Drawing distant and near: G-d as parent and the Divine-Human relationship- Rosh Hashanah 5783 day 2
Becoming a parent has been the most gratifying and the most terrifying experience of my life. In these short, fast and slow, five months since Elisheva was born, I have become capable of so much: I have been opened up to a new kind of deep, constant love and awe; exposed to a pulsing undercurrent of worry and fear; have felt sadness, overwhelming exhaustion, and anger, and frustration, but also incomprehensible joy, gratitude, courage, energy, and silliness, all in equal measure. As a child, there was so much that I didn’t understand about the choices my parents made; about who they were, about how they were raising my brother and me; and especially through my teenage years, I often thought, and sometimes quite unkindly said out loud, “well, I will never do that when I have kids.” In a radically different context, myself not yet a parent, I thought I had all of the answers, a kind of understanding, that I know now, was impossible, not yet earned–until now. I thought I would be a better parent: more compassionate, more lenient, less obsessed with punishment, more present, more cool, less angry.
To be clear, I have incredible parents. Who I now know, really did live up to so many of the expectations I had for them– however unreasonable or irrational. I know now that they were in fact compassionate, kind, funny, and actually quite cool. That grounding me, as often as they did (and I got grounded a lot), was itself an important act of love and care. My parents both were excellent teachers–preparing me to live in the world as an adult. My mom taught me important lessons about boundaries, but also about closeness and intimacy with other people– to be openhearted and curious whenever I could be. But to also prioritize my own physical and mental health. My dad taught me how to study Jewish texts, how to be a close reader and practitioner of Jewish tradition, and how to build a life around chesed, service, and community. In short, my parents taught me everything I needed to know about growing into the person I was supposed to be, and taught me everything I needed to know about being a parent.
I’ve shared this note of gratitude with my father. And it breaks my heart over and over and over again, that I can’t thank my mom for all that she taught me, in quite the same way. What I would give to be able to call her, and say, Imma, mom. I’m so sorry. You were right. Thank you. I am who I am because of you, and I am an Imma now to Elisheva because of you. I wish you were here, to continue helping me grow into the best mom, and the best person I can be. I have to believe that she knows all of this. That she always has.
Being a parent is hard. And being the child of parents is also hard.
Since becoming a mother, since embarking on this wild, and most beautiful journey, I have learned so much about myself, my relationships with my own parents, and my relationship with G-d. I have been able to forgive in new ways, to accept permission and help in new ways, I have grown to appreciate so many things I didn’t pay close enough attention to before.
In our Torah and Haftarah readings for Rosh Hashanah, we encounter several different parents– four, to be exact: Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, and Hannah.
This morning, we read the story of Akeidat Yitzchak, the Binding of Isaac. Perhaps one of the most theologically challenging stories of Jewish tradition. The complex story of Abraham’s blinding faithfulness, of Isaac’s near-death, of G-d’s saving hand. This story has been interpreted and reinterpreted many times over, but the central questions remain: Was Abraham right to accept this test from G-d, to subject his child to the kinds of certain and lasting trauma a test like this would inflict? What kind of G-d would ask a parent to sacrifice their child? What were the emotional, the psychosocial consequences that lingered after the fact for both father and son?
The story of the Akeidah is complex precisely because it touches on these fundamental questions of parenthood and relationship– the push-and-pull dynamic of closeness and distance. How do we understand Abraham, our progenitor, our patriarch, and one of our biblical heroes, in light of the Akeidah? How do we make sense of Abraham’s zealousness- his וישכם בבוקר moment– the Hebrew phrase used specifically to convey enthusiasm and eagerness? What does this whole episode teach us about G-d?
And trying to understand Yitzchak, Isaac, in all of this is nearly impossible. How much does he know? At what point, as he and his father ascend the mountain, does this child understand what is about to happen to him? Is Isaac a willing participant? A reticent son? A child who puts the commandment to honor father and mother above all else?
There is an incredible moment in the middle of this story, in which Avraham and Yitzchak share what appears to be a passing, but genuine, moment of closeness and intimacy. After parting ways with Eliezer and Yishmael at the base of the mountain, Abraham and Isaac continue up the mountain together, וילכו שניהם יחדיו, and the two of them walked together.
Rashi points to two possibilities of understanding: the first, perhaps Isaac knew what was happening all along, maybe he even joyously walked up the mountain with the knowledge and comfort that he was making the ultimate sacrifice in service of G-d, and doing right by his dad. And in this way, father and son are truly together in mindset and deed.
The second understanding underscores the major disconnect between Abraham and Isaac in this moment: that the two of them walked together– two mindsets, two understandings. Walking alongside one another in silence, not quite hearing or seeing the other.
For me, this has always been the most compelling part of the story, and the place where I wish the story would end. Because it is in this quiet moment of walking, that we are given some insight into the relationship these two share. There is closeness in the discord. Intimacy standing tall against a backdrop of trauma and potentially misguided awe. In the face of something so large, so overpowering, we still find this small moment of intimacy, of closeness, and that in itself is revelatory.
And as much as I always wish the story would end here, it doesn’t. There is trauma and violence, and pain that follows this unexpected moment of familial peace. But I choose to dwell in this precious and passing moment. Maybe it’s apologetics. Maybe it's the impossibility of what G-d is asking Abraham to do. Maybe it's my own inability to relate to Abraham as a parent.
But no matter how you choose to read or understand the story of the Akeidah, those morsels of trust and intimacy that appear, however infrequently, are important. For Abraham and Isaac, theirs is a relationship that is fraught with so much, crushed beneath the weight of dogmatic expectation and fervor. But they are also close, inextricably tied to one another. Bound for life.
There is yet another important parenting paradigm that we see in the Rosh Hashanah reading. Yesterday, in our Haftorah portion, we read the story of Hannah– the wife of Elkanah who is devastated by her inability to get pregnant. Hannah, along with the majority of our Biblical matriarchs struggles with infertility, and calls out to G-d from the depths of her sorrow. In Hannah, we meet a woman who fundamentally changes the nature of prayer, and who is successful in beseeching G-d. Hannah is pious, and humble, but also demands something of G-d.
Unlike Abraham who answers G-d’s call, G-d, answers Hannah.
Hannah does finally conceive, and she gives birth to Shmuel. As she prays, incorrectly assumed to be drunk by Eli, the priest, Hannah makes the ultimate promise:
And she made this vow: “O LORD of Hosts, if You will look upon the suffering of Your maidservant and will remember me and not forget Your maidservant, and if You will grant Your maidservant a male child, I will dedicate him to the LORD for all the days of his life; and no razor shall ever touch his head.”
In exchange for fertility, in exchange for the gift of a child, Hannah promises to give that child back to G-d. And Shmuel we know, grows up in the Temple, under the tutelage of Eli, and eventually grows into his role as prophet.
After Samuel’s birth we read:
She said to her husband, “When the child is weaned, I will bring him. For when he has appeared before the LORD, he must remain there for good.” Her husband Elkanah said to her, “Do as you think best. Stay home until you have weaned him. May the LORD fulfill So the woman stayed home and nursed her son until she weaned him. When she had weaned him, she took him up with her, along with one ephah of flour, and a jar of wine. And though the boy was still very young, she brought him to the House of the LORD at Shiloh. I, in turn, hereby lend him to the LORD. For as long as he lives he is lent to the LORD.” And they bowed low there before the LORD.
I have so many mixed up and complicated feelings about this story. As a mother, I struggle to relate to this promise that Hannah makes. As a woman, and partner, who struggled with infertility, I feel both a kinship with Hannah, and I think a sense of anger that she would give back what she prayed so hard for. This ultimate promise of religious faith, an expression of love for G-d, and also a rejection of the long-term commitment of motherhood, of parenting. And to be honest, I don’t know what to make of that. I feel heartbroken that Hannah ever had to make this calculation. And so moved by her desire to nurse Shmuel before letting him go.
The parent-child relationship that Hannah and Shmuel share, is rooted in incredibly deep love and faith. And yet, theirs evolves into a relationship of distance. Hannah removes herself from Shmuel’s life.
G-d as parent is one of the central metaphors of the High Holiday liturgy. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we cry out to a G-d who is supposed to represent the unconditional love, the support, the compassion, the anger, the frustration, the punishment, the joys– all of it, of parenthood. First and foremost, our liturgies remind us, G-d is complex and evolving.
In the Avinu Malkeinu, we pray to our father, our king, our mother, our queen. We call out in confession, and we ask to be forgiven, to be inscribed in the book of life.
But, the Avinu Malkeinu is a one-sided prayer. G-d listens, we hope, to our cries, to our requests, to our questions, and desires. We give our power over to the Divine, and hope that G-d will, as the ultimate authority in our lives, respond in kind. The Avinu Malkeinu is a text all about expressing our trust in this larger-than-life parent. All about affirming the protective qualities of that relationship.
But, there is another prayer that reminds us that this relationship, of parent and child, is intended to be mutual, reciprocal. In the Anu Amecha piyyut, we read:
For we are Your people; and You are our God. We are Your children; and You are our Father. We are Your servants; and You are our Master. We are Your congregation; and You are our Portion. We are Your inheritance; and You are our Destiny. We are Your flock; and You are our Shepherd. We are Your vineyard; and You are our Keeper. We are Your work; and You are our Creator. We are Your dear ones and You are our Beloved. We are Your treasure; and You are our God. We are Your people; and You are our King. We are Your distinguished ones; and You are our Distinction.
The Anu Amecha prayer reminds us that the relationship with G-d, just as with parents, goes both ways. Parents support and teach and nurture their children. Children in turn revere, and teach, and nourish their parents. This piyyut underscores how each party in the relationship gives power to the other. Yes, we may be smaller than G-d, but without us, without G-d’s people, servants, children, G-d loses something essential. It is relationship, this text teaches us, that propels things forward, that gives meaning to our understanding of and connection with the divine. And this is fundamentally a relationship that will change with time.
Throughout our High Holiday liturgy, and in the Torah and Haftarah readings, we are called to be in relationship with G-d, despite, or especially because of the challenging ways in which parent-child relationships and dynamics unfold. There is a reason that one of Jewish tradition’s central metaphors for G-d, is the parent. Our relationships with our parents are complex, sometimes fraught, sometimes traumatic, and sometimes distant. In G-d, we see Abraham’s and Hannah’s parenting styles reflected. We see both the desire to draw close, and the need to be distant. We see the highs the lows, the elation and the sorrow. All of that complexity is wrapped up in what it means to be a parent, and perhaps more difficult, what it means to love that parent.
I think about the kind of parent I will be to Elisheva, the parent I already am. But I linger mostly on what she will think of me as her mom. How will she perceive the choices I make, how will she react when she disagrees? What is our relationship going to look like– today, tomorrow, in ten or 20 years? How will I weather periods of distance? How will I give her the space and the trust to let her grow into the person she is meant to become?
And I like to believe that G-d has the same questions, the same worries. In her narrative poem, G-d is a Woman and She’s Growing Older, Rabbi Margie Wenig writes:
God is home, turning the pages of her book. “Come home,” she wants to say to us, “Come home.” But she won’t call. For she is afraid that we will say, “No.” She can anticipate the conversation: “We are so busy. We’d love to see you but we just can’t come. Too much to do.” God holds our face in her two hands and whispers, “Do not be afraid, I will be faithful to the promise I made to you when you were young. I will be with you. Even to your old age I will be with you. When you are gray headed still I will hold you. I gave birth to you, I carried you. I will hold you still. Grow old along with me….”
On this theme in the High Holiday liturgy, my teacher, Rabbi Miriam Simma Walfish, writes: G-d is our mother, and it is precisely that maternal role that demands that G-d not give up on us.”
Our parents fall short all the time. And often fail us in ways big and small. And that is true of G-d too, it has to be. And yet, we still reach out to our Divine parent, at least twice a year (hopefully more!)– and when we do, we affirm our trust in that relationship. We affirm that the relationship is strong enough to endure changes and pain and distance, anger, and joy. We affirm that G-d can teach us how to be in sacred relationship with the Divine, the same way we can teach G-d how to be in relationship with us.
May this be a year of closeness– with family, friends, community, and the divine. Let the lessons from our Torah and Haftarah readings, and our liturgy, guide us into authentic, honest, and ever-changing relationship with G-d.
