When I try to understand what happened in the past few weeks in the Middle East, it is hard not to be shocked by the lack of respect and mutual understanding demonstrated by people that call themselves religious. On the one hand, we have a video that was designed to be disrespectful to Islam in the most extreme way, produced by people who were aware of its explosive content. On the other hand, a popular reaction that has no limits to its violence, and general accusations to a whole country and a way of living.
And although it never got to similar levels of violence, Israel experienced its episode of religious violence earlier this year, when girls were attacked in Beit Shemesh because of the allegedly lack of modesty of their clothes.
In common, these episodes have the belief, held by the perpetrators of the violence, that they - and they only ‐ have the absolute monopoly of religious truth. That their understanding of the mysteries of the universe are 100% right, and that everyone else is, therefore, 100% wrong.
The Israeli poet, Yehuda Amihai, expressed it best:
The place where we are right
From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.
The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.
But doubts and loves
Digup the world Like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.
As a rabbi, a father, a person, I am much more interested in the questions than in the answers. I have learned from great teachers who knew how to ask great questions and to acknowledge they did not have all the answers, that the possibility that they were completely wrong was very real.
I have found like‐minded individuals here in this community - people both inside the Jewish world and out of it, with whom I can share my questions and get their help in our mutual search for meaning in our lives. Although our paths might be very different, we are all seekers expressing similar values.
Today's Torah reading reminds of this search. It is the famous story of how God approached Abraham and asked him to sacrifice his son Isaac, and how Abraham agreed to God's request, only to be stopped at the very last second by an angel.
I have to confess I have a terrible time trying to understand this story. How could God ask such a thing from Abraham? And how could this father, who tradition says is our collective father, agree to such a senseless demand?
But more interesting for our purpose here today - Why was this passage chosen to be the reading of Rosh HaShanah? (and just to be clear: in more traditional services, this section is read on the second day of Rosh HaShanah. The reading of the first day is the equally troubling episode of Sarah asking Abraham to send his other son, Ishamel, away.)
Tradition has a couple of different answers for this question. Let's turn to the text on page 125 to see what they are:
1. The very first verse in our reading announces that "There came a time when God put Abraham to the test." Rosh HaShanah is considered the day of our annual trial, and here is the link to the test.
2. The ram . At the end of the scene, as the angel stops Abraham from killing the boy, Abraham sees a ram, which is offered as a sacrifice. The ram's horns are like a shofar, and this is the link to the Rosh HaShanah.
3. The third traditional answer is a combination of the previous two. We are being judged, but unfortunately, we are short on good deeds that are needed for our acquittal. This is what we sing on "Avinu Malkenu”:
Avinu Malkeinu, be gracious and answer us, for we have little merit. Treat us generously and with kindness and be our help.
The shofar and our Torah reading remind God of our ancestor's Abraham, his total devotion to the point of being willing to sacrifice his own son. In this reading, Abraham passed his trial with flying colors and we are trying to get some of the benefits by association.
My big problem with this reading is that it takes for granted that Abraham passed his test - or at least that the Rabbis who designed the ceremony of Rosh HaShanah thought he did. It assumes a naïveté I am not willing to grant to people I envision with the highest levels of sophistication. I imagine the Rabbis who wrote the Talmud and defined our liturgy also being seekers, loving questions more than answers, and being troubled by a God that demands and a father that agrees with a son's sacrifice.
As I mentioned before, the traditional reading for the first day of Rosh HaShanah, is the story of Sarah sending away Hagar together with Abraham's oldest son. Again, a story that tells me more about failure than about achievement; more about the danger of deep convictions than recipes for success.
So.... we are left with the original question: why do we read this passage today?
In my opinion, this passage teaches us about failure. It is not our get‐out-of‐jail‐free card but rather the contrary: in a season in which we are asked to engage in cheshbon nefesh, or accounting of the soul, the process of introspection that helps us grow, we are reminded that we are not alone in making bad decisions some times, in failing our tests. Even Abraham, the founder of our big Jewish family, did not get everything right - we are in good company in our failure, but that should not serve as an excuse to avoid confronting our mistakes and growing as a result. We do it collectively, by reading in synagogue about times in which we really missed the mark.
It is also a strong warning about the kind of absolute certainty that leads people to create hate movies, or to kill in response, or to stone young kids who dress in a way that is not exactly like yours. Abraham almost lost his son because of his absolute certainty - and this story, in which God prevents him at the last minute, shows that this is not how we are expected to behave.
In his best moments, Abraham was able to argue with God in defense of Sodom and Gomora and that became a Jewish tradition. Moshe argued with God in defense of the Israelites right after the sin of the golden calf. In a famous passage from the Talmud, in which God tries to intervene in a Rabbinic dispute, God is told to back‐off, and leaves laughing at how the children have now defeated the parent. Our tradition teaches that the internal voice advising us to take extreme positions needs to be challenged and the story we just heard today reminds us all of the risk of neglecting to do so.
For all of this, I find today's Torah portion a great lens for us to look though at the persons we are becoming and ask if this is the direction we really want to pursue.
But if I've described Abraham's decision as a radical one, there is also something to be said about his faith and commitment and his willingness to sacrifice his most valued possession - his own son! - for the things he believed in. As we move from the examination of our past year into the envisioning of the new one, what are our deepest beliefs and commitments? What are we willing to sacrifice in order to remain true to our values? Our tradition also teaches us not to be a bystander, but to take an active role in improving the world we live in. What do YOU stand for and what are YOU doing?
This is the balance of the lack of certainty. Our tradition asking two opposite things from us ‐ to be committed without being an extremist, to take action for the things you believe in without declaring war on those with different points of view. From this space, where there is no absolute answer, may flowers, and you, and I grow in the Spring.
Shanah Tovah - may all of our journeys be books full of life!
In your booklet, there is a poem called "Sarah's choice" that retells this story from a different perspective. I find it provocative in the best sense of the word and I invite you to read it at some point during these holidays.
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