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Does Abraham love God more than he loves his fellow
human beings? He immediately jumps to follow God’s command to offer
his son as a sacrifice; he does not question and does not bargain.
God comes first; Abraham faithfully accepts God’s call, despite the great
cost to himself and his family. This passage in the Bible, called the
Akeidah, (the binding of Isaac), has a deep and abiding
influence on Jewish thought.
Abraham's response at the Akeidah is the polar
opposite of how he responds to the punishment of Sodom. God tells
Abraham he plans on destroying Sodom due to their great sins; Abraham
objects, instantly and instinctively. He debates and negotiates, at
one point rebuking God by saying: “Will the judge of the entire earth
not do justice?” In this passage, Abraham clearly puts man before
God.
The disparity between Abraham's response at Sodom and
at the Akeidah is puzzling. There are technical ways of resolving
this question by noting distinctions, such as differentiating between
when God approaches for a dialogue or with a command, or between
making a personal sacrifice and pleading for the lives of others. But
I find those resolutions unsatisfying. At its core, this
contradiction forces us to choose one passage as paradigmatic, as the
ultimate lesson of Abraham’s faith; and which one is chosen will
depend a great deal on how one understands the lesson of the Akeidah.
Successive generations of commentaries have offered
their own interpretations of the Akeidah. Already in the Book
of the Maccabees, the Akeidah is seen as the inspiration to martyrdom
(and rebellion); and this perspective of the Akeidah becomes very
influential. Rabbi Meir in the Sifrei explains that the commandment
to love God with one’s entire soul, which is found in the first
paragraph of the Shema, means that a Jew is obligated to love God as
much as “Isaac, who tied himself down on the altar (as a sacrifice to
God).”
Indeed, martyrdom becomes so much a part of Jewish
life, that several texts note how the martyrdom of later generations
exceeds the Akeidah. The Talmud (Gittin 57b) tells the story of
Hannah, a women whose seven sons were martyred by the Romans; before
her seventh son is executed for his faith, Hannah tells him “go and
say to your father Abraham, you bound up one [son to the] altar, but
my mother has bound seven sons to altars.” In a 13th century poem,
Rabbi Ephraim of Bonn writes:
Recall to our credit the many Akeidahs, The saints, men and women, slain for Thy sake.
In medieval Europe, many Jews saw the Akeidah as a
reflection of their own unwavering faith. It was a heroic act, one
that inspired the spiritual heroism of Abraham’s descendants.
Some authors are deeply attracted to this perspective
as well, seeing it as more authentic than the sensible, dull, and
tepid religiosity of contemporary times. Isaiah Leibowitz argues that
Judaism is uninterested in the ethical, and only recognizes mitzvot,
divine commands. This he sees as a uniquely Jewish perspective, of
the singular desire to fulfill the will of God. He notes that “…Christianity's
highest symbol is the crucifixion and the sacrifice which God brings
for man, whereas the highest symbol of faith in Judaism is the
Akeidah, where all man’s values are canceled and cast aside for the
love and reverence for God….” The lesson of the Akeidah, he
argues, is about putting God before man.
For this point of view, the Akeidah stands as a
corrective to the earlier passage about Sodom; in the Akeidah,
Abraham changes direction, and instead of questioning God, learns to
obediently follow His command.
Most modern commentaries offer a very different
perspective. They are troubled by the Akeidah, and wonder how God
could have issued an unethical command. Samuel David Luzzatto
explains that the Akeidah is essentially a publicity stunt, a way of
demonstrating the fullness of Abraham’s religious fervor. Unlike the
surrounding pagan religions, Abraham’s ethical commitments prevent
him from performing child sacrifice. An observer might mistake
Abraham’s ethical refinement for a lack of faith; for this reason God
stages the Akeidah, to publicly demonstrate Abraham’s faith, and to
demonstrate that an ethical religion can still have profound
religious passion. The purpose of the Akeidah is to undermine child
sacrifice, and show that one can be passionately attached to God and
meticulously ethical at the same time.
This approach can be taken a step further, in a manner
suggested by Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook and others. God commands
Abraham, “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” because the very point of
the Akeidah is to show that faith should never supersede ethics. The
Akeidah is actually an example of what should not be done, the
Torah's way of making clear that God rejects the unethical.
Seen this way, the Akeidah confirms Abraham’s actions
at Sodom; in the end, the ethical takes religious priority at the Akeidah
as well.
Abraham in Sodom vs. Abraham at the Akeidah is not
just the central riddle of the Parsha, it is also the central
theological issue in Judaism. Does God come before man, or does man
come before God?
At first glance, the perspective that puts God before
man seems more credible. After all, religion is about God; compared
to Him, man seems inconsequential. John Henry Newman, an
influential 19th century Catholic theologian wrote: "The
Catholic Church holds it better for the sun and moon to drop from
heaven, for the earth to fail, and for all the many millions on it to
die of starvation in extremest agony, as far as temporal affliction
goes, than that one soul, I will not say, should be lost, but should
commit one single venial sin, should tell one wilful untruth, or
should steal one poor farthing without excuse." This may
sound extreme; but if God is all that matters, then everything must
be done to fulfill His will. Our interest in man is unimportant.
The challenge is to find religious arguments for
putting man before God. Does humanism, which Rabbi Aharon
Lichtenstein defines concisely as “a worldview which values humans
highly,” have any place in Judaism?
The answer is yes, for the very reason that God
created man. From a mystical perspective, as Rabbi Moshe Chaim
Luzzatto explains, the purpose of creation was for God to extend his
love and kindness towards man. If so, God cares deeply about man; we
should as well. Man, who is created in the image of God, deserves our
love and esteem.
Rabbi Joseph Ber Soloveitchik offers another idea that
is critical to religious humanism. He explains that a foundation of
Jewish ethics is that man is obligated to imitate God; and just as
God is a creator, we too are meant to be creators. God left the world
imperfect and incomplete, to allow man to complete creation, and be
His partner in improving the world. Putting man before God is
actually God’s desire; to care for humanity is to continue God’s
work.
This idea is best illustrated by a passage at the beginning
of the Torah reading. Abraham is speaking with God, but then abruptly
turns away to welcome guests. The Talmud (Shabbat 127a) explains that
this teaches us that “welcoming guests is more important than
receiving the Divine Presence.”
Yet this idea is strange; even if there are guests
arriving, why would Abraham disrespect God? Why can’t the guests wait
a minute? The answer lies in recognizing the purpose of man’s
partnership with God. Abraham is fulfilling God’s will by turning his
attention to the guests; much like two partners, God is happy to be
left aside, so that Abraham can take care of their newest
“customers.” Man can come before God, because God Himself placed
man at the center of His creation.
Many contemporary authors advocate religious humanism
as a counterweight to religious fanaticism; they hope to end
religious violence by reminding us of how ethics and kindness are the
foundations of religion. But actually, religious humanism is critical
for spiritual passion; at a time when it is difficult to perceive the
divine presence, religious humanism becomes all the more important.
Even in a profoundly secular world, we can truly experience the
transcendent at special moments of human connection.
There is a Chassidic story, which was made famous by
Y.L. Peretz, about a sainted Chassidic Rebbe. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks
retells the story this way:
Every Friday morning before dawn, the Rebbe of Nemirov
would disappear. He could be found in none of the town’s synagogues
or houses of study….
Once a Lithuanian scholar came to Nemirov. Puzzled by
the Rebbe’s disappearance he asked his followers, ‘Where is he?’
‘Where is the Rebbe?’ they replied. ‘Where else but in heaven? The
people of the town need peace, sustenance, health. The Rebbe is a
holy man and therefore he is surely in heaven, pleading our cause.’
The Lithuanian, amused by their credulity, determined
to find out for himself. One Thursday night he hid himself in the
Rebbe’s house. The next morning before dawn he heard the Rebbe weep
and sigh. Then he saw him go to the cupboard, take out a parcel of clothes
and begin to put them on. They were the clothes, not of a holy man,
but of a peasant. The Rebbe then reached into a drawer, pulled out an
ax, and went out into the still dark night. Stealthily, the
Lithuanian followed him as he walked through the town and beyond,
into the forest. There he began chopping down a tree, hewing it into
logs, and splitting it into firewood. These he gathered into a bundle
and walked back into the town.
In one of the back streets, he stopped outside a
run-down cottage and knocked on the door. An old woman, poor and ill,
opened the door. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘I am Vassily,' the Rebbe
replied. ‘I have wood to sell, very cheap, next to nothing.’ ‘I have
no money’, replied the woman. ‘I will give it to you on credit,' he said.
‘How will I be able to pay you?’ she said. ‘I trust you – and do you
not trust God? He will find a way of seeing that I am repaid.’ ‘But
who will light the fire? I am too ill.’ ‘I will light the fire’, the
Rebbe replied, and he did so, reciting under his breath the morning
prayers. Then he returned home.
The Lithuanian scholar, seeing this, stayed on in the
town and became one of the Rebbe’s disciples. After that day, when he
heard the people of the town tell visitors that the Rebbe ascended to
heaven, he no longer laughed, but instead added: ‘And maybe even
higher.’
We must be inspired by Abraham's profound faith at the
Akeidah; it reaches directly into heaven. However, even more
inspiring is Abraham’s love for his fellow man. His enduring example
teaches us how to ascend spiritually, and go even higher.
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