Rosh Hashanah, 5766, Lee Bearson
Rosh Hashanah, Second Day Drash
October 5, 2005 / 2 Tishrei 5766
Lee Bearson
I’d like to dedicate this drash to the memory of my father, Robert Bearson, Reuven ben Yishayu v’Slava Gittel.
I’ve always associated the second day of Rosh Hashanah with my dad. You see, I was raised as a Reform Jew, and in our household the second day of Rosh Hashanah had a special place on the calendar. Well, actually, it was an empty place on the calendar, because we only celebrated one day. But what that meant was that after spending the first day with family and friends at our Temple, my father was free to go and spend the second day with his father who lived about fifty miles away. At some point I started to join him on these trips. I have vague memories of walking into small, unfamiliar shuls, virtually deserted even on the High Holy Days; rooms echoing with unfamiliar chanting. After my grandfather died, we continued our second-day tradition. Like Rosh Hashanah groupies, we followed a childhood friend of my father’s and went to daven wherever he served as hazan. These trips were very special times for me.
Having taken on this drash, it struck me that today’s Torah reading also concerns a father and son spending some quality time together. Admittedly, there are some differences. For one thing, my father always made it clear that he opposed human sacrifice—a fact I particularly appreciated as his firstborn.
Still, I was struck by the repeated references to avi and beni — my father, my son—in this sidrah, by the intimacy of Abraham and Isaac’s conversation, by the fact that we’re told repeatedly that they walked together. The word ahavah—love—occurs here for the first time in Torah: Isaac is identified as “asher ahavta”—“the one you love.” My sweet, nostalgic associations with the day led me to focus on these intimations of affection between Abraham and Isaac. But this only served to heighten the nightmarish quality of the story. Yes, there’s love here, but it’s paired with terror; there’s parental affection, but it’s overlaid with betrayal.
Rembrandt created an amazing etching which sums up this paradox for me: Isaac is shown kneeling on the altar. With his right arm, Abraham clasps his son tightly to his chest, embracing him, gently covering his eyes. But his left arm is outstretched—holding the knife.
I’ve discussed the bond between Abraham and Isaac, but theirs is not the primary bond tested in the akedah. Their relationship mirrors the connection between Abraham and God. Just as Isaac obediently accepts the commands of his father, so too Abraham unquestioningly accepts the will of God. God functions as a kind of surrogate parent to Abraham. The first command Abraham received was “Lech lecha mi-artzecha oo-mi-molad-t’cha oo-mi-beit aveecha”, “Go forth from your land, and your birthplace, and your father’s house…” From then on he dutifully accepts God’s direction. Despite his faithful service—without a word of explanation—God decides to test their relationship. The horrible logic of this test sets up a direct conflict between Abraham’s roles as dutiful son, as it were, to God, and loving father to Isaac. There’s really no question where his loyalty lies. He’ll fulfill God’s request. But at what cost? To what end?
In Erich Auerbach’s classic discussion of the akedah, he describes how the “stern hand of God” is at work upon the Biblical figures. God “has not only made them once and for all and chosen them, but [God] continues to work upon them, bends them and kneads them.” One wonders what role this ordeal plays in Abraham’s development. He goes through a heart-wrenching crucible only to be rewarded in the end with a promise virtually identical to what he had been promised before. The trial demonstrates his resolve and self-control. It may even strengthen him in Nietzsche’s sense: “that which does not kill me makes me stronger.” But is stronger necessarily better? The scar tissue that forms over a wound may be harder but it’s less supple.
And what of his relationship with Isaac? There are midrashim that serve to lessen the sense that Abraham betrayed his paternal role by making Isaac fully complicit in the akedah. The strange idea that he was a full-grown man—37 years old—at the time of the events described here—though disputed by Ibn Ezra and others—changes the balance of power. If Isaac was old enough to overpower his elderly father then clearly he wasn’t taken against his will. The fact that after asking, “Where is the sheep for the offering?” and receiving his father’s evasive answer, Isaac continues to walk along with him seems to indicate that at least by then he had some sense of what was to come and acquiesced.
Yet, after their encounter on Mount Moriah there is no record that they ever spoke to each other again. Indeed, when Abraham returns to his servants there is no mention of Isaac accompanying him. An odd midrash explains that after his reprieve Isaac left Abraham and went to study at the yeshiva of Shem and Eber. The idea that a yeshiva was established at that time is anachronistic, certainly, but I wonder if it expresses the idea that Isaac needed to find new teachers, that after this experience his father’s Torah was no longer for him. The tragedy of the akedah is that in the end Abraham and Isaac were lost to each other.
There is a strong tendency in Jewish thought to glorify and celebrate Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son. Despite our desire to view this story as a repudiation of human sacrifice, the reprieve granted Isaac at the end of the story is nearly eclipsed in later literature by the emphasis on Abraham’s determination to fulfill the inscrutable demand of God. The same man who urged God not to destroy the righteous people of Sodom saying, “Will not the Judge of all the earth do justice?” is silent here. The midrash accounts this to his credit, he might have reproached God, bringing up the previous promises about descendents which the loss of Isaac would invalidate, but he holds his peace.
This is not to say that the Rabbis ignored the ethical dilemma Abraham faced. They assumed that the Patriarchs observed Jewish law long before Sinai; that they were somehow provided with advance copies of the Shulchan Aruch. Certainly Abraham would have been aware of the prohibition against murder. Indeed, in midrash, the Satan appears to Abraham in the guise of a humble old man, saying:
“God gave you a son in your old age, will you go and slaughter him, who did not commit any violence? ...Don’t you understand that this thing cannot be from the Lord?”
But this sage advice is seen as just another trick intended to mislead Abraham. These are the words of the Satan. According to the Rabbis, Abraham triumphs by disregarding such doubts. He rebukes the Satan and continues on his way.
Later sources see such heroism in Abraham’s intentions that they in effect re-write the story, imagining that Isaac actually was sacrificed. This act, which so repels us, was considered the ultimate sign of religious devotion. Shalom Spiegel writes: “even those who battle against the nightmare of human sacrifice… are themselves not liberated from the power of the ancient demand.” In Bereshit Rabbah, even after the angel stays his hand, Abraham still invokes human sacrifice as a form of worship. He is said to pray, “…regard it as though I had …offered up my son Isaac…” There are ancient references to “the ashes of Isaac heaped on the altar” and the “blood of Isaac” being shed. And, as Spiegel suggests, the tendency is almost irresistible to say that if the “as though” is so powerful, wouldn’t the actual have been greater? The motif of a completed sacrifice later became a core concept in Christianity. Among Jews, the story inspired martyrs who actually slew their children in times of persecution and expressed the thought that if Abraham’s mere intention was praiseworthy, how much more so was their own completed act.
There’s an echo of this logic in the Torah text itself: the angel calls out to Abraham, “Do not raise your hand against the boy” and adds, ve-al ta-as lo me-u-mah “or do anything to him.” Why is this additional instruction necessary? What might Abraham have been about to do? Clearly, his resolve is so great, his momentum so powerful at this penultimate moment that the desire to do something—to complete the act in some symbolic way—is virtually unstoppable. But the angel tells him “no” not even a scratch.
The Kotzker Rebbe speaks to this point when he says that taking Isaac down from the altar was much harder than putting him up on it. Abraham is a man possessed; his focus is solely on obedience to God’s command. His entire being is poised to fulfill it. And yet despite this tunnel vision something remarkable happens. He is able to hear the voice of the angel. According to midrash, the angel calls out Abraham’s name twice because he’s too preoccupied to hear the first time. But ultimately he does hear the voice. He listens and he changes course. And I think it’s worth noting that he responds to the voice of the angel even though the original command came directly from God. Why is it the voice of an angel this time? According to the Zohar, Abraham perceived God’s commands as if “through a dim glass.” Part of his test was to discern the message of an unclear voice. Here, remarkably, he’s able to respond to the message of clemency delivered by a different voice, even a less authoritative one. The test of wills between Abraham and God is resolved by an intermediary. It’s almost as if after the akedah, God is reluctant to “face” Abraham, as it were. They never again have direct contact.
Having heard the angel, Abraham looks up and sees the ram ensnared nearby. Perhaps it was there all the time. The Torah utilizes a strange phrase to describe the ram. It’s called “ayeel achar,” a ram behind. Scholars feel that the word achar is most likely a scribal error. It should be the similar-looking word echad. Then the phrase would mean “one ram.” But I think perhaps the Torah text is correct, though it should be vocalized differently. The phrase might be “ayeel acher,” meaning “a different ram.” To me, Abraham’s great achievement is that at the critical moment—despite the tremendous momentum pushing him toward the fulfillment of his goal—he is able to hear the voice telling him that a different ram, an alternative sacrifice, is waiting nearby. His greatness lies in his ability to change course.
The shofar is the primary symbol of Rosh Hashanah, said to recall this ram. Its piercing cry is our wake-up call. Like the angel calling out to Abraham, it urges us to stop in our tracks, to pay attention. And I think it places the emphasis of this day back where it should be, not on the grim determination of Abraham’s walk to Mount Moriah but on the even more heroic moment when he was able to pause, to reconsider, to change direction.
And that, of course, is the challenge we face as we examine our deeds on this Day of Remembrance. I don’t think it’s wholly inappropriate to compare our task to Abraham’s. The paths we travel are well worn. The inertia that keeps us moving in the same direction is very powerful. We are no less set in our ways than he was, and as we don’t possess his mythic strength or unequivocal faith, our task is that much more daunting. Perhaps we can be like malachim—like Abraham’s angel— for each other. Perhaps we can help each other bridge the gap between what we are and what we’d like to be.
My father played that role in my life. He was not Abraham or Isaac in this story. He was the messenger who always saw me as better than I was. And ironically, it made it hard to be with him sometimes. I lived far away, and on my periodic visits home we’d always make time for a walk together. He lived near the canals in Long Beach and we’d make a circuit or two. Sometimes I dreaded those walks. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. It wasn’t that he was negative or judgmental—on the contrary, he was too positive. He saw everything about me and my brothers through rose-colored glasses. I felt like he didn’t see me as I actually was.
I used to dream up scenarios and imagine how he would react: I was sure that if I was arrested as an axe-murderer he’d respond, “Lee’s certainly in a difficult situation but he’s handling it well.” I could predict exactly what he was going to say on those long walks and as he spoke, the familiar riffs drove me crazy. At one point, I decided to deal with the situation pro-actively. When I came home for a visit I’d go for a long run on the beach—I think I got up to eight miles—and then, afterwards, when I was perfectly relaxed, I’d announce I was ready for a walk.
What’s strange is that now that he’s gone, it’s those things he used to say over and over again that I miss most—they were so quintessentially him. Looking back on my reactions I feel a little foolish. Now I understand that it wasn’t his job to see me accurately. With his rose-colored glasses, he helped me see what I might become. And now, when I walk without him, I consider it a great kindness that he repeated himself so much. I know his words by heart.
The angel says to Abraham: “Do not raise your hand against the boy or do anything to him.” My father’s words were a variation on this theme. This protective stance, the affirming words, the encouragement to fulfill our potential... these are the gifts of life that, as human beings, we may be blessed to give and to receive.
L’shanah Tova u’Metuka.
[Thanks to Rachel Brodie for last-minute editing and suggestions.]