Between Too Much and Not Enough
D’var Torah on Parashat Noach
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Several years ago, a message board in front of a neighborhood church declared, “You haven’t done enough.” The message was striking enough that it’s lasted with me all this time—perhaps ringing a somewhat familiar guilt bell within my soul. I’ve been known at times to push myself—and others—to do more than originally expected. At the very least, the sign raised a couple of good questions: Does anyone ever do “enough?” And when is “good enough” good enough?
I guess the answer depends on the context. We probably all believe we do more than enough at work, and maybe not so much at home. My guess, however—since the sign was posted in front of a house of worship— is that in this framework the meaning was in terms of good deeds. That which in Judaism we call mitzvot, or tikkun olam, the repair of the brokenness we see in the world.
The world in which this week’s Torah portion, Noach (Genesis 6:9—11:32) is set, is filled with evil. The earth itself is said to have become corrupt, defiled by violence and bloodshed. A common belief held by many in those days was that a curse had been placed on all life, but that at some point, a person of great spiritual power, a messiah of sorts, would appear and reverse the curse.
Noach was expected to be such a person.
But there was another one before him. The seventh generation after Adam: Enoch.
The similarity between them begins with their names; then, they are both said to have “walked with God.” And finally, both failed in their expected mission.
The Torah doesn’t tell us much about Enoch. Everything it has to say about him is contained in a total of four verses in Genesis chapter 5. The rest of his deeds are told in fanciful tales that never made it into the Bible but are found in other texts, most famously in The Book of Enoch. The only clues regarding Enoch’s life that appear in Genesis are: 1) that he was the seventh generation after Adam (the number 7 being symbolic of the presence of God’s holiness). Then, 2), in 5:24-25, we read: “All the days of Enoch came to 365 years. Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, for God took him.” The perfect number of his years on Earth—equal to the number of days in a year—is significant: Enoch evidently had reached some sort of state of perfection. And then finally comes 3), the clincher: Enoch doesn’t die a natural death—or, for that matter, any death at all. He is “taken by God.” Any further mention of his life or deeds is stricken from the Torah.
What did Enoch do to deserve this fate? Only one other human being in the Bible is described similarly—the prophet Elijah, whose fanatic zealotry is recognized by God, and who is consequently whisked up to heaven in a chariot of fire, never to suffer physical death but instead become transformed into a spiritual bearer of hope and good tidings. But unlike Enoch, the deeds of Elijah fill four entire chapters in the Bible. Elijah—Eliyahu Ha-Navi— struggles against the Israelite King Ahab and his wicked Phoenician wife Jezebel, who had forcefully imposed the worship of the bloodthirsty god Ba’al, whose rituals included child sacrifice. Through various miracles and wonders, Elijah succeeds in establishing instead the worship of Ha-Shem—the Jewish God—among the tribes of Northern Israel. But Enoch? His entire story takes the space of four verses. Not much to see here, folks; not much to tell. To be sure, stories about Enoch were popular and circulated widely in second-and-third-century Israel, mostly relating his struggles with angels, giants and other fantastical creatures. His feats have become part of the mystic tradition, some even appearing in the Zohar, the Book of Splendor. So why does the Torah suppress these? The answer may lie in the traditional focus of Judaism on a person’s deeds on earth, on what they do for other people, not so much what he or she does for God and heaven alone. They can’t only “walk with God.” Enoch was completely and exclusively concerned with spiritual, not human, matters. Unwilling or unable to fulfill his messianic expectations, Enoch had perfected and even transcended his humanity to become part of the Divine Circle.
Perfection is a realm that lies beyond ordinary human experience.
Noach—the tenth generation from the creation of Adam (another symbolic number)—does show a little improvement in this respect. He at least saves the animals, keeping alive a remnant of God’s Creation. But as far as humanity goes, he too fails. No interaction is recorded between him and his neighbors, no effort to admonish or correct their ways. Noah doesn’t question God’s decision to destroy all life. Instead, he follows God’s directions to the letter: so many feet to his triple-decker, football-field-size ark. So many animals, both kosher and non-kosher, to bring aboard. And of course, in the process, to save himself and his family. And that’s it. Noah doesn’t go beyond these parameters. He shows no compassion. It’s a lesson that he will learn during the one year onboard his ark. But at this point in the story he doesn’t hesitate; he has no moral compunctions. He shows no signs of a conscience.
If Enoch tried too hard to achieve perfection—and succeeded—Noach just didn’t go far enough. And so they both failed to meet humanity’s expectations and hopes.
Somewhere between these two options is where most of us find ourselves. There are those who feel compelled to sacrifice their all for the sake of others. But then there are also the grifters, the victimizers, those who only take, whose only concern is for what benefits them. Most of us, however, vacillate, sometimes leaning towards selfless altruism, at other times driven more by self-interest and selfishness. Sometimes we find ourselves torn. And then, like Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree, there are times when we feel that we’ve given so much of ourselves that we’re all “given out.” And so we withdraw, risking the danger of letting depression, anger or resentment control our lives.
The dilemma of how much we’re expected to do—too much or not enough—is up to each of us to resolve. The Torah allows us to search our conscience, to do what we can, but also to set boundaries. In accepting donations from the Israelites for the building of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle in the Wilderness, Moses is instructed by God to, “Accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved” (Ex. 25:2). The gift, and the amount, are both voluntary, both dictated by the heart.
The prophet Isaiah, on the other hand, warns us of the pitfalls of excessive faith. In chapter 58 of the book that bears his name, (the haftarah designated for Yom Kippur), Isaiah chastens the people for observing more scrupulously the rituals of fasting than the commandments—the moral and ethical obligations—to pursue justice and provide for the needy. Yet to this he also adds, “Nor [must you] ignore your own flesh and blood” (Is. 58:7). It isn’t only the needs of others that we need to concern ourselves with, but also with our own needs, as well those of our family and community. Faith only goes so far, he seems to say. Your deeds, the love and understanding you show other human beings matter at least as much. And not least, we all deserve—we all need—a little bit of what psychologists call “healthy selfishness.” (I am grateful to my father, z”l, for introducing me to this phrase years ago).
Finding the balance between giving all of ourselves and doing nothing isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s a struggle. But how we respond is a measure of our humanity. We walk not with God, as did Enoch and Noach, but with people. But we do let God’s light—embedded within our heart and conscience—show us the way forward, towards giving, not withdrawing; towards heaven but without losing sight of earth.
That is our task and mission in life. May we be more successful at it than Enoch or Noach.
© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman
