S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT VAYERA

By Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei

            The Torah in Parashat Vayera tells the famous story of akeidat Yitzchak, God’s command to Avraham to offer his son, Yitzchak as a sacrifice, and Avraham’s preparedness to comply with the command until an angel ordered him to withdraw his sword.

            Among the more overlooked nuances in the story of the akeida is God’s calling Avraham by his name: “…God tested Avraham, and he said to him, ‘Avraham!’ and he said, ‘I am here’” (22:1).  Later, too, when the angel appeared to Avraham as he stood near the altar, and instructed him to withdraw his sword, the angel said, “Avraham! Avraham” (22:11).  God had spoken to Avraham on numerous occasions before this incident, but never introduced His prophetic message by calling Avraham’s name.  (The one possible exception is the prophecy of berit bein ha-betarim, which God introduced by saying, “Do not fear, Avram, I will be your shield…” – 15:1.)  What might be the significance of God’s calling Avraham by name, and why is this unique to the command of the akeida?

            Rav Yehuda Amital zt”l (http://vbm-torah.org/archive/sichot/bereishit/04-57vayera.doc) explained that very often, a person who devotes himself to a certain goal or mission, especially one involving an idealistic vision, loses his personal identity and individuality.  He is no longer himself, as his definition is overtaken by the goal he pursues.  Rather than being a person, a private individual, he is an instrument, or a peg in the machine that works to produce a certain result.  A person devoted to community service, for example, is likely to lose his personal identity and view himself as solely a servant or messenger of the community.

            Prima facie, the command of the akeida, the sacrificing of his beloved child, required Avraham to reject, or to eliminate, his personal feelings and self-identity.  On the surface, the akeida was an exercise in self-negation, in transforming oneself from an individual to an object, to a lifeless instrument, to a mechanical robot programmed to obey God’s command.  But this is not what God wanted.  He introduced His command by calling, “Avraham,” which Rav Amital zt”l explained to mean, “Return to yourself, to your natural emotions, to your feelings, to your family.  From within all of this – and only from within it – you are commanded to ‘take your son, your only son....’”  God did not want Avraham to look at his son upon the altar as a kohen looks upon a sheep offered as a sacrifice, or, for that matter, as a Jew looks at his lulav on Sukkot.  Avraham was to look upon Yitzchak as his son, the child for which he spent decades of his life praying, the embodiment of his lifelong dreams, hopes and aspirations.  Even as he held the knife in the air over his son tied upon the altar, Avraham was to see himself as Yitzchak’s father.  Even at this moment, of the greatest possible expression of self-sacrifice and blind obedience, God wanted Avraham to act as a human being, with human feelings and emotions.  He offered his son as a sacrifice not as a machine whose button was pressed, but as a thinking and feeling person.

            Indeed, as Rav Amital zt”l often noted, the Midrashim depict Avraham in a state of sheer torment and anguish as he made his way to the akeida.  He did not respond to this command robotically, like a computer executing the programmer’s instruction.  The command of the akeida is referred to as a “test” precisely because Avraham was human – a loving father, and a sensitive, humane person.  God’s commands are intended to be fulfilled within the framework of ordinary, human life.  We are expected to serve God as human beings, with all our frailties and weaknesses, rather than try – in futility – to become angels.

            The call of “Avraham!” is thus directed to each and every one of us, reminding us that God’s commands are for us, for ordinary, flawed human beings – as this is precisely for whom the Torah and its obligations were intended.

Sunday

            The Midrash Tanchuma (22), among other Midrashic sources, presents several graphic descriptions of the efforts made by the Satan to prevent Avraham from obeying the command of the akeida.  The Satan first appeared as a wise, old man, who vigorously questioned the logic of what he was headed to do.  He then appeared to the patriarch as a young man, and again engaged Avraham in an intense debate.  Most famously, perhaps, the Midrash depicts the Satan assuming the form of a river obstructing Avraham’s route to Moriah.  But Avraham, of course, resisted all these efforts, proceeding steadfastly to the mountain chosen by God, despite the questions, emotional torment, and even the physical obstructions that stood in his way.

            Rav Meir Shapiro of Lublin raised the question of why Avraham ignored these interferences of the Satan, but later acceded to the command of the angel that ordered him to withdraw his sword as he prepared to sacrifice Yitzchak.  Why did he not suspect that the call of the angel, too, was part of the Satan’s scheme?  How did he differentiate between the machinations of the yetzer ha-ra, and a genuine call from God?

            The simplest answer, it would seem, is that the power of prophecy includes the ability to conclusively determine that prophecy has been received.  Indeed, according to the Rambam (Guide to the Perplexed 3:24), one of the purposes of the command of the akeida was to demonstrate the extent to which a prophet was convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that he has heard the word of God.  The Rambam writes:

The second purpose [of the akeida] is to show how the prophets believed in the truth of that which came to them from God by way of inspiration.  We shall not think that what the prophets heard or saw in allegorical figures may at times have included incorrect or doubtful elements, since the Divine communication was made to them, as we have shown, in a dream or a vision and through the imaginative faculty.  Scripture thus tells us that whatever the Prophet perceives in a prophetic vision, he considers as true and correct and not open to any doubt; it is in his eyes like all other things perceived by the senses or by the intellect.  This is proved by the consent of Abraham to slay “his only son whom he loved,” as he was commanded, although the commandment was received in a dream or vision.  If the Prophets had any doubt or suspicion as regards the truth of what they saw in a prophetic dream or perceived in a prophetic vision, they would not have consented to do what is unnatural, and Abraham would not have found in his soul strength enough to perform that act, if he had any doubt.

Seemingly, then, we need not question why Avraham heeded the call of the angel to withdraw his sword, but ignored the Satan’s attempts to intervene.  As a prophet, Avraham undoubtedly knew how to differentiate between a genuine call from God or His angels, and calls from other beings.

            Rav Shapiro, however, suggests (“al derekh ha-derush”) a poignant insight into how Avraham distinguished between the call of the Satan and the call of God – and how we, too, can distinguish between the voice of our conscience and the voice of our ego.  The angel’s call to Avraham to withdraw his sword was accompanied by the sight of a ram caught by his horns in a thicket of branches, indicating to Avraham that the ram should be offered in Yitzchak’s place.  It was clear to Avraham immediately upon seeing the ram – the purported substitute for his son – that it would take time, patience and effort to untangle its horns so he could place it on the altar.  The call of the angel relieved him from the need to sacrifice his son, but it still required him to struggle, to invest time and effort.  This is how the angel’s call differed from the call of the Satan, who attempted to persuade Avraham to simply ignore God’s command and return home with his son.  An inner voice that urges us to take the easy route, that advocates the simple and convenient short-cut, is, more often than not, the voice of the Satan, of our evil inclination.  It is the voice that acknowledges the challenges that must be overcome, without painting a perfectly rosy picture, and that is accompanied by an “entanglement” that we must work hard to sort out, that represents the angel of God.

            Rav Dovid Gottlieb after citing Rav Shapiro’s comments, adds:

It is natural to be attracted to things that are simple and straightforward. And yet we must realize, as Avraham did, that these very characteristics are often the surest indicator of falsehood. Truth is complex and living a life based on truth will necessarily require a measure of struggle. Simplicity is seductive but we must realize its rewards are often illusory and fleeting. Rather than being deflated or depressed by this realization, we should realize that great accomplishment, spiritual and otherwise, is – like a diamond – almost always preceded by great pressure and struggle.

If it sounds too easy, it usually is.  We must train ourselves to listen to the honest, realistic voice within us that recognizes the complexities of religious life and urges us to struggle and persist in overcoming these hurdles.  The other voice, which persuades us with alluring simplicity, is – more often than not – the voice of the Satan, and the voice which should be silenced and ignored.

Monday

            The Torah in Parashat Vayera tells the story of Lot’s daughters, who lived alone with their father in a cave after being rescued from the destruction of the city of Sedom.  The older daughter feared that “there are no men in the land to cohabit with us” (19:31), and they thus decided to bring their father to intoxication so he would sleep with them.  Each daughter slept with Lot on successive nights, and they both conceived from this incestuous union.

            The Midrash (Agadat Bereishit, cited in Torah Sheleima) presents the following assessment of Lot’s daughters’ act:

If the Almighty had judged [them] according to their actions, Lot’s daughters would have deserved to be burned by fire.  But the Almighty judged only according to the thoughts that they had, that they said, “Our father is old, and there is no man…”  Lot’s daughters saw that there was no person in those places, and, moreover, they thought that there were no people in the world, for they said, “The world was obliterated just as Sedom and its environs were obliterated.”… The Almighty said, “If I would judge according to your actions, you would deserve to be burned, but your intention was to build the earth.  However, you shall not be brought into the treasure, as it says, ‘An Amonite and Moavite shall not join the congregation of the Lord’ (Devarim 23:4).”

Normally, of course, incest is deemed an abominable offense, punishable by death.  Lot’s daughters were spared punishment because of their noble intentions, as they had assumed that they and their father were the only living people on earth.  Still, because they committed this act, God deemed them unworthy of being “brought into the treasure,” of joining Am Yisrael, and therefore decreed that their descendants – the nations of Amon and Moav – may not marry into Benei Yisrael.  Thus, while the daughters were not punished in consideration of their noble intentions, they did, nevertheless, bear a degree of guilt, and were deemed ineligible for joining God’s sacred nation.

            Why did Lot’s daughters bear guilt for their misdeed?  They honestly believed that the continuation of the human race depended on them.  They assumed that just as Adam and Chava’s sons and daughters married each other, as they had nobody else to marry and the world’s population had to grow, similarly, they had no choice but to seduce their father.  Seeing the destruction of Sedom and the surrounding region, couldn’t they be excused for mistakenly assuming that the entire earth was destroyed?

            One simple explanation, perhaps, is that this story teaches the importance of careful and cautious consideration before deciding upon drastic courses of action.  We might say that Lot’s daughters were guilty of alarmism, of rashly “pressing the red button” before clarifying the situation.  Desperate situations require desperate measures – but one must first ascertain that the situation is indeed desperate before resorting to such measures.  Lot’s daughters were too quick in determining that their situation was dire, and they were thus not completely guiltless.

            The Sages teach that when Moshe did not descend from Mount Sinai at the expected time, the Satan showed Benei Yisrael an image of their leader lying dead in a coffin.  Concluding that Moshe had died, the people sought a replacement – and fashioned the golden calf.  The Sages likely refer here to a common form of the yetzer ha-ra – the tendency among many people to rush to drastic conclusions and declare a “state of emergency” before determining whether such a declaration is warranted.  Like Lot’s daughters, Benei Yisrael at the foot of Mount Sinai assumed the very worst, and this assumption led them to drastic, frantic and irrational measures.

            Lot’s daughters were excused from punishment, but were deemed unworthy of the “treasure,” of joining Am Yisrael.  Being part of God’s special nation requires – obviously among many other things – careful and patient thought and consideration, that we act wisely and with discretion, and avoid extreme measures borne out of rash, sensationalist conclusions.

Tuesday

            The Torah in Parashat Vayera tells the story of the angels who rescued Lot and his family from Sedom before the city’s destruction.  As the family left the city, the angel instructed them to look ahead and not to turn around and look upon the devastation that befell the city.  Lot’s wife, however, disobeyed and turned around, on account of which she was transformed into a “netziv melach” (“pillar of salt” – 19:26).

            The Gemara in Masekhet Berakhot (54a) cites a berayta that lists numerous sites of miracles that occurred to our ancestors in Biblical times.  The berayta establishes that one who sees any of these sites must give praise to the Almighty by reciting the berakha, “Barukh Ata Hashem…she-asa nissim la-avoteinu ba-makom ha-zeh.”  This list includes sites such as the Sea of Reeds that split when Benei Yisrael fled from the Egypt, the Arnon Stream, the site where Moshe sat during the battle against Amalek, and the site where the walls of Jericho collapsed before Benei Yisrael’s conquest of the city.  Surprisingly, this list also includes the site of the netziv melach.

            The Gemara (54b) raises the obvious question of why one would give praise to God for this miracle.  The other miracles referenced in the berayta involve events where Benei Yisrael were saved from an enemy, or that otherwise helped the nation at a time of need (such as the splitting of the Jordan River when Benei Yisrael entered the Land of Israel in the time of Yehoshua).  The incident of the netziv melach, however, involves a punishment brought upon an individual for a particular, personal transgression, that was not part of any act of salvation performed on behalf of Benei Yisrael or their patriarchs.  To the contrary, this was a personal tragedy to Lot, Avraham’s nephew.  Why should we give praise to God upon seeing the netziv melach?

            The Gemara explains that the berayta actually refers (or alludes) here to two berakhot that one must recite.  First, one recites the berakha of “Dayan ha-emet” – the berakha customarily recited when tragedy strikes – over the death of Lot’s wife.  Secondly, one recites the berakha of “zokher ha-tzadikim” to give praise to God for rescuing Lot.  As the Torah states in this narrative (19:29), God rescued Lot from Sedom in the merit of Avraham.  Accordingly, this event is commemorated through the recitation of “zokher ha-tzadikim,” giving praise to the Almighty for bringing salvation and deliverance in the merit of the righteous.

            The Gemara does not clarify when exactly these two berakhot are recited.  Does one recite both berakhot upon seeing the netziv melach?  Or, does the Gemara refer to two separate cases – one of a person who comes upon the netziv melach, and must recite “Dayan ha-emet,” and a second case of somebody who sees the site of Lot’s rescue, whereupon he recites, “zokher ha-tzadikim”?

            The Rosh (Berakhot 9:2) explains that the Gemara requires one to recite both berakhot upon seeing the netziv melach, and this is the ruling codified in the Shulchan Arukh (218:8).  The Chafetz Chayim, in Sha’ar Ha-tziyun (218:23), claims that this is also the view of the Rif.  He explains that the netziv melach is the site of Lot’s rescue from Sedom, as Lot’s wife became a netziv melach as she fled from the city with her husband.   Therefore, one who sees the netziv melach essentially comes upon the site of two events: the tragedy of Lot’s wife’s death, and the site of Lot’s rescue.  He thus recites two berakhot, one for each of the two events that occurred at the site.

            One could, however, explain this halakha differently.  Possibly, one who sees the netziv melach recites a berakha also on Lot’s rescue because he is reminded of that event by seeing the pillar of salt.  This requirement is not due to the fact that the site of the netziv melach is also the site of Lot’s rescue, but rather a function of the memory of Lot’s rescue that is triggered by viewing the netziv melach.

            Rav Daniel Yaakov Travis, in his work Mizmor Le-toda (Jerusalem, 5767), suggests that this question may affect the halakha concerning a case addressed in the work Ma’ayan Ganim (5).  The case involved a tragic incident of violent burglars who confronted two innocent men, and blinded one of them.  They prepared to kill the second, when suddenly a snake appeared and bit one of the assailants.  They were frightened and fled, thus sparing the second man whom they had sought to kill.  The Ma’ayan Ganim addressed the question of whether the second man, or his children, should recite a berakha to thank God for the miracle each time they see the first man, who was blinded during the incident.  The question is whether one recites a berakha only upon coming upon the site of a miracle, or even upon seeing something that reminds him of the miracle.  Possibly, this might depend on how we understand the requirement to recite the berakha “zokher ha-tzadikim” when seeing the netziv melach.  If this requirement stems from the fact that the sight of the netziv melach brings to mind the rescue of Lot, then this might prove that one recites a berakha over a miracle even upon seeing something that brings the event to mind.  If, however, this berakha is required because the netziv melach is the actual site of the miracle, then this halakha would obviously have no bearing on the issue of reciting the berakha upon experiences that trigger the memory of a miraculous event.

            Practically speaking, we have no tradition today concerning the whereabouts of the netziv melach, and therefore this berakha is not recited.  (See Piskei Teshuvot, Siman 218, note 31.)

Wednesday

The opening verse of Parashat Vayera tells of God appearing to Avraham as he sat outside his tent, following his circumcision. The Midrash (Bereishit Rabba48), taking note of the fact that Avraham remained sitting during this prophetic encounter, makes reference to a verse in Tehillim (18:36) in which David exclaims, “You gave me Your shield of salvation; Your right hand supported me, and Your humility has made me great.” This verse, the Midrash comments, may be understood as a reference to Avraham. “Your right hand supported me” alludes to the miraculous assistance that God granted Avraham in the perilous situations he confronted – in the fiery furnace in Ur Kasdim, during the famine that struck Canaan, and as he waged an otherwise hopeless battle against four major empires. The verse’s final phrase –“Your humility has made me great” – refers to God’s revelation to Avraham herein Parashat Vayera. The Midrash comments, “The Almighty treated Avraham with abundant humility – as he sat while the Shekhina stood.” The Sages found it significant that God “stood” during this encounter and Avraham remained sitting, viewing this as a demonstration of God’s unique “humility.”

To what kind of “humility” does the Midrash refer, and how was this manifested through God’s “standing” as Avraham sat?

The Midrash here speaks of God’s “humility” in the context of the miracles He performed for Avraham. Often, benefactors assume a condescending posture toward their beneficiaries. People who generously offer their time or resources to assist others might be led to speak and act toward the people they help with a sense of superiority and arrogance, demanding respect and talking down to them. Viewing the beneficiaries as their “dependents,” they treat them as inferiors. For this reason, perhaps, the Midrash draws our attention to the fact that despite the great miracles God performed for Avraham, saving his life from fire, hunger and the sword, He still treated Avraham with respect, as it were. When He appeared to Avraham, He did not demand that Avraham stand in His presence. God assumed a posture of respect, not condescension; He treated His beneficiary as His equal, so-to-speak, not as His underling.

The Sages here call upon us to follow God’s example of respectful and dignified treatment of all people –including those who owe us a debt of gratitude. We are to avoid the tendency to look down upon those who look to us for assistance, and to instead accord them the respect they deserve

Thursday

            Parashat Vayera begins with a brief description of God appearing to Avraham, emphasizing the Avraham was sitting during this revelation: “The Lord appeared to him in Elonei Mamrei, as he was sitting at the entrance to his tent during the heat of the day.”

            The Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 48) relates that Avraham initially prepared to stand in God’s honor when He appeared to him, but the Almighty instructed him to remain seated:

He sought to stand.  The Almighty said to him, “Sit and I will stand.  This is a sign for your descendants that I will, in the future, stand in place when judges convene, while they sit, as it says, ‘God stands in the meeting of magistrates’ (Tehillim 82:1).

This exchange is recorded in greater detail – and with some variation – in the Tanchuma Yashan:

When the Almighty appeared to him, he was sitting… Avraham decided to stand, but the Almighty said to him, “Do not endure the trouble of standing; sit…”  Avraham said to Him, “Is this proper, that I sit while You stand?”  The Almighty said, “Do not endure the trouble.  You are elderly, one hundred years old; sit… I swear that because you sit and I stand, your descendants – three or four years old – will in the future sit in the study halls and in the synagogue while I stand over them…”

What is the significance of God’s insistence that Avraham sit comfortably while He stands?  And why, according to the first version of this exchange, was this arrangement symbolic of God’s “standing” when judges convene in the courtroom to try a case?

            Rav Moshe Dov Wolner of Ashkelon, in Derushim Le-cheftzeihem (Jerusalem, 5769), suggests that Chazal here seek to convey a lesson relevant to the notion of yir’at Shamayim – fear of God.  This mitzva, undoubtedly, requires a person to live with a cognizance of God’s authority and our accountability to Him for all that we do, think and say.  This obligation does not, however, require us to live with debilitating anxiety.  Yir’at Shamayim means living with a sense of responsibility, but not with constant dread that hampers one’s ability to act and function.  Excessive anxiety deflates a person and diminishes from his ambition.  He is too frightened to act, to initiate, to explore, to maximize his potential through bold, proactive and ambitious undertakings.

            The institution of Beit Din provides a classic example of the dangers of misguided yir’at Shamayim.  An erroneous ruling yields grave consequences, both for the judge’s reputation – not to mention his relationship with the wrongly convicted litigant – and in terms of the risk of harsh divine retribution.  An eligible candidate for the position of judge may, understandably, prefer avoiding these risks and refuse to serve.  But God does not want us to shy away from responsibility, to avoid using our potential out of fear of failure.  God reassures prospective judges, “Elokim nitzav ba-adat Kel,” that He will stand over them.  They may sit and do their work in the courtroom comfortably – albeit with diligence and caution.  They do not have to “stand,” to constantly be on edge and anxious.  God expects them to perform their duties normally, to the best of their ability, and He will stand over them to protect them and ensure their success.

            Rav Wolner explained that the Midrash sought to apply this precept to religious life generally, by way of the description of God standing as Avraham sat.  Although we are to live our lives with the constant awareness of God’s presence, we do not – and should not – constantly “stand,” live with intense fear and dread that cripples our ambition and limits our productivity.  God tells us – as He told Avraham – that we can “sit,” that even as we feel His presence throughout our lives, and devote ourselves to His service, we must not lose the peace of mind we need to fulfill our role in the world.  Like Avraham, we are urged to “sit” peacefully even as we sense the divine presence, so that we are able to focus our attention – as Avraham did – on looking outside our “tents” to see who in the world we can help, what problems we can help solve, how can we make our most meaningful contribution to the world and to mankind.

Friday

            Parashat Vayera begins with the story of the three angels who visited Avraham and informed him that he and Sara would soon have a child, and the parasha then continues with the story of the destruction of Sedom.  The transition between these two events occurs in the following verse: “The men arose from there [Avraham’s home] and set their sights upon Sedom…” (18:16).

            Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch detects within this verse an allusion to the stark contrast between the two settings – Avraham’s home, and Sedom.  The angels left “from there,” from the hospitality, graciousness and kindness that characterized their experience in Avraham’s tent, and headed toward Sedom, which the Torah has already described as a corrupt, immoral society (13:13).  The Torah tells of the angels making their way toward the condemned city with the verb “va-yashkifu” (“they set their sights upon,” or “they looked down upon”), which Rav Hirsch interprets to mean, “they looked down to the plains of Sedom with criticizing gauging consideration.”  Their experience with Avraham contrasted so sharply with the way of life in Sedom that they looked upon the city in disgust and revulsion.  Off the background of Avraham’s selflessness and piety, Sedom’s debasement appeared especially repugnant.

            Rav Yitzchak Menachem Abrahamson of London, in his work Be’er Mayim (London, 1919), offers the precise opposite interpretation of this verse.  He, too, detects an emphasis on the contrast between Avraham and Sedom.  In his view, however, the angels specifically endeavored not to allow their experiences with Avraham to affect their perspective as they headed toward Sedom.  The Torah tells, “Va-yakumu mi-sham ha-anashim” (“The people arose from there”).  Rav Abrahamson reads this phrase to mean not only that the angels physically took leave of Avraham’s home, but also that they diverted their minds from his home, as well.  They headed toward Sedom in order to rescue Lot and his family, and also held out hope that God would reverse His decree against the rest of the population.  They wanted to help Sedom, to find its redeeming quality, to expose within the rampant corruption a ray of moral light which could perhaps rescue the city.  To this end, they “arose from there,” they diverted their minds away from Avraham.  As the angels made their way down the hills of Chevron toward the Jordan River Valley, they had to change their frame of reference.  They could not view and assess Sedom off the backdrop of Avraham’s unparalleled kindness; it would be unfair to judge Sedom according to the towering standards which they had just experienced.

            In order to judge other people favorably, if we want to find and bring out the best in others, we need to alter our frame of reference.  We cannot hold people to the strict standards to which we hold – or should hold – ourselves and those with whom we associate and identify.  Chazal famously comment that a person should always ask himself, “When will my actions reach [the level of] the actions of my patriarchs?”  But this demand should be made only of oneself, and not of others.  In dealing with other people, we should not insistently expect the standards of Avraham Avinu.  We should instead look upon them kindly, favorably and compassionately, hopeful and confident that they, and all of us, will indeed one day succeed in meeting the lofty standards set by our righteous forebears.