Making Space
Thoughts on Parashat VaYera 2019
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[1] Emma Hornby, “Preliminary Thoughts About Silence in Early Western Chant,” in Silence, Music, Silent Music, (Aldershot, UK, 2007). Pg. 142-3. Cited by Jane Brox, Silence: A Social History of One of the Least Understood Elements of Our Lives (New York, NY, 2019), pg. 68.
God’s one-sentence
command of Avraham was strict and straightforward:
…And
He said, “Take, pray, your son, your only one, whom you love, Yisshak, and Go
forth to the land of Moriah and offer him up as a burnt offering on one of the
mountains which I shall say to you.”
(22:2)
It appeared to
leave Avraham with no room for self-expression or interpretation. His options
seemed simple: to listen or not to listen to God’s word.
And yet, as Avraham
began his journey to “the land of Moriah,” something unexpected took place:
On
the third day Avraham raised his eyes and saw the place from afar. (22:4)
Instead of lowering
his eyes in an obedient march to “one of the mountains which God would say,”
Avraham “raised his eyes,” and recognized the mountain – on his own – from
afar. Indeed, after Avraham had climbed
the mountain and God warned him not to harm Yisshak, Avraham again
“raised his eyes.” He again expressed himself independently, noticing a
ram that was caught in the thicket by its horns, and deeming it the right
replacement for Yisshak on the mizbeah (22:14).
Ironically, then,
the episode of the Akedah – forever remembered as Avraham’s display of
absolute deference to God and His word – lays hint to an integral element of space
in the man-God relationship. It teaches that even in the most “constricting”
circumstances of our relationship with Him, there remains a hollow void within
which each individual may carve out their own personal niche. Even as Avraham
followed the absolute order of God to sacrifice his son, the opportunity to
“raise his eyes” remained.
I first appreciated
the significance of a literal and figurative space to our lives during a
meeting with a personal mentor, David “Hurdle” Tawil. Hurdle was critiquing the
speed of my speech in a sermon on one particular Shabbat morning. He told me
that by failing to sufficiently breathe in between sentences and paragraphs, I
stole the opportunity from my listeners to reflect upon the message and find its
relevance to their own lives.
“I’ll tell you a
story to get across the point,” Hurdle then told me, with the twinkle of his
eye. He told me that over sixty years ago, a friend of his was struggling in
the retail business of clothing. Distinguished today as a standout
philanthropist of our community, this individual was struggling to make ends
meet at the beginning years of his career. And so, he called Hurdle into his
store, and asked him for advice. He showed off his high-quality merchandise and
questioned why nobody seemed interested in buying it. “And I noticed the issue
immediately,” Hurdle told me, “there was not enough space from one rack to the
next.” Entering into the store, consumers were “overwhelmed” by the vast array
of merchandise laid out in front of them, and unable to appropriately “take in”
and appreciate the value of each individual garment and parcel. “When you leave
the right amount of space,” Hurdle then taught me, “you allow for the people
around you to appreciate what you have to offer.”
The British
historian Emma Hornby pointed out that both in Hebrew and Greek words for
“spirit” also mean “breath” (nefesh and neshamah) or “wind” (ruah).
The silence of the “space in between,” a breath or the wind, allows the spirit
in.[1]
Indeed, the very creation of man entailed God “blowing into his nostrils the
breath of life – nefesh hayah,” creating a “living spirit – nishmat
hayim” (2:7). And Onkelos, the classic translator to the Torah, famously
explained that the “living spirit” of man is best defined by his ability to
speak (ruah me-malela). How ironic! Our self-identity, which is best
expressed through our speech with one another, was born out of the silent
space of a breath.
Consider the
similarity of relationships with our children to the “Akedah experience”
between God and Avraham. No, I don’t mean that we too ask our children to
slaughter others! But just as God expected Avraham to obediently follow his
word, so too do we of our children in many interactions with them. Learning
from that somewhat unexpected “space” which God carved out for Avraham, the
message to us is clear. Allow your children to “raise their eyes” and notice on
their own. Even as you intend to impart advice from years of life-experience,
the words are often understood best through a medium of appropriate space. It
is ironic yet true that guided-growth flourishes most in a context that invites
self-reflection and expression.
[1] Emma Hornby, “Preliminary Thoughts About Silence in Early Western Chant,” in Silence, Music, Silent Music, (Aldershot, UK, 2007). Pg. 142-3. Cited by Jane Brox, Silence: A Social History of One of the Least Understood Elements of Our Lives (New York, NY, 2019), pg. 68.