This week the Torah introduces us to “Abraham our Father.” If Abraham is “our” father, the father of the entire Jewish people, he is my father. Having studied Abraham’s life for decades now, I have an image of my father Abraham.
I imagine him as somewhat tall, commanding respect yet gentle, invariably self-aware and aware of others, welcoming anyone who entered his midst, entirely unsuspecting that he would become perhaps the most influential human being in history. He was unsuspecting because he was entirely dedicated to G-d. What others thought of him, or what others might think of him in the future, never crossed his mind. What occupied him was how he could serve the Creator every moment, the Creator whom he discovered. Of course I imagine him serving the Creator constantly, for how could it be otherwise? Abraham had to wait decades for the birth of a successor. I imagine that this would be impossible for Abraham — his would be a life consumed in frustration — if he were not sustained by his belief in G-d and in G-d’s plan for him.
I imagine Abraham as invariably capable of understanding the people who entered his midst; I imagine him as keen and empathetic. We learn from tradition that “Abraham converted the men and his wife Sarah converted the women.” To convert a single person —to communicate effectively the existence of G-d — is complicated and individualistic. Yet, Abraham converted masses of people. I imagine that there is no way Abraham could have done this were he not capable of a keen and empathetic understanding of people.
I imagine Abraham as baffled by his surroundings, as mystified by why people — so many people — placed their faith in idols. His reality of one G-d, as over against their groundless reality of many gods, must have confounded Abraham. This can explain why he reached out to convert others. But it cannot explain how he reached out; it cannot explain his personal qualities that made him effective. I imagine that these qualities were separate; they were, as I said, sharpness of perception and empathy.
I imagine Abraham as particularly fond of his nephew Lot. Abraham was sensitive to Lot’s needs. When the shepherds of Abraham and the shepherds of Lot quarreled over the fields they both grazed, Abraham gave Lot the choice of which fields would henceforth belong to him. Whatever Lot chose, Abraham would abide by. When Lot was captured, Abraham went to war to free him from captivity.
But I imagine the root of Abraham’s fondness for Lot as deeper and prior to his beneficent dealings with Lot in Canaan. Of all the people in Abraham’s home surroundings, before he journeyed to the Holy Land, Abraham chose one relative to take with him, besides his wife Sarah.It is true that Lot was unattached, since his father Haran had died, but Abraham had a niece and many other family members he left behind, not to mention he brought a large retinue of converts and surely another family member or two could easily have been brought along, too. It was only Abraham who chose Lot to accompany him on his journey to the Land of Israel.
This was simultaneously a journey to G-d, since Abraham left his home in Haran in obedience to G-d’s command, “Go forth!” Abraham went forth, but besides his wife, servants, and converts, he apparently took only one other person with him: Lot. I imagine that Lot found favor in Abraham’s eyes.
I imagine Abraham as distant from his grandson, from his son Isaac’s son Jacob. Abraham was 160 years old when Jacob was born. Despite this distance, I imagine that Jacob — this affirmation of G-d’s promise of continuity to Abraham — must have buoyed Abraham. I imagine that after Abraham’s traumatic escape from the slaughter of his son Isaac, Abraham pondered what fate might await Isaac’s own offspring. I imagine Abraham reassured by G-d’s promise of offspring as numerous as the stars of the heavens and the sand on the seashore.
I imagine Abraham as perhaps pragmatically troubled but not essentially torn by the competition between his two wives Sarah and Hagar, nor by the differences between his sons Isaac and Ishmael. I imagine Abraham as a loving husband and father whose love transcended what others might see, or might themselves enact, as bitter conflicts.
I imagine Abraham’s attitude toward his two wives and two sons as of a piece with his approach to all the people he converted, and to all the strangers he welcomed into his tent, and to all the idolators he could not influence. I imagine Abraham as too large in spirit and in love of G-d to be touched at his core by competitive human relations.
I imagine Abraham as shrewd. This man of faith lived in the upper spheres but also on this earth. He could be tricked by neither Pharaoh nor Abimelech. He could speak his piece without undermining the negotiations he needed to engage in. I imagine Abraham as a consummate diplomat.
The one thing I cannot imagine is Abraham bringing his son and heir to the slaughter site on Mount Moriah, in obedience to G-d’s command. Yes, I can read the text; I can scrutinize it; I can interpret it. Indeed, I have written my interpretation of the story and its nuances in an essay, “What happened to love in the binding of Isaac?”, first published in the IJN and now a chapter in my book, Across the Expanse of Jewish Thought (Ktav, 2022). It is one thing to read and understand the text; it is something else to imagine it. I cannot imagine Abraham trekking three days and then up Mount Moriah to sacrifice his son. Nor can I imagine his or his son Isaac’s response to the angel of G-d’s cancellation of the slaughter at the last minute.
The storied lives of our Patriarchs and Matriarchs are meant to be understood, and also meant to fire our imagination. If it is not every incident in their lives that fires our imagination, this is good. This means that we need to keep studying, keep pondering, keep responding. This means that we can never exhaust the meaning of the Torah. We must always strive further. This is good.
© IJN 2024
