Category Archives: Parashat Hashavua

Journeying into the Unknown

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There are certain basic necessary ingredients which comprise a typical journey; a starting point, travel companions, luggage and, of course, a destination. Parashat Lech-lecha describes Abraham’s voyage in great detail, but omits one of these key elements. Abraham’s starting point is depicted in great detail, the various constituent elements of the life he is required to leave behind are carefully listed. Abraham’s travel partners and his accompanying equipment are also recorded. Interestingly, Abraham’s ultimate destination, perhaps the most important facet of any journey, is left shrouded in uncertainty. The final stop on his voyage is yet to be revealed. Abraham is simply told rather mysteriously that he will be shown where he is to end up.

The Ramban raises the startling possibility that Abraham’s final destination was hidden for the entire duration of his voyage. The Ramban writes:

“To the land that I shall show you – he wandered aimlessly from nation to nation and kingdom to kingdom, until he reached Canaan, when God told him, “To your seed I shall give this land” (12:7)… Before that, he did not yet know that that land was the subject of the command.” (Ramban 12:1)

Abraham’s journey was a wandering expedition without a clear end goal in sight. Indeed, when Abraham retrospectively reflects upon this journey later in life, he explains that “God made me wander from my father’s house” (20:13). When reflecting back, Abraham viewed this period in his life as one of itinerant travelling, a time without a target or goal. According to the Ramban, the importance of Abraham’s journey lay in the very act of travelling, in the voyage itself, rather than the specific destination.

Developing this thought further, the Sfat Emet (1847-1905) posits that it is no surprise that God’s very first interaction with Abraham revolved around journeys. Journeying itself, the Sfat Emet writes, is a crucial part of the human experience: “Lekh Lekha – Go forth: Man is defined by his travelling, and indeed man must always travel, from one level to the next.  One must always aim to extract oneself from habit, from the state of the normal.” The journey Abraham embarks upon represents the journey that all must make, a voyage that breaks free from routines to embrace new heights. In other words, the Sfat Emet believes that man is to be judged by his capacity to change and grow.

The Hasidic thinker, Rabbi Mordechai Yosef Leiner (the Ishbitzer), proposed that Abraham’s journey was so important as it ultimately led him to better understand himself. Indeed, this is the literal translation of Lech-lecha – “Go to yourself.” The very act of wandering, of uncoupling from familiar surroundings, presents the opportunity to learn more about oneself or, in the Ishbitzer’s terminology, to experience “the root of your life”. Thomas Mann, the early 20th Century German writer, also believed in the power of travelling to awaken knowledge of ourselves, journeys “engender forgetfulness by setting us physically free from our surroundings and giving us back our original, free state.”

Parashat Lech Lecha seeks to illustrate that journeys, be they physical, mental or spiritual, can be sources of great illumination and strength. The very act of movement shifts perspectives, opening up new horizons and possibilities by exposing us to undiscovered parts of ourselves. Like Abraham’s journey, often the end goal is not always so apparent from the outset. And yet, the paradoxical lesson to be learned is that we don’t always need a clear goal before embarking upon a voyage. Indeed, it is precisely the act of faith in the midst of such uncertainty which enables us to see the beauty of the journey itself. Sometimes we can put Waze to one side and we will eventually arrive, like Abraham, precisely where we need to be.

The Sound of Silence

How far can words go to communicate our innermost thoughts and feelings? Can everything find expression in speech? We use language to make our inner worlds accessible to others, allowing those willing to listen a glimpse into our otherwise mysterious and opaque selves. Our ability to communicate affords the opportunity to forge a space of shared understanding and knowledge. And yet, at a certain point, speech and language hit a barrier after which only silence is possible. We cannot escape the unspeakable elements of our lives which  evade expression within our vocabulary. As Walter Benjamin once wrote: “Every conversation strives towards silence.” Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

The notion that silence plays a critical role in our lives was emphasised repeatedly by the rabbis of the Talmud who were particularly careful to praise those who limited their speech and were capable of silence.  Rav Dimi stated that “speech is worth one selah whilst silence [shtikuta] is worth two” (Megila, 18a). Similarly, Rabbi Shimon Ben Gamliel stated: “I spent all my days growing up among wise sages and found nothing better for the body than silence” (Pirkei Avot, 1:17). Taking this idea to heart, Maimonides cautions against idle chit-chat and superfluous speech. All things considered, Maimonides writes: “A person should always accustom himself to keeping silent (lit., ‘should increase his silence’). He should speak only of matters of wisdom or matters pertaining to his living needs” (MT, Deot, 2). Good oratory skills and a gift of the gab may be considered  the hallmarks of a successful leader in today’s age.  Yet, to these ancient and medieval rabbis, knowing when not to speak was more important than verbosity; “silence is a fence for wisdom” (Pirkei Avot, 3).

In parashat Vayera, this week’s parasha [weekly Torah portion]  as it so happens,  we witness a drastic change in Abraham’s use of speech.  Abraham’s loquacious negotiation with God over Sedom abruptly turns into deafening silence at the akedah [the binding of Isaac]. At the outset of the parasha, learning of God’s impending destruction of Sedom, Abraham challenges God’s decision and pleads for mercy on Sedom’s behalf. Abraham refuses to remain quiet and engages God in a wordy negotiation to halt the annihilation. Abraham only turns quiet once it becomes abundantly clear that no mitigating factors exist and that the path of rescue is firmly closed. The Midrash (Bereishit Rabba, 49) highlights the magnitude of Abraham’s speech by explaining that God could not execute His damning judgement upon the people of Sedom until Abraham stopped speaking. Abraham thus illustrates the truly divine power of speech. Language awakens the divinity within man to the point where he can negotiate with God and even change the fate of the universe through the simple utterance of words. Human civilization has achieved so much through its ability to communicate ideas.

And yet, only a few verses later, Abraham suddenly falls silent. God reveals His Will to Abraham once again, this time commanding the proud father to sacrifice his own son. Rather than voicing his legitimate concerns,  questioning this command or even uttering a single syllable in protest, Abraham obediently and silently acquiesces to God’s call. The Midrash (Tanchuma, 39) explains that Abraham had a plethora of valid reasons to question God’s judgement and yet nevertheless made himself silent, “like a mute.” The mighty figure who delayed God’s Will through the act of speech now seems bereft of all language. According to Erich Auerbach, the literary critic, the brief and fleeting conversation between Abraham and Isaac about the ram only interrupts the “heavy silence” which purveys the entire akedah scene. The silence surrounding the akedah is further highlighted by Rashi, who points out that Abraham only returns to speech once the whole ordeal is over: “Let me spread out my speech before you.”

Many philosophers have criticised Abraham for this notable absence of speech. In his Conflict of the Faculties, Immanuel Kant argued that Abraham should have replied forcefully to this Divine voice: “That I ought not to kill my good son is quite certain!” Kant would have had Abraham contest God’s command and, failing that, reject it outright. For Kant, Abraham’s silence during the akedah is a damning false piety and thus worthy of condemnation.

However, Jewish thought opts for a different tact, viewing Abraham’s act of silence  during the akedah as worthy of the highest praise. Indeed, the akedah is publicly read during the holiest moments of the Jewish calendar and is repeatedly recalled in liturgy to serve as an example of true faith.

Abraham’s silence illustrates that moments of profound meaning cannot always be adequately met with the right words. At times, a powerful silence conveys more than any speech can express. Abraham’s silence is no mere empty muteness indicating an absence of feeling, emotion or thought. Rather, Abraham’s quiet during the akedah is replete with meaning, indicative of the deep conflict any parent would have felt. Abraham could find no words to respond to the uniqueness of such a singularly personal event of epic dimensions. A moment fraught with profound questions of morality and indeed the very future of his very own family. And yet, Abraham’s silence also betrays a sense of deep inner understanding in the face of the Divine, a deep-seated understanding transcending all expression and beyond verbal communication.

Franz Rosenzweig
Franz Rosenzweig (1886-1929) devoted his life to Jewish thought, publishing his masterpiece, The Star of Redemption, in 1921.

To my mind, a comment by Franz Rosenzweig, the German-Jewish philosopher of the early twentieth Century, helps drive this point home. As I learned from the PhD research of Ynon Wygoda, silence plays an important role within Rosenzweig’s ouevre. Rosenzweig believed that meaningful silence is to be found in many of our relationships in life; both with the Divine and our contemporaries: “First one cannot speak to another; next one can do so; and finally one no longer finds it necessary to do so. One understands the other even without words.” Rosenzweig continues: “There is a silence that no longer needs words. It is the silence of perfect understanding.” For Rosenzweig, our most intimate moments in life often take place under the cover of silence.

Rosenzweig believed that man constantly oscillates between speech and silence. A relationship built on true understanding reaches a point where words become superfluous and communication continues into the realm of silence, through what is conveyed in the unspoken, our silent gestures. As Rosenzweig articulates so powerfully: “Light does not talk, it shines.” Abraham shows us both the power and limitations of our language and speech. The mere utterance of words has achieved so much in this world. And yet, Abraham’s behaviour during the akedah teaches us that our most profound experiences in life, be they religious or personal, require a healthy dose of silence too. Silence does indeed speak volumes.


Extraordinary People: Parashat Pinchas and Heroism

Thomas Carlyle, the great Scottish historian, once said: “the history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the History the Great Men who have worked here.” Carlyle believed that the driving force behind history is its heroes, those unique individuals who rose above ordinary expectations to push mankind forward. Carlyle felt that heroism could be found in poets and politicians alike. There is no single model for heroism.

Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) delivered these famous lectures 'On Heroes and Hero Worship' in 1840.
Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) delivered these famous lectures ‘On Heroes and Hero Worship’ in 1840.

Importantly, Carlyle believed that heroism did not require perfection. All human beings have their many flaws and imperfections. And yet, the heroic figures in our ranks manage to channel their energies to seize the moments that shift our paradigms, truly moving history and society forwards. They overcome their human flaws, sometimes surprising even themselves, to alter the world in which they live.

In many ways, the theme which endures throughout this week’s parasha is the idea that extraordinary people can indeed transcend probability and change the world around them. This parasha begins with the story of Pinchas, a figure who went beyond all societal expectations, perhaps even beyond the letter of the law, to fatally punish an insubordinate leader who jeopardised the very integrity of the nation. The Torah describes how the entirety of society, Moses included, simply wept by the sanctuary in despair at the sight of their prince publicly succumbing to temptation.

According to the Talmud (Sanhedrin 82b) Moses, Israel’s greatest leader,  simply forgot the relevant laws and thus had no response to this calamity. The man who confronted Pharaoh and shattered God’s tablets was caught in a moment of personal turbulence, leaving a momentary harrowing void of leadership. In the midst of all this havoc, it was only Pinchas who understood what needed to be done, and acted. “Pinchas the son of Elazar , the son of Aharon, saw, and arose from within the congregation…” Pinchas had both the vision to see what was wrong and the audacity to arise from the among of the masses.

No one else expected Pinchas to take such a drastic course of action. Interestingly, the Talmud (Sanhedrin 82a) explains that had Pinchas asked the court what to do, “they would never have said to do such a thing.” Had Pinchas asked for legal counsel, the course of action he ultimately took would have been rejected. Indeed, the Jerusalem Talmud (Sanhedrin 9:7) states that the court even considered excommunicating Pinchas had Prophecy not suddenly come to vindicate him.

A few verses later, a similarly extraordinary act is undertaken by the daughters of Zelaphchad.  Zelaphchad’s five daughters raised the right and obligation of women to inherit property in the absence of a male heir. Void of any male offspring, the inheritance laws dictated that Zelafchad’s legacy would be lost. In a moment of extraordinary courage, the daughters of Zelaphchad bring their plight to Moses and question the unfair treatment of their father. After the daughters of Zelaphchad issue their complaint, Moses conveys their cause to God.

In a remarkable parallel to the case of Pinchas, Chazal note that Moses also did not know what to answer the daughter’s of Zelaphchad. The leader of Israel once again had suddenly forgotten the particular laws in question. Ultimately, it is only the word of God that tells us that both Pinchas and Zelaphchad’s daughters acted properly: “And God told Moses: The daughters of Zelafchad speak correctly…” and “And therefore I will give him [Pinchas] a covenant of peace.”

Acts of heroism, which  shatter the expectations and paradigms of wider society, often appear inexplicable to onlookers. The power of societal norms and of deeply entrenched cultural habits are often difficult to transcend. Sometimes moments of crisis leave all in a crippling state of paralysis. What is clear is that both Pinchas and the daughter’s of Zelaphchad were unwilling to succumb to the norm, to mundane predictable prospects. They sensed that a critical moment was glaring right at them and rose to the occasion.

One problem with Carlyle’s writings is that he viewed heroes as objects of worship. Carlyle’s approach leaves one marveling at the splendid heroism of history’s great men, whilst expecting little or no heroism from oneself. Indeed, extreme admiration of others often leads to a sense of personal inferiority. Heroism becomes an innate quality rather than something attained through struggle. The message the Torah seeks to awaken within us is that we all have heroic potential. We certainly ought to admire and appreciate the extraordinary people that have graced the world. Yet, they should also serve as a reminder as to what energies lie latent within us too.

Wishing a Shabbat shalom to all.

May Shabbat bring peace and safety to all those in Israel and the extraordinary soldiers who risk their lives to protect it.