Unifying the Fragments: Chayei Sarah.21

 Unifying the Fragments: D’var Torah for Parashat Chayei Sarah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 30, 2021

Today I celebrate the 59th anniversary of my bar mitzvah. My Torah portion, when I turned 13, was Chayei Sarah (“The Life of Sarah,” Genesis 23:1-25), this week’s portion. Just as it was then, so today this portion is read all over the world in context of the annual cycle of weekly Torah readings.

I have returned to this parasha many times in the past and each time have found new lessons in it. Such is the nature of Torah—not only does it contain unique teachings for each individual, but at each stage of one’s life one can find something new, a new understanding, a new way of seeing oneself in the light of Torah.

The title of the portion—Chayei Sarah—refers to the life, death and legacy of the first Matriarch of the Jewish People, Abraham’s wife and mother of Isaac. And yet, beyond the first few verses of the portion, very little is said about this important personage or the place she holds in our heritage. This of course opens the door to many stories, midrashim and rabbinic commentaries about Sarah. Still, the rest of this portion has to do with events that followed her death (including, at its very conclusion, the death of Abraham and his burial—attended by Isaac as well as the estranged other son, Ishmael—at the Cave of Machpelah, the burial cave near Hebron that Abraham purchases from the Hittite people).

As I returned to this portion this week, two elements of the story struck me: Abraham’s words as he addresses the Hittites at the beginning of the purchasing transaction; and the important mission he entrusts his servant with—finding a wife for Isaac.

Ger v’toshav anochi ‘imachem—"I am a stranger and an inhabitant with you”—Abraham says to the Hittites.  What an interesting combination of words! It had been years since Abraham had left his homeland in Haran in search of a land God promises to him and his descendants. Even after reaching Canaan, Abraham wanders the breadth and length of this land, pitching his tent in various places and setting up worship altars at every resting point. For many years he dwells in Beer Sheba, then in Hebron. For a period of time, he finds himself in Egypt and even among the Philistines, yet each time he returns to Canaan, knowing that his true home is in the Land God promises him seven times(!). One would think that after all this, he would feel at home somewhere! Yet, by his own admission, though he dwells in this land and calls it home, he sees himself a stranger, a foreign resident among his own neighbors.

Moreover, even though Abraham knows that his future is bound up with the land he knows as Canaan, his heart is still bound up with his past, in his old homeland of Haran, among the family he had left behind so many years earlier. And that’s where he sends his servant to find a wife for Isaac. 

This mixture of past, present and future never crystalizes within Abraham. He is a wanderer not only in the physical sense, but also psychologically. He is a dweller and a stranger all at once. His longing knows no bounds and no boundaries, and so at the end of his life he focuses on securing the future for his son, Isaac, knowing that it is through Isaac that God’s promise will continue and endure.

Looking back at the various parts and fragments of his life, Abraham knows he has fulfilled almost all the duties and responsibilities he had taken upon himself at God’s commands. How well he has done so, however, is something that he probably struggles with every day. The pain of leaving his home and family is compounded by the deep sadness he felt when he sent Hagar and Ishmael out into the wilderness. The longing for a child with his wife Sarah and the joy of bringing this child, Isaac, into the Covenant with the Eternal God, was shattered at the top of The Mountain of Seeing—Har ha-Moriah, the future home of the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem—as he saw himself holding a knife over the heart of this beloved child.

Only through his relationship with God does Abraham feel an almost mystical unity. The many losses he suffered through his long life have left him feeling isolated—a stranger among his neighbors, perhaps even estranged from his own family. In his old age, Abraham feels deeply the very temporary nature of life. Perhaps that is why he feels so strongly at this point that he needs to fuse and unify the many parts of his life. To commemorate the past, he must buy a burial site for his wife, Sarah. For the sake of the future, a wife for their son, Isaac, must be secured. With these transactions, public, fully paid for and recorded for all posterity, Abraham ties together his not only his past and future, but also his body and soul. It will be through Isaac and Rebecca that God’s promise will endure. It will be here, at this burial site near Hebron, where his sons will gather to mourn him when his time comes, where all future generations will gather to remember and honor their past and their rich heritage.

It is in this Torah portion—Chayei Sarah—that the Jewish People have always found our unity. We have traversed every land and every continent. We have lived among many peoples, assimilated customs, clothing, and cuisines. Yet throughout our wanderings, we never lost the feeling of being “dwellers and strangers.” Our true home remained—and still remains—where Abraham first staked a claim, the Promised Land. And to this day, despite the cultural differences that have emerged among us through the centuries, we remain spiritually united—one family, one nation, one people—through our relationship with our Eternal God. Our prayers, our conversations—even our arguments—with God still form the bond that cement the many into One. Like Abraham and Sarah, each of us may see ourselves an individual; the life of each of us is defined by the time and place in which we live, by changes and fluctuations, by losses and gains. Yet the streams of time that represent each of our lives, all flow into one sea. It is here, in our relationship with God and our heritage, that we find our one-ness, our unbroken unity. It is here that we find our purpose and meaning, our fulfillment and completion.

Sh’ma Yisrael: Hear, O Israel! We are one, and our God is One. 

Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-Olam, shehecheyanu v’key’manu v’higi’anu laz’man ha-zeh—Blessed are you, Adonai eternal sovereign of the universe, who has given us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season and time.

© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman

From Justice To Tikkun Olam: Vayeira.21

 From Justice To Tikkun Olam: Vayeira

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 22, 2021

This week’s Torah portion, Vayeira, (Genesis 18:1-22:24) raises some of the most difficult questions about God, justice and fairness. The portion pivots around three key events: the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah; the casting out of Abraham’s first-born son, Ishmael; and the story known as The Akeida—the binding—and near-sacrifice of Isaac. 

At the center of each of these stories stands Abraham, a man whose faith in God is nearly perfect, yet who, as a human being, seems flawed and inconsistent. 

“Far be it from You to do such a thing as this, to slay the righteous with the wicked… Shall not the judge of all the earth deal justly?” Abraham exclaims as he pleads for the Sodomites, doomed by God for their evil deeds. Yet he remains utterly silent and obedient when God commands him to offer his own, pure and innocent son, Isaac, as a burnt offering. 

And how to rationalize the unfairness with which Abraham treats his two sons, Ishmael and Isaac? A similar question may be posed in this case as well: Shall not a father’s love be shared equally between the one son and the other?

To be sure, the idea of sending Ishmael out into the wilderness is not Abraham’s. In fact, he does so at Sarah’s insistence, and with the approval—even blessing—of God. Abraham, in fact, disapproves of this demand, yet he goes along with it, reassured that God will take care of Ishmael. Yet the inherent unfairness of this act is disturbing, and its tragic consequences last to our own day.

The title of this portion, Vayeira, comes to tell us that God appears to Abraham. To skeptics and disbelievers however, this portion serves as proof that there is no fairness and no justice in this world. God does as God pleases, no matter what we say, no matter how fervently we pray or plead. And like God, parents too, all-too-often favor one child over another, with predictable results. Families are riven by jealousy and the innocent suffer for no apparent reason. The faults, it seems, are inherent, built into the system, and there is nothing we can do to change things.

And so, why even bother trying? 

As Abraham argues with God about Sodom’s fate, he brings up a reminder of God’s vow to “Never again… destroy every living being.” The guilty alone must bear the consequences; the innocent must be spared. Yet, as he barters with God, lowering the bar from fifty righteous people down to ten, he stops as he hears God’s final offer: “I will not destroy [the city] for the sake of the ten.” Even Abraham knows that God’s patience is not limitless, that God’s anger, once ignited, is impossible to quench. God’s will be done, Abraham understands, and he resigns himself to that undisputable, and often tragic, fact. 

The stories told in parashat Vayeira leave us feeling frustrated: Must injustice prevail? How can we allow unfairness— sheer luck and happenstance—wreak misery on the weak, tired and forlorn? Why must the innocent suffer?

Yet Abraham’s inability to dissuade God from God’s harsh intentions is not a total failure. As with every experience in life, there are lessons to be learned. Abraham realizes that even he—conversant with God—is powerless to change some things. Yet even as he comes to understand this, he teaches us all about the potential embedded in each of us to make a difference in the world.  

It’s a revolutionary idea. We commonly think of a rotten apple spoiling the whole barrel. History has shown how entire societies fall into the trap of following tyrants blindly, of “just obeying orders.” But rarely do we stop to consider—as Abraham does—the far-reaching effect of a kind and righteous deed. It can literally change the world for the better. And if that is true for one individual, how much more so for ten, one hundred, or a thousand!

Rather than merely accept the unfairness and injustice in the world, Abraham shows his descendants a new path: Tikkun Olam—fixing the brokenness of the world around us. 

Life is often unfair. There is no question of that. And sometimes our pursuit of justice goes wildly off-course. Guilt is sometimes assumed, punishment imposed without proper proof—or even any proof whatsoever. Good people end up suffering for no apparent reason.

The important lesson that Parashat Vayeira teaches us, however, is that we are not helpless. That we cannot and must not be merely onlookers. To the extent of our ability, we must offer help to those less advantaged, whom life has treated more harshly than us. Acts of kindness, charity and righteousness are limitless in their effect. And if enough of us engage in these, the outcome would be undeniable.

The world that Abraham lived in was not much different from our own. True, it was more primitive and less civilized: Laws were harsh and often unjust; cruel religions and perverse gods demanded child sacrifice; the rich and powerful abused their might without restraint; plagues and diseases ravaged the countryside. Yet today we encounter similar challenges. There is still oppression and misery, hunger, ignorance, rampant injustice and unfairness in life. But what Abraham, our People’s first Patriarch, taught all of us is that we must not ignore these challenges. A broken world needs fixing. 

And that is the most important and lasting lesson of this important Torah portion. “For the sake of ten righteous people, I will not destroy the city.” And the more righteous people who devote their time and energy to decency and goodness, the safer and more secure will our world be for all its inhabitants. As Father Abraham has taught us, the cause is ours now to plead and work towards.

© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman

Relative Righteousness: Noach.21

 Relative Righteousness: Noach.21

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 7, 2021

 נח איש צדיק תמים היה בדורותיו--

“Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his age; Noah walked with God.” So begins this week’s Torah portion, Noach (Gen. 6:9—11:32). It’s a somewhat cryptic portrayal, and since earliest times commentators were quick to point to the words “in his age.” Rashi, the great French commentator of the 11th century, while praising Noah, also quotes from the Talmud and the Midrash, adding, “If he had been of Abraham’s generation, he would not have been considered of any importance.” In other words, everything is relative, including righteousness.

And what were Noah’s faults? The Torah doesn’t mention them specifically, but we can deduce these from the text itself. 

First, the phrase “walking with God.” These words always raise a red flag in my mind. What exactly does that mean? For me, the connotation is troubling, as though a person’s relationship with God is more important than how we relate to one another. And because of this phrase, I understand Noah’s first fault to be that he really wasn’t part of his community, or of any community at all. He communed solely with God, not his neighbor.

And then, the Torah doesn’t say anything about how Noah went about building the ark, only that he followed God’s specifications to the letter. “Noah did so,” we read, “just as God commanded him, so he did.” Now, that may have been fine in other situations: Moses and Aaron also are described as following God’s bidding “just so.” But in their case, the work they were engaged in was for the sake of the entire community. What did Noah do for his community? Did he lift a finger to save them? Did he warn them of the consequences of their wrongdoings—as Jonah would in Nineveh, centuries later? Did he try to change their ways, as Isaiah did when he saw injustice and heartlessness among his people? 

Where there is violence, there are victims. Did Noah stop his work for an instant to turn his attention to the sufferers and the hurting? Not a word in their defense.

But possibly the greatest fault of all was Noah’s failure to challenge God. Never once does Noah pause to ponder the justice—or lack thereof—behind God’s decision to wipe out all life. Was it really necessary to undo Creation itself? Was absolutely everyone on earth corrupt and violent? What about the animals, creatures born with little awareness of choice, whose violence is inherent in their nature and therefore, by definition, not evil? And babies who had not yet learned to tell the difference between right and wrong? What was their sin? Why were they all doomed? 

Sometimes too much “walking with God” makes a person insensitive to the pain and suffering of others, indifferent to the idea that we can—and must—help one another.

Not long into the flood, however, Noah must have learned his lesson. As the waters rose, he must have heard the cries, wails and screams coming from the outside, the pounding on the hull of his Ark. How devastated he must have felt when, after a while, those cries fell silent.

To be sure, taking care of the animals onboard must have awakened a certain sense of responsibility within him. After sending the dove out on its risky mission, how worried and concerned he was before at last he spied the tiny bird returning, fatigued and exhausted from its futile search for dry land. With how much tenderness and love did he extend his hand to bring the dove back into the safety and warmth of the ark!

It was a new Noah who emerged from the Ark after all these months. And yet—how overcome by sadness and a sense of failure. Consumed by guilt and shame, it’s no wonder that soon afterwards Noah planted a vineyard and took to drinking himself into a stupor. He survived, yes, as did his family; as did the various species of living creatures that were on the Ark with him. But could he have done more? Why did he not argue with God, or plead for the animals, for the babies, for the innocent among the guilty? For all those left behind?

It would be God Himself who saw the harshness of His actions. Swearing never to destroy all life again, to spare the innocent, God places the rainbow in the sky as a sign of this vow for all eternity. 

But that in itself was not enough. From the start, God wanted more. God was aching for companionship, for some human partner to pick up where God had ceased.

It would take ten more generations for such a person to arise. Ten generations before a man called Abraham would dare to stand up to God, to hold God to His vow and exclaim, “Shall the judge of all the earth not act justly?”

This amazing portion indeed contains elements of hope in it. Noah did preserve the seed of life within the Ark, just as God had commanded him. The dove did bring an olive branch in its beak. The rainbow did—as it still does today—bring us a measure of hope when dark storm clouds shroud the light. But beyond these, it is the birth of Abraham, as told in the last few verses of the portion, that brings us to a new understanding of our role in the universe, of our partnership with God. From this point on, we will all measure our own righteousness against a new standard: Abraham’s faith. A new chapter begins with his birth, and a new beginning is made possible by his insight and compassion. 

Noah brings to an end an era of complacency. Now a new age is ushered in—one in which human beings go beyond mere acceptance of their fate, in which our efforts can—and do—make a difference in the world around us.

© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman