|
The
founder of Chabad Chassidism, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, once
related:
In
Mezeritch, it was extremely difficult to be accepted as a disciple of
our master, Rabbi DovBer. There was a group of Chassidim who, having
failed to merit to learn directly from our master, wanted to at least
serve his pupils: to bring them water to wash their hands upon waking,
to sweep the floors of the study hall, to heat the ovens during the
winter months, and so on. These were known as "the oven
stokers."
One
winter night, as I lay on a bench in the study hall, I overheard a
conversation between three of the "oven stokers." "What was so special
about the test of the akeidah?" the first one asked. "If G-d had
revealed Himself to me and commanded me to sacrifice my only son,
would I not obey?"
Answering
his own question, he said: "If G-d told me to sacrifice my only son, I
would delay my doing so for a while, to keep him with me for a few
days. Abraham's greatness lay in that he arose early in the morning to
immediately fulfill the Divine command."
Said
the second one: "If G-d told me to sacrifice my only son, I, too,
would waste not a moment to carry out His command. But I would do so
with a heavy heart. Abraham's greatness lay in that he went to the
akeidah with a heart full of joy over the opportunity to fulfill G-d's
will."
Said
the third: "I, too, would carry out G-d's will with joy. I think that
Abraham's uniqueness lies in his reaction upon finding out that it was
all a test. When G-d commanded him, 'Do not touch the child, and do
nothing to him,' Abraham was overjoyed--not because his only child
would not die, but because he was being given the opportunity to carry
out another command of G-d."
Rabbi
Schneur Zalman concluded: "Do you think this was mere talk? Each of
them was describing the degree of self-sacrifice he himself had
attained in his service of the Almighty."
This
particular question--what is it that sets apart the akeidah from the
countless other instances of human martyrdom and self-sacrifice?--is
raised by almost all the commentaries and expounders of
Torah.
For
the binding of Isaac has come to represent the ultimate in the Jew's
devotion to G-d. Every morning, we preface our prayers by reading the
Torah's account of the akeidah and then say: "Master of the Universe!
Just as Abraham our father suppressed his compassion for his only son
to do Your will with a whole heart, so may Your compassion suppress
Your wrath against us, and may Your mercy prevail over Your attributes
of strict justice."
And
on Rosh Hashanah, when the world trembles in judgment before G-d, we
evoke the binding of Isaac by sounding the horn of a ram (reminiscent
of the ram which replaced Isaac as an offering) as if to say: If we
have no other merit, remember Abraham's deed. Remember how the first
Jew bound all succeeding generations of Jews in a covenant of
self-sacrifice to You.
Obviously,
the supreme test of a person's faith is his willingness to sacrifice
his very existence for its sake. But what is so unique about Abraham's
sacrifice? Have not countless thousands of Jews given their lives
rather than renounce their covenant with the Almighty?
One
might perhaps explain that the willingness to sacrifice one's child is
a far greater demonstration of faith than to forfeit one's own life.
But in this, too, Abraham was not unique. Time and again through the
generations, Jews have encouraged their children to go to their deaths
rather than violate their faith. Typical is the story of "Chanah and
her seven sons," who, seeing her seven children tortured to death
rather than bow before a Greek idol, proclaimed: "My children! Go to
Abraham your father and say to him: You bound one offering upon the
altar, and I have bound seven offerings..."
Furthermore,
while Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his son, in thousands of
akeidot throughout our history Jews actually gave up their lives and
the lives of their entire families. And, unlike Abraham, G-d had not
directly spoken to them and requested their sacrifice. Their deeds
were based on their own convictions and the strength of their
commitment to an invisible and often elusive G-d. And many gave their
lives rather than violate even a relatively minor tenet of their
faith, even in cases in which the Torah does not require the Jew to do
so.
Nevertheless,
as the Abrabanel writes in his commentary on Genesis, it is the
binding of Isaac "that is forever on our lips in our prayers... For in
it lies the entire strength of Israel
and their merit before their Heavenly Father..." Why? What about the
many thousands who made the ultimate sacrifice in reiteration of our
loyalty to G-d?
The
same question may be asked in regard to Abraham himself. The akeidah
was the tenth and final "test" in Abraham's life. In his first test of
faith, Abraham was cast into a fiery furnace for his refusal to
acknowledge the arch-idol of his native Ur Casdim, the emperor Nimrod,
and his continued commitment to teaching the world the truth of a one,
non-corporeal and omnipotent G-d. All this before G-d had revealed
Himself to him and had chosen him and his descendents to serve as a
"light unto the nations" and the purveyors of His word to
humanity.
This
early act of self-sacrifice seems, in a certain respect, to be even
greater than the latter ones. A man, all on his own, comes to
recognize the truth and devotes himself to its dissemination--to the
extent that he is even willing to sacrifice his very life to this end.
All this without a command or even sign from Above.
And
yet, the binding of Isaac is considered the most important test of
Abraham's faith. The Talmud asks: "Why did G-d, in
commanding Abraham regarding the akeidah, say 'Please, take your
son'?" Answers the Talmud: "G-d said to Abraham: 'I have tried you
with many tests and you have withstood them all. Now, I beg you,
please withstand this test for Me, lest they say that the earlier ones
were of no substance'" (Talmud, Sanhedrin 89b).
Again
we ask, Why? Granting that the akeidah was the most demanding test of
all, why are the others "of no substance" without it?
The
Chassidic masters explain the significance of the akeida with a
metaphor:
Once
there was an untamed wilderness. Not a trail penetrated its thick
underbrush, not a map charted its forbidding terrain. But one day
there came a man who accomplished the impossible: He cut a path
through this impregnable land.
Many
trod in his footsteps. It was still a most difficult journey, but they
had his charts to consult, his trail to follow. Over the years, there
were some who made the journey under even more trying conditions than
those which had challenged the first pioneer: While he had done his
work in broad daylight, they stumbled about in the black of night;
while he had only his determination for company, they made the trip
weighed down by heavy burdens. But all were equally indebted to him.
Indeed, all their attainments could be said to be but extensions of
his own great deed.
Abraham
was the pioneer of self-sacrifice. And the first instance of true
self-sacrifice in all of history was the binding of Isaac.
For
to sacrifice one's self is not the same as to sacrifice one's
life--there is a world of difference between the two.
The
human story includes many chapters of heroic sacrifice. Every
generation and society has had its martyrs--individuals who gave their
lives for their faith, for their homeland, and for virtually every
cause under the sun. They did so for a variety of reasons. For some it
was an act of desperation. To them, their lives were not worth living
unless a certain objective could be attained. Others believed that
their deed would be richly rewarded in the hereafter, so they readily
exchanged the temporal benefits of physical life for the soul's
eternal gain. Finally, there were those for whom their cause had grown
to be more significant to them than their lives. They had come to so
completely identify with a certain goal that it became more integral
to their "self" than their existence as individuals.
In
all the above cases, the martyr is sacrificing his life, but not his
self. Indeed, he is sacrificing his physical life for the sake of his
self, whether it is for the sake of the self projected by his
obsession, the spiritual self of his immortal soul, or a broader,
universal "self" he has come to identify with. Ultimately, his is a
selfish act, "selfish" in the most positive and altruistic sense of
the word--here is an individual who has succeeded in transcending the
narrow, material definition of "self" which dominates our corporeal
world--but selfish nonetheless.
Abraham
was a man with a mission. A mission for which he sacrificed
everything, a mission more important to him than his own
life.
For
many years he had agonized over the fact that there was no heir to
this mission, that his work of bringing the beliefs and ethics of
monotheism to a pagan world would cease with his passing from the
world. Then came the Divine promise: miraculously, at the age of 100,
he will have a son, out of whom will stem the people of
Israel. "You shall call his
name Isaac," said G-d, "and I shall establish My covenant with him for
an everlasting covenant, and with his descendants after
him."
And
then G-d told him to destroy it all.
When
Abraham bound Isaac upon the altar, it was not in the service of any
calling or cause. In fact, it ran contrary to everything he believed
in and taught, to everything he had sacrificed his life for, to
everything G-d Himself had told him. He could see no reason, no
purpose for his act. Every element of his self cried out against
it--his material self, his spiritual self, his transcendent,
altruistic self. But he did it. Why? Because G-d had told him
to.
Abraham
was the pioneer of self sacrifice. Before Abraham, the self was
inviolable territory. Man could enlighten the self's priorities, he
could even broaden and sublimate it, but he could not supersede it.
Indeed, how could he? As a creature of free choice, man's every act
stems from within. His every deed has a motive (conscious or
otherwise), and his every motive has a rationale--a reason why it is
beneficial to his own existence. So how could he be motivated to
annihilate his own self? The instinct to preserve and enhance one's
self is the source and objective of a creature's every drive and
desire--man could no more transcend it than lift himself up by pulling
on the hair of his own head.
Yet
Abraham did the impossible. He sacrificed his self for the sake of
something beyond the scope of the most transcendent of identities. Had
he not done so, no other act of self-sacrifice--previous or
subsequent, of his own or of his descendents--could be presumed to be
of any "substance," to be anything more than a product of the self.
But when Abraham bound Isaac upon the altar, the heavenly voice
proclaimed: "Now I know that you fear G-d." Now I know that the will
of G-d supersedes even your most basic instincts. Now I know that all
your deeds, including those which could be explained as
self-motivated, are, in essence, driven by the desire to serve your
Creator. Now I know that your entire life was of true, selfless
substance.
So
when we speak of the akeidah, we also speak of those who trod the path
this great deed blazed. Of the countless thousands who died for the
creed of Abraham, of the many millions who lived for its sake. Their
sacrifices, great and petty, cataclysmic and everyday, may, on the
surface, seem but the outgrowth of their personal beliefs and
aspirations: commendable and extraordinary, but only the fulfillment
of an individual soul's identity. But the akeidah revealed them to be
so much more than that.
For
Abraham bequeathed to his descendents the essence of Jewishness: that
at the core of one's very being lies not the self but one's commitment
to the Creator. And that, ultimately, one's every choice and act is an
expression of that "spark of Divinity"
within. | 