Limmud's strap line, “wherever you find
yourself, Limmud will take you one step further along your Jewish journey” -
has an intriguing resonance with this week's parsha, and indeed, with Avraham's life as a whole, which is
punctuated by Jewish journeys throughout.
Indeed, it is bookended by two commands to lech lecha: the first, this week, to leave his home, and the
second, next week, to sacrifice his son. In between, the journeying continues –
in fact, Yeshayahu Leibowits characterises his life as one of “wandering… from
Aram Naharayim to Canaan, from Canaan to Egypt, and back from Egypt to Canaan;
even in Canaan he ‘went on his journeys,’ ‘journeying and going on’ from one
place to the next, dwelling in Beit El, then in Gerar, then in Beer Sheva, then
in Hebron.” In short, Avraham never
seems to stand still. But is there any
connection between his journeys, and the ones captured in Limmud’s strap line?
Examining his journeys literally, it’s
difficult not to be struck by his nomadic lifestyle, and the amount of physical
travelling he does. Yet there are also
extended periods of his life when he settles down and lives in a single
place. He spends time seeking out new
vistas, certainly, but he also spends time dwelling and consolidating. In fact, the end of the parsha seems to indicate that Avraham spent almost quarter of a
century living in a single place. So his
literal journeys are not a constant in his life; they are balanced by periods
of stability.
However, Limmud's reference to journeys
is far more metaphorical than literal; it is less about practical geography
than it is about Jewish purpose and fulfilment.
In fact, in many respects, it appears to resonate with the contemporary
journey concept the American sociologist Robert Wuthnow calls “religious
seeking.” Religious seeking,
writes Wuthnow, “emphasizes negotiation: individuals search for sacred
moments that reinforce their conviction that the divine exists, but these
moments are fleeting: rather than knowing the territory, people explore new spirituality
vistas, and they may have to negotiate among complex and confusing meanings of
spirituality.” Wuthnow contrasts this
with “religious dwelling,” a form of spiritualty that “emphasizes habitation:
God occupies a definite place in the universe and creates a sacred space in
which humans too can dwell; to inhabit sacred space is to know its territory
and to feel secure.”
Thinking about
Avraham’s life in these terms, should we characterise him as a seeker or a
dweller? As with his literal journeying
and resting, the answer may well be that he is both. We see his emphasis on negotiation when he
challenges God over Sodom and Amorah; we see his obedience to God’s place in
the universe when he submits to God’s will and sets off to sacrifice
Yitzchak. We see further contrasts in
his personality when, on the one hand, he peacefully resolves the tension
between his and Lot’s herdsmen, and on the other, he goes to war to free Lot
after he has been taken captive. It
seems as if Avraham understands that there are times for seemingly divergent positions
– to travel and to stand still, to argue and to submit, to negotiate and to
fight.
So what exactly is a
Jewish journey? Is it just those moments when we are travelling from one place
to another, exploring new horizons and negotiating or arguing with power? Is it just those moments of religious
seeking, when we search for those dimensions of Jewishness that are most
meaningful to us and where we embrace complexity, nuance and confusion in order
to try to figure out what makes the most sense?
Or does it include those moments when we situate ourselves in a single
place, hold our ground, and fight for the things which matter most? Does it include those moments of religious
dwelling, when we put down roots, commit to stay put, and put our faith in a singular
authority, community or idea?
It is tempting to say
that a Jewish journey only equates to moments of religious seeking. But Avraham’s life story suggests that his
religious dweller moments act as an essential counterbalance to those times
when he responds to the lech lecha
call. He needs to move, negotiate and
seek, but he also needs to stand still, submit and dwell. Both of these together constitute essential
parts of his journey.
Both constitute
essential parts of our journey too. A
Jewish life with exclusive emphasis on habitation and devoid of exploration,
experimentation and the quest for personal meaning, runs the risk of descending
into fundamentalism; a Jewish life spent in constant flight, devoid of
permanence, stability and collective obligation runs the risk of descending
into vacuousness. We need to do both.
As for taking one step
further, Jewish steps sometimes involve movement and sometimes involve standing
still. Rather like the amidah, that begins and ends with small
steps forward and back, but necessitates standing perfectly still, they are
strange like that. And, in the midst of
those moments between motion and stability, between seeking and dwelling, our
Jewish journey moves on.
