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PARASHAT CHAYEI SARA
"And Yitzchak came from the vicinity of the well of Lachai-ro'i..."(24;62)
Rashi comments: "Since he went to bring Hagar to Avraham his father, so he could marry her." Indeed, that is the place where Hagar was miraculously saved (16;14). And afterwards, when Avraham marries his second wife, Ketura (25;1), Rashi quotes the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba, 61;5) which identifies her as Hagar.
On the surface, a perfect family idyll. The father sends his slave to Aram-Naharayim, to find a wife for the poor orphan, and at the same time, the son looks for someone to sooth his aged parent's grief. Each caring for the other - surely the most beautiful example of true family life.
And so it is. But, without diminishing at all the said above, the asymmetry between the two is striking.
Avraham is old, and venerable; but God has blessed him in everything (24;1). Although he is a widower, after a long, full life, he needs nothing more for himself, save one thing - to see Yitzchak, his son and heir, settle down and build his own family. He probably yearns for grandchildren more than for new children of his own, and perhaps wishes to see the first stage of the promise "...it is through Yitzchak that offspring shall be continued for you" (21;13) fulfilled.
Avraham acts with the true love of a father, with energy, determination and generosity. But he is doing only the natural, obvious thing to do. On the other hand, Yitzchak's motive is not so clear. Why should his father need a new wife? The Torah itself testifies he needs nothing more! And even if he does - why Hagar, his deceased mother's bitter rival? Isn't this a slight to her blessed memory?
Perhaps, the need was not so much in Avraham's re-marriage, but in this reconciliation with Hagar. Avraham has led a long, full life, and has passed many trials; but only once did the Torah tell us that he was actually troubled - when banishing Hagar and Ishmael. God himself needs to sooth him: "...be not distressed over the boy or your maidservant..." (21;12).
And surely, there was a good reason to be troubled. At the very start of the conflict between Sarah and Hagar, the Ramban comments: "Our mother committed a grave sin in this, and Avraham as well in allowing her to do so" (16;7). Avraham passed through great trials - leaving his homeland and family, circumcising himself, offering his son on the altar - but this is the one scar left on his soul. Yitzchak is not so much giving his father a comfort in his old age, as he is relieving his conscience of this one burden.
By doing so, he is not slighting his mother, but to the contrary - he is removing the one stain from her memory. The only wrong she has ever done was basically for his sake - and he voluntarily relinquishes the advantages it gave him (for Hagar cannot be recalled without Ishmael being rehabilitated), thus atoning for it. Because true filial duty is not in covering up one's parents' faults - but in redeeming them, and setting them right. And the praiseworthy behavior of the son, is the true, ultimate triumph of the mother.
[Prepared by David Fuchs.]
When requesting a burial plot for his wife, Avraham approaches the Chittim with a remarkable sense of humility and submission. He calls himself "a foreigner" and offers to pay full price for the burial. Even after they refer to him as "a prince of God in our midst" and offer him gratis any field he wishes he insisted that he pay the appropriate sum of money.
The Midrash Hagadol lauds Avraham's unassuming demeanor:
"Come and see Avraham Avinu's humility - the Almighty had promised to give the land to him and his offspring forever, and now he could not even find a burial spot for his wife without paying a huge sum of money. Yet, he did not question the attributes of the Almighty or protest. What more, he spoke with the inhabitants of the land only in modesty…Said the Almighty, You lowered yourself - I swear that I will make you a master and prince over them!'"
The Midrash here points to two points of conduct worthy of consideration. Firstly, despite the fact that Avraham had every reason to protest against both the Chittim and God, he never uttered a single word of discontent. Rather than harboring feelings of "It is mine, I rightfully deserve it," he went about his negotiations with the sense of, "I don't deserve it, I'm a stranger, let me pay for it."
Secondly, throughout the entire process, Avraham not only retained his composure and dignity, but spoke kindly and respectfully with his gentile neighbors. He addressed them with impeccable tact and genuine grace. In a word, he "spoke like a mentsch."
The words of the Midrash speak for themselves to anyone who wishes to fulfill Chazal's dictum, "A person should always ask himself, when will my actions reach the level of those of my patriarchs?" Latent in the two points raised are the building blocks of Avraham's attribute of kindness, chesed, which has undoubtedly been touted as his primary quality, the one for which he was chosen to father God's nation. Firstly, a true "ba'al chesed" focuses his attention on what others need, rather than his own shortages. Such an individual, then, demands little for himself. He remains content with whatever comes and looks to assist others. This is why Avraham approached Benei Cheit not with a claim demanding that which rightfully belongs to him, but rather with an impassioned petition for the right to purchase their land. He overcame the natural tendency of man to demand of others for his own interests.
Secondly, Avraham understood that when dealing with other people one must retain the highest standards of dignity. Even after the trauma of the akeida and the sudden, unexpected loss of his wife, Avraham spoke every word politely and gently. He lost neither his patience nor his composure, and, despite his recognition of his spiritual superiority to those on the other side of bargaining table, he afforded them sincere respect and admiration.
If only Avraham's descendants made a point of dealing with others with nothing but humility, respect and courtesy.
[Prepared by David Silverberg.]
Parashat Chayei-Sarah seems unnecessarily long. So many details and repetitions could have easily been omitted, it would appear. Most glaring is perhaps the Torah's recording of Avraham servant's entire monologue to Rivka's family, in which he merely recounts that day's experiences, which were told in detail just prior to this current conversation.
Noting the apparent verbosity, Rabbi Acha posits a striking thesis: "The conversations of the servants of the patriarchs is greater before the Almighty than the Torah of their children" (cited by Rashi, 24:42). Although many fundamental principles in Jewish law find expression in the Torah in the form of subtle allusion, Avraham's servant's encounter with Lavan and Betuel is recorded in all its detail.
Chazal may be pointing here to a basic precept of religious life. Judaism expresses itself perhaps most profoundly in everyday life, rather in purely spiritual contexts. The true manifestation of one's commitment to Jewish ideals occurs not in the synagogue, but in the home, on the street and at the office. Observing how the patriarchs' values and teachings make their way into the conversations of their servants can contribute more to our development as worthy bearers of their heritage than some areas of the Torah. This is because Torah cannot exist in a vacuum; it must be implemented within the daily routine of each and every one of us.
In its claim that the patriarchs' servants' conversations supersede certain areas of Jewish law in importance, the Midrash cites one specific area of Jewish law: "tum'at sheretz," the laws involving common instances of ritual impurity, such as that rendered by dead insects.
It has been suggested that Chazal singled out this area of halakha in particular. The legal codes involving ritual purityaim at distancing one from impurity, to avoid any encounter with sources of "tum'a." Indeed, this symbolizes a basic objective of mitzvot, to help the individual resist or, if, necessary, overcome the many forces of impurity that surround him on all sides.
But even better than that is the daily talk of the patriarchs' servants. From them we learn not only to resist impurity, but to achieve sanctity. True, much can be said for one who effectively isolates himself from the world of the mundane and thereby defies the forces of impurity therein. However, sanctity can be achieved only through engagement with the mundane and the discerning between the sacred and profane. Therefore, greater before the Almighty than the laws of "tum'at sheretz" - how to guard oneself from impurity - is the everyday conduct of those who embody the values of the Torah, for "kedusha" is earned through the search for spirituality on a day-in, day-out basis.
[Prepared by David Silverberg]
The Rambam in the beginning of Hilkhot Yesodei HaTorah (the Laws of the Foundations of the Torah) states that there is a mitzva to ‘know' that God exists (a more exact translation being 'to know that there is 'there' God').
A clear problem that has been raised with this idea is that it makes no sense to talk about being commanded to know that God exists when the One Who is commanding is God. The mere act of His commanding us is an instance of our ‘knowing' His existence, so of what need is there to command that knowledge. It already exists.
Before addressing this question I think it will be helpful to note that there exists more than one type of knowledge. There is what we often refer to as empirical knowledge or perhaps rational/logical knowledge. The type of knowledge that we can obtain when we step back from the world and attempt to look at it in as objective a manner as possible. This type of knowledge, with all its value, is not the type of knowledge being referred to here. When we speak of knowing the Commander, we are not talking about an intellectual, empirical knowledge. Rather, we are referring to an experiential knowledge. We experienced God commanding us and that experience is in and of itself a form of knowledge of His existence.
An example may be helpful here. If one says that he/she knows that X is a kind and caring person, that knowledge can be based upon (at the very least) two types of foundations. One, that person could have observed this person from a distance, watched his/her actions and characteristics and concluded that he/she is a kind and caring person. However, there is another path to such knowledge, and that is to be the receiver of this kindness; a kind word or a loving hand can also attest to decency of this person's character. So again, to restate the question at hand, given that experiencing God as commander attests to us that He exists, what need, then, is there for this commandment?
In answering this question it is helpful to note that knowledge (perhaps in particular experiential knowledge) is not necessarily static. That is to say, the mere fact that one has such knowledge today does not assure us of his/her awareness of this fact tomorrow. It is true that when God commands His reality is all too apparent, but nonetheless when that moment of being commanded is over that awareness can fade. At such a point the command (whose continued awareness need not depend on experiential knowledge) can take on a life all its own, a life totally devoid of any connection to the Commander. That is to say, we can, ironically enough, be perfectly aware of the command while losing site of the Commander.
And therefore, HaKadush Baruch Hu commanded us to know Him, that is to say to keep knowing Him, to keep alive the experience of being actively aware of His reality; whether by reading His words, performing His will, or just experiencing the grandeur of His world. In essence, as we engage in life in all its various facets God commanded us to find His presence within that engagement. Or, to put a bit of a Chasidic twist on the wording of the Rambam, there is a mitzva to know that there is 'there' God, wherever 'there' may happen to be.
[Prepared by Moshe Morris]
"I will bind you by an oath to God, Lord of heaven and earth, that you will not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I live. Instead, you must go to my native land, to my birthplace, and obtain a wife for Yitzchak." (Bereishit 24:3-4)
In this week's parasha, we have the first story of a bereaved spouse and the first story of the choosing of a spouse. What insights into marriage do we gain from these stories?
Up to this point in Bereishit, we have only seen one aspect of marriage - the idea of a "compatible helper." In the story of Adam and Chava, Adam is shown all the animals, but none are suitable to be his compatible helper. Finally, Chava is created from his rib and Adam recognizes her as his compatible helper.
This seems to explain the need of man and woman to form a pair, like two halves making a whole. This completeness helps them to fulfill their roles in life. However, our parasha introduces a new element. Without Sarah, Avraham fades from the scene with no more stories of his good deeds except for those necessary to tie up loose ends before his death, which is still more than thirty years away.
This could be explained by his lack of a compatible helper. But in fact, he remarries and has six children! Clearly, a wife is not enough. There must be an extra element in Avraham's relationship with Sarah.
The same point is clear from the quote we began with. There must be suitable women for Yitzchak to marry in Avraham's extended household. The Midrash mentions the daughter of Avraham's servant Eliezer. However, Avraham makes Eliezer promise that he will go to Charan and find Yitzchak a wife there. Some extra element is needed here. What is it?
At the end of our parasha we read:
"Yitzchak brought the girl into his mother, Sarah's, tent and he married Rivka. She became his wife, and he loved her. Yitzchak was then consoled for his mother." (24:67)
It seems that the element that was lost in Sarah's death was regained when Yitzchak married Rivka. The issue seems to resolve around Sarah's tent. In the Midrash, God's presence returns to the tent as it was in Sarah's time. But Rivka on her own in Charan, had no such experience. Rather, the linking of two people to serve God together, of Yitzchak and Rivkah, seems to bring in God's presence. There is a spiritual side, then, not just the utilitarian side of a compatible helper.
Two servants of God, one male and one female, if correctly matched, can recreate Sarah's tent. They can build a spiritual home. Avraham could not find another Sarah, but Yitzchak found his Rivka.
In the Mishna, the phrase "her home" means her husband and "his home" means his wife. Avraham and Sarah were the people chosen to create a nation serving God. They did this through the element in marriage of "home," of building an atmosphere of love and fear of God and educating their children through that to do the same.
[Prepared by Samuel Jackman.]
The Shadchan and the Well
In Parashat Chayei Sarah we have the first instance of a Jewish Shadchan. In Bereishit, Chapter 23, the Torah says:
"And Avraham said to the eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had, Put, I pray, thy hand under my thigh. And I will make thee swear by the Lord, the God of heaven and the God of the earth, that though shalt not take a wife to my son of the daughters of the Kena'ani among whom I dwell; but though shalt go to my country and to my kindred, and take a wife to my son Yitzchak."
This story however seems to be the exception in the Torah and not the rule. For all other mentioned matches in the Torah occur through the couple meeting each other on their own, most often at the local "downtown" well (i.e. Yaacov and Moshe). The reason for the exception here is due perhaps to Isaac not being permitted to leave the country and at the same time, not being allowed to marry any of the locals. Therefore, tonly solution was to send the shadchan.
After reading these pesukim, two questions come to mind:
According to the Rambam, this practice of meeting one's future spouse in the street came to an end with the giving of the Torah. The Rambam (Hilkhot Ishut1:1) writes, "Before Matan Torah, a man would meet a women in the market place. If they were both interested, they would get married…." In contrast, the Rambam writes in Chapter 3, halakha 23, "And one who consecrates a woman without shiduchim or that consecrates after meeting in the market place, even though the kiddushin is a complete kiddushin, he nevertheless receives makot mardut (rabbinic lashes) in order that promiscuousness should not become the practice and thereby be viewed as the way kiddushin took place prior to Matan Torah."
The Rambam makes it very clear, based upon the opinion of Rav in the Gemara Kiddushin 12b, that pre-arranged marriages are the only acceptable practice!
After receiving a bit of a shock from the ramifications of this Halakha, I went to consult Rav Lichtenstein. He explained that the term "shadchan" does not refer to a shadchan but a commitment prior to kiddushin (see chapter 5, halakha 10 and 12) Thus shidduchim is actually what we now refer to as being engaged.
This idea seems to be foreign to our Western concept of "falling in love." Erich Fromm in his book, "The Art of Loving" (pp.50-51) explains: "In essence, all human beings are identical. We are all part of One; we are One. This being so, it should not make any difference whom we love. Love should be essentially an act of will, the decision to commit my life to that of one other person. This is indeed, the rationale behind the idea of marriage, as it is behind the many forms of traditional marriage in which the two partners never choose each other, bur are chosen for each other-and yet are expected to love each other." Fromm claims that love is not "just a strong feeling but is a decision."
This story of Yitzchak loving Rivka, in spite of having been set up by the shadchan, is nevertheless an important lesson of the Jewish concept of love through commitment.
[Prepared by Samuel Jackman]
THE PHANTOM SERVANT
The main action of Parashat Chayei Sarah, the final unit of the trilogy that is the Avraham narrative, is the search for a wife for Yitzchak, which fills Chapter 24, the longest in the book of Bereishit, featuring an anonymous protagonist, identified only as "Avraham's servant." The Sages identify him as Eliezer, and indeed this is suggested by the simple meaning of the verses themselves. It is logical to presume that Eliezer, called in 15:2 by Avraham "my household's steward," is the selfsame "servant, elder of his household, who ruled over all he owned" of 24:2. Yet this only begs the question: why is Eliezer's name withheld? What necessitates the subterfuge of referring to him only via the awkward term of "Avraham's servant"?
To understand this, we must reexamine Avraham's life. If there is one overriding concern that occupies Avraham, it is the search for an heir. When we first encounter him in Parashat Lekh Lekha, Avraham views Lot, his nephew and ward, as his natural heir. Yet Lot rejects his uncle's legacy, turning instead to Sedom (if not embracing fully that city's decadence); even after his capture in the War of the Five Kings, Lot cannot bear to abandon the wealth of the Jordan Valley, and it is clear that he will never take Avraham's place. This prompts Avraham to cry out, "Lord God, what shall you give me while I walk barren, and the steward of my household is Damascus Eliezer?... Indeed, You have not given me seed, and a member of my household will inherit me" (15:2-3)! Thus, at this point, with Lot’s rejection, Eliezer has become Avraham's heir apparent.
God, however replies, that "this one will not inherit you; rather, one who comes from your innards will inherit you" (15:4). The Covenant of the Parts follows, and when Yishmael is born several years later, Avraham assumes that the divine promise has been fulfilled. Yet thirteen years later, at the Covenant of Circumcision, God clarifies that Avraham's heir will be not only his child, but Sarah's as well. Yishmael is thus out of the picture, in favor of the as-yet unborn Yitzchak.
In the greatest test of his life, Avraham must nearly sacrifice his son and long-awaited heir; he passes with flying colors, but when Avraham hits old age, he realizes a fundamental problem: his forty-year-old-son is still unmarried! What then will happen, if Avraham, on his deathbed, finds that his heir has not produced an heir of his own? He may be forced to turn to one of his previous options; not Lot or Yishmael, who have left Avraham's household to establish their own - but rather the faithful and long-suffering Eliezer!
Though this option may seem inconceivable at first glance, we must remember that the search for posterity, for the means to carry God's message throughout the generations, has been Avraham's lifelong goal. Furthermore, the point is not what Avraham actually thought, but what we might suspect Eliezer of contemplating. He knows the importance propagating God’s message through an heir, and he has been with Avraham through the sixty-five year odyssey to spread God's word, standing by silently as Lot, Yishmael, and Yitzchak occupied the position of heir apparent. Thus, we might suspect that just the slightest hint of ambition might color his actions in his final mission, a mission the failure of which might very well be to Eliezer's advantage. (This is suggested by the midrashic tradition that Eliezer had a daughter whom he hoped initially that Yitzchak might marry.) We might misjudge Eliezer's gamble at the well or his harsh negotiation tactics and accuse him of jeopardizing the mission.
But we would be wrong, the Torah tells us unequivocally. For this man is Avraham's servant, aide-de-camp to and disciple of the man who had the courage to find God and the fortitude to spread His word throughout the ancient world. To think of him as Eliezer, the one-time heir apparent, is to defame a noble character. Thus for all time we identify him only as "Avraham's servant" - for that is the only role he sought to assume. Similarly, as we all as strive to be God’s servants, we would do well to take a lesson from that paragon, Eliezer, servant of Avraham.
[Prepared by Yoseif Bloch]
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