Be sure to see the video below also as it relates to the following.
Also, consider this statement from F. Scott Fitzgerald while reading this post: “The test of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.”
In last week’s Torah portion Abraham leaves the Land of Israel due to famine there and travels to Egypt. As he and his wife Sarah approach Egypt, Abraham tells his wife to pretend that she is his sister, not his wife. After all, Abraham reasons, Sarah is quite beautiful; when the Egyptians see her, they will immediately want to take her, which in turn will mean they will want to kill Abraham. If, however, Abraham is not an obstacle for their desires, then perhaps they will spare his life.
This scene is quite troubling. How could Abraham tell his wife to lie? More importantly, how could he seem to place her in such a position? Does this mean he would allow the Egyptians to take her without putting up a fight?
There are two ways of looking at this text. The first is to assume that Abraham made a mistake. He should not have said what he said. This is the position of the Ramban, who actually says something quite blunt: “Abraham sinned a great sin!” The Ramban does not end there with his criticism of Abraham. He goes on to say that Abraham’s choice to leave Israel in the first place was also a great sin. God never told him that he could leave, and thus he should not have. He should have had more faith and more perseverence. This second sin was so grave, writes the Ramban, that God ultimately punished Abraham’s descendents as a result of it and exiled them to Egypt years later and allowed them to be enslaved there.
On the other hand, there are those that explain Abraham’s behavior away. The Sphorno, for example, reads the initial text as follows: Abraham asks Sarah to say she is his sister, not so the Egyptians will take her and not kill Abraham, but rather so they would try to court Sarah and shower Abraham — her ‘brother’ — with gifts. This courting would take time, Abraham thought, which in turn would allow him to gather some food and allow them to escape back to Israel at the earliest possible moment. According to the Sphorno, if push ever came to shove, Abraham absolutely would go to battle to protect the honor and life of his Sarah.
Whichever interpretation is more convincing, Rabbi Shmuel Goldin believes that what’s really is at stake here is the question of whether or not it is appropirate to criticize our ancestors. Do we consider them real people, flawed and all, or should we protect their status as elevated saints above reproach?
Usually, I find myself siding with the first opinion, that it’s OK — and at times, even obligatory — to criticize the actions of our ancestors. After all, if we don’t view them as real people, it makes it difficult to draw genuine inspiration from them. If Abraham is a saint, a superhuman individual, then I may be able to worship him but will find it difficult to emulate him. I, after all, am not superhuman but rather a regular joe; surely I cannot be expected to act at such an elevated level. However, if Abraham is someone who has sinned and failed at times, BUT then gone on to accomplish amazing things, then I too — someone who has also sinned and failed — AM obligated to try to do the same. If he was an ordinary person who did extraordinary things, then I, too, must endeavor to elevate my life in the same way.
Then last week I saw the below video. Take a moment to view it now. It’s meant to be humorous, but at the same time I found it quite instructive. In it, a young Satmar Hasid projects his understanding of Judaism onto Moses. As a result of this video, I came to realize that the rush to criticize our ancestors is also frought with danger as much as opportunity.
After all, when we think of our ancestors, it is possible that we project ourselves — our values and our dreams … and also our flaws — onto them. If that’s the case, perhaps when we criticize our ancestors we are not actually being fair to them, but simply trying to make ourselves feel better by equating their weaknesses with ours. If that is true, then the same result will occur: I will feel excused from trying to improve my lot. After all, if Abraham has the same failures as I, then why should I bother to improve; I may even be better than him. At the very least, I may feel that if Abraham was considered good enough for God, then I am as well. Again, I will have failed to draw the proper inspiration and motivation.
Here, we thus see another issue is really at stake. As it turns out, both opinions regarding whether or not it’s right to criticize are right … and both are wrong. They both possess truths that can inspire us, even as they both stand diametrically opposed to one another. This, I believe, is part of the great genius of our tradition. This, I believe, is what part of what our Sages called “the 70 faces of Torah.”
My wife Rachel wrote about this concept a few posts ago. I don’t want to repeat, but I would like to add what she said. In Mordechai Rotenberg’s book, he notes there are two sources of Jewish practice and belief, things that are Mikdash (which are described in the Torah by the phrase “And you shall sanctify it”) and things that are Midrash (which are described in the Torah by the phrase “And you shall Mechadesh, or renew, it”). Things that are mikdash are those rituals we all share in common, and things we must share in common if we have any chance of being a united community. If we want to be able to eat in each other’s homes, we must keep kosher. In contrast, Midrash requires the ability of the individual to invest within it his own deeper meaning, to ‘renew’ it each day and for each person. This is a brilliant fusion. It allows one to connect to the community as well as protect his or her individualism, while the all the time constantly grow in a commitment to God. When we see differences within text, therefore, we need not become nervous or assume tension must follow. To the contrary, we should realize that this is part of the beauty of Torah. I can learn from others even as I disagree with them, which in turn enables me to appreciate the value of others while at the same time increase my value.
This, according to Rothenberg, is the meaning of Na’aseh VeNishma, the statement the Jewish people uttered when offered the Torah on Mount Sinai — We will do, and then we will listen. The “We will do” half refers to one’s commitment to joining a faith community by practicing the basic rituals of that community; the “we will then listen” refers to each individual’s obligation to interpret the rituals and the texts with a deeper, more personal meaning.
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