Congregation Netivot Shalom

Rosh Hashanah, First Day - 5763

Lee Bearson

Tolstoy begins Anna Karenina with the observation: "All happy families resemble one another, all unhappy families are unhappy in their own way." And then, of course, he proceeds to write a novel about an unhappy family, since they're far more interesting than the happy ones.

The common explanation for why we read the twenty-first chapter of Bereshit on Rosh Hashanah focuses on its portrayal of a happy family. Rosh Hashanna is Yom HaZikkaron, the Day of Remembrance, so what could be more appropriate than to read the story of God "remembering" Sarah by allowing her to finally become pregnant, as well as the haftorah in which Hanna too is "remembered." God's promises are fulfilled; women long barren become mothers.

Birth seems a fitting metaphor for the promise and potential of a new year. The infant Isaac appears every Rosh Hashanah like the diapered baby who welcomes the secular new year on January first, all he needs is a sash across his chest reading 5763.

As Avraham and Sarah joyously greet the arrival of their long-awaited child, they seem to fit the idea of a conventionally happy family. Of course, there are some special circumstances - at 100 and 90 the parents are a bit advanced in years even by Berkeley standards - but that just makes their joy at Isaac's birth even more compelling.

But our Torah reading doesn't stop there. The story continues, and before long something goes badly wrong. Suddenly we move from a comforting portrait of a happy family to a disturbing tale of the particular miseries of an unhappy family.

Which begs the question: why is this reading appropriate for Rosh Hashanah? Are we to focus solely on the miracle of Isaac's birth and ignore the rest? Is the entire reading merely a warm-up act for the main event - the Akeda, the Binding of Isaac - that we'll read tomorrow?

Following Tolstoy's lead, I'd like to look beyond the happy event of Isaac's birth and look at the story as a whole. It's not only more interesting, but as we explore this terrain, I think we'll find that the themes of Rosh Hashanah resound even more strongly here.

The complications after Isaac's birth arise, of course, from the fact that the family relationships we're dealing with are complex. The family includes not only Avraham, Sarah, and now Isaac, but also Hagar and Ishmael. It's worth taking a moment to review their history.

The Torah tells two similar stories about Hagar, the second of which we read today. Both involve a conflict with Sarah, a trip to the wilderness, a well, and a divine messenger. Indeed, critical scholars have suggested that these stories may represent two variants of a single original story. Yet they do not simply repeat each other and the first story provides a necessary foundation for understanding the second.

Hagar is first mentioned in Bereshit Chapter 16 when Sarai -Sarah and Avraham's names haven't yet been changed - convinced that she cannot bear a child, suggests that Avram take her Egyptian servant as a kind of surrogate mother. "Ulai eebaneh mimennah," she says - "Perhaps I may be built up through her." Avram marries Hagar and she becomes pregnant; after their first encounter according to the Rabbis, who keep track of such things.

Yet Sarai's plan quickly goes awry. Once Hagar has succeeded where Sarai had failed, "V'takeil giveertah b'eineha," her mistress became slighted in her eyes. The nature of their relationship changes. As Hagar's belly grows, so does her sense of self-importance. The instrument Sarai had hoped would "build her up" seems now a rival set at tearing her down.

In response, Sarai does what most of us would do in a similar situation: she gets angry at her spouse. The text is unclear but she seems to accuse Avram of favoring Hagar. The question comes down to one of status: is Hagar Avram's wife or Sarai's servant? And Avram, in an action for which the Rabbis later reproach him, resolves the issue by telling Sarai to do with Hagar as she will.

Sarai resolves to put Hagar in her place. She treats her harshly, determined to reestablish their master/servant relationship. As for the child Hagar is carrying, he seems to be beside the point, it's unclear whether Sarai still intends to claim him as her own or not.

To escape this abuse Hagar flees to the wilderness, where an angel finds her by a well. He tells her she must return and submit to Sarai - her status as a servant hasn't changed - but she will not go unrewarded. She will bear a son to be called Ishmael, "God hears," "for the Lord has paid heed to your suffering."

What's most striking about this first story is the role of Sarah. It's tempting to reduce her to the Disney formula: an evil stepmother concerned only with advancing her own interests and later those of her son; an aging beauty who imposes her will on a younger rival. Yet it's clear from the text that she's divinely inspired - she's the only woman in the Torah to whom God speaks directly - and the laconic words of the Torah don't give us enough information to fully evaluate her decisions.

Further, while Avraham dithers; she acts. She refuses to accept Hagar's insolence, and later she will assess the situation with Ishmael and decide what must be done about it. Yet her actions sometimes have unforeseen consequences. She elevates Hagar as her surrogate but then feels that her own position in the household has been undermined. Even her divine inspiration seems a bit quirky. She learns she'll be able to bear a son only after she's already taken the step of having Avraham father a son by Hagar. There's a kind of divine capriciousness here that makes for a good story but leaves Sarah scrambling to keep matters in hand.

The second story about Hagar - the one we read today - takes place fourteen years later. At some point following the feast held to celebrate Isaac's weaning, Sarah takes notice of Ishmael: "Sarah saw the son whom Hagar the Egyptian had born to Avraham playing - mitzahek." While in the first story about Hagar we're told specifically what she did to provoke Sarah, here Ishmael's action seems benign. What was it about Ishmael's "play" that so disturbed Sarah?

There's no hint in the text - other than Sarah's negative reaction - that Ishmael did anything wrong, yet all kinds of vices have been attributed to him. It's said that Sarah saw him worshipping idols, or forcing himself on women, or committing murder.

He's accused of playing a deadly game with his young brother: shooting arrows at Isaac, attempting to kill him, and later claiming he was only "playing." A kind of play which in spirit may not be totally unfamiliar to parents who have watched an older child "play" with a younger sibling.

Rabi Shimon Bar Yochai takes note of these ideas, but states that while others have read mitzahek as reflecting badly on Ishmael, he reads it as something perfectly understandable. The scene takes place at Isaac's weaning feast, he says, and Ishmael is simply scoffing at those who are making such a fuss over the child, since he knows that he, Ishmael, is Avraham's first-born, entitled to a double-portion of his estate.

Yet in the eyes of Sarah, Ishmael's assertion of his primacy is a very dangerous thing. Ishmael now threatens Isaac just as Hagar had previously seemed to threaten her.

Despite the fact that Ishmael's action is ambiguous, there's a hint of this idea in the text itself. As in so many biblical stories, the tale of Isaac repeatedly utilizes a Hebrew root which serves as a kind of leitmotif, recurring at critical points in the action: tzadee - chet - koof - to laugh, to jest - which is of course reflected in the name Yitzhak. Yet here it is Ishmael who is mitzahek. He's using Isaac's verb. Indeed, Robert Alter suggests that mitzahek can be read as "playing at being Isaac." Ishmael is asserting his primacy and in effect supplanting his younger brother.

Sarah can't allow this to happen. She demands that Avraham expel the boy and his mother. Avraham, however, remains unconvinced. He still feels attached to Ishmael. The Torah tells us that Sarah's words distressed him greatly "on account of his son." But God tells him to listen to Sarah and reassures him that he need not worry about Ishmael or Hagar, for Ishmael too will be the father of a nation.

There's an essential conflict here between Avraham, blessed with being the father of many nations, and Sarah who is to be the mother of one nation in particular. Indeed, his blessing seems more like a curse given all of the heartache it causes him.

Ultimately, Avraham gives in and sends Hagar and Ishmael off with bread and a skin of water. The text continues: "He placed them over her shoulder, together with the child, and sent her away." This seems to say that Ishmael too was placed on her shoulder - which is a bit problematic, given that he would have been at least fifteen at the time.

Now this may just be a question of chronology in the text, he may in fact have been younger, but there's one commentary that particularly struck me. It pictures the adolescent Ishmael as so distraught at being forced to leave his home that he had to be bound up - akad - and placed on his mother's shoulder so she could carry him away. Akad, of course, derives from the same root as akedah and this binding of Ishmael foreshadows the binding of Isaac we'll read about tomorrow. It underscores the fact that in today's reading Avraham loses his first son while in tomorrow's he's threatened with losing his second.

In giving up Ishmael, Avraham is obeying a divine command that contradicts his deepest feelings. Even though he understands that Isaac is to be his heir, it breaks his heart to lose Ishmael. And it seems a cruel joke that, having given up Ishmael for the sake of Isaac, Avraham will find at the time of the Akedah that God will ask him for Isaac too. Perhaps this is one reason Avraham doesn't protest when he's asked to sacrifice Isaac. He's already given up a son. He's learned the inexorable nature of God's will. So he simply obeys.

And if Avraham overrules his heart in agreeing to send Ishmael away, he also acts against character in the manner in which it is done. The man famed for his hospitality sends his wife and son into the wilderness with only minimal provisions.

It's unclear where Hagar is headed. Where can she go? She becomes lost in the wilderness, wandering until the water she carries is exhausted. Then, in despair, she sets her son under a bush and moves away from him, unwilling to watch him die.

Given the negative predisposition of so many commentators toward Hagar, I had expected to find sources that would condemn her for moving away from Ishmael at this critical moment. She seems to display a lack of maternal feeling by distancing herself. Yet there is a kind of collective silence in the midrash on this point, a mute acknowledgement that in her moment of supreme despair the normal rules don't apply.

I think this scene is one of the reasons that this text feels so appropriate for Rosh Hashanah. It's a moment poised between life and death. Hagar's keening wail pierces the wilderness like a shofar, mourning all of the mistakes and misfortune that have brought her so low and urging - somehow, beyond hope - that someone pay heed.

Hagar's cry epitomizes the sense of awe we feel during the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, as we imagine the pen poised to write our names in the book for life or for death. For while the book may be metaphoric, the fragile and finite nature of our lives is real.

Of course, Hagar's cry - or at least that of her son - is answered. As in the story of the Akedah, an angel appears in the nick of time. "Mah lach Hagar?" "What troubles you, Hagar?" he asks. It's striking that this angel seems so insensitive to human feeling. He comes upon a woman wailing in the wilderness, as her son lies dying not far away and asks, "What's wrong?" Then he proceeds to tell her about the wonderful future that lies ahead for her son and God opens her eyes and reveals a well. The traumatic events that brought her to this point are ignored and the angel says, in effect, "all's well that ends well."

What are we to make of all this? The unfolding of the divine plan leaves a great deal of suffering in its wake. Both here and in the Akedah, it's as if God engages in the same kind of deadly game the midrash ascribes to Ishmael. Children are threatened with death, their parents are tormented, and then in the end an angel appears to say everything will be fine. It was just mitzahek. Only playing.

On a human level, the story of Hagar and Ishmael represents a model of stern justice, unforgiving of human frailty. Relationships break down. Cold-hearted decisions are made for the sake of some greater good. The ends justify the means and the divine imperative to establish Isaac as Avraham's heir leaves a broken family in its wake. Is this an appropriate text to read on Rosh Hashanah - Yom Ha-Din, the Day of Judgement - as we attempt to face up to our failings and seek justice tempered with compassion? Do these tales of human suffering punctuated by miraculous redemption have any bearing on our lives?

I think we need to look for a more subtle message, and there are hints in the text - made explicit in midrash - of another process at work: a longing for reconciliation, an unwillingness to accept the human cost of these events, a need to make this family whole again.

Avraham's concern for Ishmael is expressed repeatedly. When God tells him that Sarah will bear a son, while his first reaction is to laugh, expressing his joy and surprise, his second reaction is to think of Ishmael. "Would that Ishmael might live by Your favor!" he declares. And God answers that Ishmael too will be blessed. While Avraham later makes no protest when asked to sacrifice Isaac, when Sarah demands that he banish Hagar and Ishmael he is "greatly disturbed." He only gives in when God confirms her words.

While there is a strong trend in midrash to vilify Hagar and Ishmael, the tradition is by no means monolithic. And it's striking how many midrashim exist that stress the continuing attachment of Avraham, Ishmael and Hagar.

When Avraham gives a skin of water to Hagar as he's sending her away, he's said to design it so it will drag behind her, creating a trail so he'll know where she's gone and be able to find her. At the time of the Akedah Ishmael reappears, cast as one of the two youths that accompany Avraham and Isaac on part of their journey. Later, Avraham is said to visit Ishmael repeatedly to check on how he's doing and give fatherly advice. And, ultimately, Ishmael is said to move back to Canaan to live near his father.

None of these stories are present in the Torah. They're products of the midrashic imagination. The Torah is silent on the subject of future relations between Ishmael and his family - with one exception: both Ishmael and Isaac are present at their father's burial. Some kind of reconciliation does seem to have taken place but the details are unclear.

There's another midrash that I find particularly poignant. After the Akedah, Isaac disappears from the text of the Torah. He's not mentioned returning with Avraham from Mount Moriah. He doesn't figure in the account of Sarah's death and burial. And when he finally is mentioned he's said to be returning from a place called Beer-lahai-roi. This is the well associated with Hagar, the place where she had her first encounter with an angel.

What was Isaac doing there? The midrash tells us that following the death of his mother Isaac went to find Hagar and bring her back to his father. What a compelling image this is: Isaac himself seeks out the woman who had been banished for his sake and brings her home. And when the Torah states that Avraham married again, to a woman named Keturah, she's said to be none other than Hagar.

Of course, this is another midrashic fantasy. There's no reason to think that events necessarily played out this way. But I think these stories of reconciliation have a powerful lesson to teach us. Their authors insisted on bringing a vision of healing to this story and provide a worthy model for us to emulate as we ponder our own lives.

Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Judgement, marks the beginning of a path that leads us to Yom Hakippurim, the day of forgiveness, of wiping clean. Yet one of the great challenges for many modern Jews is that while we may be pretty good at recognizing our faults, it's harder for us to achieve true forgiveness. We embrace the problems but not the solution. We're unwilling to reach out to those we've wronged, to admit our mistakes and make restitution. We engage in self-criticism but refuse to take it to heart and change. We don't act on our political beliefs.

Our challenge is to make these holidays work for us, to walk the path from conflict to reconciliation, from judgement to forgiveness. For it's this sense of being forgiven - by others, by ourselves, by God - which will allow us to emerge invigorated from Yom Kippur; that gives us another chance. Otherwise we will always be weighed down by the burdens of the past.

It's a difficult mandate but not impossible. Our tradition tells us it can be done. You know, it's always bothered me that our Machzor tells us we return every year with the same list of sins. That may be true but it doesn't help. We could use some successful teshuvah stories, accounts that encourage us to believe that we can right wrongs, embrace change and move forward.

I've tried to identify some of those stories in today's Torah reading and the midrash it spawned. But perhaps it's not too much to hope that we can spend the coming year creating some stories of our own.

L'Shanah Tova u'Metukah