This has been a nightmare to write. It's so difficult to write I could not even get it done in time for last Shabbat. At issue is once again the Akedah, the binding of Issac to be sacrificed,. Abraham's final test by God.
Many might say this is an obsolete story. Many say it lies so contrary to the tradition to want to remove it. Many of course find the actions of both God and Abraham reprehensible to kill a small boy. A lot more have tried to make sense of the story, and midrash abounds on what happened and what was really going on. There is no one answer. The story reflects the times and personality of anyone who approaches it. Maybe that is why such a story makes into the Rosh Hashanah literature: to hold up a mirror to ourselves, an honest assessment of who we are and what choices we would have made on the mountain. Not just as Abraham but as Issac and God as well.
This year I've seen the Akeda in very clearly, and very simply. Abraham is given a choice: Give up your son or give up becoming a people that number like the stars. Give up something you always wanted and worked hard for, you have two: choose one. The reflective mirror of the Akedah has been my plight for a few weeks. While I will not get into many details of my story, it is clear in my mind the Isaac of my story is the son I have lived with for eight years, ands struggled with for eight years. That son of course is not flesh and bone, but is loved by me as much as if he was: this weekly commentary, Shlomo's Drash. I've tried before to give it up, at times others have wanted me to stop. But I never have, because Shlomo's Drash is part of me and is loved by me so much. For so long it had been my deep connection to a way of Jewish thinking I find so rare today in any movement: delving deep into the books of Talmud and Midrash, and seeing the writings of the close to thousand year period of the rabbinic period come to life. It has been an outpouring of my soul as well, an exploration and confession of someone struggling to be a modern Jew.
Yet, on the other hand there is much in the world of flesh and blood I need to support. To support it requires time, time which needs to come from somewhere. In far too many ways, the effort is the realization of dreams and prayers of mine for a very long time. Being there to support and be involved in that effort is difficult. Like a famine on the land, becomes more difficult each passing day, as my own strength begins to fail while those around me are already faltering. In economic bad times, I am sure I am not the only one with this dilemma. For many of us we simply hesitate longer and longer, not making the decision of what to do, hoping that the Angel will come out of a cloud and tell us what to do, or provide us with that ram as an alternative. We are desperately waiting, and yet, there is no answer.
I think that's the question many look at. Many may not know it, I've just realized it myself. the Akedah puts two things we highly value and puts them to us to choose one. Like Abraham picking up the knife, the test does not have any intervention until we act. This choice has paralyzed me for weeks, making it near impossible to write or relate to. But this week, a week after this was supposed to go out, I wonder something else about the text: why did Abraham not see the ram himself? Why did the angel have to open his eyes for him?
I have two answers, one psychological, and one just a little psychotic, but sage wisdom nevertheless. The first is that Abraham was so intent on the choice, that he only saw the two options. And in his case the dream of a people outweighed the love for his son, even if it was a heart wrenching decision. On the other hand, it's because he never studied with the Rabbis. Rabbinic thinking would have found shades of meaning in the dilemma, and also alternatives that many would consider "outside the box." While in their own writing in Midrash they only give interpretation of the narrative, I believe if a Talmudic sage like Raba were stuck in the same situation, they would have seen the ram in the thicket and every other alternative that was at their disposal. The study of rabbinic literature trains the mind to see the other possibilities, to see the ram even when God did not open their eyes, but know that God put it there for them to find.
The closest I have found to my own dilemma is a bit of a compromise: Shlomo's Drash has a 1,000 word limit on it. Unlike this piece, which is my own ramblings, I will also go back to a fundamental precept I did a while ago: explore the Talmud and Midrash and Targums more than I have -- the personal stuff is getting ejected, it gets in the way of writing. I cannot stay still waiting for God to give me the answer, I will choose neither choice, and make up my own based on the ancient writings. In the modern Akedas we find ourselves in, maybe that is the true way to pass the test.
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