Vayera: Blinded by the Light of God’s Face

Vayera: Blinded by the Light of God’s Face
D’var Torah by Boaz D. Heilman

Twenty four hours ago my brother had open heart surgery.

He has had a malfunctioning mitral valve for some time now, and the doctors recommended surgery to repair it.

It almost didn’t happen. The surgery was postponed once due to an emergency that kept the operating room busy far beyond its original schedule. Finally, when the rescheduled day arrived, there were still some questions. My brother looked healthy. Years of physical activity—as an avid soccer and basketball player and coach, then as director of youth activities for the city of Ramat Gan—kept him physically strong and fit. His arteries passed inspection. He could wait for anywhere between half a year and two years.

Yet my brother opted to undergo surgery that very day. He was psychologically ready for it, he said.

Turned out a good thing, too. When the surgeon looked on it, my brother’s heart was already enlarged, and it was already showing some insufficiency.

Twenty four hours later, we are now all breathing more easily. The first 24 hours passed. Though in obvious pain, he was already sitting up. With God’s help, his recovery has begun.

Nearly 8,000 miles away, I tried to be with my family during this tough period. I called them several times. Obviously saying to my brother l’hitraot –“we will see each other again”—a few hours before the operation was difficult.

Much harder was talking to our mother throughout this ordeal. I could only imagine her fears and her own heartache.

Thank God my brother was already under anesthesia when the knife was raised, so that he couldn’t see it lowered.

It’s a parent’s worst nightmare, and one that no father or mother should ever experience.

My mother has had many tests of her faith in her life. This must have been the toughest.

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayera (Gen. 18:1-22:24), our Father Abraham also undergoes the toughest test of his faith. Life was not easy for him, either. He had followed his calling—a mysterious inner calling to recognize a Divine force much greater than any that anyone had imagined before him. A force that was so enormous that it could pitch both the sun and the moon into their respective orbits; yet gentle enough to have set him, Abraham, on his own lonely journey.

Time after time, he was asked to show his faith in this relentless God. Unquestioningly, he never flinched but always did the right thing.

Yet this tenth and final test must have been the most agonizing.

Abraham is told to put his own beloved son, Isaac, under the knife. His own knife. “Offer him to me as a sacrifice on the top of a mountain that I shall show you,” calls God. Wordlessly, Abraham packs the wood and silently puts it on his son’s shoulder. Then, taking the knife and the fire in his own hand, the two proceed together on a three-day walk.

It doesn’t say what went on in Abraham’s heart and mind during that period. A short conversation between father and son seem to reassure Isaac and give Abraham pause to question his trust in this God who had promised him a future through the very boy He was now asking for. “Father,” says Isaac, perhaps questioning the relationship. “Yes, son, here I am,” responds Abraham, affirming his love for his son. “Here are the wood, the knife and the fire for the sacrifice, but where is the lamb?” “God will see to the lamb, my son,” Abraham says, no doubt wondering if the lamb is indeed to be his own son.

Father binds son to the altar. The ritual proceeds.

What faith Abraham must have had at that moment! Could God promise and yet negate His own word?

As the knife begins its slow descent to the living flesh and spirit of his much-loved son, Abraham must have been blinded by tears, just as Isaac must have been blinded by the reflection of the sun on the gleaming blade now slowly making its way to his heart.

We don’t offer child sacrifice any more.

The story of the Akeida—“the Binding of Isaac”—as it is known, is possibly the most terrifying moment of all the stories in the Torah. It effectively put a stop to this horrible ritual that was rife in the ancient world (and, sadly, still is practiced by some people in various forms and shapes).

“Don’t harm that boy,” comes the command from heaven, and the knife stops in midair.

The faith of Abraham was rewarded. A sacrificial ram mysteriously appears, its horns locked in a bush. He was right: God would not—could not—in good conscience take away what He had promised, the essential blessing that Abraham craved more than anything else in the world: to be a father. He had already lost Ishmael, his first born. It was through Isaac, however, that Abraham’s heritage was to continue and flower, and God was as good as His word.

We don’t offer our children to God anymore. But we do dedicate their lives to the service of God. With trust, we teach and prepare them; with faith we launch them into life. We entrust them with the old mission begun with Abraham, to seek justice and to care for all of God’s creation.

Despite the many tests we as individuals and as a people have endured, our own trust has not diminished. Even as we part from them—whether to send them off to Hebrew school or (may none of us ever know this) to the care of a surgeon—we are filled with prayer and faith. Faith in the knowledge we have gained along the way; faith in the skill of doctors and teachers; faith in the promise we hold God true to: To protect us along the way, to see to it that we make it to the other shore, across oceans, deserts, rivers or sickness.

We are all tested. But we pray: May we all pass, no matter how tough the test. May our faith always be there to give us strength, to help us all get through this ordeal.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman