It is a curious fact that in the physical world, things interact with each other depending on the depth and breadth of their differences. Take, for example, materials. If you put two pieces of the same metal in contact with each other, nothing will happen.
But if you take different materials, and you put them in contact with each other (with some electrolyzer, like water, in the middle), then they will interact. If they are differential metals, you typically get galvanic corrosion. If they are wildly different materials, like pure sodium and water, then you’ll get an explosion.
The specifics are unique to each pairing, but the general principle is quite clear: the magic happens in the differences, not the similarities. Sometimes that magic can be productive, and sometimes it can be quite destructive. But without the differences, there is no magic at all.
This concept can be broadly applied to most things in our lives. Our relationships are most interesting and dynamic when we are different from one another – true in families and friendships and especially marriages. But that also means that, as the differences grow, the harder it is to have a productive relationship that endures. People who are quite different from each other make the very best – and the very worst – marriages.
I should also point out that the magic that happens in the differences happens not because one material or person reduces themselves or otherwise eliminates the difference between them and the counterparty. On the contrary! The magic happens when each material is still itself – but it is in solid and conductive contact with the other.
I think this is the challenge of Rosh Hashanah. Because of course the biggest differential we experience in our lives is the sum of the differences between ourselves and G-d. And I am not referring to the differential in power, or physicality. I am referring to the huge gap we have in perspective.
My brother points out that Avram’s brother Haran died in Ur Kasdim – and that this prompted Terach to move the family. The loss of a child is a terrible, terrible thing. It does profound damage to the soul. And to what end?
In Avram’s case, G-d tells him: I am the Lord that brought thee out of Ur-Kasdim, to give thee this land to inherit it.
Is G-d REALLY telling him that Haran had to die just so the family would move?!
Outrageous. Unacceptable. Positively insane. And Avram hits back: bama eidah? How am I supposed to understand or internalize that?! Was that REALLY the divine plan?
We can understand Avram’s perspective. It is the perspective of every survivor of every trauma in history: how could G-d have possibly allowed this to happen? To kill someone for something as trivial as moving?
As it happens, I can relate to this story better than most. You see, many years ago, my parents were living in a life they carved out for themselves, in the middle of nowhere. They were happy and content. They did not live in or among society, and they quite liked their lives. My mother wrote a book about it.
And then, one day, my older brother was killed in a freak accident. My parents, like Terach, lost a son.
And they left, abandoned their home, that very day. My mother refused to go back even to pack and collect her belongings. They left and never looked back.
My parents never quite got past losing their son. Neither, for that matter, did Terach, who dies in Charan, a place with a name very similar to his deceased son – the hint in the text is that Terach was never able to move on. Terach was, in a sense, collateral damage.
And if G-d had come to my parents and said something like “I took your son so that you would move, and do something else,” I cannot imagine my parents responding with anything so polite as bama eidah, “how are we supposed to possibly internalize that?!” No, their response would not have been polite at all. Even to G-d.
How can G-d justify the things that go on in this world, the things He does to His own people? So that we will do something as small as changing where we live? Bama Eidah indeed.
And yet, this is the magic that happens in the differences. The Torah does not offer only one version of a story. There are countless examples of the text giving us different versions of the same events, justified because they come through the perspective of a different entity. As my brother points out, korbanos, sacrifices, are not called kodesh, holy, the first times they are commanded – because to a normal person, they may not be. But when the perspective shifts to the priests, who are trying to bridge the gap between heaven and earth, the word “holy” is consistently used. The point is clear: the priests see holiness where a normal person might not. We don’t see things the same way.
And that is fine.
Kill a child in order to get the family to move?! How can we possibly accept that as just or right? I don’t think we can. I don’t even thing we necessarily should. G-d sees things differently than we do. And that is OK. Avram could not have seen that he would end up being the single most important person in the history of the world – and maybe Haran had to die to make that happen. But even if he could have seen it, he might still have rejected it. He would not have been able to live with himself if, given the choice, he made that call.
But G-d does not seem to mind our incredulity. Avraham, who questions G-d, is chosen. It is Moshe, who challenges G-d, who is chosen to grow into our national leader. His brother Aharon is only appointed because of nepotism, because Moshe is his brother. Unlike Moshe, Aharon gets along with everyone, and he never argues. He does whatever he is told to do. But G-d does not choose Aharon. G-d seemingly does not prefer us to be merely submissive and obedient. You don’t get a very good reaction if the materials do not have meaningfully different properties. And G-d clearly wants relationship, not self-negation on the part of mankind.
Which brings us to Rosh Hashanah, reconnecting with and coronating the King. Rosh Hashanah is not meant to be a day of breast-beating or self-denial. Instead, it is the day when we reach across the impossible chasm, and reach out and touch the divine. A day when we come in contact with the divine, and know that the interaction will make a deep and lasting change to us, even though we may not accept or ever understand G-d’s perspective.
After all, like with different materials, the greater the gap, the more interesting the interaction can be, for good or ill. And the chasm is huge.
But this is not the day for the entire process. It is not the day to try to change ourselves. Instead, it is the day when we are regrounded in who we are meant to be, in the sound of the shofar and the collective of the Jewish people. And then we reach out and connect with the divine.
We know there will be an interaction, but we don’t know if it will be gentle or explosive. We do not know what happens next – we cannot. We do not know how we will be changed or how radically differently G-d will see our future compared to how we think our future ought to be. It is a time of great trepidation.
But one thing we can be sure of: our Creator is close. He is reaching out to connect. And even if we cannot embrace what happens next, just as Avram and my parents and countless Holocaust and trauma survivors did not, we also need to understand that if we choose not to connect, then there will be no positive magic at all.
This is the riskiest marriage of all, between two parties with enormous differences. It could be the very best – or the very worst. But I believe that as long as we are willing to invest, willing to try, that Hashem will accept us, and we can start the dance.
May we all be blessed for a year in which we are able, with open hearts, to appreciate and be grateful for all that G-d does. May we be able to see the good in everything, and use that understanding to build holy families and communities everywhere we are.
Good yom tov.