Akedah Drash, 2010
Shanah Tovah. Here we are again, parents, children, friends, community, together, on this lovely day in this lovely place celebrating the arrival of a new year by reading and studying this monstrous, outrageous, barely conceivable story: about a father ready to put his beloved son to death, just because God asks him.
The traditional orthodox reading of Genesis 22 is that this is the Ur text of faith; that Abraham’s silent accession and unhesitating action until he is stopped by an angel is perfect, and we should all be inspired to follow God without question or hesitation. This does not sit well with me, or I expect with most of us in this room. And we are not alone: rabbis, poets, and philosophers have railed against this interpretation for centuries –from Rashi to Kierkegaard to Wilfred Owen to Leonard Cohen. And I’m sure Kanye West or Lady GaGa have made reference somewhere, but I have to admit I don’t follow that literature as closely as I should.
So if blind faith doesn’t work for us, why bother? Well, we can also look to Torah as a mirror, as if all the stories are about us and all the characters are aspects of us. And in this season of reflection and self examination, we can see the Akedah as the extreme version of a struggle we all face every day: how to balance our daily lives, personal lives, with our commitment to something higher and bigger than ourselves. Every time we tell a loved one: I can’t be there for you, read you a story, take care of Mom, attend the funeral, bring a box of Kleenex … because I have to … you name it—go to a meeting, finish my book, take that class, travel to wherever, write this story, even help these others …. Every time is a little human sacrifice. It’s as mundane as that. We do it all the time; it’s totally necessary, totally human. And in these days of awe we can look at ourselves a little more consciously, honestly, forgivingly I hope. And I also hope this story can inspire that.
OK, now this year, thinking about forgiveness, I got to wondering about Abraham after the Akedah. How does he live with what he almost did to his son, ‘your precious one, the one you love, Isaac.’ Torah tells us he lives on for another 50 years, to age 175. But he and God never speak again. And, amazingly, Abraham remarries, a woman named Keturah and has six more children and a flock of grandchildren. Emmes, this really is in Torah, you could look it up: Genesis 25: 1-11. So the man who began by leaving everything for the unknown, inspiring all of us, ends his life the most domestic, the most local, the most anonymous of men. A solid burgher, retired with his trophy wife and kids to some biblical Palm Beach or Boca.
But the past is still there in him, but where? Does he forget, repress, deny? Well, I wondered what would make him confront it again, so, with help from Rabbi Lippmann, Rabbi Jeffrey Fox, Trisha Arlin, Peter Pitzele, Lisa B. Segal and others, I invented an unexpected visit from Jakob, Isaac’s son, Abraham’s grandson, who would be about 15 when Abraham dies. This takes place shortly after the famous moment when Jakob cons Esau out of his birthright with a mess of red lentil stew
The Death of Abraham
Arthur Strimling
© 2010
[Late Afternoon. Abraham lies alone in his tent. He is 175 years old. He lies propped up, seemingly asleep. He looks very frail. A teen age boy enters carrying a tray of food, puts the tray down, checks inside and out to make sure no one else is there. He approaches Abraham.]
Jakob: [Very fast] Grandfather? Hello, Grandfather… it’s Jakob. Mama sent me to find you. Papa doesn’t know I’m here. Mama didn’t even know if you were alive or if you were still living in Beersheba, but she said to come anyway, because Papa won’t bless me and I’m the one who God says should get the blessing. Mama says that God talks to you all the time, more than to Papa. Grandpa, please … bless me and not my brother.
Abraham: What? Talk slower, boy. Don’t mumble. Who are you?
J: Jakob….. your grandson, the son of your son Isaac, who you haven’t seen in 40 years. Hello, Grandpa … I brought you this food. I got up early and I cooked you some red lentil stew with lamb in it. Here, smell. And I brought wine and fruit for desert.
A: Isaac’s boy?
J: Yes, Jakob
A: No food. Give me wine, I am very weak…. The younger one?
J: Not any more. My brother sold me his birthright for some stew just like this I made for you. Here, taste….
A: He tastes] The lentils are good, but the meat is tough …. Sold you the birthright, did he? I did not know you could do that.
J: He did. He’s kind of dense, likes to hunt, doesn’t care about God. So he sold me the birthright, and Mama says that proves I’m the one who should get the blessing and be the hand of God among the people, like you.
A: Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, it’s always the younger brother that comes running. The striver …. Now, come close so I can look at you. Closer! And stand still, my vision is all shifty like looking through the reeds in the Red Sea.
J: The reeds in the Red Sea. Oh, I want to go to Egypt someday. Father never takes us anywhere.
A: Good! He stayed on the land, like I told him. Now, closer, let me see your eyes. … Ah! You have the look.
J: What look?
A: The long look. The family look.
J: I do? I have it? … I have the look. So Mama is right. Esau can spot a deer a mile away, but I have the look. See, Grandpa, you have to bless me.
A: You think it would be a blessing?
J: … Tell me, tell me about the long look.
A: I had it; Sarah had it; your mother has it; even Isaac … once. And now you. You don’t understand, do you? Here, it’s simple. I’ll show you how it works. Stretch your arm out straight in front and look at the back of your hand. Like this. Do it! … Now, put the back of your other hand close, right in front of your face, like this, so you can see the far one through it. Like this. That’s it. … Now, look through the front hand to the far one; put all your attention on the far one. See what happens to the near one? It gets all fuzzy, almost disappears.
That’s it. That’s all there is to it. The far hand is God; God’s plan; God’s commands; God’s every wish. The near one is life – your life, your wife, children, food, flocks, friends, health, nature, all of it. All fuzzy, invisible even, expendable so you can keep your focus long, on God.
That is how I lived for 70 years, and then in an instant it left me and entered your father. I saw it happen. Give me more wine.
J: On the mountain?
A: You know about that? He told you?
J: Mama did. Papa never talks about it. Mama always says, “Abraham claims,” that God ordered him to sacrifice Papa, and she says you fooled Grandma Sarah into thinking you were taking him to study with your cousin Job, so she let you take him away, even though she didn’t trust you, and you took Isaac’s brother Ishmael and old Elimelech, who was young and strong then, and you tied Papa up and threw him over the donkey and dragged him up the mountain, but Mama says Papa fought you off and you had to sacrifice a ram instead. And Papa ran away for three years. And then she says Elimelech came and got her to marry Papa, and Papa couldn’t sleep ever until she came and took him in Grandma’s tent. She says Papa was close to Grandma like I am to her, and she says she soothed him and took care of him. And she says Papa can’t see because all he can see is the knife coming down to his throat.
A: Rebecca told you that?
J: …Yes, as … as… best as I can remember. It was a long time ago. We don’t talk about it much now. Now we talk about the future, about how I need the blessing to make sure our destiny is fulfilled so God will make us a great nation as numerous as the stars in the sky. Because Esau is a dummy and all he wants to do is hunt and he can’t lead anything.
A: Esau…Esau comes by here often. Yes, he does. You did not know that did you? He brings me game from deep in the forest. Good meat. Nice boy. Strong, with a gentle heart, like your father. If he got the blessing, Esau would stay on the land, keep the peace; mix in with the folks around us. Maybe that’s what God wants.
J: … Maybe? … Doesn’t God tell you?
A: I do not talk with God any more. And I thank God for that every day.
J: But you can still bless me, can’t you?
A: You think it would be a blessing? …
J: Grandpa, Papa stays in bed most of the time, like you. He looks old, almost older than you. Mama says he used to be strong when she cared for him, but now God needs me to be strong, so she puts all her love into me. And Grandpa, she says God wants you to give me the blessing before Papa makes a terrible mistake and gives it to dummy Esau. Grandpa, she says God must tell you the same thing.
A: I. do. Not. Talk. To. God. Anymore…. More wine, I’m losing strength. … Alone, boy, we were alone…. I left the lads down the mountain with the donkey. That’s the gospel truth. Your Mother is making things up.
Three days. Three days walking to Moriah … did not look at Isaac once. My eyes on God, only God. God asked, I obeyed. No more questioning….Three days. Told myself, ‘This must be for the good.’ Told myself, ‘We will get another baby. Or, ‘Ishmael! It’s supposed to be Ishmael.’ I thought that. I thought, ‘God wants Ishmael.’ Then I stopped thinking…. And then God showed me the mountain. And I left the lads behind with the donkey, and we climbed, Isaac and me.. alone!
Then he asked that little question: ‘Where is the lamb,’ I looked at him. Saw him for the first time; him, not some implement of God’s plan; I saw him for him…. And after that God disappeared; I never took my eyes off Isaac…. And I saw him change. I saw the long look come into his eyes … just as it left mine. In that moment on that mountain, I saw in his eyes that he knew; that he wanted to go ahead with it. He could have stopped me with a word, a gesture. But no. He helped me build the altar; he lit the fire; he climbed on; he demanded that I tie him tight … He had the long look now. He could only see God.
But I could not stop seeing him. For the first time I saw what was closest to me, I felt human love. The God hand went up, but it was not my hand any more. The voice that cried out ‘Abraham! Abraham!’ was not God’s voice. They say it was an angel, but it was it was the voice of my heart, saying, ‘Do not touch the boy, do not lay a hand on him.’ I saved him; not God. Give me wine … I am sinking …. Now go away.
J: First bless me; I won’t leave without your blessing.
A: Get Keturah …
J: Bless me first; then I’ll get her.
But Abraham never spoke again. He sipped the wine, swallowed slowly, then rolled his head away and died.
Jakob sat by his dead grandfather for a long time. After a while he noticed he was hungry. So he ate some cold stew; drank wine, and finished with a pomegranate.
Jakob listened for God’s voice, God’s presence in the room. He felt privileged to be there. He felt blessed. When he was certain he had gathered all the blessing in the room, he got up to find Katurah and his step brothers. Then he set out for home, hoping his father would let him be the one to lead him in his blindness to Machpelah for the funeral. SHANAH TOVAH
