HHD 2023/5784 Sermons

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Yehuda Amichai the incomparable 20^th century Israeli poet writes,

Every year our father Abraham would take his sons to Mount Moriah
The way I take my children to the Negev hills where I once had a war.
Abraham hiked around with his sons. “This is where I left
The servants behind, that’s where I tied the donkey to a tree
At the foot of the mountain, and here, right here, Isaac my son, you asked:

Behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?
Then, up a little further, you asked for the second time.”
When they reached the mountaintop, they rested a bit, ate and drank,
And he showed them the thicket where the ram was caught by its horns. 

After Abraham died, Isaac started taking his sons to the same place.
“Here I lifted the wood, this is where I got out of breath,
here I asked, and my father answered: God will see to the lamb for the offering. Over there, I already knew it was me.”
And when Isaac’s eyes were dim with age, his children
Led him to that same spot on Mount Moriah, and recounted for him 
All that had come to pass, all that he might have forgotten.

This morning we read one of the most complicated texts we have from Torah, the Akedah, the binding of Isaac. It is complicated not only because of the theological implications—What do we make of a God that asks us to sacrifice our child? — but also because it raises the human capacity to do the unthinkable. It is so easy to distance ourselves from Abraham. No, I would never behave like Abraham, we say.

But before we discuss Abraham and God’s actions, let me say a word about my own theology and what I think is happening in our sacred texts. In the Torah, I do not believe we find the revelation of God. As a liberal Jew, I understand the Torah to be a sacred document, imbued with our people’s search for meaning.

In the Torah, we don’t find God, we find a human attempt to know the unknowable, to draw close to the infinite, and most essentially for Judaism, to understand the demands--the sacred obligations--that are part of being a Jew.

Therefore, I do not reject a God that asks Abraham for his child on the altar, because I know that our Torah narrative reflects the human experience. No, we may not be literally sacrificing our children on God’s altar, but we sacrifice them in other ways, and not only our children, but our spouses, our friends, our families.  Before we judge Abraham or God for the binding of Isaac, it is worth all of us considering what or whom we sacrificed for our graduate degree, for the promotion we sought, or maybe even for our own mental health.

I know that a part of me is Abraham. Abraham is a part of us all.

All this may be true, and I am still so angry at Abraham. Is it Abraham’s complete willingness to sacrifice Isaac? Is it that while on the journey Abraham places the wood that he chopped for the sacrifice on Isaac’s back as they hike up the mountain? Is it the fact the angel has to call twice, “Abraham, Abraham…” to stop him from slaughtering his son? Yes, I am so angry at Abraham, because there is so much to be angry about.

He is not acting like the Abraham we’ve come to know in the last few chapters. He is not acting like the Abraham who runs out from his tent to greet strangers approaching. He is not acting like the Abraham who demands God save the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah for the sake of 10 innocent people. Like the Abraham that has the audacity to say to God, “Shall not the judge of all the earth deal justly?” Yes, I am so angry at Abraham, and mostly, it is for his silence. Yes, Abraham’s silence is the blade that ultimately sacrifices his relationship with Isaac, with his wife Sarah, and maybe even with God. After the Akedah, there is no record of Abraham speaking with any of them.

The 19^th century Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard offers the most famous reading of Abraham’s silence, calling Abraham the Knight of Faith. In his essay Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard argues that Abraham has left the realm of the ethical and thus entered into the realm of faith, and that his enigmatic silence is evidence of this leap. He writes “…there is no way to articulate Abraham’s motivation. If there were, we would not have left the realm of the ethical at all.”[1]

Ethics can be explained and argued, faith cannot. Faith for Kierkegaard is deeply individual and even ineffable. Kierkegaard, holds Abraham in reverence because of his unflinching faith.

Coming from a Christian framework, Kierkegaard’s emphasis on individuality and faith leaves his interpretation wanting in a Jewish context.

While there were a few 20^th century Jewish thinkers who utilized Kierkegaard’s understanding, others such as Martin Buber rejected Kierkegaard’s sense of Abraham. I too find the idea of suspension of ethics for the sake of faith deeply troubling. Kierkegaard even acknowledges in his writing the inherent problem of his thinking, that a person may claim religious faith in some action in order to suspend the ethical, and says “is not a problem with faith, but a problem for faith.”[2] Of course, this outlook is alive and well in our country, we see, through the political earthquake of one election in 2016, the great damage that can be done when groups of people suspend their beliefs in the ethical for the sake of faith.

Kierkegaard sees a knight of faith in Abraham’s silence, and our sages praise Abraham as well. However, Judaism’s voice is not monolithic. With the desire not to criticize a patriarch, our sages often see in Abraham and God decisions the need to justify or explain away. In the Talmud, our sages claim that God never really intended Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, it was all a big misunderstanding. It was only a test they say, and the proof is in the end. Or, they reinterpret the word Olah, usually translated as burnt offering, as meaning to bring Isaac up on the mountain and nothing more. There is the famous midrash of certain items created just before the very first Shabbat of creation, the ram Abraham sacrificed is listed, therefor suggesting that even from the time of creation, God never intended for Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. Our sages never condemn God or Abraham for their actions, but clearly there is unease with the Akedah, as well there should be.

After reading the Akedah at least twice a year for a few decades now, I have come to recognize the moment when Abraham failed as a father. Abraham has left his home with Isaac, two servants and his donkey, they traveled for three days with no report of any conversation among the four. They arrive at the mountain and Abraham tells the servants to stay with the donkey and that he and Isaac will return after worshipping. Abraham takes the knife and the flint, and places the wood on Isaac’s back. They begin their journey. Suddenly Isaac asks, “Father…Here is the fire and the wood, but where is the sheep for the burnt offering.” Abraham answers, “It is God who will see to the sheep for the burnt offering, my son.” There, right there in that moment, those words from Abraham are the greatest trespass in the narrative, in between the words, what was left unsaid was the foundation of the lie Abraham told his son, his burnt offering.

In his silence of the truth, Abraham leaves Isaac no other choice than to conceive of his own narrative about the possibilities of what might happen. Isaac must fill in the blanks of Abraham’s bewildering response. After Abraham speaks these words to Isaac, the Torah tells us the two of them walked on together. Our sages claim this as evidence that father and son were in alignment, but this can’t be true. Yes, maybe they were physically together, but once the silence left Abraham’s mouth, they could no longer be together for they approached the mountaintop with separate ideas of what might be happening. And even if Isaac understood, even if he realized that he was the offering, even if he internalized that for his father to pass a test of faith he would have to be offered as a sacrifice, he didn’t know this for sure. There was no clarity in Abraham’s statement, there was only fear.

Psychologist Stephen Frosh writes, “There are communities that live in the shadow of their ancestors, whether or not these ancestors actually existed. The traces of these ancestral myths, if we can call them that, can be found in the lived experiences of all the later generations that are also struggling with the usual mix of ambivalence, distance and intimacy that is implicated in any 'real' relationship between a child and her or his parents. The ancestral myths, perhaps better understood as prototypes, feed into the ways in which identities are formed in the here-and-now.”[3] Regardless of how well we know the story of the Akedah it is a shadow of our ancestors that falls on us all. This story seeps into western culture because of how foundational it is to Judaism and Christianity.

Truth isn’t always easy. Yes, we say not to lie, to tell the whole truth, we teach this to our children and expect it from our friends and family and colleagues, but truth is not always easy. We are great at telling some of the truth, the part of the truth that won’t hurt us or seems safe to say out loud, but all too often the most important information is left out of the conversation. I’ve seen this over and over again in pastoral work throughout my rabbinate, family members, friends unable to share their deepest truths, struggling to say what is in their soul. Husbands, wives, spouses, children, parents, all of us shutting down rather than having to say the truth out loud. “I’ve done this.” “I said this.” “I feel this way.” “Such and such a thing is about to happen in our lives.” Yes, sometimes speaking the truth hurts and it can be frightening.

We can only imagine the fear that Abraham must have held as he walked up the mountain with Isaac, and then Isaac asked what was happening. Would saying what was about to happen make it real? Did Abraham struggle to get the words out of his mouth? “God is testing me and in turn testing you as well, my son.” In this silence, Abraham suffers a failure of imagination. There were so many other possibilities for Abraham that could have also been faithful!

Rabbi Chelsea taught us last night, Hannah’s silent prayer is the paradigmatic prayer for us today, what if Abarham would have done the same as Hannah, saying, וָאֶשְׁפֹּ֥ךְ אֶת־נַפְשִׁ֖י לִפְנֵ֥י יְהֹוָֽה va’eshpoch et nafshi lifnei Adonai, I pour out my heart, my soul, my very essence before the Holy Blessed One. Or rather than pouring out his heart before God, what if Abraham had poured out his heart to his son and his wife!? Faith must not be a total and complete trust in a God that we will never have absolute proof for, faith and therefor the concept of God must lie in the hope that we can imagine together, that we can share our pain, that we can share our anxiety, that we can share hopes and our dreams and our visions.

And that when we do, we won’t be met with rejection or skepticism or contempt, but with a partner interested in understanding, with a partner interested in imagining together. How might this story have been different had Abraham gathered Isaac and Sarah together to discuss what had been asked of him? How might all our lives be different if this was so? The shadow of our ancestors would be cast in an entirely different light.

In his poem, Yehudah Amichai has two different narratives for a father and son who were together and completely apart. Abraham recounts, “This is where I left The servants behind, that’s where I tied the donkey to a tree At the foot of the mountain, and here, right here, Isaac my son, you asked: Behold the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” But when Isaac recounts the story to his children he offers, “Here I lifted the wood, this is where I got out of breath, here I asked, and my father answered: God will see to the lamb for the offering. Over there, I already knew it was me.” Tragically, the only similarity in Abraham and Isaac’s recounting is the lie and the silence of the truth Abraham knew.

Saying the hardest things in life can be frightening, we worry the words might do irreversible damage, we worry we may be judged or shamed or abandoned. The truth is, it’s usually not the hard things that destroy relationships, but the inability to say the hard things does. This is true in friendships and families and even synagogues. The hardest conversations aren’t what destroy us, it is our fear of having them that does. Speak from the depths of your soul, reach out to your loved ones, share what lies deeply and maybe we can stop the sacrifice.

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This past winter, my family and I embarked on an extraordinary journey in Israel that exceeded all our expectations. It was a dream come true and marked the first half of my sabbatical. During our two-month stay, we had the opportunity to study, improve our Hebrew, and introduce our children to the rich tapestry of this country. Sarah and I, having led numerous trips to Israel in the past, felt comfortable guiding our kids through the various religious, cultural, and political facets of this land. We were committed to providing them with a deep understanding of Israeli society, including the realities of Palestinian life. Our base was Jerusalem, but we explored both the southern and northern regions, spent quality time in Tel Aviv, and reconnected with friends from our camp days in our 20s. The entire experience was nothing short of exceptional.

Towards the end of our stay, we ventured into the West Bank with Rabbi Arik Ascherman, the founder and director of Torat Tzedek, or Torah of Justice, an organization dedicated to human rights advocacy. Rabbi Ascherman has been on the frontlines as a human rights defender since the 1980’s. He led Rabbis for Human Rights in Israel for many years before founding his current organization. Rabbi Ascherman took us just north of Jerusalem to witness the lives of Palestinian farmers and shepherds. We observed as volunteers from Torat Tzedek stood guard, offering protection against harassment from nearby settlers intent on forcing the Palestinians off their land to make way for more Jewish settlements.

After touring for half the day and speaking to some of the Palestinians he works with, we got back in the car with Rabbi Ascherman and headed home. As we drove, I had one of the proudest moments I’ve ever had as a father. We were discussing how Rabbi Ascherman navigates his Zionism and his commitment to human rights. Specifically, I asked how he manages the college interns that come to work, how does Ascherman avoid turning them into anti-Israel activists? Rabbi Asherman, however, directed the question to my children, seated in the backseat. In a heartbeat, they responded with remarkable wisdom, emphasizing that every society has its flaws and bad actors, and every government can make regrettable decisions, but this does not condemn an entire society.In that moment, I felt an immense sense of pride as a parent. Sarah and I had achieved our goal of instilling in our children both a profound love for Israel and a healthy dose of critical thinking.

I believe more and more American Jews are awakening to this reality. We have been sold a bill of goods for too long, those who suggest that American Jews only offer support and never any critique of Israel offer a false dichotomy. So too, those on the left that condemn liberal Zionists, claiming real progressives cannot stand in support of (in their words) a colonialist regime. No, this too is a false dichotomy that relies on the narrowest of readings of history. We must be able to do both with Israel, love and critique.

As Rabbi Chelsea reminded us on Rosh Hashanah, in Judaism we are meant to engage in tochechah, when we see something wrong, we are obligated to get involved and offer rebuke.  50 years ago today, Israel was under siege, with a surprise attack in the north as Syria invaded and from south as the Egyptians tried to retake the Sinai Peninsula. After the 6-day war in 1967, Israelis thought they were invincible, leaving them completely unprepared for this surprise attack. With significant tank losses in the north, Israelis were terrified they wouldn’t hold their lines. 50 years ago today, there was real concern that Israel was going to be destroyed by invading armies. Today, that threat is no longer external, today that threat comes from Israel’s own government.

For the past 10 months, Israelis have taken to the streets every Saturday night to protest the ruling coalition's sweeping judicial reforms. A staggering 25% of the population, equivalent to 76 million Americans, has joined these protests. It's important to note that these demonstrators do not oppose all changes to the judiciary but argue for a necessary national conversation on the matter. The coalition claims that the judiciary wields too much power and that the Supreme Court's selection process is flawed. They seek the ability to appoint judges and overturn rulings that do not align with their agenda, effectively giving them unchecked power.

We know the consequences of weakened democracies – the rights of minorities are trampled upon, marginalized communities suffer, and extremism takes hold. In an illiberal Israel, the LGBTQIA community, Palestinian Israelis, Palestinians in the West Bank, and liberal Jewish communities will be further ostracized. Sadly, this July, the collation passed the first in a series of bills they are hoping for. “The Knesset passed legislation that abolishes the “reasonableness doctrine,” which the Supreme Court of Israel has employed to evaluate government policies. It is a practice used by high courts in Australia, Canada, and the United Kingdom, among other countries. The doctrine operates exactly as it sounds: the court determines whether a given government policy is sensible and sound.”[1] The legislation removes an essential check on the parliament’s power. Ultimately the coalition wants to ensure they can pass any legislation they desire without worrying the Supreme Court will strike it down.

Rabbis are supposed to know their congregations. When discussing a particular delicate issue, it is assumed the rabbi knows where their congregation falls ideologically and I think I have a good sense of this on many issues. However, when it comes to Israel, I have no idea where our congregation stands. In today’s political landscape, living in a liberal college town does not mean there is wide support, even among Jews for Israel.

In fact, from some of my most recent conversations with members about Israel, my sense was that many feel rejected religiously by Israel and therefor feel uninclined to engage with Israel at all. These are feelings I completely understand. As a liberal Jew and rabbi, Israel barely makes room for me. Without a doubt there are deeply hurtful policies that deny the legitimacy of non-orthodox Jewry and even some in the Modern Orthodox world. In terms of treatment of Palestinians inside Israel proper and within the West Bank, I am also dismayed. No, Israel is far from perfect.  

Even in its imperfection, the Land of Israel sits prominently in our hearts. For 2,000 years our people longed to return to the land, that is what its called in Hebrew, by the way, Ha’aretz, as if there is no other land. We pray about Ha’aretz, we pray toward Ha’aretz, and we’ve dreamt about Ha’aretz. Yehuda Halevi, the 12 century Spanish poet and rabbi wrote, “My heart in the East But the rest of me far in the West— How can I savor this life, even taste what I eat?” Halevi’s words are famous because they express so succinctly the yearning of our people for return to land. Regardless of how any of us feel about Israel today, for 2,000 years, our people have been longing for return.

Israel is not just a homeland for religious Jews; it is a homeland for the Jewish people as a whole. Yes, we are a religion, but we are so much more than that. Throughout most of the Torah, we are B’nei Yisrael, the Children of Israel, we are a people. We are people of different colors, different ethnicities, and different backgrounds but we are a people. This is part of the reason, even though Israel denies liberal Jews full religious legitimacy, I still go back, I still love, and I still critique Israel, because it is filled with my people. More than half of all the world’s Jews now live in Israel. Israel is the most crucial Jewish project of the 20^th and 21^st century.  The future of the State may seem unrelated to us here in Ann Arbor, Michigan, but if Israel becomes a failed democracy, it will undoubtably reshape American Judaism.

For the last 75 years, the American and Israeli Jewish communities have been growing apart, for many of the reasons I’ve mentioned already, but we’ve also grown together. Be it scholarship, ritual rediscovery, or sharing of music, food, and culture, our communities rely on each other for the vibrance of Jewish life today. In an illiberal undemocratic Israel, I can’t imagine that would be the case any longer. We must recognize that the judicial overhaul in Israel affects American Jews as well.

To those who believe that diaspora Jews should stay out of Israel's internal political conversations, we must remember that our support and voices have been instrumental in the formation of the State of Israel. Diaspora Jews have played a significant role in guiding Israeli policy through international bodies like the World Zionist Congress.

Leading Israeli journalists Matti Friedman and Yossi Klein Halevi as well as Rabbi Daniel Gordis recently coauthored an appeal to diaspora Jews, published last month in the Times of Israel. In their appeal they say, “With Israelis on the streets fighting for the liberal values they share with so many Jews around the world, this is no time for Diaspora silence or alienation. To the contrary: when someone you love is in danger, you draw closer…this is a moment for Diaspora Jews to find common ground with Israelis fighting for a country of which we can all be proud.” They continue, “We urge you to get involved in supporting the democracy movement…Invite representatives of the democracy movement to your community. Insist that your community’s missions to Israel include a meeting with movement leaders. Organize study groups to familiarize yourselves with the issues. Challenge your national Jewish organizations to respond to the state of emergency with the gravity it deserves.”[2]

Friedman, Halevi, and Gordis are calling on us to step up because of the dire consequences. It is all too possible that the democratic, liberal state we’ve known for 75 years will come crashing down as an authoritarian theocratic regime in the coming months. I know Israel is complicated for many of us. I know it is hard to engage with a place that does not seem to hold our same values and that does not seem to validate our existence. It may be that the Jewish family is a bit dysfunctional in that respect. But Israel needs us now. Israelis are asking for us to raise our voices, to support them as they fight for the future of their country.

As we learn from the Babylonian Talmud, “One who can protest the conduct of one’s household and does not protest, is held responsible for the sins of their household. One who can protest the conduct of the people of one’s town and does not is held responsible for the sins of their town. One who can protest the conduct of the whole world and does not is held responsible for the sins of the whole world.”[3]

When family is struggling, we offer help, we stand by and reach out. Let us not sit on the sidelines as the future of Israel is called into question. Call the Israeli consulate, tell them Israel must remain a democracy, that the judicial overhaul threatens the future of Judaism worldwide. Join ARZA, the Reform Movement’s Zionist organization and help support liberal Judaism in Israel. Go on a trip to Israel. There happens to one this summer for woman, but we are in the process of planning a community wide trip as well. Call your representative in Congress and ask them to so co-sponsor the concurrent resolution supporting Israeli democracy and opposing any actions that undermine Israel’s future as a Jewish, democratic state, Concurrent Resolution 61.

As we confront the challenges ahead, let us remember that we can love Israel and offer constructive critique simultaneously, that is certainly what my children would say.