The Vayomer Moments

Rosh Hashanah 5767

by Rabbi Jared Saks

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I always email my flight information to my parents, even when I’m not traveling to see them. That’s because we’re Jewish. I’ve also been known to speak to my Dad as many as ten times in a single day. And at the end of each of those conversations, we always say the same thing: I love you. Why? Because that’s what we Jews do. But for my family, it wasn’t always that way.

When I was a senior in high school, my Mom’s sister, my Aunt Liz, died very suddenly. She was fifty-two years old. Less than a year before, Aunt Liz had moved to Maine. She was planning a year-long trip around the world and had packed up all of her things, storing them at friends’ and relatives’ houses. She was preparing us for her being gone, not forever, just for a year. And then, all of a sudden, it was forever. We kept expecting her to come back, or to call, but, of course, that never happened. It couldn’t be real. But it was not a dress rehearsal; it was real.

It was that alarming moment in our lives that reminded my Mom to kiss us goodnight again and say to us, at the end of each phone conversation, that she loved us, things that had stopped happening when my brother and I started growing up. But with my aunt’s death, we learned how impermanent life is, how quickly it can become too late.

We all have found ourselves so angry at someone that, at least for a short time, we decide it’s easier to avoid them than to make up. Sometimes, we let our anger last for so long it takes a tragedy for us to notice the people in our lives whom we’ve been avoiding.

In the Biblical text, when Isaac was a child, his mother, Sarah, became jealous of Abraham’s other son, Ishmael, and Ishmael’s mother, Hagar. She demanded that Abraham force Hagar and Ishmael to leave. It is no wonder that Ishmael never wanted to speak to Isaac again, after the way he and his mother were treated by Sarah. It takes Abraham’s death for Isaac and Ishmael to stand in each other’s presence again. Following Abraham’s death, the two bury their father at the family plots where Abraham buried Sarah. Even this powerful tragedy isn’t enough to create an enduring reconciliation between them. Just as Aunt Liz’s death did for my family, tragedies like this call us to reevaluate our lives and restructure our relationships.

Each Rosh Hashanah, we read this tragic story of a father clandestinely escorting his beloved son to the top of a mountain where he intends to offer him as a sacrifice to God. And each year, we seek a message of hope for the New Year in this terrific story. We know that Isaac carried the wood for the sacrifice on his own back, up the mountain. Abraham carried the knife and the firestone. And when Isaac noticed the wood, the knife and the fire, he asked his father, “Where is the sheep?” Abraham assured him, knowing full well that his own son was the offering, “God will see to the sheep, my son.”

Abraham told his servants, “Stay here with the donkey. The boy and I are going up to worship and we’ll be right back,” but he returns alone. The text leaves us painfully wanting reconciliation: reconciliation between a father and the son he sought to kill; reconciliation between a man and his servants to whom he lied about his intentions; and reconciliation between a faithful follower and the God who would demand that he sacrifice his own son. I believe that Abraham, in the midst of this horror, recognizes the pain around him. Abraham does seek reconciliation.

Vayashov Avraham el-na’arav vayakumu vayelchu yachdav el-Beer Shava, Abraham returned to his servants and, together, they departed for Beer-sheva.(Genesis 22:19) Vayashov Avraham, from the Hebrew root shin-vav-vet, which means to return. It is the same root that gives us the word teshuvah, repentance. When Abraham returned alone from the mountaintop, where he tied up his son and placed him on the altar, where he left his son Isaac behind, Abraham needed to repent; he needed reconciliation. Vayashov Avraham, Abraham repented.

Abraham understood that repentance cannot be done alone. The process of reconciliation, however individually motivated, must happen with others, within a community. First, we must recognize our need to return to one another. Vayashov Avraham el-na’arav, Abraham returned to his servants. Then, we must act upon that need and work together.

As aware as Abraham had become of the people around him, it was not enough to call him to reevaluate his life and restructure his relationship with Isaac. It wasn’t until after Sarah died that Abraham finally turned his attention to his son, with whom he hadn’t spoken since that ascent up the mountain.

When we examine more closely this morning’s Torah reading, it seems as though the miraculous voice from heaven is the most important part. Picture the scene: Abraham builds an altar and lays the wood upon it, undoubtedly something Isaac has seen his father do before. Then, the routine changes. Isaac feels the ropes being tightened around his wrists and ankles. He finds himself speechless, unable to ask Abraham what is happening. His father’s hands lift him and Isaac finds himself lying upon the wood on the altar. Isaac sees the sun glinting off the knife as his own father raises it above his head. In the nick of time, a voice calls out from the heavens and stops Abraham before the knife touches Isaac’s throat.

But miracles like that don’t happen every day. Voices don’t call out to us from heaven telling us to stop and pay attention. We learn that it is in the ordinary that we must seek reconciliation, not the extraordinary. The voice that stopped Abraham is accompanied by the verb vayikra, meaning ‘to call out.’ This verb appears in this morning’s reading only three times. Seventeen times, though, we see variations of vayomer, meaning ‘to say.’ Vayomer is the day-in, day-out of our lives, the ordinary moments, the stuff that happens all the time. Vayikra is the exceptional, the out-of-the-ordinary. If we wait for the vayikra moments, they might come too late. And they might not come at all. We must seek change during the vayomer moments of our lives that happen all the time.

Our tradition tells us of Rabbi Eliezer who fought with the sages over the laws regarding the status of an oven, whether or not it was kosher. Rabbi Eliezer knew he was right. He announced, “If I am right, let this carob tree prove it.” The carob tree uprooted and replanted itself. The sages told him a carob tree proves nothing. Then, Rabbi Eliezer called on a stream of water to prove he was right. The stream reversed direction and the sages told him that a stream proves nothing. Eventually, Rabbi Eliezer declared, “If I am right, let a voice from heaven prove it!” A voice from heaven called out in support of Rabbi Eliezer. Rabbi Joshua then responded, “We pay no attention to Divine voices.” The Torah, as Rabbi Joshua taught, is in our hands here. We can’t expect a vayikra moment in which a voice from heaven will tell us what to do. Consider how the near-sacrifice of Isaac would have ended if the voice that saved Isaac had never come.

I’d like to share with you now a poem by Savina Teubal titled “A Ram Caught in the Thicket,” which depicts the binding of Isaac from the ram’s perspective:

I watched horrified as he bound the boy
and lay him on the altar
I watched as he shoved the child’s head back
with his left hand under his chin,
and took the knife in his right hand
as my horns got caught in the thicket.
I bleated at struggled
as the Voice called out from Heaven,
“Do not lay your hand on the boy
and do not do anything to him;
for now I know that you fear Me,
for you did not withhold your beloved son.”
And I struggled and he saw me,
his face aglow, his son unbound
and he came to release me on this joyous day.
But he took the cord and bound me and lay me on the altar
and he shoved my head back
with his left hand under my chin,
and he took the knife in his right hand.
I bleated and struggled
awaiting the Voice from Heaven
but it did not come.

His face was aglow as he brought down the knife
and his son watched.

We cannot wait for miracles or tragedies to contemplate our lives. We cannot wait for voices from heaven to tell us to change. We must seek reconciliation in the everyday moments of our lives. Teshuvah is always possible. Returning to one another and to God is something we must undertake on a regular basis. While Rosh Hashanah demands teshuvah, teshuvah does not demand Rosh Hashanah.

They say that life is not a dress rehearsal, but our tradition affords us the opportunity to rehearse and get things right for the coming year. The Days of Awe reflect the journey of our lives. We begin with Rosh Hashanah. Hayom harat olam, Today is the birthday of the world. Tradition tells us that Creation was finished today, on the first of Tishrei. But we don’t mark it as though this is the world’s 5,767th birthday. Rather, the world is reborn today; it all begins again. Reconciliation renews us. And Rosh Hashanah renews Creation. The first time, Creation was a gift. Now, Creation depends upon us as we renew ourselves over these next ten days.
We end with Yom Kippur, which is a rehearsal for our deaths. How so? At Kol Nidre, we will stand before the Aron Kodesh, the Holy Ark and remove the kodesh. We will take the Torah scrolls out and stand before an empty aron, a casket. Traditionally, we wear white on Yom Kippur, not only as a symbol of purity, but also to represent our burial shrouds. And we recite the Vidui, the confession of sin. The only other time we recite it is when death is imminent.

We refrain from eating; we are told not to bathe. On Yom Kippur, we will treat ourselves as though we do not have bodies, so that the rest of the year, we can remember that we have a soul. We confront our mortality as we stand on the brink of death in order to examine our own lives. But at the end of Ne’ilah, we hear the shofar blast that tells us it was only a dress rehearsal; it’s not the end. We are reminded that we have countless opportunities for reconciliation and repentance. We have every ordinary moment of our lives to do things differently. And we must begin today.
In the coming year, God, call us to reevaluate our lives and restructure our relationships in a way that deserves Your inscribing us for blessing, life, and peace. Help us to understand that reconciliation is always possible. May we learn to notice the vayomer moments, rather than waiting to hear a voice from heaven. Shanah Tovah.