Why didn’t Abraham let his servants saddle the donkey and split the wood?
Table for Five: Rosh Hashanah Edition
In partnership with the Jewish Journal of Los Angeles
Edited by Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist
So early next morning, Abraham saddled his donkey and took with him two of his servants and his son Isaac. He split the wood for the burnt offering, and he set out for the place of which God had told him.
– Gen. 22:3 (from Rosh Hashanah 2nd day Torah reading)
Rabbi Abraham Lieberman, Judaic Studies, Shalhevet High School
The narrative of the Akeida (Binding of Yitzchak) is read on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. Our prayers on Rosh Hashanah are replete with references to this seminal event, and even the most important and significant Mitzvah of the day, the Blowing of The Shofar, using a ram’s horn, are reminders of the Akeida. But how does this event begin? Our verse starts that process. Hashem had just commended Avraham to carry out a task which is cruel, unjust, and goes against all laws of morality, in fact, an act that defies all logic, even contradictory to Hashem’s own commandment of “Thou shall not kill.” (Jewish philosophers and commentators deal with those serious questions) Yet our verse describes Avraham as jumping out of bed early in the morning and moving quickly and quite resolutely, to perform this deed. Reading the verse reveals at least six different acts in succession, to quickly be on the way to perform this deed. Yet one wonders, Avraham has servants, why is he by himself, saddling the donkey, why is he undertaking the arduous task of chopping wood for the Altar? On Rosh Hashanah as we each pray and declare the Kingship of Hashem, as the world stands in judgement before Him, we are alone. Yes, we are part of a family, community, nation, yet the individual stands out. Avraham teaches us that in the most difficult moments, each one of us has the potential and the power to move forward.
Rabbi Shmuel Reichman, International Speaker, Bestselling Author, Business Consultant
The birth of a new year is a time of reflection and resolution; a time when inspiration fills the air. We dream about what this upcoming year holds in store: we all have ideas, ambitions, and aspirations that we yearn to actualize, and the new year gives us “permission” to revisit these goals and breathe new life into them. For a brief moment, everything is crystal clear; we see our purpose and path with vivid clarity.
However, there is an underlying frustration that accompanies this time period as well. If we reflect honestly, we often realize that our new year’s resolutions are quite similar to those of last year, and the year before, and the year before… because we have brief moments of inspiration, but they soon fade into oblivion, only to be resuscitated for a few more days the next year in the hopes that somehow this year might be different. However, there is a way to actually make this year different: by understanding the deeper essence of teshuvah.
Genuine teshuvah is not just about self-transformation; it’s about self-expression, returning to our true and higher self. This is the meaning behind Avraham’s entire spiritual journey: he was willing to journey into the unknown – because when one is devoted to Hashem and the truth, they are willing to go on the journey, no matter where it might take them. And, when we look back, we see how Hashem’s path took us right back home, to our true and higher self.
Rabbi Scott N. Bolton, Congregation Or Zarua, New York, NY
Were tears in his eyes? Was Isaac in the foreground of the scene or the background? Who was splitting the wood? The Torah tells with words and describes scenes that stir our souls. We paint pictures in the mind; generally that’s what Jews did throughout history. But the mosaic maker at the Dura Europos synagogue (Syria, 3rd C.) depicted Avraham with his back towards us, knife in hand on the panel above the Torah niche. Avraham, look at us! Could he not face us? Was this the first moral critique of our forefather (long before Kierkegaard!)? Or, was the artist begging him to turn aside and look – before God or the angel called out? The ram is there in the thicket (in the foreground, big as life!) And to our surprise Sarah is depicted as sitting in her tent. Did she know? How would she react when she heard what happened? Think of the mother the tiles propound. At Kibbutz Beit Alpha the earliest visual image we have of the Akeidah in Israel was uncovered in 1929. This time Avraham is facing us. The sadness on his face is in contrast to the shock on Isaac’s. The ram is near a tree to the left. Maybe Avraham is scanning for a substitution and that’s why he’s looking away from his son and the fire burning on the altar? The ram’s horn is kafuf (bent) symbolizing the humility we must have when we read and visualize this terrifying tale of spiritual grandeur. As we sound the shofar this year may we imagine ourselves tasked with being Jewish legacy-makers like Avraham even if the challenges from God seem too hard to bear.
Miriam Mill – Kreisman, President, The Tzaddik Foundation
Years ago, I vacationed in Dahab, nestled in the Sinai desert. My guesthouse hosts were a warm mix of Muslims from Sudan, Egypt, and Nigeria. I was new to Torah observance and my tznius dress earned their admiration. One day, I emerged from my tent to find one of my hosts in a white robe, a sheep bleating nearby.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“We’re celebrating the holiday of when our father, Avraham, went to sacrifice his son, Yishmael,” he replied.
I countered, “You mean Yitzchak.”
“No, Yishmael!”
“Yitzchak!”
The back-and-forth continued until I pulled out my Chumash. “This book, our Torah, has been unchanged for over 3,300 years. If even one letter can’t be repaired, we bury it.” I turned to the section about the Akeida, where Avraham is commanded to sacrifice his son, Yitzchak. I showed it to one of the hosts, who was studying law in Egypt. His eyes widened in disbelief as he read the passage in English. The realization dawned on them: The Quran’s version of the story does not name the son but they were taught it was Yishmael. They were visibly moved, their respect for my faith deepening. I didn’t tell them that one of those servants Avraham brought was indeed Yishmael because it might sound condescending, especially since Hashem previously told Avraham that Yishmael would be father to a great nation. That moment made me believe that sharing the truth of Torah could bridge divides and dispel ignorance, reinforcing the foundations of our world.
Benjamin Elterman, Screenwriter, Essayist, Speechwriter at Mitzvahspeeches.com
“He set out for the place which God has told him.” Though the language isn’t exact, this line feels reminiscent of the beginning of Avraham’s story, Lech Lecha, “Go for yourself to a land that I will show you.” Could it be that even though Avraham arrived in Eretz Yisrael, he never arrived at his true destination until this story? Was Akeidas Yitzchok his true mission?
We all have our goals and issues we are working on. Though we may have made tremendous progress, sooner or later we find ourselves falling into familiar traps of issues we thought we’d overcome long ago. We thought we had arrived, only to realize we have so much farther to go. In fact, Reb Leible Eiger said that the commandment of Lech Lecha is on every Jew until the Moshiach comes.
Avraham had Yitzchok and thought raising him to carry on his legacy was his mission. But this story comes along to test Avraham to make sure his priorities are in order. Was the mission following Hashem, or raising a family? What are your priorities? Are you following them? Or are you getting sidetracked? Rosh Hashanah is the essential time to reassess where we are on that path and where we need to course correct.
With thanks to Rabbi Abraham Lieberman, Rabbi Shmuel Reichman, Rabbi Scott N. Bolton, Miriam Mill – Kreisman and Benjamin Elterman
Image: The Binding of Isaac on floor mosaic at Beth Alpha synagogue in Israel (6th century CE)
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