I imagine myself as Avraham, up early one morning, before the sun has risen from the horizon. I quietly touch my son, my beloved, Isaac, and tell him he must wake. We get ready to go in silence, he in half-sleep, half-haze, me in terror, following instructions to take my son to the land of Moriah and sacrifice him there as a burnt offering. I saddle my animals, and we begin to walk. For three days we walk together, mostly in silence, hearing only our own footsteps, the rocks underfoot, and the wind. As we approach the designated place my son Isaac musters up his courage and calls, “My father” I answer, “I am here my son – Heneini binee.” Isaac asks me “where is the sheep for the offering?” but I don’t really answer, simply saying God will provide. And so we continue to walk, the two of us, together.
Why do we read this unfathomable story today on the second day of Rosh Hashanah? Isn’t this the time when we are supposed to cozy up to God, to share our deepest prayers and longings? Isn’t it the time we are supposed to recommit ourselves to making our lives a blessing, to believing somehow in a God of justice, a God of forgiveness and love? So why share this story where it seems like both God and Abraham behave in unforgivable ways? No matter how hard I have tried to put myself in Abraham’s position, I struggle; even more so since becoming a parent. But in the past I have focused on the first part of this story, the moments up until Abraham raises his knife to slay his son. But the story continues. The angel of God calls to Abraham, “Avraham, Avraham” and he answers “Heneini, I am here.” The angel says Abraham does not need to surrender Isaac and then the text says in Genesis 22:13, “When Abraham looked up his eye fell upon a ram, caught in the thicket by its horns.”
What made Abraham look up? In that darkest moment, when he could so easily have been entirely immersed, riveted on the drama of this encounter Abraham looked up and saw this ram, the ram that provided the alternative sacrifice to his son. In the midst of this horror, in the midst of a darkest moment, a moment when it looked as though there would be no other option – Abraham looked up. Had the ram been there the whole time? Perhaps it was but understandably he couldn’t see that which was there. Abraham had to direct his attention and his expectations away from the idea that God had demanded such an awful sacrifice.
In the Pirkei Avot the Rabbis compiled a list of special, miraculous things that were created on the last day of Creation, at the last moment, right before God rested for Shabbat. On this list are things that cannot be explained in any rational way except that God created them as exceptions to the standard rules of nature. On this list of specially created things was “the ram for Abraham our father.” So, what makes this ram a miracle?
I believe that the miracle was actually not the ram but Abraham’s ability to see it. I believe that God lives in those places of light within our darkest moments. Abraham’s vision was what changed this story. Now, seeing that ram did not mitigate the damage completely. Abraham and Isaac would live the rest of their lives with this traumatic experience in their past. And Sarah, many rabbis believe, died of a broken heart in the next chapter due to this searing moment. But because of Abraham’s vision Isaac is spared and the covenant between Abraham and through him, the Jewish people, is further cemented. When God calls out, up on the top of the mountain Abraham replies “Heneini” – he had to be present. To say I am here. And when he becomes present he can first hear the angel and then he can also see the ram.
In fact, Abraham then names the place where he sacrifices this ram, “adonai yereah” which can be translated a few ways –it can be understood as meaning, “on the mount there is vision” or “on the mount God is seen.” And perhaps these two are actually one and the same – as it is in our vision that God is seen and experienced. When we feel the possibilities we experience divinity, we experience ourselves as partners with God, as creators of our reality and our world.
It is interesting to note that it is actually not God who stops Abraham from slaughtering his son but rather an angel. It seems to suggest that God will appear in many forms – through an angel, through a voice, through the ram in the thicket, and through our ability to lift our eyes.
So why do we read this story today? I believe that this story is aspirational. As we look ahead this High Holiday season we pray for health, for happiness, for a gentle road ahead. But we also know that there may be challenges – there may be illness, there may be financial strains, and there may be all kinds of moments of deep darkness. And we may behave as Abraham first did, simply climbing the mountain, silently, seeing no light. But in this year ahead, along with our prayers for a year of health and good fortune, perhaps we can turn our attention and our prayers to hope that we may be able to lift our eyes as Abraham did. When we are in those moments that are not of our own making, when we may not be able to change the decree, we pray that we can diminish its harshness through seeing the miracles that surround us: the miracles of possibilities, the miracles of friendship, the miracles of community, and the miracles of reaching outside of ourselves to find comfort.
I wish everyone a year ahead filled with vision to find rams in the thicket.
Ilana received her B.A. from Harvard College and a Master's Degree in Education from Bank Street College. She was born and raised on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and now lives there with her husband and three children.
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