‘dei dachsoro asher yechsar lo’), which he lacks.” (Deut. 15:7-8)
The Talmud in Ketubot 67b provides a profound interpretation of this verse regarding the proper approach to tzedaka: “dei machsoro asher yechsar lo” literally means “Provide whatever the person lacks.” This encompasses not only essentials like food and shelter but also the restoration of dignity and status. We are called to provide whatever a person needs, even if it includes luxuries such as “a horse to ride and a servant to run in front [announcing] him.” The Talmud recounts numerous stories illustrating the lengths to which some of the sages went to comfort the impoverished. For example, the people of Galilee brought a large portion of meat daily to a poor person whose parents had once been wealthy. Hillel ran ahead of a poor man to ensure that all his needs were being met—not only his physical needs but also his sense of self-respect.
Maimonides codifies these rules by stating that
we are commanded to give a poor person according to what he lacks. If he lacks clothing, we should clothe him. If he lacks household utensils, we should purchase them for him. If he is unmarried, we should help him marry, and for an unmarried woman, we should find her a husband. (Laws of Gifts to the Poor 7:3)
Judaism values the feelings of the sufferer no matter his or her status in life. Even the wealthy, who may seem less vulnerable, can experience profound loss during disasters, and their pain should not be dismissed or even worse, mocked. Our tradition calls us to recognize the humanity of all who suffer.
So, what can we do in the present situation? Rabbi Soloveitchik argues in the aforementioned essay that “Hesed means to merge with the other person, to identify with his pain, to feel responsible for his fate” (p. 13). If you cannot help directly with funds or other means, then at least send messages of support. Small acts of kindness and solidarity can make a significant difference in the lives of those affected.
In a poignant Facebook post reflecting on the experience of loss, Dete Meserve shared these insights after her own home burned in 2018, displacing her family for 20 months. [Here is an abridged version of the public post]:
“The outpouring of support was amazing, but here are a few thoughts about what not to say when someone has endured this kind of loss:
- Don’t offer something specific (e.g., I have some extra jackets, would you like them?). Offering broad support is so much easier: ‘I’m here. Whatever you need.’
- Don’t offer support that requires them to be somewhere at a specific time.
- Avoid asking them about the specifics of their loss, such as ‘What did you lose?’.
- Don’t ask to see pictures of their burnt-down home or visit their burnt property unless invited.
- The worst questions and comments imply they could’ve done more, like ‘My friends hosed down their house and it was spared.’
- Don’t tell them about others who have it worse.
- Don’t ‘look on the positive’ with comments like ‘At least you’re all safe.’
- Don’t add to their grief by breaking down emotionally yourself.
- Don’t suggest the loss is the universe or God sending a message.
- Don’t ask detailed questions aimed at learning from their loss
Simply tell them you are grateful they are safe. You are there for them, whatever they need. And let them tell you their story when they’re ready. The most wonderful thing someone did for me — something I’ll never forget — is to bring me a cup of tea and stand with me quietly.”
As we reflect on these events, our hearts go out to everyone harmed by the fire. Jewish tradition, and basic menschlichkeit or essential humanity, compel us to act: to extend our hands to those in need wherever we can and to offer comfort and solace when we are further away. In doing so, we honor the shared humanity that unites us in times of tragedy and beyond.