Our tradition certainly thinks so.
We find this idea beautifully illustrated in Bereshit Rabbah 68, a section of the ancient midrashic collection that delves into the Book of Genesis. It focuses on a seemingly simple phrase: "[Jacob] departed" (Genesis 28:10).
Now, think about that for a moment. Jacob wasn’t traveling alone, was he? The text points out the obvious: “Was he the only one who departed? Did several donkey drivers and several camel drivers not depart, and you say: ‘Jacob departed’?”
Why single out Jacob's departure?
Rabbi Ze’eira Azarya, quoting Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon, offers a profound explanation. "When the righteous man is in the city, he is its aura, he is its glory. Once he emerged from there, its aura has vacated, its glory has vacated."
Wow.
The presence of a righteous person – a tzaddik – isn't just a nice thing to have. It's essential. It's the very atmosphere, the kavod – the glory – of the place. When that person leaves, that glory departs with them. It's as if the city itself is diminished.
The midrash draws a parallel to the Book of Ruth (1:7): “She departed from the place where she had been…” Again, the question is raised: Was Naomi the only one who departed? Of course not! But, as Rabbi Azarya and Rabbi Ḥanin (quoting Rabbi Shmuel the son of Rabbi Isaac) reiterate, the righteous person’s departure is different. It leaves a void.
But then comes a challenge to the idea. In Jacob’s case, his parents, Isaac and Rebecca, were still in Be’er Sheva. Weren’t they righteous too? Didn't their presence still provide that "aura" and "glory"?
Rabbi Azarya, this time quoting Rabbi Simon, answers: "The merit of one righteous person is not comparable to the merit of two righteous people." While Isaac and Rebecca were undoubtedly righteous, Jacob possessed a unique quality, a specific light that left with him.
What does this mean for us?
It suggests that each of us, especially those striving for righteousness, carries a unique spark. Our presence matters. Our actions ripple outwards, affecting the environment around us. When we leave a place – whether a physical location or a social situation – we take something with us, and something is left behind in our absence.
It's a powerful reminder that we are all interconnected, and that striving to be a tzaddik, a righteous person, is not just about individual piety, but about contributing to the overall well-being and even the very kavod, the glory, of the world. So, what kind of aura are we leaving behind? And how can we bring more light to the spaces we inhabit?