Lech L’cha
Sari Laufer, Rabbinical
Student HUC-JIR
With the opening words of this week’s parsha, we see Avram, seemingly just an ordinary guy, selected for something quite out of the ordinary. In what seems to be a calling out of the blue, Avram is told “Lech l’cha, most often translated as “Go forth.” He is told to leave the land of his birth, his community, and his father’s house— in other words, all that is safe and familiar, and to simply GO. Go, to some unspecified place. And this seemingly ordinary guy does it.
So, why Avram? According to the Torah alone, there was nothing particularly special about Avram until the very moment he receives this command from God. We know from his lineage that he comes ten generations after Noah, which might suggestion some connection to Noah, but unlike Noah, we don’t even know if Avram was a righteous man for his generation. What makes God so sure that Avram is the man destined to fulfill this special mission?
From Midrash Tanhuma, we learn the story of Avram and his father’s idols. Avram takes it upon himself to destroy the idols that his father worships, even at the expense and suffering of others. Is this not the very definition of a righteous man in his generation? The rabbis seem to think that, in fact, it is. And, they argue, this is the very reason that the command Lech l’cha is given to him. Because he is a righteous man, obeying the commandments in the face of those who aren’t, he must leave, and start anew in a fresh place.
In a similar vein, we read the story of the burning castle. A man walks by, notices the castle on fire, and comments: “How could this castle be on fire with no one watching over it and taking care of it?” His answer comes from a head poking out of the window: “I am the owner of this castle, and I am taking care of it.” Avram, upon seeing all that is happening in the world, asks: “How can this world exist with no one taking care of it?” And God answers him: “I created this world, and I am taking care of it.” In this story, it is suggested that Avram sees the wrong in the world, and recognizes it enough to at least question it, if not begin to right the wrongs he sees. This questioning spirit, say the rabbis in the commentary, is the reason that God selects him.
In other words, there seems to be an agreement amongst the rabbis that Avram was not selected out of the blue, but rather because he seemed to have something within him that made him worthy of the mission for which he was chosen. And that something was initiative.
Going deeper though, there is an implication for our lives inherent in Avram’s selection. Without the accompanying midrashim, Avram seems like a regular guy. That gives us some hope, right? Maybe we will be the person in our generation selected to fulfill some higher purpose. We always hear about people who want to save the world. Do we brush them off as hopeless idealists, or identify with some part of their goal?
The midrashim, at least for me, strengthen the position that there is in fact hope for those hopeless idealists. Avram, in his way and in his time, was a hopeless idealist. He lived according to his values, seeing it as a way to make the world better. And he did so despite what those around him were doing. In the second story, he goes even farther. Not only does he live according to a strict moral code, but also he questions what he sees around him as incorrect. And in response God rewards him with this extraordinary role and destiny. It is as if God is validating Avram’s questions, and promising him success in finding the answers.
Often, we are able to see that something is not right in our life. We may be in a relationship that is not working; we may be on a career path that is not fulfilling. Beyond ourselves, we may be seeing in our own worlds what Avram saw in his, people disobeying moral codes. We may be looking at all of the injustices in the world. And we know that these are problems. Yet too often, we sit motionless—telling ourselves that it will get better, or worse, that someone else will take care of it later.
According to our midrashim, Avram started his journey with the act of questioning what he saw as wrong in the world, either through his own behavior or actual questions posed to God and to the world. And in return for that questioning—he got a clear answer from God. For Avram, the answer was the threefold promise. For us, the answer will be something completely different. But if you can believe that God did not just pick Avram out of the blue, then believe also that nothing will change through inertia.
Each question we pose about our life and our world represents a journey. And journeys, no matter how small, are always accompanied by a sense of fear and unknown. Transformation is often the ultimate goal of these journeys. So too for Avram. As Aviva Zornberg points out, the journey commanded by God to Avram is “a divine imperative that articulates and emphasizes displacement as its crucial experience.”[1] And that divine imperative, she says, is the imperative of transformation. Looking to the midrash, it becomes clear that Avram needs some transformation. He is no longer in a state of inertia, but has instead begun to actively look to change his world and the world around him. God’s imperative provides him with the impetus for journey and transformation that he needs. Thus, we must learn from Avram’s story that if we take it upon ourselves to undertake our journey, whatever it is, we will not be alone. Just as Avram was rewarded for having the courage to look to right the wrongs, we must believe that we will be as well.
[1] Aviva Zornberg, Genesis: The Beginnings of Desire. (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1995), 74.