Tag Archives: Sacrifice

Achrei Mot, Leviticus 16:1-18:30

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/achreimot

Making Sense of the Prohibitions of Leviticus

How do progressive, liberal Jews reconcile the apparent prohibition against homosexuality in Leviticus with the Jewish values of b’ tzelem elohim (respect for human beings as made in God’s image) and a commitment to inclusion and equality?  On this issue, the Reform position is clear, and succinctly stated by Rabbi Janet Marder, past President of the Central Conference of American Rabbis:

In my view, the Jewish condemnation of homosexuality is the work of human beings – limited, imperfect, fearful of what is different, and, above all, concerned with ensuring tribal survival. In short, I think our ancestors were wrong about a number of things, and homosexuality is one of them…. In fact, the Jewish values and principles which I regard as eternal, transcendent and divinely ordained do not condemn homosexuality. The Judaism I cherish and affirm teaches love of humanity, respect for the spark of divinity in every person and the human right to live with dignity. The God I worship endorses loving, responsible and committed human relationships, regardless of the sex of the persons involved.

There are many ways to analyse this parsha within the context of LGBTQ rights.  SOJOURN, a network that provides resources, education, and support for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender individuals and their families, has produced an amazing resource guide to explore the biblical text of Leviticus and deepen this understanding.  I would strongly recommend reading it: SOJOURN Resource Guide on Leviticus.  To support inclusion in your Jewish practice, look-out for welcoming Jewish communities that proudly display the following logo:

Keshet SafeZone

 

The Sanctity of Elemental Relationships

By Rabbi Shimon Felix

This week’s parashah, called Ahare Mot–“After the Death of”–begins by telling us that “God spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron, when they came near before God and died.” The parashah then goes on to describe the rather long and complicated ritual which is meant to take place in the Temple every Yom Kippur–the sacrifices, fasting, and prayers, the scapegoat, and, as a climax to the day, the offering, by the High Priest, of the incense in the Holy Of Holies, directly in front of the Holy Ark, in the intimate presence of God.

The reference to the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, which we discussed a couple of portions ago, in parashat Shmini, seems to be introduced here in order to give added weight and authority to the extreme sensitivity concerning the high priest entering the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur. This, the Torah tells us, is an extremely dangerous interaction–“Speak to Aaron your brother that he should not come at any time to the Holy [of Holies]…so that he does not die. Only in this way [by carefully following the ritual of Yom Kippur] may Aaron come into the Holy [of Holies]…” Only once that ritual has been done according to all its details, on this one day of the year, may the High Priest enter the Holy of Holies, and experience the intimate, immediate presence of God.

After the Yom Kippur ritual is detailed, the parashah goes on to prohibit the offering of sacrifices anywhere but in the Temple; this act is seen as one of disloyalty, and is termed an act of “whoring,” terrible infidelity to God and His Temple. After this, the Torah moves along the following path:

– Do not offer sacrifices outside of the Temple.
– If you sacrifice or slaughter an animal, its blood must either be offered ritually on the altar, or, if it is not a sacrifice, the blood must be covered by dirt.
– In no circumstances is blood to be eaten.
– The parashah then concludes with a long list of prohibitions against certain sexual relations–incest, adultery, and others.

On Yom Kippur, in the morning, the custom is to read the first part of the parashah, that which describes the ritual of the day. Interestingly, the custom on Yom Kippur is to also read, at Mincha, the afternoon prayer, the end of the parashah, the part detailing forbidden sexual relations. Although the first custom makes obvious sense, what lies behind the practice of reading, on Yom Kippur, about the forbidden relationships? Moreover, how is the first part of the portion connected with the end of it?

I think it is important to note that the first and last sections are connected by more than the fact that we read them both on Yom Kippur: The opening section, detailing the Yom Kippur ritual, and, specifically the climactic moment of the high priest entering the Holy of Holies, uses words denoting coming near and entering.

First, we are reminded of how Nadav and Avihu died “b’korvatam lifnay hashem“–“when they came near before God.” We are then told how Aaron may enter the sanctuary–“Bezot yavo“–“with this he may enter.” The same word that was used regarding Nadav and Avihu’s coming near God is used over and over in regards to the sacrifices which must be brought on that day–“V’hikriv Aharon“–“and Aaron shall bring near” (i.e. offer, sacrifice).

So, too, in the section at the end of the parashah, detailing the forbidden relationships, we see the same key words. The section opens with the following words–“Every man should not come near (“lo tikrevu“) to their own flesh [close relatives] to reveal their nakedness.” The same root “karov,” to be near, is used to describe what happens on Yom Kippur in the Holy of Holies, and also to describe the relationships–the “coming near”–which the Torah forbids.

This connection between the ritual of Yom Kippur and the forbidden unions communicates to us a remarkable insight about the nature of intimate relationships. The Torah is clearly paralleling the intimacy one achieves with God in the Holy of Holies with intimate sexual relations. Just as the one must not be promiscuous, casual (“Speak to Aaron your brother that he should not come AT ANY TIME to the Holy [of Holies]…so that he doesn’t die.”), so too, our sexual relationships must not be that way.

The coming near to, the entering of, the Holy of Holies, God’s presence, described in the first section as an act which demands sanctification, ritual, and loyalty (remember the warning afterwards not to go “whoring” after other Gods by making offerings outside the Temple–outside the relationship) is paralleled by a similar view of sexuality. Our intimate relationships must also be sanctified, must be seen as something to be entered into with appropriate ritual, and to the exclusion of other unions.

It is, I think, startling to realize that the Torah, by equating these two things, is saying something radical about the ultimate importance of our intimate personal relationships. Just as our relationship with God is not to be taken lightly, and is of great, even cosmic importance–is, in fact, life-threatening in its significance–so, too, must we understand the nature of our intimate relationships.

The Torah sees human sexuality as something that closely parallels our relationship with God. Just as Eve, upon the birth of her first son, Cain, gave him his name because, as she said “Caniti ish et hashem“–“I have gotten a man, like (or with) God,” we, too, are meant to see the procreative act as somehow divine, as linking us with God. Hence the concern, on the part of the Torah, that we approach that act, and the relationship pertaining to that act, with the same care, commitment, seriousness and sense of sanctity with which we approach our intimate moments with God.

This is paralleled with the prohibitions against spilling animal blood without the attendant ritual of burying it, and against eating blood, which function as the bridge between the opening and closing sections of the parashah. Blood, the life force, the symbol of life itself, must be related to with dignity, respect, and care, just as our intimate relationship with God, and our intimate human relationships must be.

The Torah, in these three sections, is delineating for us an attitude, a world view, which relates to the most basic and powerful acts in our lives with sanctity, respect, attention, and spirituality. To relate to these elemental relationships and experiences in a casual, off-handed fashion would, in effect, define our lives themselves as casual, and of little significance.

Felix, Shimon. "The Sanctity of Elemental Relationships." MyJewishLearning.com. (Viewed on April 12, 2014). http://www.myjewishlearning.com/texts/Bible/Weekly_Torah_Portion/aharemot_bronfman.shtml?p=0

Shmini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/shmini

Reticence vs. Impetuosity

By Rabbi Jonathon Sacks

It should have been a day of joy. The Israelites had completed the mishkan, the sanctuary. For seven days Moses had made preparations for its consecration. Now on the eighth day – the first of Nisan, one year to the day since the Israelites had received their first command two weeks prior to the exodus – the service of the sanctuary was about to begin. The sages say that it was in heaven the most joyous day since creation.

But tragedy struck. The two elder sons of Aaton “offered a strange fire, that had not been commanded” (Lev. 10:1) and the fire from heaven that should have consumed the sacrifices consumed them as well. They died. Aaron’s joy turned to mourning. Vayidom Aharon, “And Aaron was silent (10:3). The man who had been Moses’ spokesman could no longer speak. Words turned to ash in his mouth.

There is much in this episode that is hard to understand, much that has to do with the concept of holiness and the powerful energies it released that, like nuclear power today, could be deadly dangerous if not properly used. But there is also a more human story about two approaches to leadership that still resonates with us today.

First there is the story about Aaron. We read about how Moses told him to begin his role as high priest. “Moses [then] said to Aaron, ‘Approach the altar, and prepare your sin offering and burnt offering, thus atoning for you and the people. Then prepare the people’s offering to atone for them, as God has commanded’” (Lev. 9: 7).

The sages sensed a nuance in the words, “Approach the altar,” as if Aaron was standing at a distance from it, reluctant to come near. They said: “Initially Aaron was ashamed to come close. Moses said to him, ‘Do not be ashamed. This is what you have been chosen to do.’”

Why was Aaron ashamed? Tradition gave two explanations, both brought by Nahmanides in his commentary to the Torah. The first is that Aaron was simply overwhelmed by trepidation at coming so close to the Divine presence. The rabbis likened it to the bride of a king, nervous at entering the bridal chamber for the first time.

The second is that Aaron, seeing the “horns” of the altar, was reminded of the Golden Calf, his great sin. How could he, who had played a key role in that terrible event, now take on the role of atoning for the people’s sins? That surely demanded an innocence he no longer had. Moses had to remind him that it was precisely to atone for sins that the altar had been made, and the fact that he had been chosen by God to be high priest was an unequivocal sign that he had been forgiven.

There is perhaps a third explanation, albeit less spiritual. Until now Aaron had been in all respects second to Moses. Yes, he had been at his side throughout, helping him speak and lead. But there is vast psychological difference between being second-in- command, and being a leader in your own right. We probably all know of examples of people who quite readily serve in an assisting capacity but who are terrified at the prospect of leading on their own.

Whichever explanation is true – and perhaps they all are – Aaron was reticent at taking on his new role, and Moses had to give him confidence. “This is what you have been chosen for.”

The other story is the tragic one, of Aaron’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu, who “offered a strange fire, that had not been commanded.” The sages offered several readings of this episode, all based on close reading of the several places in the Torah where their death is referred to. Some said they had been drinking alcohol. Others said that they were arrogant, holding themselves up above the community. This was the reason they had never married. 

Some say that they were guilty of giving a halakhic ruling about the use of man-made fire, instead of asking their teacher Moses whether it was permitted. Others say they were restless in the presence of Moses and Aaron. They said, when will these two old men die and we can lead the congregation.

However we read the episode, it seems clear that they were all too eager to exercise leadership. Carried away by their enthusiasm to play a part in the inauguration, they did something they had not been commanded to do. After all, had Moses not done something entirely on his own initiative, namely breaking the tablets when he came down the mountain and saw the golden calf? If he could act spontaneously, why not they?

They forgot the difference between a priest and a prophet. A prophet lives and acts in time – in this moment that is unlike any other. A priest acts and lives in eternity, by following a set of rules that never change. Everything about “the holy,” the realm of the priest, is precisely scripted in advance. The holy is the place where God, not man, decides.

Nadav and Avihu failed fully to understand that there are different kinds of leadership and they are not interchangeable. What is appropriate to one may be radically inappropriate to another. A judge is not a politician. A king is not a prime minister. A religious leader is not a celebrity seeking popularity. Confuse these roles and not only will you fail. You will also damage the very office you were chosen to hold.

The real contrast here, though, is the difference between Aaron and his two sons. They were, it seems, opposites. Aaron was over-cautious and had to be persuaded by Moses even to begin. Nadav and Avihu were not cautious enough. So keen were they to put their own stamp on the role of priesthood that their impetuosity was their downfall.

These are, perennially, the two challenges leaders must overcome. The first is the reluctance to lead. Why me? Why should I get involved? Why should I undertake the responsibility and all that comes with it – the stress, the hard work, and the criticisms leaders always have to face? Besides which, there are other people better qualified and more suited than I am.

Even the greatest were reluctant to lead. Moses at the burning bush found reason after reason to show that he was not the man for the job. Isaiah and Jeremiah both felt inadequate. Summoned to lead, Jonah ran away. The challenge really is daunting. But when you feel as if you are being called to a task, if you know that the mission is necessary and important, then there is nothing you can do but say, Hineni, “Here I am.” In the words of a famous book title, who have to “feel the fear and do it anyway.” 

The other challenge is the opposite. There are some people who simply see themselves as leaders. They are convinced that they can do it better. We recall the famous remark of Israel’s first president, Chaim Weizmann, that he was head of a nation of a million presidents.

From a distance it seems so easy. Isn’t it obvious that the leader should do X, not Y? Homo sapiens contains many back seat drivers who know better than those whose hands are on the steering wheel. Put them in a position of leadership and they can do great damage. Never having sat in the driver’s seat, they have no idea of how many considerations have to be taken into account, how many voices of opposition have to be overcome, how difficult it is at one and the same time to cope with the pressures of events while not losing sight of long term ideals and objectives. The late John F Kennedy said that the worst shock on being elected president was that “when we got to the White House we discovered that things were as bad as we said they were.” Nothing prepares you for the pressures of leadership when the stakes are high.

Overenthusiastic, overconfident leaders can do great harm. Before they became leaders they understood events through their own perspective. What they did not understand is that leadership involves relating to many perspectives, many interest groups and points of view. That does not mean that you try to satisfy everyone. Those who do so end up satisfying no one. But you have to consult and persuade. Sometimes you need to honour precedent and the traditions of a particular institution. You have to know exactly when to behave as your predecessors did, and when not to. These call for considered judgement, not wild enthusiasm in the heat of the moment.

Nadav and Avihu were surely great people. The trouble was that they believed they were great people. They were not like their father Aaron who had to be persuaded to come close to the altar because of his sense of inadequacy. The one thing Nadav and Avihu lacked was a sense of their own inadequacy.

To do anything great we have to be aware of these two temptations. One is the fear of greatness: who am I? The other is being convinced of your greatness: who are they? I can do it better. We can do great things if (a) the task matters more than the person, (b) we are willing to do our best without thinking ourselves superior to others, and (c) we are willing to take advice, the thing Nadav and Avihu failed to do.

People do not become leaders because they are great. They become great because they are willing to serve as leaders. It does not matter that we think ourselves inadequate. So did Moses. So did Aaron. What matters is the willingness, when challenge calls, to say, Hineni, “Here I am.”

Sacks, Jonathon. "Reticence vs. Impetuosity." OrthodoxUnion.org. (Viewed on March 22, 2014). http://www.ou.org/torah/parsha/rabbi-sacks-on-parsha/reticence-vs-impetuosity/

Kashrut After Refrigerators

By Rabbi Bradley Artson

Without attempting to justify the elaborate Jewish dietary laws, the Torah provides a lengthy list of which foods are kosher and which are not.

Since the earliest stages of our history, Jews have understood the patterns of kashrut (the dietary laws) to be at the very center of our heritage. Jews have sacrificed their lives rather than desecrate themselves with ‘treif‘ (non-kosher) food. From the biblical and into the rabbinical period, new guidelines and restrictions developed as Jews encountered different cuisines and aesthetic standards, yet the core of kashrut has remained unchanged over the millennia. Some of our most stirring stories of Jewish martyrdom–of Jews who preferred to lay down their lives rather than abandon their Judaism–center around the laws of kashrut. Animals with cloven hooves and which chew their cuds are kosher. Fish with fins and scales are kosher. Birds which eat grain and vegetables, and which can fly, are kosher. Insects, shellfish and reptiles are not.

Thus, as early as the time of the Maccabees (167 B.C.E.), we have stories of Jews forced to eat pork by the Syrian oppressors. In those stirring tales, the Jews chose to die with their integrity intact, to expire still obedient to the dictates of God and Torah. They could not conceive of a Judaism without kashrut, so central were the dietary laws to the entire rhythm of Jewish living.

Yet, the Torah gives no justification for kashrut. Consequently, Jews throughout history have struggled to understand the reasons underlying kosher eating. One explanation, popularized by the Rambam (12th-century Spain and Egypt), is found in Sefer Ha-Hinnukh (The Book of Education). For this school of thought, God is a cosmic doctor, providing a prescription to ensure the health of the Jewish People. “God knows that in all foods prohibited to the chosen people, elements injurious to the body are found. For this reason, God removed us from them so that the souls can do their function.”

This view understands kashrut as a medical plan to ensure the health of individual Jews. God prohibited foods that were harmful, thus ensuring that Jews would be vigorous and fit. God, they tell us, was the first health-food freak, and kashrut was the macrobiotics of its time.

The problem with such a viewpoint (that pigs cause trichinosis and were prohibited for that reason, for example) is that it implies that God doesn’t care about the health of the rest of humanity. After all, kashrut applies only to the Jews. If God is the creator of all humankind, then isn’t it logical to expect God to care about everyone’s health?

Another understanding of kashrut, advanced by persons interested in abandoning the dietary laws, is that kashrut was an early compensation for unsanitary conditions. If the Jews of the Torah had invented refrigerators, they wouldn’t have required kashrut. Now, with modern technology, we don’t need these outmoded precautions.

My grandmother was one of the most devoted exponents of that opinion.  Now that we have homogenized milk and air-tight containers, we don’t need kashrut. Such a viewpoint has no basis in either science or religion. No sacred text links the practice of the dietary laws to a fear of epidemic, or to a need to avoid rotting meat. That viewpoint also ignores the fact that most of the world’s religions observe some form of dietary laws (Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism, among them).

Why, then, is kashrut significant? If not health or physical well-being, what is the goal of the dietary laws? The answer is found in the Torah itself. “You shall sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I [the Lord] am holy.” 

Kashrut is a way of welcoming the holiness of Judaism into our daily lives. At each meal, we rededicate ourselves to the high standards of Jewish living and behavior. The network of Jewish values–loving our neighbor, caring for the widow and orphan, affirming a connection to the Jewish people, and establishing God’s rule on earth–gain strength and depth through the regular practice of kashrut.

Every form of effective pedagogy involves regular repetition and frequent exposure. Since we eat three times each day (at a minimum!), kashrut is the basic school to recall and reinforce a sense of living in brit (covenant) with God, to making the values of Judaism visible through our deeds and priorities. Affirming our Jewish commitments by adhering to kashrut cultivates a greater awareness and an unwavering commitment to the eternal values of Torah–justice and holiness.

Artson, Bradley. "Kashrut After Refrigerators." MyJewishLearning.org. (Viewed on March 22, 2014). http://www.myjewishlearning.com/texts/Bible/Weekly_Torah_Portion/shemini_artson5759.shtml?p=0

 

Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1-5:26

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/vayikra

Bridging the Distance

By Rabbi Michael Pincus

How do we bring k’dushah, “holiness,” into our lives and into our world? The entire Book of Levitcus challenges us with this question, and it is through this lens we must view this portion. As we learned above, this question is not reserved for our leaders, but rather it is a challenge directed to each of us.

The sacrificial system of yesterday is not the only set of rituals that today have lost their sacred meanings. While we yearn for holiness in our lives many of us struggle to find it.

Maimonides suggests that perhaps these primitive rituals reflected the time in which they were given. In other words, the Torah offers these animal and meal offerings to humanity as an intermediary step between the physical world of idolatry that our ancestors came from and the world of ideas where our tradition sought to arrive.

We live in a world that is increasingly less physical and more virtual. (For example, our ideas, once written with paper and ink, are now read from dots that appear on a screen.) It is an era in which what is holy seems less and less real.

The korbanot, “sacrifices,” that make up the Torah’s sacrificial system perhaps gave our ancestors the opportunity to feel to close to the Divine. And for those who had committed a chet, a “sin,” the sacrifice may have offered a process to help them find their way back to feeling closer to God again. The root of the word korban means “to get close”; the word chet is related to a term that means “to miss the mark,” as an archer might miss a bull’s-eye. By extension, it can refer to anything that distances one from others, from God, and from one’s “true” self. Today, there are lots of distractions that can create distance, but do we have real ways that enable us to get closer?

This week’s Torah portion reflects the distance we have traveled from a physical way of dealing with our failings to a more abstract process. As we reread the text, may it guide us to find meaningful ways in our lives to express ourselves and draw closer to the holiness we seek in our lives.

Pincus, Michael. "Davar Acher: Bridging the Distance." Ten Minutes of Torah, ReformJudaism.org. (Viewed on March 8, 2014). http://www.reformjudaism.org/learning/torah-study/vayikra/looking-through-smoke-transparent-message

Dvar Tzedek

By Mollie Andron

She gently took my hand off of her back, looked me in the eye, and said: “Sarah, these laws are like sealed books to us: we comprehend neither their basic meaning nor the purport of their rules and regulations.” We must honor what is being asked of us. Today you must bring your offering of flour to the priest who will make expiation for you; even if your act was beshogeg (accidental).”

This was hardly the answer that I was seeking. While my mother was a person of complete faith who accepted the laws from Mt. Sinai without hesitations or questions, my sisters and I struggled. “Ema,” we would say, “we are from a different generation. We didn’t experience the miracles that happened when you left Egypt or the revelation at Sinai. We have only your words, but hearing about something is radically different than seeing it with your own eyes. You always taught us that it wasn’t until Moses saw the golden calf with his own eyes that he broke the tablets.”

She saw the truth in our argument, but she also fully believed in her relationship with the Divine. She trusted God even if God’s actions were beyond her human understanding. “Sacrifices,” she said, “are not only about atoning for a wrongful act; they are also a way to draw closer to God. “Remember,” she said, “even the word for sacrifice—korban—comes from the root karov—closeness. Sacrifices are a privilege, a way of communicating with God.”

“But I didn’t even do it on purpose,” I said. “It was beshogeg,” I muttered under my breath. I sat in the kitchen alone fixated on the laws of shogeg—accidental sins. “If a soul shall sin inadvertently against any of the commandments of the Lord concerning things that ought not to be done, and shall do any of them…”

After repeating the words to myself again and again, I suddenly noticed something strange in the language of the commandment. Why does God use the language of “soul—nefesh”? Why not “person—adam”? My accidental sin was a physical action, committed by my body, not my soul. So why then is God talking about souls? I always thought of my body and soul as two separate and opposite entities, but God seems to be suggesting that my soul and my body are one, and that human actions, which come from thoughts, reside in the soul. According to that logic, even if I sinned accidentally with my body, it came from my thoughts. That idea made me quiver. How could I have thoughts that I didn’t even know about?

I grew more and more upset and confused by the sacrificial system. Even if I agreed that I was responsible for my subconscious thoughts, why did I need to perform a physical ritual to atone for them? And also, how could the system guarantee that a physical act will cause an internal change? What about people who sacrifice just because they are told to do so? Or those who simply offer their sacrifice without actually changing their behavior or attitude?

Without noticing what I was doing, I snatched a jar from the kitchen counter and flung it across the floor. The jar immediately shattered into several tiny pieces and flour scattered across the floor. In disbelief, I looked down at my hands. How had I once again managed to do something that I hadn’t intended?

On one of my fingers a cut from the broken glass began to gently bleed. A few droplets of blood dripped into the flour. Looking at it, I realized that this flour on the ground—roughly a tefach—was the flour that had been intended for my sacrifice. I started to cry. There was none left for my offering. I had missed my chance.

As my tears touched the flour, they slowly started turning it into dough. I sat there cupping the dough in my hands and began to knead it, pressing and sculpting it with all of my strength. In those brief meditative moments, gazing down at the fragmented jar, I recognized the power of a physical action accompanying a verbal intention. This flour scattered across the floor was my offering, I realized, although it didn’t occur in the place that it was supposed to, or with a witness nearby. But it had the same intended effect: I experienced the power of a physical action causing an emotional transformation.

***

Author’s note: As I grappled with the notion of a shogeg, described in Parashat Vayikra, I was struck by two elements: the relationship between our subconscious thoughts and our actions, and the value of a physical atonement ritual. I wrote this story in order to explore the relationship between these two ideas. Drawing from the ideas of several commentators, I came to appreciate the significance of a system that asserts that we must be held responsible for our actions, even those actions that are motivated by thoughts that are somewhat hidden.

The prescription to engage in the physical act of sacrifice was about helping people pay attention. It was a way of reminding people of the danger that can come from not being mindful of one’s behaviors. Today, we engage in many acts that can unintentionally result in negative impacts on people around the world. We may purchase clothes that were produced by workers whose rights are violated or consume food from other countries that struggle to feed their own populations. In the absence of a sacrificial system, Parashat Vayikra reminds us to consider what physical actions we can take to help us be mindful of our thoughts, actions and their impact. By paying closer attention, we can simultaneously be drawn closer to ourselves and to one another.

Andron, Mollie. "Dvar Tzedek 5774 Vayikra." American Jewish World Service. (Viewed on March 8, 2014). http://ajws.org/what_we_do/education/publications/dvar_tzedek/5774/vayikra.html?autologin=true&utm_source=education&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20140303-E-DT

Va-yera, Genesis 18:1-22:24

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Link to Parsha: http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/vayera

The Non-Sacrifice of Isaac

By Mark Kirschbaum

 “I believe that Avraham is not the ultimate expression of faith as viewed in the Jewish sources; we will see later that Moses replaces Avraham exactly on this point- Moses is great because of his self-effacing concern for the people as a whole even at the risk of his own personal relationship with God- this being the truer archetype of the Jewish spiritual dialectic continually challenging the relationship between personal needs and communal responsibility.”

I don’t think I need to retell the story of the akedah, the “sacrifice of Isaac” by his father Abraham, following the word of God, I find it emotionally difficult to retell the tale in a literal manner. I do think the entire episode demands a dramatic reevaluation.

I suppose, if I wanted to put my problem with this passage in an inflammatory manner, I could ask, what kind of God is it that puts any person through this kind of “test”, and what kind of man is Abraham if he chooses to follow such a command? Eli Wiesel tells the story of a woman at the gates of Auschwitz (a story borrowed and corrupted in Sophie’s Choice) who is asked to choose which of her two children will be sent to the crematorium, her immediate response is a howling, shrieking insanity; her tormentors shot her on the spot.

No human being can or should ever be put through what may be the cruelest form of torture, the loss of a child, certainly not by a compassionate God.

Furthermore, if Abraham’s action is the apogee of the religious experience, as is commonly accepted particularly after the classic book of Kierkegaard on the subject, then why do we shudder nowadays when children are sent by their parents to die for a political cause? Are others truer to the words of our text than we are? Let us ask frankly, what kind of lesson are we supposed to derive from this perasha?

Let us return to Kierkegaard’s “Fear and Trembling”, probably the most resonant philosophical/theological reading of this passage in Western literature. According to Kierkegaard, an honest reading of this text presents us with an Abraham who is either a murderer, or a man fully dedicated to the word of God even when God’s word is a total rupture with the demands of the ethical. This act of Abraham’s is the epitome of the ‘religious’, which is invariably at odds and transcendent to the merely ‘ethical’; contained within this act is also a powerful statement of individual singularity as opposed to surrendering what is unique in us to the demands of the collective.

Kierkegaard’s approach to the akedah text in Fear and Trembling had major repercussions in the world of Jewish thought; for example, one noted Orthodox thinker wrote a book called “Fear and Trembling and Fire” which was an attempt to read Kierkegaard into the Hassidic thinkers in a kind of theological apologetics, partly due to R. Soloveitchik’s apparent fondness for Kierkegaard’s approach.

I suppose the Kierkegaardian reading is more attractive reading than what many of us might have encountered in Lithuanian yeshivot- the lessons the Beis Halevi derives from this text, for example, are

1. That the akedah occurred so that Avraham would not become tempted to love Yishmael more, and

2. That all of us who sometimes bend Halacha to support our children are not at the level of Avraham (i.e., that we should be ready to harm our families if the choice has to be made!).

In my college years, under the influence of R. Soloveitchik, I too became a “Kierkegaardian”; I taught that position as a youth leader many times. Here I’ll present why we should move from this Kierkegaardian reading of this problematic text.

Two contemporary thinkers have recently taken on Kierkegaard specifically in terms of his approach to the Akedah (aside from the obvious Christological referent behind Kierkegaard’s reading of the text). In two essays, collected in “Proper Names”, Levinas is sympathetic to Kierkegaard’s rehabilitation of subjectivity (that is, the emphasis on the individual’s personal decision process) , particularly in relation to the idealist thinking he was confronting (which subsumed the individual into larger universal processes), but at the same time reminds us of the dangers of “overcoming” the realm of the ethical in favor of purely individual yearnings- he explicitly links this approach to the rise of Nazism (Levinas, Proper Names, pp. 76).

According to Levinas, once our sole responsibility is “torment for self”, without concern for the Other, once our belief

…is no longer justified in the outer world, it is at once communication and solitude, and hence violence and passion. (Proper Names pp. 72).

Much like in his critique of Heidegger, Levinas is concerned that idolization of the abstract and purely individual over the interpersonal (the concern for other people) will lead believers to justify the eradication of those other people who seem to stand in the way of their individual desires.

Derrida, in his recent “The Gift of Death”, disagrees with Kierkegaard’s reading from the opposite direction, denying the transcendence of the ethical by denying the uniqueness of this supposed victory over the ethical of Kierkegaard’s conception, as summarized in Derrida’s refrain, “tout autre est tout autre“, all others are entirely Other, so that at all times, every decision one makes for one’s self is a sort of akedah. To Derrida, Kierkegaard’s critique of the “ethical” where the ethical is a kind of general consensus that is surrendered to by the individual, is false, because at every moment, in every particular ethical response, I am exercising my singularity, privileging my own personal, particular choices:

….I cannot respond to the call, the request, the obligation, or even the love of another without sacrificing the other other, the other others. Tout autre est tout autre, every one else is completely or wholly other. The simple concepts of alterity and of singularity constitute the concept of duty as much as that of responsibility. As a result the concepts of responsibility, of decision, or of duty, are condemned a priori to paradox, scandal, and aporia. As soon as I enter into a relation with the other, with the gaze, look, request, love, command, or call of the other, I know that I can respond only by sacrificing ethics, that is, by sacrificing whatever obliges me to also respond, in the same way, in the same instant, to all the others. What binds me to singularities, to this one or that one, male or female, rather than that one or this one, remains fully unjustifiable (this is Abraham’s hyper-ethical sacrifice) (The Gift of Death pp 68-71)

Thus, any act of duty on behalf of those close to me is in some sense a sacrifice on Moriah of all those others who could also benefit from my actions; then, this

“absolute duty (to those who he chooses as beneficiaries of his necessary correct action) absolves him of every debt and releases him from every duty. Absolute ab-solution” (pp73).

It is a reasonable assumption that the Hassidic masters did not read Kierkegaard (not least due to the dearth of reliable Danish-Yiddish translators), but closer in spirit to the woman with the unthinkable choice in Wiesel’s book, they could not accept that God had at any point asked Avraham to kill his son.

I will present several thinkers who explicitly deny that God or Abraham ever thought actually murdering Isaac was the intent, and how they thus read this text. I am emboldened in finding these alternate readings by the fact that even back in the medieval period, Ramban describes the entire Akeda episode as a punishment to Avraham; furthermore, I believe that Avraham is not the ultimate expression of faith as viewed in the Jewish sources; we will see later that Moses replaces Avraham exactly on this point- Moses is great because of his self-effacing concern for the people as a whole even at the risk of his own personal relationship with God- this being the truer archetype of the Jewish spiritual dialectic continually challenging the relationship between personal needs and communal responsibility.

The Beer Mayim Hayim offers the most “ethical” reading, interesting both in light of Levinas’ and Derrida’s critique of Kierkegaard’s religious versus ethical. He attempts to explain how it was possible for Abraham to believe that God was asking this sacrifice from him, by viewing it not as a blind response to a command, but from an ethical perspective. Abraham, he explains, had seen the corruption of the world around him, especially that of Sodom, and thought that perhaps the sacrifice of Yitzhak would, as with the asara harugei malhut, the ten martyrs of Roman times who paid with their lives as a result of trying to teach their entire generation, serve in lieu of the destruction again of all of humanity. One life to save many lives.

The Noam Elimelech is more radical, stating flat out that neither Abraham nor Isaac had any serious belief that God actually wanted a sacrifice to be carried out, basing this assumption on a textual clue:

…Abraham whose trait was mercy went with the certainty that both would return safely, as he says to his accompanying youths, we will pray and return to you (in the plural)…

Their test was that they went up with full intention ki’eelu, “as though” they were actually going to carry it out. For what God wants is a response to his call, the actual action being less important. The intention was transformed adequately into action by the splitting of the wood in creation of the altar, and that was sufficient response.

Derrida in “The Gift of Death” at one point offers a properly midrashic position that suggests an encounter with traditional sources- he points out on pp 58 that the Hebrew word korban, the usual biblical term for sacrifice is not used in this perasha, and explains, that a sacrifice, a korban, “supposes the putting to death of the unique in terms of its being unique, irreplaceable, and most precious”. In our essay on Perashat Vayikra we discuss at length, the way in which a korban is “wasted”, by which we restore the uniqueness of the “sacred” by removing it from the economy of personal use (nicely paralleling Battaile). Derrida could have been quoting directly from the Bais Yaakov who points out that no human being must ever be that far transformed; humans can’t be utterly wasted like a korban– the human has a continuous “use” in serving God (Lainer edition pp 162 and 164). Thus, Abraham refused to accept the idea that all the work he had done to promote the value of God in the world would be put at risk by killing his son, and figured throughout the three day journey that indeed there was some other meaning to this command to bind his son.

Similarly, the Kedushat Levi points out that Avraham, who in the Midrash is frequently described as one who fulfilled all 613 mitzvot intuitively, without a command (because of his autonomous intuition as to what actions would bring him closer to God) needed in this particular case to be commanded, because Abraham could not intuit any sense of meaning or value in this action; justification for his sense that there was no sense to the original command is that in the end he was commanded not to sacrifice Yitzhak, proving the senselessness of the first three days. The Kedushat Levi adds, and in this is followed by R. Kook, the sense of the whole exercise is in fact the senselessness of using human life as a means of sacrifice, the point of the text is the non-sacrificing of Yitzhak, thus for the initial (senseless) command Avraham is called by name once, whereas in the call to Avraham not to strike at Yitzhak at all, he is called by name twice, “Abraham Abraham”, as a sign of love- it is the senselessness of the initial command that is the true message of the Akeda narrative.

The Tiferet Shelomo goes furthest in his reading of the Akedah, with a reading which he reprises several times in the work (for a powerful example, see Perashat Re’eh, pp 249). To him the word “nisayon” does not mean a test, there was no test here, and neither God nor Abraham read it this way.

He states that the root of the word nisayon are the initial Hebrew letters “NS“, an acronym for “Somech Noflim“, meaning ‘support for those who are falling’, in this case, for those failing or flagging in spiritual resolve. The purpose of this exercise was not to test Abraham, but rather as a ritual, a way for Abraham, mystical archetype of Love, to symbolically/textually bind Yitzhak, mystical archetype of Severity and Judgement, thus creating an eternal symbol of spiritual yearning overcoming personal self judgements of inadequacy and failing. This strengthening of the weak needed to be done right at the beginning of Jewish history, where all the future descendants of the Abrahamic message are represented by Isaac, son of Abraham. Thus the akedah becomes a spiritual ritual enactment, a mystical exercise, meant as a symbol of will overcoming self doubt.

These texts should be adequate demonstration that the Hassidic commentators were uncomfortable with a reading of the Akeda in which God could be seen as demanding the murder of Isaac, and in which Avraham could be seen as virtuous by acceding to a demand to actually murder his son.

Do we have a reading in which Avraham protests this trial? The Aish Kodesh argues, poignantly, that it is not Abraham who vigorously protests this episode, but rather his wife, Sarah!

According to the Aish Kodesh, the very next text begins by stating the number of years Sarah lived, then repeats, these were the years of Sarah, and continues the narrative by recounting the episode surrounding the obtaining of a proper burial site for her by Abraham.

Rashi derives two lessons from this odd verse- first, that the strange way in which the numbers are presented is meant to teach us that all her years were good ones, and secondly, the proximity of this narrative to the previous text of theAkeda, is to link the akeda episode as cause of her death.

According to the Midrash, based on this sequence of narratives, Sarah’s soul literally “flew off” (parcha nishmata) when she was told of the Akeda. The Aish Kodesh, writing in the Warsaw Ghetto, understands this Midrash in teaching us that Sarah, upon hearing of the akedah, gave up her soul as a protest statement towards God. She said, there is only so much a human being can be pushed, only so much in which they can be tested. The human soul cannot withstand every level of suffering. This type of trial, one in which ones children are taken, she protested towards God, is not acceptable; foreseeing the unfortunate woman of Elie Wiesel’s book, she cried out that even if one could withstand this type of challenge, they would be broken and be only a shattered remnant of the person they were, (quoting a line from BT Bava Kama 65. “what’s the difference between being partially killed or being totally killed?”)

From Rashi’s explanation of the repetition in the text “these were the years of Sarah” that all her years were equal and pure, the Aish Kodesh understands that God agreed with Sarah, accepted her protest, and didn’t hold the years she sacrificed against her as rebellious or erroneous…

Nowadays, more than ever, it is our responsibility follow Sarah in this regard, and to demand from God, from ourselves, and from all of humanity the end of days in which parents must mourn children sacrificed in violence for ideology, and a return to a political situation where the Akedah is but a textual exercise and spiritual archetype, not a daily reality for parents and children around the world.

Kirschbaum, Mark. "Torah Commentary: Perashat Vayera, The Non-Sacrifice of Isaac." Tikkun Daily Blog. (Viewed on October 12, 2013). https://www.tikkun.org/tikkundaily/2012/11/01/torah-commentary-perashat-vayera-the-non-sacrifice-of-isaac/