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Don't Worry!

By Sarah Rudolph When Avraham tasks his servant with traveling “to my land, to my birthplace” (Bereishit 24:4) to find a wife for Yitzchak, the servant expresses a fairly reasonable concern about what might go wrong – “Maybe the woman won’t want to follow me back here” (ibid. 5) – and wants to clarify backup plans in advance – “Should I return your son to the land from which you came [to marry her there]?” Avraham, however, asserts that there is nothing to worry about: Definitely do not bring Yitzchak there, but don’t worry, because “Hashem, the God of heaven, who took me from my father’s house and from the land of my birth, and who spoke to me and who swore to me saying: I will give this land to your offspring – He will send His malach before you and you will take a wife for my son from there” (ibid. 7).

Why not worry?

That’s quite a mouthful. Why doesn’t Avraham simply say “God will help”? What is the relevance of these particular details about God to this assurance of His help? And what is the meaning of this particular assurance; what will an angel (malach) do, and how does Avraham know? Some suggest, to answer the last question first, that Avraham didn’t actually know. The Hebrew future tense carries a degree of inherent ambiguity: does it mean something will happen, or should happen – that one hopes it will happen? Is Avraham saying “God will send His angel,” or is he saying “May God send His angel with you!” The Bechor Shor, among others, cites both possibilities: it could be a prayer or a promise. Chizkuni also offers two suggestions, but rather than “promise,” he pits prayer against prophecy.

Logic over worrying

Perhaps, then, Avraham did know that God would help – because He told him He would. Or, perhaps he was simply as certain as if he had been told, certain enough to make a promise to his servant – because he himself had been promised. In this light, we can offer a partial answer to the earlier question: Why are the details of God and Avraham’s biography relevant here? A number of commentaries suggest something along the lines of this: “God made a point of bringing me here and telling me this land would be for my offspring; it’s only logical that He will make sure that I actually have offspring in this land to inherit it! For that to happen, it makes sense that Yitzchak will stay here and be joined, here, by a woman who is a good match to bring the next generation into the land with him.”

Prayer, prophecy, and promise

Of course, that line of reasoning only holds for someone who has some pretty strong faith. In this reading, Avraham puts his full trust in God and His promises, as well as in his own understanding of them, to the point that he can confidently tell his servant no, it is not possible that Yitzchak will have to go anywhere to find a wife; I am sure that God will help you find the right woman, and the right woman will be willing to join him here, where his (their) promised future lies. At this point, one might argue that the lines between prayer, promise, and prophecy are not so distinct. Avraham desires and asks for God’s help, but he is so deeply connected to God, after decades of wandering and questioning and guidance and growth, that he can also be absolutely certain that what he wants is what God wants, and what God will do – because it is all held within the prophetic communications he has received.

Where’s Sarah?

By Sarah Rudolph When three “men'' show up at Avraham’s tent-step while he’s recuperating from circumcision (Bereishit 18:1), one of their tasks is to foretell the birth of Yitzchak, which will occur a year later. Considering the prominent role Sarah will play in that event, coupled with the fact that does not yet seem to know that she will be Avraham’s biological as well as ideological partner in building God’s nation, it is only natural that they would want her present to hear the momentous news. Indeed, this is how some commentaries explain the question the “men” ask Avraham before making their announcement: “Where is Sarah, your wife?” (18:9). Once they have established that she is within earshot, “here, in the tent” (ibid.), they can proceed. (See Ohr Hachaim’s explicit statement of this perspective, as well as Bechor Shor and Seforno.)

What’s it to us?

Of course, one might argue that (1) this is such a minor, practical detail that it doesn’t seem worth including in the text of the Torah; and (2) if they are indeed angels, surely they were privy to the knowledge of Sarah’s whereabouts; why the need to ask? Digging deeper, we might then suggest that the reason to ask – and more to the point, the reason to include their question and Avraham’s response in the Torah – is that there is something the Torah wishes to highlight to the reader, about the question and/or the response. Perhaps the “men” wanted to make a point to Avraham – and the Torah, in turn, brings it to the reader’s attention – or perhaps it is a detail that is significant solely for our benefit, that would have meant nothing special to Avraham. What might be so significant about Sarah’s whereabouts? A lot! A survey of commentaries and midrashic traditions reveals a wide range of ideas (many more than can be discussed here).

Basic Etiquette (“The Way of the World”)

On one level, we might suggest that the above is not as practical as we thought; perhaps the Torah wishes to convey the importance of sharing information directly with affected parties – rather than, for instance, giving medical information to a woman’s husband without her. Along similar lines, two midrashic suggestions offered in the Gemara (Bava Metzia 87a) seem to suggest that asking about Sarah was a matter of simple propriety – and intended to teach readers the importance of such propriety:

Rabbi Yosi b’Rabbi Chanina said: In order to send her the cup of blessing.

It was taught in the name of Rabbi Yose: Why are the letters “א – י – ו” in “אליו” dotted? The Torah taught derech eretz, that a person should inquire after his host.

The Torah contains dots over the word for “they said to him” when they asked Avraham where Sarah was; these dots call attention to the letters איו, which translates as “where is he?” Rashi explains (see his comments on the Gemara and on Bereishit 18:9, as well as Midrash Bereishit Rabbah 48:15) that this indicates they asked her about him as well as asking him about her. Thus, the message here is to teach the value of basic manners toward one’s host and hostess. Sending her the “cup of blessing” – while the cup and its significance clearly need further explanation – also seems, on the most basic level, to be a matter of graciously including one’s hostess in proceedings.

A Personal Trait

A more well-known explanation offered by the Gemara and echoed by Rashi is that the question of Sarah’s whereabouts was intended to highlight her modesty in remaining apart from the company, and/or (perhaps thereby) to endear her to her husband. It is worth considering these interpretations alongside each other: the idea that they wanted to make sure she was present and the idea that they were highlighting, as a positive, the fact of her absence.

Women in Tents

Any analysis of the midrashic comment on Sarah’s modesty would be remiss to not include another midrashic tradition, which contrasts this characteristic of hers with a heroine much later in Tanach: Yael, who is known not for simply being “in the tent” but for what she did in her tent – “And she took a tent peg…and pierced the peg into [Sisera’s] temple…” (Shoftim 4:21). Devorah praises Yael for killing this enemy general, saying she is to be “blessed more than women in tents” (ibid. 5:24). Who are these women in tents, and why is Yael blessed above them? According to a view in Midrash Bereishit Rabbah 48:15, Devorah is alluding to Sarah (and perhaps other foremothers described as being in tents), and her point is that while Sarah’s role within the tent – as a homemaker, raising a family committed to God and the mission of the Jewish people – was obviously a crucial one, it would have all been for nothing if Yael hadn’t stepped up to save the Jewish people from the threat posed by Sisera.

What’s the word?

By Sarah Rudolph As Parshat Lech Lecha begins, it looks very much, at least on a superficial reading,  like the story of Avraham (then called Avram); his wife Sarah (then Sarai) is simply “taken” (12:5) along for the ride.

Sarah Takes the Stage

Only as they approach Egypt, looking to escape a famine in Canaan, does Sarah become a central character – and even then, she seems remarkably passive:

And Avram went down to Egypt… And when he approached to come to Egypt, he said to Sarai his wife, “Behold, now I have known that you are a beautiful woman. And it will be, when the Egyptians see you…they will kill me and leave you alive [to take you for themselves]. Say, please, you are my sister…” And it was, when Avram came to Egypt and the Egyptians saw…the woman was taken to the house of Pharaoh. (Bereishit 12:10-15)

There are no verbs connected with Sarah in this passage – not even a reaction to Avraham’s plan. She is spoken of and “taken” – and not even “they took her,” but “she was taken,” as if to emphasize passivity and powerlessness. On the other hand, we certainly see later that Sarah knows how to speak up when necessary, as when she suggests that Avraham marry Hagar and when she later insists that Hagar and Yishmael be cast out. And indeed, perhaps even in Egypt, Sarah is more active than she seems.

Here’s the Thing About Words

The Torah tells us that God struck Pharaoh and his household with “great plagues, al dvar Sarai eshet Avram” (12:17). The Hebrew word davar has two common translations: “thing/matter” and “word.” These lead to multiple possible translations of this verse, offering very different portrayals of our damsel in distress – or, should I rather say, our heroine. Biblical translators often assume the first meaning of davar here: “God struck Pharaoh on the matter of Sarai, the wife of Avram.” In other words, something was happening regarding Sarah, and God decided to take action because of it. (Note that the phrase “the wife of Avram” could be understood in a number of ways, offering further nuances that are sadly beyond the scope of this dvar Torah.) If we understand dvar as “word,” however, that would change everything: it would indicate that Sarah spoke words – and not only that she spoke words, but that they were effective. “God struck Pharaoh on the word of Sarai, the wife of Avram”: God did not simply initiate the rescue of a damsel in distress; rather, the heroine of her own story spoke up to save herself. But to whom did she speak up, and how did it help?

Sarah’s Word

Rav Hirsch suggests that Sarai spoke to Pharaoh, admitting that she was Avram’s wife – and by doing so, “forced God’s hand,” as it were, to step in and save her: Pharaoh would no longer try to gain her “brother’s” permission for marriage, and would simply kill Avram and keep her; thus, the danger became immediate and Hashem had to intervene. Alternatively, Midrash Bereishit Rabbah (41:2) suggests two possible non-physical addressees. First – God himself; it was Sarah’s words of prayer (a remarkably bold prayer; see midrashic text) that moved God to step in when He did. And second: “Rabbi Levi said: All that night, an angel stood with a whip in his hand. He would say to her, ‘If you say strike, I will strike…’ And why all this? Because she was saying to him [Pharaoh] ‘I am a married woman!’ and he was not stopping.” It is Rabbi Levi’s interpretation that I find most fascinating. Here, the “word of Sarai” was two-fold: she spoke to Pharaoh and told him the truth (as in Rav Hirsch) – and when he didn’t listen, God sent an angel to make him listen, precisely in accordance with Sarah’s decision and spoken instructions. At the very depth of her powerlessness – God doesn’t just save Sarah, but empowers her to use her voice to save herself.

Broadening the Message

Part of building an active, personal spiritual identity and mission – for both spouses in this partnership –  is developing a balanced relationship between faith in God (bitachon) and personal efforts (hishtadlut). It is not simply about using one’s voice, or about trusting that God will step in, but about finding and using our God-given abilities to the greatest effect.

Light in the Darkness of the Flood By Sarah Rudolph

What are the important features on a survival ark?

At the beginning of this week’s parsha, God informs Noach of His plan to destroy the world because of the chamas (violent robbery, at least according to some explanations) that has filled the world. Noach alone has been selected for survival (along with his wife and children and a careful sampling of the animal kingdom), and God instructs him to build an ark. The instructions for this ark are quite detailed: God tells him what wood to use, how to waterproof it, the specific dimensions, and more. Among these details is the specification that Noach should make a tzohar for the ark (6:16).

What is a tzohar and what was its purpose in the ark?

Many commentaries relate the word to either tzaharayim, meaning afternoon (when the sun is bright; see Sanhedrin 108b) or zahir, meaning shining or radiant – either way, it is understood that the tzohar was some sort of light source. Rashi famously offers two possibilities, from midrash: “some say a window, and some say a precious stone that provided light for them.” Brandon Sanderson fans might wonder if this is an indication that pre-flood earth resembled Roshar, a fantasy world where gemstones provide illumination and in fact are recharged by severe rainstorms; if this midrash wasn’t Sanderson’s inspiration, it certainly could have been. Alternatively, the Ben Ish Chai (in his commentary Ben Yehoyada on Sanhedrin 108b) offers an understanding of how gems could provide illumination that is more in line with what we know of our world: perhaps the gems didn’t actually provide light, but reflected and thus magnified the light provided by candles. Other commentaries seem less sure whether candles were part of the plan; for instance, Gur Aryeh (the Maharal’s commentary on Rashi) notes that the use of candles was up to Noach’s personal discretion, while the tzohar itself was a matter of divine command. But why was the tzohar so important? Was it simply as a practical matter, or did God make it a command for some deeper reason?

The importance of light

According to the Talmud Yerushalmi (Pesachim 1:1), the tzohar wasn’t intended simply to provide illumination, but to somehow indicate when it was daytime and when it was nighttime – which was important for the sake of knowing when to feed various nocturnal and diurnal animals. Interestingly, the Yerushalmi seems to ignore the possibility that keeping track of day and night would be important for the humans; perhaps this is because of a sense that animals, driven by instinct, have a greater need to follow their regular routines, while the humans on board would understand the situation and have a greater ability to adapt without physical distress. The Ben Ish Chai, in his comments on the Bavli, suggests a symbolic purpose to his understanding of the radiance the tzohar provided: he notes that light represents the deeds of the righteous, while darkness represents the deeds of the wicked (seen Bereishit Rabbah 3:8) – and since the ark’s inhabitants (human and otherwise) were all righteous, God wanted abundant light to represent that, both day and night. Returning to the Gur Aryeh, his own explanation for God’s command of the tzohar is that it was part of His overall desire to make the ark emulate the world itself: following his kabbalistic inclinations, he suggests that the three levels of the ark imitated the three “worlds”, and that illuminating gemstones were necessary to take the place of the sun, moon, and stars. Though he doesn’t elaborate on the reason these parallels were important, perhaps we might suggest that God was indeed also looking out for the comfort of the humans on the ark, using the force of a command to design the ark as a microcosm of the world they were accustomed to.

Well, this is weird

By Sarah Rudolph Among the most difficult verses in the Torah’s account of the earliest generations of humanity (which, of course, has no shortage of puzzling verses to puzzle over), Bereishit 6:3 states: “And Hashem said, My spirit will not judge Man forever, in that he is [also?] flesh (b’shagam hu basar), and his days will be 120 years.” What does He mean by “spirit”? What has this spirit been judging, and why will it not continue? Which “forever”; is this a statement about misbehavior of the times that must be stopped, or is God making a statement about the future of humankind? Is the 120-year time limit a matter of how long God will give the current populace to repent before facing a flood of destruction, or is it a proclamation that no human will ever live to test God’s patience longer than 120 years? What does b’shagam even mean, and what does human fleshiness have to do with anything? Et cetera. Multiple commentators frame their thoughts on this verse in the context of its difficulty. Ohr Hachaim, for instance, opens with “This text requires someone to explain [lit. tell] it. Our Sages, of blessed memory, derived many interpretations about it, but the straightforward meaning of the text is not known.” After that lengthy introduction about complexity and difficulty, we have little space left for insights into the meaning of the verse – but as it happens, one might suggest that complexity and difficulty are precisely the point.

Is God indecisive? (I’m not sure)

Rashi explains the first part of the verse, “My spirit will not judge man forever,” as a reflection on what sounds (somewhat shockingly) like indecision on God’s part:  “My Spirit has been contending within Me whether to destroy or to have mercy; this deliberation will not be in My Spirit forever – i.e., for a long time.” As a fairly indecisive individual, I can relate to this portrayal of internal debate, as well as to its potential to continue indefinitely. People struggling with indecision are often reminded that failure to make a decision is itself a decision; if nothing is decided, nothing will be done, thus a decision has been made toward inaction. If God continues to struggle, as it were, over how to respond to the sins of mankind – He will be essentially taking the path of least resistance toward the side of mercy. Better to make that choice actively than leave the decision in limbo forever, when perhaps they really should have been punished. It might seem strange to portray this type of struggle on God’s part (though there is much discussion in midrashic tradition about God’s different attributes pushing toward different actions), but perhaps we can gain insight through a deeper consideration of the verse and, more generally, what it means to make decisions. Based on Seforno’s commentary, I would suggest that the verse alludes not to an internal conflict between different aspects or opinions of God, but an external conflict between different facts about humanity. On one hand, humans were created in the image of God; they have incredible potential and capabilities, and should be held strictly accountable for misbehavior. On the other hand, “for he is also flesh” (see Rashi for an explanation of the word b’shagam): humans are not only like the divine, but are also drawn by their physicality to sin, and therefore it is appropriate to extend mercy to them for failures to rise above that challenge.

Mutually exclusive truths?

How is it possible for there to be a conflict within God about any decision? Because there is a conflict within the reality about which He must decide. Because the world, and the humans, that He created are legitimately complex. It is true that they deserve punishment, and it is also true that they deserve mercy. How is a God of truth to decide between two things that are true? As a fairly indecisive individual, I can relate. People who struggle with indecision do so because they see the truth of both sides; because things are complicated. And so what is God, or a simple human, to do? Perhaps the only thing we can do is look for a balance, some way to meet both truths: “His days will be 120 years,” a deservedly merciful opportunity to improve and meet some divine potential, and after that – justice. And we can take comfort in the idea that we’re not alone, that even God faces tough decisions sometimes. Because truth is complex, and the struggle is real.