PARASHAT VAERA

By Rav David Silverberg

            Parashat Vayera concludes with the famous story of akeidat Yitzchak, God’s command that Avraham sacrifice his son Yitzchak upon altar.  In describing the events that transpired before an angel of God ordered Avraham to withdraw his sword, the Torah writes, “Avraham cast his hand and took the sword, to slaughter his son” (22:10).  How might we explain the phrase, “Avraham cast his hand”?  Why didn’t the Torah simply state that Avraham “took the sword”?

            Rav Yaakov Mecklenberg, in his Ha-ketav Ve-hakabbala, suggests that this phrase connotes zeal and alacrity.  The Torah emphasizes that despite the personal grief and sorrow entailed, Avraham took hold of the sword swiftly and with determination, rather than with slothful ambivalence.  In his resolute conviction to fulfill the divine command, he “cast his hand” – he firmly and confidently grabbed the sword.  Rav Mecklenberg draws proof for his reading of this phrase from a verse in Sefer Devarim (15:10) which refers to a person’s occupation with the term mishlach yadekha (literally, “the sending of your hand”).  People tend to their professions with energy and zeal, out of a desire to earn a proper livelihood.  Professional work is therefore called mishlach yad, which signifies energy, resolve and conviction.  Similarly, then, the description of Avraham “casting his hand” (“va-yishlach…et yado”) emphasizes Avraham’s alacrity despite the pain involved.

            Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, suggests a different explanation for why the Torah saw fit to make mention of Avraham’s “sending his hand” to grab the knife.  He writes:

This is to show the great importance of that action [of akeidat Yitzchak], to the point where every motion that he [Avraham] made while performing this action was deserving of being written for all time – for every motion was regarded by the Almighty as the performance of a great mitzva.

The Torah here teaches the significance of each and every action involved in the performance of a mitzva.  When a person engages in an important undertaking, even the seemingly trivial aspects of that task assume significance.  God regarded with importance even the motion of Avraham’s extending his arm to take the knife, teaching that every stage in the process of mitzva observance is deemed meaningful and significant.

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            Parashat Vayera begins with the episode of the three mysterious guests who visit Avraham, and begins by describing Avraham sitting by the entrance to his tent at the hottest time of day.  Rashi famously comments that Avraham sat looking for weary travelers in need of food or lodging.  God had brought exceptionally hot conditions to the area in order that people would not travel, so that Avraham, still suffering the effects of his circumcision, would not have to entertain guests.  But Avraham did not relent, and sat outside his tent hoping for the opportunity to welcome travelers into his home.

            Rav Mordechai Gifter, in his Pirkei Torah, notes that Rashi’s comments might reflect a certain perspective on the ideal of chesed (kindness), namely, that its value extends beyond addressing the needs of the recipient.  We normally perceive chesed as fulfilling people’s needs when they arise.  But from Avraham’s conduct, as described by Rashi, it emerges that chesed should be pursued, not only performed.  Avraham sought opportunities to help other people, rather than simply responding generously when he came upon such a situation.  One must look to perform kindness even when he does not currently confront somebody in need; a person’s involvement in chesed is intrinsically significant, and such opportunities must therefore be pursued, rather than just embraced when they surface.

            As Rav Gifter notes, Avraham arrived at this conception of chesed on the basis of God’s creation of the world.  Before creation, there was nothing and nobody that suffered any deficiency; there was no existence other than God Himself, and there was thus nothing that needed any sort of help.  But God, for reasons unknown to us, chose to create the world in order that He could perform kindness, so that there would be creatures for Him to sustain and assist.  Avraham thus understood that God deemed performing chesed an intrinsically valuable act, an end unto itself, and that one should endeavor to find or create opportunities for chesed given its inherent importance.

            Interestingly, this perspective shows the relationship between the two major contributions of Avraham Avinu – monotheism, and chesed.  It was precisely his belief in monotheism, in the existence of a Creator, that led Avraham to become the leading advocate of kindness toward others.  Once we recognize the concept of creation ex nihilo, that God created the universe out of complete non-existence, we recognize the centrality of chesed in that universe.  If God created a world so that He could perform kindness, then evidently we, too, are to commit ourselves to performing acts of kindness to others.

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            We read in Parashat Vayera of Avraham’s petition on behalf of the sinful city of Sedom.  He begins his prayer by acknowledging his lowly stature with respect to God, declaring, “Ve-anokhi afar va-eifer” – “I am but dirt and ash” (18:27).  The Gemara in Masekhet Chulin (88b) famously comments that Avraham was rewarded for this expression of humility in the form of two special mitzvot with which his descendants were commanded: the dirt used in preparing the sota waters, and the ashes used in preparing the para aduma waters.  Many different explanations have been suggested throughout the ages for the relevance between these two mitzvot and Avraham’s referring to himself as “dirt and ashes.”

            We might suggest that the Gemara here seeks to emphasize the importance of humility in pursuing the goals underlying the rituals of para aduma and sota.  The waters of the para aduma, of course, serve to divest a person of his status of tum’a, so that he can once again enter the area of the Beit Ha-mikdash.  A precondition for entering the sacred domain of the Shekhina is the feeling of “anokhi afar va-eifer.”  The Shekhina’s presence cannot coexist with arrogance; a person’s recognition of God’s presence in the world requires that he fully understand the human being’s insignificance in relation to the Creator.  Any attempt to experience the Shekhina, to develop a relationship with God, without this sense is, by definition, impossible, for experiencing the Shekhina means understanding the infinite greatness of God, in contrast to the frailty and smallness of the human being.

            This sense of humility is also a necessary component of the second mitzva mentioned by the Gemara, the sota ritual, which serves to affirm the innocence of a wife suspected of infidelity.  The Sages speak of this mitzva as intended to ensure shalom bayit, peaceful relations between husband and wife, by dispelling the husband’s suspicions.  This ideal, too, requires a sense of “anokhi afar va-eifer,” that each spouse, to one extent or another, reduce his or her feeling of self-importance.  For harmony and peaceful relations to prevail, each member of the relationship must take the other’s needs and concerns into consideration, even at the expense of his or her own needs and concerns.  They must both lower their sense of self-importance to allow room for mutual sensitivity and consideration.

            Thus, our relationships with both the Almighty and our fellow human beings require a certain degree of “anokhi afar va-eifer,” that we ensure not to afford ourselves too much importance, so that we can show respect and deference to God and to other people.

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            Parashat Vayera tells of the miraculous birth of Yitzchak, when his parents were, respectively, one hundred and ninety years of age.

            It is commonly assumed that the name “Yitzchak” has to do with either Avraham’s response of “laughter” (or “joy”) upon learning that Sara would bear him a son (“va-yitzchak” – 17:17), or Sara’s remark upon her son’s birth, “kol ha-shomei’a yitzechak li” (“everyone who hears will rejoice for me” – 21:6).  The Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 53:11), however, comments, somewhat ambiguously, that the name “Yitzchak” represents the phrase, “yatza chok le-olam” – “A law went forth into the world.”

            Rav Menachem Bentzion Zaks, in his work Menachem Tziyon, explains this to mean that the circumstances surrounding Yitzchak’s birth will be characteristic of the unusual pattern of Am Yisrael’s survival.  The “law” that “went forth into the world” at the time of Yitzchak’s birth was that Avraham’s legacy would endure and flourish even when it appears that it has reached the end of its line.  Sara’s inability to conceive was looked upon as foreboding the quick demise of Avraham’s teachings.  Without a child to perpetuate his legacy, his success would soon fall into the ashbin of history.  As Avraham and Sara gradually entered old age, it became a foregone conclusion that their legacy was short-lived.  This perception changed, of course, with the birth of Yitzchak.

            This, the Menachem Tziyon explained, is the “law” that came into being with this event.  At various points in Jewish history, our spiritual tradition reached the brink of extinction, as the older generation began shrinking while the younger generation felt alienated and eager to leave their ancestral heritage behind them.  But just as Yitzchak miraculously came into the world to perpetuate the legacy of Avraham, similarly, Torah tradition has somehow always managed to survive against all odds.  This is the chok, the “law” that cannot be explained in natural terms, that was established with the birth of Yitzchak.

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            The haftara for Parashat Vayera is taken from Sefer Melakhim II (4:1-37), and consists mainly of the famous story of the isha ha-Shunamite, the barren, Shunamite woman who would frequently host the prophet Elisha in her home.  Elisha blessed the woman and her husband that she would soon bear a child, and she indeed delivered a baby boy the following year.  The story concludes with the prophet’s miraculous resurrection of the boy after he suddenly died while working in the fields with his father.

            The most obvious parallel between this incident and Parashat Vayera is the shared feature of a woman conceiving after years of infertility.  This parallel is highlighted by the phrase “la-mo’ed ha-zeh ka-eit chaya” (Melakhim II 4:16), with which Elisha promises the woman that she would bear a child, and which closely resembles the promise made by the three angels to Avraham and Sara in Parashat Vayera (see 18:10,14).

            However, a closer comparison between the two narratives reveals additional points of resemblance.  For one thing, in both instances the couple is promised a child in the context of, or in response to, their generous hospitality.  The angels inform Avraham of Sara’s imminent conception as he graciously welcomed them into his home (thinking they were nomads) and served them a large meal.  Likewise, Elisha prays for the Shunamite woman in response to her generosity in hosting him frequently and even building separate quarters for him in her home.  Moreover, both stories conclude with the “death,” or near death, of the miraculously born child.  The Shunamite’s son actually lost his life and was resurrected by the prophet, while Yitzchak was nearly killed at the akeida, and was spared as the knife approached his neck when the angel commanded Avraham to withdraw the knife.  In both cases, the “miracle child” born after years of his parents’ infertility needs another miracle to continue living.

            One message, perhaps, that emerges from this pattern is expressed in a comment in the Midrash (Shir Hashirim Rabba 2:5): “Great is sustenance, for it causes resurrection of the dead to occur before its time.”  (The Midrash infers this principle from the story of the Shunamite, and from the strikingly similar account of Eliyahu resurrecting the son of the Tzorfartite woman – Melakhim I, chapter 17).  As Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg explains in his Musar Ha-nevi’im, Chazal here establish that providing somebody with a livelihood is, essentially, providing that person with life.  The Midrash does not simply point to resurrection as a consequence of the kindness performed by Elisha; rather, it emphasizes that lending financial assistance to those in need amounts to “resurrection,” bringing life to the “dead.”

            Both in Parashat Vayera and in the story of the Shunamite woman, acts of kindness serve as the catalyst for the miraculous creation and sustenance – and even restoration – of life, demonstrating the very close parallel that exists between giving a livelihood and giving life.

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            We find in Parashat Vayera the peculiar story of Lot’s daughters, who escaped with their father from the destruction of their city, Sedom (19:30-38).  After fleeing the city, Lot and his daughters found a cave where they lived, and the older daughter said to the younger, “Our father is aged, and there is no man in the land to have relations with us…”  The daughters therefore had their father drink wine to the point of intoxication on two successive nights, and on each night one of them slept with him and conceived.  These incestuous unions produced Amon and Moav, who founded nations that settled in the region of Trans-Jordan, east of Eretz Yisrael.

            Many commentators, including Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam, Abarbanel and, more recently, Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch, explained that Lot’s daughters were under the mistaken impression that the entire world suffered the same fate as Sedom and its neighboring cities.  They assumed that the heavenly fire and granite that annihilated their city represented a new “flood” that God brought upon the earth.  Seeing themselves as the lone surviving people in the world, they saw it as their duty to procreate, even if this required cohabiting with their father.

            The Radak challenges this approach, noting that immediately after Sedom’s destruction, Lot and his daughters temporarily stayed in the nearby city of Tzoar, which was spared the fate of Sedom (see 19:19-22).  Thus, the daughters saw with their own eyes a city that continued to exist even after the fall of Sedom, and they therefore had no reason to presume that God had destroyed the entire earth.  Abarbanel also raises this question, and answers that although Tzoar was spared, Lot feared that it, too, would eventually meet the same fate as the neighboring towns.  He figured that the angels were capable of temporarily delaying the fall of Tzoar, but could not spare the city permanently.  He therefore convinced his daughters to leave Tzoar and settle in the Judean Hills to the west.  Understandably, then, Lot’s daughters assumed that they were humanity’s lone survivors.

            In any event, the Radak explains that Lot’s daughters were driven by a different concern, namely, that nobody would agree to marry a refugee from Sedom.  They feared being stigmatized as a result of what happened to their city, such that they would be unable to marry.  They also realized that Lot, in his advanced age, would unlikely beget more children.  The daughters therefore felt compelled to resort to drastic measures to ensure the perpetuation of their father’s legacy.

            Shadal suggests a different interpretation, explaining that the daughters were concerned due to their isolation and the unlikelihood of their resettlement in a populated area.  As Lot had already grown old, they felt he would not go through the trouble of integrating into a new community, and would instead remain in isolation in the cave.  Their only hope for begetting children, then, was to sleep with their father.

            One question that remains is why the Torah found it necessary to relate this incident.  Of what relevance is this story to Benei Yisrael?  The Radak and Abarbanel explain, quite simply, that this narrative provides the background for the commandment which appears later, in Sefer Devarim, to respect the boundaries of Amon and Moav.  God sought to ensure the safety and territorial integrity of these nations due to the close relationship between their ancestor, Lot, and Avraham.  The Torah therefore related the story of Amon and Moav’s birth, to explain why these nations’ lands were off-limits to Benei Yisrael.

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            Earlier this week, we noted the Gemara’s comment in Masekhet Chulin (88b) concerning Avraham’s humble proclamation in Parashat Vayera (18:27), “ve-anokhi afar va-eifer” – “I am but dirt and ashes.”  The Gemara remarked that in reward for this expression of humility, God assigned to Avraham’s descendants the mitzvot of the sota waters and the para aduma.  The sota waters, which were used to determine the innocence of a woman suspected of infidelity, were prepared with dirt, and the ashes of the para aduma (red heifer) were used for preparing the water with which people and utensils would undergo ritual purification.  Thus, these two mitzvot correspond to the two elements Avraham named in expressing his sense of lowliness as he spoke to the Almighty.

            The Maggid of Dubna offered an insightful explanation for the Gemara’s comment, comparing Avraham to an underprivileged person who attends a celebration hosted by his wealthier friend.  Self-consciously aware of his inferior social stature, the poor guest naturally takes a seat by himself at the far end of the table, despite his loving host’s invitation to sit up front.  Finally, the host decides to bring the most prominent guests over to the end of the table, where his less privileged friend was sitting, in order to give him a sense of importance and belonging and not feel humiliated and alone.  Realizing that his friend would not agree to move near the distinguished guests, the host brought the distinguished guests near him.

            Likewise, the Maggid explained, Avraham positioned himself “at the end of the table,” alongside “dirt and ashes.”  He identified with the lowliest elements on earth, keenly aware of just how infinitely inferior he was in relation to the Almighty.  In response, God brought the “distinguished guests,” the Torah, close to Avraham.  Avraham considered himself no better than dirt and ashes, and so God elevated dirt and ashes to the greatest levels of importance by making them objects of mitzva observance.  In this way, Avraham, too, would be made to feel important.

            By virtue of his physical nature, man is a lowly creature as he stands before the Almighty.  The only possibility he has of changing this reality is by associating himself with mitzvot, whereby even the most valueless and insignificant objects can rise to the greatest heights of importance.  If we “sit” in the company of mitzvot, then we, too, can justifiably feel a certain sense of importance, and take pride in the fact that humble and lowly as we are, we are nevertheless granted the privilege of sitting in the presence of nobility.