Sarah’s Tent: D’var Torah for Parashat Chayei Sarah

Sarah’s Tent

D’var Torah for Parashat Chayei Sarah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

On the 51st anniversary of my bar mitzvah

Chayei Sarah (“The Life of Sarah,” Genesis 23:1—25:18) begins with Sarah’s death.  She had lived 127 years and now has breathed her last.

We don’t know the circumstances of her death.  The Torah doesn’t tell us.  Last we heard, she was presumably at Beer Sheba, in the region of the Negev Desert, where the first Hebrew family finally settled down.  She may have seen Abraham and Isaac off on that fateful morning when the two set out together on journey that would change their lives forever.

And then she dies.

Isaac does not see her again, and the loss, especially at this moment in his life, must have been devastating.  He was already in a state of shock:  An innocent lad did die on that mountaintop—the boy he used to be, full of innocent faith and trust.  Whoever Isaac would become from that moment on would always carry deep within him a spiritual scar, the result of that encounter between God, Abraham, a boy on the altar and a ram caught in the thicket by his horns.

The funeral and burial of Sarah in the purchased Cave of Machpeila must have been like a blurry vision to Isaac.  He takes to wandering after that, preferring the area where his half-brother, Ishmael, was banished.  Isaac must come to terms with being bereft of father, mother and brother, unable or unwilling to return to his family home, now so empty and quiet.

Abraham sees and understands the turmoil in Isaac’s heart and soul.   He knows exactly the cure, too:  Isaac must have a wife.

Nothing grounds a boy better than having a family to take care of.

But it isn’t just any girl who’ll fit the bill in this case.  This chosen young woman must be able to fill Sarah’s tent.

Luckily, the one already exists.  We hear about Rebekah’s birth at the end of last week’s portion, immediately following the Akeida, the attempted sacrifice of Isaac.  Now, in this week’s portion, we learn what makes her qualified:  She is courageous, compassionate, and physically strong (having to draw water for 10 camels following a long desert journey is no easy task).  Rebekah displays the virtue of hospitality, and despite her youth (if you follow Torah’s chronology, she is all of three years old…) she is a force to reckon with at home.  Even as her brother and mother agree to send Rebekah off to marry Isaac, they must still ask for her own nod of approval.

It is at this moment that Rebekah proves herself perfect for the match.  Just as Abraham, her great uncle, had once left his homeland so long ago, so she, too, chooses to undertake this journey of faith and go to a strange land, there to marry a man she has never laid eyes on.

What did she know at that moment?  She was well aware of the greed and avarice that characterized her family, yet it was her family, whom she loved and was loved by in return. Did she see then already that there was another way, another path, one characterized by honesty, morality and faith?  How could she know that Abraham’s servant would guide her to that truthfully to that path now calling out to her?

Yet without a moment’s hesitation, Rebekah assents to leave her past behind her and journey toward a new beginning.

It’s a leap of faith Abraham was sure was bound to happen.  That’s why he sent his servant there in the first place—to find this person.  He knew she was bound to appear and lend herself to the sacred task.

That it happens just so is a scene for the movies.  It is towards evening time.  The sun is setting in a blazing splash of crimson, gold and orange.  Isaac can be seen in the distance, coming home from his daily meanderings.  Yet, as he lifts his eyes, he can see in the far distance the silhouette of a caravan of camels.  He can’t see much more than that, but Rebekah, riding one of those camels, can.  Told that the solitary man she could barely see in the distance was Isaac, she modestly covers her face with her veil and slides off the camel.  It’s love at first sight (no matter how sun- and God-blinded they both were at that moment).

Isaac finds comfort and love with Rebekah and is willing to settle in the family tent with her as his wife.

It turns out that Chayei Sarah—the Life of Sarah—never ends.  True, her body is interred in the burial cave Abraham had purchased, but her soul—her energy, her life force—lives on through Rebekah.  The family’s legacy will continue past the generation of its forebears.

That is the true inheritance Sarah leaves behind her, a legacy still ongoing to this very day.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Foundation of Faith: Vayeira

The Foundation of Faith

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayeira

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The pivotal points of this week’s parasha, Vayeira—“And God was seen” [by Abraham], Gen. 18:1-22:24—appear at the beginning of the portion and then again at its end.  As Vayeira begins, God announces to Abraham His intent to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah.  Later, at the end of the portion, God issues a terrible demand—that Abraham offer his beloved son, Isaac, as a sacrifice to God.  These are momentous, even cataclysmic moments in Abraham’s life.  But exactly because they are so significant, we tend not to notice the background of the story. 

If the bookends of this parasha demonstrate Abraham’s faith and deepening sense of morality, the middle is about the decadence and depravity that were the characteristics of the culture of the time and place.

Against such dismal background, Abraham’s response to God’s challenges stands out as a towering example of justice and compassion.  His faith in a God who models these values becomes the foundation of our own relationship with the Divine.

Abraham isn’t self-righteous, as Noah had been ten generations earlier.  Abraham protests against the injustice he perceives around him.  He even goes so far as to upbraid God for the plans to destroy entire cities, seemingly without regard for the innocent among the guilty.

However, in the famous passage in which Abraham questions God (Genesis 18:25, “Will the Judge of the entire earth not perform justice?”), he also expresses a new and even revolutionary idea.  Righteous acts do not bring rewards only to those who perform them; in the moral balance upon which the world rests, righteousness can outweigh wickedness.  The good deeds of the few can overpower the evil of the many.  It is, of course, still a balance.  If there simply aren’t enough good deeds, destruction invariably must follow, as it does in the case of Sodom and Gomorrah.

This potential for redemption that Abraham recognizes in his fellow human beings makes him so different from everyone else around him.  Abraham sees into the human soul itself—and he expects God to do the same.   

Some see Abraham’s dispute with God, in which he argues for God to desist from His plans of destruction, as one in a series of ten tests that Abraham must pass in order to prove himself worthy of being the father of a new people.  Yet it can also be seen as the total opposite:  Abraham is testing God. 

It is no simple matter to abandon traditional ways and to follow a new, mysterious, invisible God.  Abraham is willing to do it, but only if God proves true and worthy of his trust and faith.  In order for Abraham to worship God, God cannot be like the amoral gods of the surrounding nations.  God can’t be vain or envious, imperious or high-handed.  Abraham has already proven his trust by leaving his homeland and going to this new land God had told him about.  Now it’s God’s turn.

And so when the final and most awful of these ten tests of faith comes, the traditional view is to see it as the ultimate test of Abraham’s faith.  But it is just as much a test by Abraham of God’s trustworthiness.

The call to Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, the beloved child he and Sarah had at such an advanced age, must have seemed like the most crushing demand.  Isaac was to be the ultimate proof of God’s intent, the goal and sweetest reward God had intended for Abraham.  It was through Isaac that God’s promise to Abraham would be fulfilled.  Yet now this same God seemed to contradict Himself and take everything back

What filled Abraham’s heart and mind at that moment?  We can imagine the pain and sorrow, the disappointment and even frustration.  There must have been anger and bitterness.  Yet, without so much as a peep, Abraham complies with the command he hears. 

Who of us would be so steadfast in our faith as Abraham was when he set out on this tragic journey?  Yet the very same Abraham who had earlier argued with God so passionately about the evil cities of Sodom and Gomorrah now says nothing at all.  Wordlessly, he saddles his donkeys, takes wood, fire and a sharp knife, and step-in-step with his beloved son, leaves early in the morning.

As Abraham saw it, however, the test was not whether he would actually go ahead and offer Isaac.  The test was whether God would stop him from such a terrible and wrongful act.

It was the ultimate test of God’s character.  Would the God who forbade any abuse and violence now demand the life of an innocent child?  If so, then that would disqualify anything Abraham had done for this God up until this moment.  It would mean that his lifelong struggle against injustice, against blind ignorance, against immorality, against all that he considered evil, was meaningless.

Yet Abraham is full of faith.  To the last moment, holding the knife high over his boy’s chest, he is certain that God would stop him.

And God does just that, showing Abraham a ram to offer instead of his son.

Though intended as a test of faith, for Abraham—and for all Abraham’s descendants from that point on—this moment becomes a model lesson.  Dedicating our children to God does not mean we harm them.  Rather, we must rear them lovingly, educate them, teach them what God is all about and what God expects of us.

Vayeira thus lies at the foundation of our faith as a people.  The title of this portion means “God appeared.”   It is through these tests that God appeared to Abraham.  Similarly, so does God “appear” to us too.  God is the sum total of the values we hold sacred.  Our pursuit of justice and compassion; the faith we have in the potential of every human being to be good; the love we show our children and the wisdom we endow them with—these are the foundation stones of our faith. As long as we hold these values sacred and follow them, our people survives.

But it’s a precarious balance, one that demands our careful attention in purpose and detail.  After all, it isn’t only our own survival, but also the survival of the entire world that hinge on these acts of faith.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Rewards of Faith: Lekh L'cha

The Rewards of Faith

D’var Torah for Parashat Lekh L’cha

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

As this week’s portion, Lekh l’cha (Genesis 12:1—17:27), begins, Abram is called upon by God to set out on a journey.

We are never told why God tells Abram to leave his homeland and family and strike out for another country altogether, a country he would call home but where he would never be at home.

Was it out of desperation?  Was Abram as rebellious a child as the Midrash—rabbinic literature from the 1^st—5^th centuries—paints him?  If so, he only grew worse, because God’s call, “Lekh l’cha” (“Go, you!”) comes when Abram is 75 years old.  His nature, so at odds with the prevalent culture around him, finally forces him to leave everything and make a new start elsewhere.

And if not from desperation or boredom, what would he be looking for at that age?

Whatever the reason, it was an irreversible step.  Abram was leaving behind everything he knew, and it was going to be forever.  It was a sacrifice to abandon his comfortable existence; a sacrifice to leave his family, knowing he would never see them again.

So why do it? 

Partially, the answer is as the Midrash proposes.  Aware of the unity of God from the age of three (some rabbis say 13), as a child Abram went around smashing idols and mocking idolaters who would offer food and prayer to wood and stone statues.  Ultimately, Abram incurs the wrath of the local tyrant, Nimrod, who imprisons him and orders him burnt alive in a furnace.  Saved by angels, it is then for his own protection that Abram receives the call from God to leave.

But there are also other answers for why Abram merited that call.  

Unlike Noah, who abandoned to the raging waters of the flood all but himself, his immediate family, and a chosen select few from the vast animal kingdom, Abram always concerned himself with the welfare of all those who lived around him.  Leaving his homeland, he takes with him not only his own family and household, but others as well, others who somehow had come under Abram’s magnanimous protection.

And, too, Abram had faith.  His belief in the one God he had discovered so long ago gave him the courage to follow God wherever God would direct him.

Immediately after the call to leave, God holds out a promise for Abram:  God would bless and protect him; Abram would become a source of blessing in his own right.  All who bless Abram would be blessed by God, all who curse him would be cursed.  It is armed with this promise, holding this candle out before him, protecting it from the elements, that Abram agrees to leave his homeland and go in the vague direction God tells him (“To a land which I will show you”).  It is his faith that God would not lead him wrong, that God would always be there for him and with him.

It is in recognition of Abram’s faith that God sends him out to seek a new home for his family, to become there the father of a great nation.

It’s a faith that will be tested time and again.  At one point in the portion, Abram has to claim that Sarai, his wife, is actually his sister.  True, his action endangers Sarai:  It was the custom of the ancient noblemen and royals that any beautiful woman they saw and desired they could take for themselves; if she was married, they would kill the husband.  This way, with a little white lie, at least Abram and Sarai had a chance…

But it was Abram’s faith that strengthened them both at that moment—faith that God would protect Sarai, and that through this sacrifice Abram would fare well too.

Not everyone around him had such faith.  Abram’s nephew, Lot, separates from the Abram’s household and gravitates towards the evil cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.  Captured in war, Lot and his family are carried off by the victorious kings of the north.  At hearing the news, without a moment’s hesitation, Abram goes to the rescue.  In this case, Abram knows, Lot’s faith alone was not sufficient to bring about Divine intervention. In this case, human intervention was called for, and off to the rescue Abram goes.

In yet another test of his faith, Abram is shown a frightening dream.  In a terrifying, dark vision, he is told that his descendants, children of his own children, would be exiled from their land, turned into slaves, and that they would suffer terribly for four hundred years before God redeems them.

Now, it’s one thing to leave one’s past behind, even for the sake of vague promises held out for some distant future.  But it’s another thing altogether to now be told that this future, for which Abram already had sacrificed so much, would be filled with yet so much more suffering. 

It isn’t every person who would be willing to go through with such an offer.  There is a limit to what we can agree to, particularly when it comes to our children and children’s children.  Sorrow isn’t something we would wish for them, certainly not for four centuries.

Yet Abram’s faith is strong.  He knows with unquestioning certainty that God’s plans of redemption would come real, that in due time Abram’s descendants would be rewarded beyond all measure.  It is for the sake of that promise that Abram agrees. Enacting a ritual called b’rit  (“covenant”), Abram places the people who in time would come to be known as Israel in a direct, personal, relationship with God, much as he himself was for his whole life.  As Abram knows, it would prove a successful bond, one that would bring the people unimagined rewards and blessings.

It is at this point, with this victory of his faith, that Abram’s name becomes Abraham, the added “h” symbolic of God’s presence in his life and in the life of all his descendants.  Standing for God’s name, it stands for the promise of Redemption, a promise that, if only we hold fast to our first forefather’s faith and if we carry on his deeds of righteousness, God would continue blessing us, our children, and our children’s children, and that we, in turn, would be a blessing to all who know us.

It’s a reward well worth the wait, even the suffering that might come with it.  It is the ultimate reward of our faith, and one we have seen come true in every age since Abraham. 

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Righteous Man: Noah

A Righteous Man

D’var Torah for Parashat Noah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In modern Hebrew, the word teiva has several meanings.  It’s a geometric shape—a six-sided rectangular container; it’s a musical measure, marked off by vertical bar lines.  It also signifies a word, one unit of a sentence.  A common denominator is that teiva is some sort of vessel or container, ready to be filled as necessary.

In Jewish ritual and tradition, however, the word has three meanings—and only three.  In the Noah story, teiva signifies the ark that will be filled by all the living creatures Noah will bring with him and save from the raging flood.  In a later story, teiva is the little wicker basket that Moses will be placed into and set on the waters of the Nile River. 

The third use of the word is to indicate the Holy Ark, the container which houses a temple’s Torah scrolls.

Since the word itself remains the same, it becomes clear that what we fill the teiva with is of the essence in understanding its purpose and meaning.

Noah’s Ark is one of the world’s oldest and most beloved stories.  It contains just the right amount of darkness as light, as much despondence as hope.  It is key in understanding the Jewish view of God and God’s role in the world.  It is, in its own right, a teiva—a container—for one of the most important messages passed down by humanity through its generations and evolution.  Saving life is our purpose, this story teaches us.  All life, down to that which has the merest breath of life in it.

Of course, saving a life doesn’t mean only hauling it on board (and perhaps, as in Life of Pi, learning to live with whatever form it takes, no matter how fierce and dangerous).  What Noah learns in this week’s Torah portion (simply called Noah, Genesis 6:9—11:32) is to sustain and nurture the living creatures he had saved and suddenly found himself responsible for.  It becomes up to him to feed the animals; to clean up after them; to heal them if they became sick; and to take care of any young ones born during the year or so that they all share a football-field-size boat without portholes, doors or open-air decks.

From largest to smallest, Noah learned to nourish and take care of them.

It must have been “fun” to be a zoo tender for that year.

Except for the roaring of the floodwaters outside, the thunderclaps and wild howling of the wind, the screaming of the drowning animals and humans, and the wailing of their children.

Noah learned all about responsibility that year.  With deep sadness, he understood the mistakes he had made in the past.  He realized how distracted from his true mission he had become.  Long ago, he was expected to be a great man, a righteous man, one who could talk with God.  One who would become the world’s savior.  But he was sidetracked by his callousness, maybe even narcissism.  He failed by not teaching his neighbors about the power of repentance.  He failed by being content with the knowledge that he was the only one judged righteous enough to have God talk to him, save him and his family, and entrust him with the noble task as being a savior.

Now Noah saw himself as a failed messiah.  Far from being a savior of all life, he found himself in a single teiva, a single, walnut-shell sized vessel in a vast deluge, storm-tossed and miserable, caretaker of a minute sampling of all that once existed all that had been alive just a short time earlier.

It was a humbling lesson and one which, ultimately, crushed Noah.  Disembarking from the ark, he became a gardener, a vineyard keeper who, at night, alone, would get drunk in his tent and lose himself in the sweet oblivion that soon became his only solace. 

It’s a sad ending to a life that had begun so brilliantly, with so many great expectations.

For the Torah tellers, however, this legendary moral tale becomes the precursor for a whole new storyline.  It took ten generations from Adam to Noah; ten generations from the first mindless murder of one human being by another to the understanding that there simply had to be a way to control the Evil that resided with us.  Now, with the ending of the Noah story, it would take yet another ten generations—the ten generations between Noah and Abraham—to lead us to the next step in our spiritual evolution.

It would be a journey not on water, but across land and desert; a journey taken not in silent remorse, but rather filled with an ongoing conversation, an unfolding discussion with God about the world and how it should be run.

But it will take a man more righteous than Noah, a man righteous not only in his own generation, but for all generations.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman