Showing posts with label lech lecha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lech lecha. Show all posts

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Parashat Lech Lecha

D’var Torah written for and delivered at Leo Baeck College, London.

The Dark Side of the Moon

Arriving at Parashat Lech Lecha, it is tempting to focus on its beautiful and momentous opening in which Abram is commanded to go forth from his homeland. ‘Lech Lecha’ has become the paradigmatic narrative for the spiritual journey and the religious covenant.

Today, however, I would propose we journey a little deeper into our parashah to one of its more obscure sections and see if we can cast light upon it. In Genesis Chapter Fifteen, after Abram has battled the four kings of Canaan and withstood a number of tribulations, the Torah tells us about the arcane ritual of the Covenant of the Pieces (‘Brit haBetarim’). After Abram’s military successes, he appears to spiral down into melancholy (or perhaps today we would call it ‘depression’) and asks God both an existential and a practical question: who will inherit if I fail to have children, “v’anochi holech ariri?“ (Gen. 15:2)

This is a poignant moment. We can imagine Abram trying to come to terms with both his successes and his failures. Abram wonders what merit his successes will have if he has no progeny to bequeath his heritage to.

It is at this very moment that God enters center stage. First, God tries to comfort Abram by affirming God’s special relationship with the patriarch. ‘I am your shield’. (Gen. 15:1)

Secondly, God promises progeny as numerous as the stars, seemingly against all odds. This can almost be read as a prophetic echo of a comforting line from Psalm 147:4, ‘the Eternal numbers the stars and gives each one a name’.

To ratify His covenant with Abram, God instructs Abram to conduct a strange ritual, the so-called ‘Covenant of the Pieces’.

The ‘Covenant of the Pieces’ represents the darker sphere of both reality and our covenantal religion. It is not a clean or polished ritual but gritty and primitive. Abram is told to slaughter a number of different animals (a cow, a goat, a ram, a turtledove and a pigeon), to split them and then to pass through them. The scene is set dramatically: the sun sets and Abram falls into a deep and troubled sleep. In his sleep, he experiences a fiery furnace and a blazing torch passing through the covenant of the pieces and Abram is promised two realities: his descendants will be enslaved for four centuries, yet in the end, they will inherit the land promised them.

Our mysterious episode ends as suddenly as it started. Chapter Sixteen already commences with the Hagar narrative. If we were to examine this connection through smichut parshiyot, an analysis of adjacent verses, we may see that God seems to immediately fulfill His promise to Abram and Sarai.

And yet, the reader is left to wonder. What was the meaning of this dark and gruesome ritual? What was the purpose of the blood and gore and fire?

The Sages see the Covenant of the Pieces as being an allusion to what the Jewish people are yet to face: enslavement, loss of autonomy, exile but also ultimate Redemption. The Covenant of the Pieces teaches us that the bigger picture can speak to even the minutiae of our own lives. We all struggle with our successes and failures, our dreams and fears. Many of us may face moments in life where we pass through the fire, where we lament things lost and fear things yet to come. Life is not always clean and polished. Nor is life only a magnificent journey that we embark upon with our dignity intact and our hopes high. Sometimes we are broken and blinded by the thick smoke of our pain. The Covenant of the Pieces teaches us, however, that there is a torch to light our way through the black smoke.

According to Rashi, the act of splitting the animals and passing between them represents covenanting: the sharing of an experience in which the partners become like ‘blood siblings’. He also states that the ‘furnace and torch’ represents the Shechinah (Divine Presence) as She – like a pillar of fire by night - accompanies us through life’s darkest hour. Again, a psalm comes to mind: ‘as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall not fear’ (Psalm 23:4).

Life can force us into the shadows and to gaze upon the dark side of the moon. Yet, true to God’s promise to Abram, the darkness and shadows allow us to see our stars shine all the brighter. The strength of the Covenant of the Pieces lies in its grittiness, in its ability to mix metaphors, to blend life and death into one intoxicating experience. We can pass through dire straits only to be born again. This is a covenant of a God Who is both infinitely loving and brutally honest. And it is this experience that makes our reality covenantal. Life isn’t easy, and sometimes we walk through darkness. But we might just be able to intuit that the Shechinah lights our way like a torch and that the stars illuminate our darker sphere. We may yet emerge stronger and more human, a true journey of the soul.

Parashat Lech Lecha

There is an idea that in order for religion to remain relevant, religion should make the comfortable feel uncomfortable. The ability of Judaism to be self-aware, critical and iconoclastic is especially revealed in how the tradition shapes our ethics regarding the treatment of the stranger, the disempowered and the poor.

Of course, many of us are familiar with the Torah’s insistence to treat the stranger with compassion since we were strangers in Egypt. The Exodus is often invoked as a motive for social justice, by the small and great alike, including Dr. Martin Luther King. However, there is a narrative perhaps even more powerful and certainly more unsettling than the Exodus narrative. This is the narrative of Sarah, Abraham and Hagar in B’reishit (Genesis 16).

The story of Sarah, Abraham and Hagar is unsettling because it really brings home the point of what it means to be an outsider. Our own tradition confronts us with our own failings and prejudices. We are forced to re-examine the characters of our beloved Patriarchs and Matriarchs and we are forced to acknowledge that even they didn’t always live up to the ethical standards that we hold dear.

The story of Hagar and Sarah is well-known. Abraham and Hagar fail to conceive a child and it is Sarah who takes the initiative to give her servant girl Hagar to her husband (Gen. 16:1-2):

וְשָׂרַי אֵשֶׁת אַבְרָם, לֹא יָלְדָה לוֹ; וְלָהּ שִׁפְחָה מִצְרִית, וּשְׁמָהּ הָגָר.
וַתֹּאמֶר שָׂרַי אֶל-אַבְרָם, הִנֵּה-נָא עֲצָרַנִי יְהוָה מִלֶּדֶת--בֹּא-נָא אֶל-שִׁפְחָתִי, אוּלַי אִבָּנֶה מִמֶּנָּה; וַיִּשְׁמַע אַבְרָם, לְקוֹל שָׂרָי.

“Sarai, the wife of Abram had not borne him children and she had an Egyptian maidservant and her name was Hagar. And Sarai said to Abram, behold now, the Lord has stopped me from bearing. Come please to my maidservant [so that] maybe I will be built up through her. And Abraham listened to the voice of Sarai.” (translation mine)

The epithet used to describe Hagar pointedly identifies her both according to her “race” and her “class”. She is an Egyptian maidservant, a person of lower status than Abram and Sarai (whose name, in fact, means “princess”). If Hagar (whose name is based on haGer, “the stranger”) is to bear Abram’s child, then why does the text choose to emphasize her social inferiority?

Rashi states: “She was a daughter of Pharaoh when she saw miracles done for Sarah and she said, ‘better to be a maidservant in this house than a mistress in another house.’” (translation mine)

The notion that Hagar is more than a mere maidservant but actually a daughter of Pharaoh sheds new light on an ancient and oft repeated dynamic: the relationship between the powerful and powerless, between Israel and Egypt. Is it coincidence that generations later, Moshe himself is rescued from the Nile’s watery embrace by “Bat Paro”, Pharaoh’s daughter?

In the light of our modern sensibilities, Rashi’s explanation of Hagar’s presence and even good fortune, to dwell in the household of Sarai, may be presumptuous. Is this the excuse we use to justify labor malpractices? To justify the employment of underpaid immigrant workers? Arguing that they are “fortunate” to dwell in our households? That they are better of as servants in our households and factories than masters in their own?

Our sacred narrative challenges us to re-examine these assumptions. Maybe this is a case of middah k’neged middah (measure for measure), also known as poetic justice. After all, when our greatest spiritual leader was a mere infant, he becomes utterly dependent on the kindness of a daughter of Pharoah. Sarai “oppresses” Hagar and Hagar flees into the desert unknown (Gen. 16:6). Is this the kindness we should show the stranger among us?

The easiest compassion roused in our hearts is that which springs forth from our own traumas of oppression. This is why it is easy and perhaps even comfortable for us as the powerful and privileged to refer to the Exodus narrative as an ethical injunction on how to treat the stranger. After all, we were ourselves strangers in Egypt. But perhaps the most profound compassion comes from another, less expected, place. Perhaps it comes from a place of acknowledging that we too, can be the oppressors. As unsettling as this insight may be, it may provide us with real tools of respect and reconciliation: the awareness that we are all human and all part angel and part beast. The rest depends not only on the power dynamic in our lives, but thankfully also on our will to choose and do the right.