Lekh l’kha
Genesis 12:1-17:27
Isaiah 40:27-41:16
Judaism is a religion of polarities. An in-depth view of reality requires a stereoscope. No single lens can do justice to the complexity of our world.
Just one example of many: According to Rabbi Yochanan (third century), “Wherever we find in Scripture a depiction of God’s grandeur, we always find in that same passage a depiction of God’s humility” (Talmud Tractate Megillah 31a).
In the Torah, Moses depicts the God of Israel as “God supreme and Lord supreme, the great, the mighty and the awesome God.” But, then Moses immediately adds that this same God, “Upholds the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and befriends the stranger, providing him with food and clothing” (Deuteronomy 10:17-18).
The truth of this insight lies in its balance. God’s grandeur as creator of the cosmos still allows for a display of God’s empathy for the painful lot of each and every disadvantaged individual.
We repeatedly experience both dimensions. God’s remoteness does not put the divine beyond our reach nor does God’s nearness breed disrespect.
Intellectually, we bow before God’s incomprehensible awesomeness; emotionally, we are buoyed by feeling God’s solicitous presence, especially in times of tragedy.
By never separating these contrasting faces of God, the Bible implicitly avers the proposition that God is both transcendent and immanent. Rabbi Yochanan formulates a bipolar theology that captures the full reality of God in our lives.
Abraham’s character
This polarity sheds light on the character of Abraham. If imitatio dei (imitating the divine) is the loftiest standard of religious behavior, then the life of Abraham reveals a fairly consistent blend of power and restraint.
Abraham generally appears reluctant to invoke force, not out of passivity or weakness, but out of strength.
He and Sarah return from Egypt to the land of Canaan laden with worldly goods, “cattle, silver and gold” (13:2). Still an outsider, Abraham is no longer powerless.
Even his nephew and companion, Lot, has amassed wealth. Together they exceed the capacity of the land to feed their flocks, and their stewards soon fall to bickering.
Yet Abraham, the source of Lot’s good fortune, chooses not to pull rank. He suggests separating their families and magnanimously grants Lot first choice as to where he would like to settle: “If you go north, I will go south; and if you go south, I will go north” (13:9).
At no point does he assert authority to impose his will on his disrespectful and greedy nephew. He refuses to resolve the dispute by force.
Abraham employs force only as a last resort. When four kings from the east overrun the region and plunder Sodom and Gomorrah, taking Lot and his wealth hostage, Abraham pursues them with his own troops, vanquishing them with a daring night assault.
Not only does he rescue Lot and his household, but he also restores property to the king of Sodom. Despite the king’s urging, Abraham takes no more than the provisions consumed by his men and the share that rightfully belongs to allies.
Abraham could have seized dominion over the entire land, turning divine promise into political reality. Yet victory is not entitlement. Abraham refuses to profit from his exploits.
Moreover, in the next episode, Abraham accepts without protest a grim divine promise: His progeny will not take possession of the land for another 400 years, and then only after a brutal experience of slavery abroad (15:13).
The juxtaposition of these stories evinces a remarkable dialectic between might and modesty. The divine economy runs by its own rules.
A third episode amplifies Abraham’s aversion to violence. He tries to prevent God from demolishing the sinful cities Sodom and Gomorrah.
He derives no pleasure from the prospect of seeing the wicked get their just deserts. He tries to shame God for contemplating the destruction of a righteous remnant along with the wicked multitude.
But how many good citizens will it take to spare an evil city? Starting at 50, he stops at 10, the minimal number plausibly necessary to avert the devastation of the twin cities where Lot had hastened to make his home.
Abraham’s compassion for his fellow humans sprang from a vigor and vitality firmly in tow. His virtue manifested itself in self-mastery rather than mastery of others.
Rabbi Ismar Schorsch is the previous chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary.
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