Rosh Hashanah, 5764, Catherine Shadd
Rosh Hashanah 5764
Catherine Shadd
Bound Up in the Legacy of Isaac
The story of the Akedah, the Binding of Isaac, is one of the most intellectually and emotionally challenging readings of the entire Torah, and we read it on Rosh Hashanah when we are trying to spiritually strengthen ourselves and reconcile with those whom we have hurt and who may have hurt us. When we link the words "sacrifice" and "child," we usually think of the sacrifices we would make for our children or of those our parents made for us. Yet in the Akedah, we are forced to picture a parent, our Patriarch Abraham, preparing to sacrifice to God his beloved child, Isaac, the one he and Sarah longed for and were miraculously given by God in their very old age. At a time when we are to reconfirm our closeness to God, we read of a God who requests the Akedah, the same God who promises Abraham descendents as numerous as the stars through this very son. What sense can we possibly make of this story?
There is a huge amount of writing on the Akedah, most of it focusing on Abraham who we are told God is testing, but as I read and reread the Akedah, my thoughts kept turning to Isaac. I kept wondering how the whole experience affected Isaac and his relationships with his father and with God. What do the Akedah narrative itself, the midrashim about it, and the narrative in Genesis of Isaac's subsequent life tell us about the impact of the Akedah on Isaac, and what can we learn from the example of his life which may help us as we begin our New Year's journeys into ourselves and towards God?
Before the Akedah narrative, Isaac is mentioned only three times in the Torah: when God promises Abraham the birth of a son and even gives him the name Isaac; when his birth occurs; and when at eight days his circumcision is performed and celebrated. The very next moment of Isaac's life narrated in the Torah is his father's attempt to fulfill God's command to offer him as a sacrifice. This moment, I think, marks the beginning of Isaac's spiritual journey, the beginning of his conscious experience of God.
The Akedah story itself is almost skeletal. The text tells us that God calls to Abraham, tells him to take his favored and beloved son Isaac, and go to a place which God will point out to offer him as a burnt sacrifice. Early the next morning, Abraham packs up, gathers a few servants and Isaac, and heads out. They journey for three days in silence, a silence which Louis Berman in his book about the Akedah calls "the most poignant and eloquent silence in all literature," and Avivah Zornberg in hers about Genesis calls, "a muteness that encompasses all words." Then Abraham sees the place God intends and tells his servants, "We will worship and we will return to you." Abraham then puts the wood onto Isaac's back, grabs his other supplies and the two walk on together. This is when the only dialog between Abraham and Isaac occurs. Calling out "Father!" Isaac asks, "Where is the sheep for the burnt offering?" Abraham responds that God will provide the sheep. They continue on together, arriving at their destination. Abraham builds an altar, arranges the wood, binds Isaac, lays him atop the altar, and raises the knife to kill him. At this point, the sacrifice is aborted by an angel calling Abraham and God telling him not to raise his hand against the boy or do anything to him. Abraham looks up to see a ram caught in a thicket and offers it instead of his son. An angel then calls to Abraham a second time, promising in exchange for his willingness to offer his son, a multitude of blessed descendants. Abraham then returns to his servants. That's it.
A myriad of questions pops into our minds as we read this. How old is Isaac? Does he really acquiesce so passively? No screams, tears, begging for his life, calling upon his father's love? What does it mean that the text says twice, "they walked on together?" And why does only Abraham return to the servants? Where does Isaac go?
Since the text leaves so much unsaid and stirs up in the reader such a torrent of emotions, the Sages through commentary and in midrash try to fill in some of the gaping holes and assuage some of our feelings of upset. One issue they address is Isaac's age. While the Torah refers to Isaac as na'ar translated as "boy" or "youth," all we really know is that he is old enough to carry a rather large amount of firewood on his back, enough to burn a sheep to ashes. Joseph Albo suggests that Isaac is 16 at the time of the Akedah. Josephus posits 25. Others estimate 37 since we know from the Torah that Sarah is 90 when she bears Isaac and 127 when she dies, possibly of shock at hearing of the Akedah. Talmudic Sages stress that Isaac is 37, old enough to prevent Abraham from tying him up had he wanted to resist. They extrapolate from this that Isaac not only willingly participates, but also is eager to perform this mitzvah. These and other midrashim encourage us to picture Isaac as old enough to have thoughts and feelings about what is happening as he walks for three days with his father in total silence.
What can we find in midrash about Isaac's thoughts and feelings on the three day journey up Mt. Moriah? The many and varied midrashim generally depict Isaac rising above his emotions to join Abraham on his high spiritual plateau, walking spiritually as well as physically "together with" his father. Isaac is presented as expressing his concern for his parents' wellbeing after his death; as not only agreeing to be sacrificed, but pleading with Abraham to tie him firmly so that he won't be made unfit for the sacrifice; as telling Abraham that he is honored to have been chosen by God to serve as an example for future generations of how the soul of a man can be made by God worthy of sacrifice. I found almost nothing in midrash, short of some elaboration of the abbreviated dialog between them, to indicate that Isaac tries to change his father's or God's mind or otherwise "acts out."
I did find midrash on Abraham's emotional state, especially as he raises the knife to stab his son, but the midrashic Isaac lying atop the altar seems to quickly enter an altered state. Lying under the raised knife, the Isaac of legend looks directly at the Shekhinah and is blinded. One midrash tells us that Isaac faints and his soul takes flight. Another explains that Isaac actually dies of fright when his father lifts the knife, and is revived by the heavenly voice calling to Abraham not to continue.
It has perplexed readers over the years that in the next lines of the text Abraham alone is reported returning to his servants, with no mention of Isaac. Where does Isaac go? Babylonian Sages suggest that immediately after the Akedah, Abraham sends Isaac off to study for three years. Others state that he stays on Mt. Moriah for three years until his marriage to Rebekah at age forty, or that he is brought to Heaven or to the Garden of Eden by the Holy One who heals him and returns him to earth several years later. What is clear from all the various midrashim on this question is that Isaac went somewhere for a time without Abraham.
I mention so many and varied midrashim to show that the gaps in the story have plagued those who study Torah for many years. We know so little of Isaac's relationship with God prior to the Akedah that it is hard to imagine how he might have understood this pivotal event. It seems that one effect of midrash was to soften the emotional impact of the image of a passive Isaac bound upon the altar by making him a willing participant, thus bringing him and Abraham into harmony with one another, and with God, more truly "together" than the facts of the story may otherwise suggest. Another effect seems to be to prevent the near sacrifice from traumatizing Isaac by taking him out of the concrete experience and elevating him to a mysterious, holy plane.
Yet I am still left wondering how Isaac digests the whole experience and how his near sacrifice influences the rest of his life. As we read of Isaac's subsequent life in the Torah, are there any signs of backshadowing to the Akedah experience? As far as we know from the text, Isaac and Abraham never see each other again. The very next event after the Akedah narrative is Sarah's death. According to the Torah, Abraham mourns and bewails her, acquires a burial site, and buries her. Isaac is not even mentioned, neither mourning nor burying her. This omission stands out, particularly since we know Sarah favored Isaac. While we don't know for sure Isaac's age at the time of the Akedah, we know from the Torah's math that Isaac is 37 when his mother dies, old enough to feel deep grief and to be present and helpful to his father at the burial. The riddle of his absence persists in the Torah's next narrative event concerning Isaac. We read that after Abraham's servant chose Rebekah as a bride for him, Isaac brings her into the tent of his mother Sarah as his wife. To quote from Genesis, "Isaac loved her, and thus found comfort after his mother's death." We learn here that Isaac has been grieving for his mother, which makes his absence at her burial hang more heavily in our mind. Is he not ready or not able to face his father?
Isaac is next mentioned as the inheritor of all that Abraham owned, so we know that he starts his married life with considerable wealth. And the next sighting of him is after Abraham's death, when we read that Ishmael and Isaac bury their father next to Sarah. He not only comes to bury his father, but performs this filial duty together with his estranged brother. What prompts Isaac to come to this burial? Has he gone through some inner reconciliation.
The remainder of Isaac's life is narrated in parasha Tol'dot. Again, the story line is somewhat thin, but comprises of a number of incidents. The fact that he talks to God comes up when we read that he "pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea." We learn here that he hasn't cut himself off from the God of his father, despite what that God may have put him through on Mt. Moriah. Again we don't know how old Isaac is when he pleads with God, but we know from the text that he is 40 at the time of his marriage to Rebekah and that he doesn't become a father until he is 60 when Rebekah gives birth to twins, Jacob and Esau. Through possibly 20 years of a childless marriage, Isaac never takes any concubines, remaining loyal and monogamous. We are told that Isaac favors Esau because Esau is a good hunter and Isaac "had a taste for game." The portrait of Isaac which is emerging is that of a man who feels some connection to God, and is very rooted in earthly things- he loves his wife and enjoys a good meal.
Details of Isaac's next 100 years, the time which elapses between the birth of the twins and the mix-up with their blessings, add several more strokes to this portrait even though the Torah mentions Isaac only a few more times. He lives a semi-nomadic life within the land of Canaan. During a famine, he sets out for Egypt, but God speaks to him, telling him not to go there, but to stay in the land "which I point out to you." We read that he is very successful in agriculture, reaping "a hundred-fold the same year" he sows. The Torah tells us that the Lord blesses him and he grows richer, acquiring flocks, herds, and a large household. Our Etz Hayim points out in a footnote that "Isaac finds himself reliving many of the events of his father's life: travelling south in time of famine, passing his wife off as his sister out of fear of his own safety, coming into conflict with his neighbors and being reconciled with them." Genesis 26:18 tells us, "Isaac dug anew the wells which had been dug in the days of his father Abraham… and he gave them the same names that his father had given them." (I will return to this image of digging wells later.) God appears to him once more, repeating the promise to be with him and to bless and increase his offspring. The portrait of Isaac in these chapters is again that of an earth-bound, though somewhat restless man, who journeys, but not too far afield, makes practical decisions, and benefits from God's blessings.
The final chapters involving Isaac center on his relationships with his sons. We learn that he is troubled that Esau, his favorite son, married out -- he married a Hittite. Isaac's eyesight is now quite dim, but he still enjoys a good, gamy meal and believes he will give his "innermost blessing" to the son who is the hunter, although he is tricked into giving it to Rebekah's favorite, Jacob. The final event in the narrative of Isaac's life is his being "gathered to his kin" at age 180, dying, and being buried by both his sons. The portrait of Isaac in these final chapters of his life is of a man whose connection with the earth is literally fading- his vision is dimming and his taste for game causes complications and pain- but whose connection with future generations and with God is intact.
In summing up Isaac's life, Morris Adler in his book The Voice Still Speaks, writes, "Nothing spectacular happened to Isaac. He made no particular contribution, no addition to the tradition he received from Abraham; he injected no idea, no startling insight. The tradition arising out of a great intellectual ferment seems, in the life of Isaac, to have reached a plateau." I think that something quite extraordinary happens to Isaac- he is bound and placed on a sacrificial altar by his father. After such an experience, who could do anything more than cling to temporal, earthly things? A relatively calm, ordered life must have been very comforting to him. And yet, more significant to me than Isaac's earthly connections is the fact that he doesn't break with God, his father and the tradition which potentially so traumatized him. I imagine Isaac wandering in his father's lands all those years, cleaving to Rebecca and tasty game, trying to make some peace within himself and with God who asked such an impossible thing of him and his father.
I see Isaac's legacy to us in two key facts in the Torah narrative of his life. First, he never abandons God. Whatever internal struggles he may have endured after the Akedah, he manages to hold onto his connection with God until the end of his life. While Isaac is clearly, from even before his birth, bound up in God and Abraham's plans for the future, he also possesses a free will and can make choices. Isaac chooses to remain loyal to his father's covenant with God and to pass it on to his progeny. Very traumatizing experiences have the potential to turn us away from God, but Isaac's honoring his father's Covenant allows it to be passed along to the next generation with the chain unbroken, l'dor va-dor, all the way to us, sitting here today.
I think the second part of Isaac's legacy to us lies in the narrative of his journey, both together with and separate from his father Abraham. Isaac goes up to the very top of Mt. Moriah with his father, but for whatever unknown reasons, cannot return with him. He apparently must make some kind of physical and spiritual journey alone. He goes his separate way and after so doing, he returns (with a little nudge from God) to the land of his father where he makes his own life, a life different from that of his father. But in making this life, we have the beautiful and poignant description of Isaac redigging his father's wells. Midrash abounds in references to Torah being like water, and the image here has Isaac back at the wells, whether actual water or a metaphor for the word of God, of his father. I love this image of Isaac criss-crossing Abraham's path and digging the same wells that his father dug, and I see it quite metaphorically. There is still something he seeks to get, some kind of basic sustenance, from the "wells" of his father. Only after separating from Abraham, burying him and then returning to his lands, is he able to go back also to Abraham's wells.
What does the Akedah and the legacy of Isaac's life, as I have outlined it, have to do with us, and particularly on Rosh Hashanah? At this time of year, we look within. When we do that, we sometimes see out parents. We might ask ourselves, "In what ways do I carry with me the effects of my parents' influence on my life?" When we are young, our parents may do things that we think at the time we will never understand or for which we may never be able forgive them. Later in life, after our own struggles and journeys have unfolded, we start to recognize that our parents were also on a journey. We start the process of looking back over our shoulders for their signposts, while we are marking our own, and even starting to think about what we will leave behind for the next generation. Isaac offers us an example of this process. I think all of us journey with our parents and apart from them, not just geographically and at certain classic points of separation like going to college or permanently partnering, but in a deeper way. There are times when we naturally go away, and others when we may painfully pull away in reaction to something said or done. But as we create our own paths in life, we may cross our parents' paths and look for water in wells which they have dug more than we realize. Even if our parents are no longer living, they continue to be a strong presence in our lives and we have moments of realizing that we are in their lands and that the wells they dug, even years ago, are still accessible to us. These wells contain values and beliefs, examples of lives lived earnestly and with hopes for future generations. Especially at this time of year when we are engaged in teshuvah, in turning, in returning to God, we can take some time to feel grateful towards and connected to our parents, living or deceased. Perhaps dipping into their wells can bring us closer to them or help to heal a past hurt. We may be surprised at what we find in those old wells.
I want to dedicate this drash to my parents, my mother, of blessed memory, and my father, who lives 3,000 miles away from here, but whose presence I feel as I stand here today. Earlier today, my father talked to the same God we have been talking to, but in a little church in a small town in Rhode Island. That church is the place where I was baptized and taught Sunday School, where my sister was married, where my brother, mother, and grandparents were buried, and where my father prays every Sunday morning. I left home and the church when I was 17 and traveled far away, both geographically and in my searching, and have ended up here--not a church--in this place on Rosh Hashanah with echoes of my early life all around me. With you, and as a Jew, I have been able to continue the dialog with God, which I began as a child and from which I took such a long break. I have rediscovered as a Jew the security of knowing God is with me, the feeling of spiritual community, the joy of joining my voice together with many in prayer, the pleasure of sitting with my family in a shul together with other families. I know that I would not feel these things today if my parents hadn't dug the well which held these blessings, and I am deeply grateful to them for these gifts. In my case, the well may have flowed into another well, the waters are in fact very different, but somehow I taste something familiar, and I feel that my life path is crossing that of my parents.
In closing I want to quote from Arnold Eisen in his book Taking Hold of Torah: "God wants what all parents want from their children: not to live as they did, but to walk in their path, to argue seriously over the meaning of their teachings." What Isaac did in preserving the connection with God and with his father is what we all are trying to do- to hold onto God, take what is truly meaningful from our experiences with our parents, keep that alive in ourselves, and eventually pass it on to the next generation. This is the chain of life in a larger sense and the continuity of Jewish life in particular.
This year may we strengthen and deepen our relationships both with God and with our parents, as we drink from wells dug deep in the decades and millennia before us.
L'shanah tovah tikatevu!