Lessons Our Fathers Taught Us: Vayeira 2018

Lessons Our Fathers Taught Us: Vayeira 2018

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

We rabbis often display a keen sense of righteousness.  We know what’s right, we speak of it often, and we do so with weighty authority. Somewhere along the way, whether yet in rabbinic school or through listening to other, more worthy preachers, we also pick up a certain voice, a rhythm and cadence that manage to convince everyone that we know whereof we speak.

Well, tonight I choose to speak of something that—for a change—I know very little about: Raising children.

I do that because this week’s Torah portion, Vayeira(Genesis 18:1—22:24) includes the story of the Binding of Isaac, the harrowing drama of the child born to Abraham and Sarah and then nearly offered by his father as sacrifice to God. This story has been visited and revisited countless times. It’s been topic of endless discussions, and still remains mysterious and unresolved to this day. What was God’s purpose in requesting this sacrifice—after promising Abraham progeny and seemingly fulfilling the promise through Isaac’s birth? What was Abraham thinking in agreeing? Was it all some great hoax? A misunderstanding, as some propose? Additionally, there’s Sarah’s silence. Did Abraham leave her guessing, as he does with all the other characters in the story?  And—most urgently—why did Abraham not protest, as he had done just earlier in the portion, when God informs him of  His intention to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?

The Midrash teaches that the Binding of Isaac was the tenth and most challenging test of faith that God put Abraham through. If so, it was a cruel gesture, one that led to heartbreak and tragedy. How could God be so vicious and heartless?

In lieu of trying yet again to solve these puzzles, I want to approach the subject from a different perspective. Rather than this being a test of the relationship between God and Abraham, can this story be a lesson that Abraham might have been trying to teach Isaac?  A lesson about life, or perhaps about faith and God?

In earlier Torah portions and stories, we’ve seen several examples of parents—or other teachers—failing to teach their children and pupils. Adam never tells Cain that killing his brother is wrong. Noah doesn’t begin to warn his neighbors about their violent ways; nor does he clarify for his sons the rights and wrongs of sexual ethics. 

We don’t know much about the way Isaac is brought up or taught by his parents. Born to aged parents after years of inability to conceive, presumably, in their eyes, he can do no wrong. Isaac is protected by his mother’s eagle-sharp eyes. That much we know with certainty. But we hear not a word about what his father might be teaching Isaac about God, or about life and the challenges of living as an outsider, a foreigner, follower of a different religion, different in so many ways from his friends and neighbors.  

Perhaps the ordeal at the mountain was Abraham’s way of introducing Isaac to God? 

But if so, what kind of God was he showing his son? A cruel, intimidating master, not to be questioned, one whose will was, is and forever will be inscrutable and impenetrable.

Abraham could not have known in advance that God would stay his hand and forbid forever the practice of child sacrifice. Nor could either he or Isaac have known the power of tears or prayer to reach Heaven’s gate and to change God’s will—a concept that would become key in Jewish philosophy and, in the future, play a preeminent role in our Yom Kippur liturgy.

So what exactly was Abraham trying to teach his son, Isaac?

What do we, parents, grandparents and teachers, try to teach our children? What are some of the most important lessons we try to impart to them?

We try to give them survival tools; to teach them a trade; to advise them of life’s dangers and pitfalls, and how to be prepared for the many challenges that are bound to come up. We teach them about right and wrong, and about being loving and helpful to family and community. We teach them to become responsible adults rather than remain adolescents, forever demanding more.

Ultimately, however, more than anything else, we try to teach them to be independent. We don’t want our children to constantly look to us to hold their hand or be there for them at every moment.  Inevitably, the time will come when we won’t be there, when there will be no one to phone or text with a question or request. And then what? If we don’t teach our children how to find their own truth in a complex world, how will they know what to do when the need arises, as it inevitably will?

In our own day, much has been written about the longer adolescence that millennials are enjoying. This is due both to better health and nutrition, but also because of societal expectations. It isn’t that we coddle and shield our children so much as we are reluctant to let go and let them grow up. Even without becoming helicopter parents, we protect and shelter them probably longer than is necessary, for the simple reason that we can, and because we love them and are hesitant to let them fend for themselves in a dangerous world. 

On the other hand, the shortage of affordable housing and a tighter job market mean that many of us have to go on supporting our offspring for longer than ever. It isn’t choice so much anymore, as necessity. Politicians and sociologists go back and forth blaming, on the one hand, excessive permissiveness and, on the other, a starker reality.

Ultimately, though, we have to admit that we just don’t know.  After all, what is so wrong with helping out and being there for our children for as long as we can, and they need us?  Is it such a disservice to them, especially at a time of great social and economic change, to support them economically, emotionally or in any other way we can?  Is there such a thing as too much love?

The story of the Binding of Isaac, as it appears in the Torah (Gen. 22:1-19), is short and cryptic, told in a few masterful brushstrokes. Yet we learn so much from the few words exchanged between father and son; we infer even that much more from the silences between the words. Isaac is no fool. He sees the tools for the sacrifices and inquires about the missing lamb. Abraham responds by saying that God will see to the lamb. Isaac understands. He wonders about the love his father has for him, but is reassured by the tears he sees coursing down the aged, furrowed cheeks. Yet ultimately he is placed and bound upon the altar, and then he knows for certain. He understands that he has entered a new stage in his life, one in which he can no longer depend on his father, one in which he will question even God’s will and ability to protect and defend him. At that moment, not knowing whether he will live or die, Isaac understands, more than ever before, that he is no longer a child. Something has changed, and he comprehends fully the lonely isolation inherent in existence and life. 

At the next moment, however, both Isaac and Abraham learn a fateful lesson: the power of prayer. 

There is no certainty in prayer, but there is faith and hope.

After this momentous experience, Abraham names the mountain Adonai Yir’eh—the place where God sees. At this moment, Abraham understands and teaches Isaac that God is not heartless, that God sees the tears of the suffering and lonely, that God hears the prayer of the needy and destitute. Even without any words exchanged, Isaac understands. However, he also recognizes another truth: that from now on he must fend for himself. Nothing can be taken for granted, not a father’s love, nor even God’s promise of protection. We must be strong in ourselves, because there are no guarantees in life, no exchanges and no returns.

For the rest of his days, Isaac will wonder and reflect about the meaning of love, trust and faith. He will forever try to comprehend fully the lesson he learned that day on the Mountain of Seeing. 

As for Abraham—his story is now nearly done. There are a few duties left to be fulfilled, but as far as teaching his son about God and life, he has done all he could and more. He has taught Isaac all he knew. His heart now filled with a stronger, yet sadder, faith than ever, Abraham is ready to face the last years of his life.

And we—Abraham’s descendants? Are we doing all we can? Are we being over-protective? Have we done enough to provide our children with the tools they will need to face an uncertain and even dangerous world? 

We can only hope so. 

But at this time, wise words attributed to many and various sources come to mind: Give your children roots and wings. Roots to know where home is; wings to soar with, to imagine, and to create new worlds.

And may we all find the wisdom to know both how to love our children and protect them, but also how to give them freedom, strength and independence. 

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman