Recognizing Divine Souls?
And the Lord appeared to him … and he raised his eyes and looked, and, lo, three men stood by him; and when he saw them, he ran to meet them from the tent door, and bowed himself to the ground,
So… Avraham is talking with G-d, but then he sees three men – and Avraham drops G-d entirely and rushes to the men!
Can you imagine such a thing: for example, when we are davening in shul, we would never interrupt our connection with Hashem just to greet someone who has walked by. Such a thing would be unthinkable. So why does Avraham do it?
Could it be that the extra “and he looked” (vayera) is telling us that something changed in that moment?
Perhaps Avraham experienced an epiphany right then and there? That when he saw men, right after he “saw” G-d, he realized in that very moment that there is a connection between man and G-d? In other words, could it be that Avraham jumped up and ran because he recognized that each person has a divinely-gifted soul? By looking at mankind immediately after perceiving G-d, Avraham saw the similarities and the connection between us?
If this is the case, then it could explain why Avraham breaks the connection with G-d in order to properly welcome the travelers. After all, since each person has a divinely-gifted soul, one could argue that serving each other is also a way of serving G-d. Loving your neighbor is, after all, a central commandment in the Torah – and why would we love our neighbor if it was not also a way to love G-d?
Are Avraham’s actions perhaps a sneak preview to the twinned and parallel lessons and commandments offered by the Torah: laws of relationships between people, intertwined with the laws of relationships between man and G-d?
And perhaps we could go one step further: what if Avraham only discovers this connection in this very moment? That perhaps this was part of what made Avraham so impressive: that, given a new idea and revelation, he was able to change himself, and act without any delay?
We Don’t Have the Big Picture
At the end of the sedra:
And it came to pass after these things, that it was told Avraham, saying, Behold Milka, she also has born children to thy brother Naĥor; ῾Uż his firstborn, and Buz his brother, and Qemu᾽el the father of Aram, and Kesed, and Ḥazo, and Pildash, and Yidlaf, and Betu᾽el. And Betu᾽el begot Rivqa: these eight did Milka bear to Naĥor, Avraham’s brother. And his concubine, whose name was Re᾽uma, she bore also Tevaĥ, and Gaĥam, and Taĥash, and Ma῾akha.
Imagine, if you will, how that could have made Avraham feel. Avraham, who had struggled to have just Ishmael, and then Isaac.
To pour salt in his wound, Nachor has been fertile, with 8 sons and 4 by his concubine. Nachor has had 12 children! Nachor is clearly a huge success by any metric.
To make it worse: at the Akeidah Isaac and Avraham separate (Avraham to Be’er Sheva and Isaac to Behar LeHaRoi), and the text never suggests they saw each other, let alone lived together, for the rest of Avraham’s life. And Avraham’s life companion, Sarah, for one reason or another, dies a distance away from Avraham. At the end of Sarah’s life, they are not together.
In that time, Avraham is utterly alone. No wife, no Ishmael, no Isaac. It could not have made him feel better to know that Nachor had 12 sons.
We know, thanks to hindsight, that Avraham proved to be the most influential man in the history of the entire world (and Avraham and Sarah the most influential couple that ever lived). While, were it not for the Torah, Nachor’s name would be lost in the mists of time.
But how could Avraham have known this? There is no way – he was not privy to the future. All he had were promises that his seed would inherit the land.
I think there may be a lesson here in perspective that applies to all of us: we cannot know the impact our lives have had on the world. We simply lack the information needed to have that kind of perspective.
And note: Avraham does not seem depressed – at all. On the contrary:
Then Avraham expired, and died in a good old age, an old man, and full of years; and was gathered to his people.
Compare this to the Avram from earlier in the Torah, who kept asking G-d to give him an heir, and challenging G-d to prove that He would keep His promises. What happened to the couple who doubted whether they could have children? The change in his demeanor from earlier days compared to the end of his life is remarkable.
When (and why) did Avraham change?
Perhaps we could suggest that after the Akeidah and procuring a wife for Isaac, Avraham knew that he had done everything he possibly could, that since he had done his hishtadlus, he could be assured that no matter how things looked, the underlying reality was that every promise would be kept?
If so, what are we supposed to learn for our own lives? Should we, as Avraham did, challenge G-d when we are younger, but make our peace when we are older? Should we, as young people, emulate our forefathers when they were younger – and then, as we age, try to grow as they did?
Or is it the opposite: Should we all be trying, throughout our lives, to have the faith that Avraham showed in his old age? Should we be trying to learn from their experiences, and aspire, even when we are young, to have the worldview of post-Akeidah Avraham or post-famine Yaakov?
I do not know the answer – there seems to be a potential growth arc in each of us, and ambition and hunger and drive certainly seem to be more important to younger people than to the old. But is this change and growth born of wisdom, or just the harsh realities of old age?