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