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Nonfiction


The First Love

פעמים ראשונות בתנ"ך

Once I happened to visit a fishing village in the Andaman Sea, west of the Malay Peninsula in the Indian Ocean. Unlike typical fishing villages, this one was not situated on shore, but floated in the sea. Its houses were built on rafts that were anchored side by side and connected with ropes and wooden walkways.

The village rocked tranquilly upon the waves, up and down, creating a strange sensation. In general, when you go from a boat to a dock, you feel at once the reassuring solidity of the shore, whereas here I went from one rocking to another.

The villagers were Muslims, Malay fishermen. I walked among their houses until I came upon a half-opened door beyond which sat a thin, wiry man. We exchanged glances and the man smiled and invited me in with a wave of his hand. We drank tea. On the wall were a photograph and a drawing. The photo was some sort of European landscape—green valleys, reddish brown cows, waterfalls, snow-covered mountains. The drawing was readily identifiable: a young lad lying upon an altar, an old man brandishing a knife over him, an angel hovering overhead, and in the background, the ram, its horns caught in the bush.

For a moment I thought I had stumbled upon one of the Ten Lost Tribes, and in my mind began to compose letters to the Chief Rabbinate and the Jewish Agency, urging that they be airlifted to Israel. But before throwing my arms around my long-lost brother, I asked him what was depicted in the drawing. The man pointed at the old man with the knife and pronounced, with an unfamiliar lilt: "Ibrahim." He then pointed to the lad and said: "Isma'il." I knew differently, yet said nothing. When I got back to Jerusalem, I checked and discovered that indeed, according to some interpreters of the Quran, it was Ishmael and not Isaac whom God had ordered Abraham to sacrifice. I report this with a degree of embarrassment. I should have known this all along.

Instead of the requisite amazement I felt sorrow. The Israeli-Arab conflict, I realized, isn't only about land or holy places. It's a dispute over something more difficult: love. Specifically, a father's love. And to make things even more complicated, this is not love that is expressed in the gift of a coat of many colors, or by a better blessing, but rather in the very worst act to be found in the book of Genesis—the binding of Isaac. It is written in the Bible: "Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love," and offer him as a burnt offering. It's a bit hard for the descendants of Ishmael to see the name Isaac attached to the words "your favorite son, whom you love."

Ishmael and Isaac themselves, by the way, were not rivals. Certainly not like Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his brothers. The real rivalry in the family was between the two mothers, Sarah and her maidservant Hagar. The fact that two separate religions would someday spring from Ishmael and Isaac was as yet unknown. But when God said "your favored one, whom you love" about Isaac—Ishmael and his mother having been banished from Abraham's house—the emotional basis for the problem that afflicts us to this day was set in place.

But there's more: This "whom you love" is the first appearance of love in the Bible. Two points are of interest. First, that this is the love of a man for his son, not his wife. That will come second, in the love of Isaac for Rebecca. Moreover, here we have a father's love, not a mother's. The first case of motherly love will be the third instance in the Bible—the love of Rebecca for her son Jacob. Then too, there is discrimination between brothers: Rebecca loves Jacob, Isaac loves Esau.

Two oddities: From a literary and societal point of view, and a legal standpoint as well, a mother's love is thought to be greater than a father's. As for love between man and wife, modern literature ranks it higher than the love of parents for their children, and indeed in the natural order of things it comes first—for without it, there'd be no children to love them in return. But the Bible favors the family, and in this case, the family that will become a nation. Thus Abraham's love for Isaac is put in first place. The love of a parent for a daughter, incidentally, is never mentioned in the Bible at all.

Adah and Zillah

Did Adam love Eve? Did Eve love Adam? Maybe so, but their relationship is not described by the word "love," which is too bad. A romantic reader would be happy to encounter the word "love" in this case in particular, for Adam and Eve were a unique couple, not merely owing to their pleasant life in the Garden of Eden, or their intimate proximity to God, but because they were the only couple in the whole world. They genuinely experienced, for quite a while, what only a few lucky couples feel on rare and fleeting occasions. Yet the Bible does not speak of any love that prevailed between the first man and the first woman. It mentions such things as shame, knowledge, labor, sadness, domination, and procreation. It informs the reader that Eve will desire Adam and he will rule over her—but says nary a word about their love. Maybe love is unnecessary when there's no other man or woman in the world.

And so, without love, Adam "knew" Eve and Eve gave birth to Cain. Cain knew his wife—her name is unknown—and she gave birth to Enoch. Enoch begot a son named Irad, and Irad begot Mehujael and Mehujahel begot Methusael and Methusael begot Lamech. So it is written: begot, yalad in Hebrew. In general the man sires—molid—and the woman gives birth—yoledet—but here the text uses the latter verb form for men. (Maybe that's how it was, in the distant past.) In any event—there were men and women, and children were born, but love still went unmentioned.

Neither is it written that Lamech loved, but his wives, unlike the other women of those generations, did have names, and Lamech even sang them a song that he, I imagine, considered charming:

Adah and Zillah, hear my voice, O wives of Lamech, give ear to my speech, I have slain a man for wounding me, And a lad for bruising me. If Cain is avenged sevenfold, Then Lamech seventy-sevenfold.

The words "sing" and "song" do not appear, but the rhythm and the Hebrew rhymes speak for themselves, and thus Lamech is the first person in the Bible to produce a bit of creative writing. Alas, this was not a love poem, but an ode to belligerence. If Lamech loved anyone, it was himself.

According to Genesis 5, Lamech was the father of Noah, he of the flood and the ark, who also had a wife. The Bible says nothing about her, though I've no doubt that she adored Noah. As usual in the Bible, here too the man is the hero of the story. Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his day; he spoke with God, built the ark. But it was Noah's wife, while he devoted himself to his new obsession, who handled the family's day-to-day affairs.

Nowhere is it written, but Noah's wife was a very loving woman, surely the most patient of all the patient women in the Bible. First she silently suffered the building of the ark, then the prolonged stay within it, a crowded and foul-smelling craft, filthy and noisy, with animals and birds inside and a raging flood outdoors, and not only hundreds of creatures but also one husband, three sons and three daughters-in-law. No escape, no privacy—if it were up to me, I'd name the ark for her, and the whole story too. Not Noah's Ark but Noah's Wife's Ark, as she too, just like her love, is never called by name.

The Bible does not describe the hard life inside the ark. But one may gauge the situation in light of the long recovery period thereafter. When the flood was over and the earth dried off and everybody emerged from the ark, God reminded Noah and his family of the responsibility of the human species to fructify and multiply. Yet it took two years for a son to be born to Shem, the son of Noah. It thus turns out that in the ark everyone practiced absolute abstinence, which continued for another year! It would appear that the crowded, claustrophobic conditions stimulated a yearning for monkish solitude, which took a good while to get over.

A son of Shem was called Arpachshad. Arpachshad begot Shelah, and Shelah begot Eber, and Eber begot Peleg, and Peleg begot Reu, and Reu begot Serug, and Serug begot Nahor and Nahor begot Terah, and Terah begot Nahor and Haran and Abram, the Abram who would later be renamed Abraham and be known as "Our Father," and would take for a wife Sarai, who would be renamed Sarah and give birth to his son Isaac.

Sarai was a "beautiful woman," and since I am speaking of firsts, let me point out that she is the first beautiful woman in the Bible. Nevertheless, even though at last we have a man with such a beautiful wife, we are still without love. Generation upon generation has passed, and we have been fruitful and multiplied and gotten angry and killed, we have sinned and been punished, we built a city and a tower and an ark, we got drunk and cried, we banished and were banished, and laughed and made others laugh, and lied and feared, we planted vines and a tamarisk tree, and dug wells—but have still not found love. All these Hebrew verbs have appeared, but not yet this one—alef, bet, heh, which spells love.

And then—a surprise, a terrible surprise: "Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah and offer him there as a burnt offering."

The conventional wisdom has it that the story of the binding of Isaac—the akedah in Hebrew—was meant to clarify that the God of Israel is opposed to human sacrifice, a commonplace ritual back in those days, as documented in scripture. Mesha the king of Moab, for instance, sacrificed his first-born son to his god as he faced defeat by the army of Israel. But such horrors transpired in our midst as well. Of King Ahaz of Judah it is written, "He even consigned his son to the fire, in the abhorrent fashion of the nations," and the best-known, most traumatic case is that of the daughter of Jephthah. Her father, the judge Jephthah the Gileadite, vowed that if he were victorious in battle he would sacrifice whomever was first to greet him upon his return. His daughter came out dancing with her tambourine to welcome him home, and he kept his word. The rabbis of the Talmud made sure to explain that Jephthah, had he been better versed in Torah law, could have extracted himself from his vow, but I shall not belabor the story. The reader may find it at the end of chapter 11 of the Book of Judges and discover that in certain respects, the story of Jephthah and his daughter is even worse than the story of Abraham and Isaac. As for the akedah itself, I don't think the story is intended to combat the practice of human sacrifice, but rather to demonstrate how the obedience of the Bible's most obedient believer may lead into the darkest of alleys.

Either way, in the same verse that God orders the sacrifice of Isaac, love shows up in the Bible for the first time. It makes a dim, almost imperceptible debut due to its proximity to the horrific akedah, but this is no reason to ignore it. Here it is, and apart from being the love of a father for a son, it is intriguing for another reason: It appears not in the words of the narrator, nor those of Abraham. It's not Abraham who tells Isaac that he loves him, nor does the author tell the reader that Abraham loves his son, but God is the one who says it to Abraham, as if informing not only us, but also the first lover himself.

In effect, God returns here to His hallowed habit from the days of Creation—assigning names. This may be helpful to all those who have wondered since time immemorial: "What is love?" In my humble opinion, it's an indulgence, since everybody knows what love is, especially when it fills the heart and also when it is absent. I would wager that Shakespeare, who coined the question "What is love?" could identify it coming and going, though even he had a hard time putting the answer into words.

Nice of God to have had this habit of giving names. Here's how He explains love to us, upon its very first appearance. God called light "day," and darkness he called "night," dry land was "earth" and the waters "the seas" and the heavens "sky," and this, He tells Abraham, what you are feeling for your son, is called "love." And now that I have given a name to your love, take your son whom you love and sacrifice him to Me as a burnt offering.

The Two Together

This is how the first love story in the Bible begins: "Early in the morning, Abraham saddled his ass and took with him two of his servants and his son Isaac, and split the wood for the burnt offering, and set out for the place of which God had told him."

The loving father is industrious and organized. His activity soothes him, eases his mind. He is first to appear, for he is the main character, and the only one who knows where they are going and why. Next are mentioned one donkey and two young men, and these three know nothing beyond their own tasks—to carry and serve. After them appears Isaac, the story's supporting actor, who also doesn't know the truth, and finally the props of the play: first the firewood, mute and puzzling and intimidating, and later the fire and the butcher knife will make their entrance. At the end God will dispatch the ram and the angel, who in His opinion will solve the whole problem, but will in fact raise other difficulties that will not, in any way, be resolved.

And Sarah? Where is she? Has she understood what's happening? Did she say goodbye to her son? Apparently not. Sarah has demonstrated in the past her ability to impose her will on Abraham, and also proven that she is capable of casting doubt upon God's word. If she is silent, this indicates that she knows nothing. Abraham obviously made up some story, and even she, who forced him to banish his first-born son Ishmael into the desert, could never imagine such a monstrous possibility as this one—the sacrifice of their son as a burnt offering.

Three days they walked together, the loving father and the beloved son, without exchanging a single word. On the third day Abraham recognized the appointed place and told the servants to wait with the donkey, and "the boy and I will go up there, we will worship and will return to you."

Here Abraham's lie is twofold. He speaks of worshipping God and not of making a burnt offering, and he promises to return in the plural "we"; he and his son together. If he were to mention the sacrifice, the servants would ask now what Isaac will ask later: "Where is the sheep for the burnt offering?" If he were to say "I will return" in the singular and not plural, the servants would realize that something is about to happen to Isaac. Who knows? Maybe this is same thing he told Sarah: you sit here in the tent, and the boy and I will go worship God. We'll go and come back to you, don't worry, Sarah.

"And the two of them walked together." The loving father and his son. At this point the two new participants, unrevealed in the first act, arrive onstage—the knife and the firestone—the designated implements that were hidden heretofore and now remove all doubt and confirm every fear.

"And the two of them walked together." The loving father carried the tools: a knife to slaughter his son and fire to roast his flesh. The beloved son carried the raw materials: the wood and himself. Who knows, maybe Abraham produced the knife and flint in order to make clear to Isaac what was about to happen, and give him a chance to run for his life? Even if so, Isaac went along with him. Maybe he didn't flee because he didn't understand, or maybe he did understand and stayed anyway. But now, with the servants left behind, he dared to express what he had suspected deep inside all along.

"My father," the beloved son addressed his loving father, as if trying to confirm that the man with the knife is actually his father and not some stranger who wants to kill him. "My father"—and this is the first word they have exchanged, after three days of walking.

"Here I am, my son," answered the loving father, as if trying to confirm that their family bond is intact.

"Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the sheep for the burnt offering?"

He can't bring himself to mention the knife, but it is there too, in his father's hand.

"God will see to the sheep for the burnt offering, my son."

Thus answered Abraham, and the reader doesn't know how to parse these last words. Should the comma between "offering" and "my son" be read like a colon? Is it "God will provide the offering, my son," or "God will provide the offering: my son"? In other words, is "my son" an appellation of Isaac, or a definition of the sacrifice?

But apart from this, as readers will discern—and Abraham and Isaac too, albeit many years later—the words "my son" are the last that will ever be spoken between the two, not only in the here and now of the akedah, but from this moment on. They will continue to walk in silence to the appointed spot. The father will build an altar without saying a word to the son. He will tie him up without speaking, and he will wield the knife over him in the same absolute silence.

And Isaac too will not say a word or even cry out. Not as his father binds him with ropes and not when he brandishes a butcher knife over his neck. This defeatist passivity is astonishing. The text doesn't tell us how old he was; the word na'ar or "lad" does not denote any specific age in biblical Hebrew. But it is clear that Isaac was not a small, weak child. He traveled on foot for three days and then climbed to the mountaintop with firewood on his back. For his part, Abraham was already well past his hundredth birthday.

According to the rabbis of the Talmud, Isaac at the time was thirty-seven years old. If he had wanted to, he could have run away from his father or fought him and easily saved his own life. But it appears that from the moment he realized what was happening, he was struck dumb with terror, and perhaps it was something deeper: that not just Abraham was on trial, his son Isaac was too. In any case, this story has not only protagonists but an author, who like other biblical authors has a purpose in mind, and from the outset this author only assigned Isaac one role, that of victim in the theatre of the akedah.

Moreover, the author carries to an extreme the usual method of biblical writers, who describe actions in detail but thoughts and feelings minimally. It has often been observed that the thoughts of Abraham and Isaac are not described here at all, and their talk is doled out in snippets.

I said earlier that the words "my son" would be the last ever to be uttered between the two. But this is not just for fear of confrontation, or because the father and son stopped speaking to one another, but because from that time on they simply never saw each other again. The Bible never states this outright, but it's possible to derive it from the text. When Isaac and Abraham took leave of the two servants, it is written: "And the two of them walked together." But after the akedah it says: "Abraham then returned to his servants." And where is Isaac? And what happened to "together?" From now on, the word "together" will apply to Abraham's walking off with the servants: "And they departed together for Beersheba." From this we may conclude that Isaac did not return with his father, but left the place alone.

In the ensuing chapters it becomes clear that from the day of the akedah until Abraham's death, a period of many years, the two are not to be found "together" even once. It's possible to understand Isaac. After experiencing a father who hides the truth from you, ties you up on an altar, and waves a steak knife over your neck, you might not want any more of that "togetherness." From this point on, Isaac avoided his father until the latter's death, at which time he buried him, together with Ishmael, whom the same father had cast out into the desert. It is not made clear to the reader whether the brothers came to pay their last respects or to make sure he was dead and buried.

Here one should note that the akedah drove a wedge not merely between father and son. We will no longer find Sarah at Abraham's side either. After the akedah, Abraham settled immediately in Beersheba, whereas she, at the start of the next chapter, perhaps upon hearing the news about her son, died in Kiryat Arba. The Bible tells us: "Abraham came to mourn for Sarah and to bewail her." If so, it means he has not been with her. He came from Beersheba to Hebron, to bury her in the Cave of Machpelah.

In any event, the akedah and the resultant fissures in the family also have a broader (if less theatrical) significance, for they illustrate what may well befall other families similar to Abraham's: the families of revolutionaries, military commanders, intellectuals and other leaders, who are devoted with all their heart and might to a vision, an idea, to art, society, science, to radical reform. In this regard, the binding of Isaac is not just a theological parable but an example of what can happen to close family members of such notables. They are forced to pay the price for ideals that were imposed upon them, revolutions they did not choose.

But the akedah led to another disconnection too—between Abraham and his God. Earlier, the two spoke and met quite often. God told Abraham to "go forth" from Haran, promised him the Land on several occasions, revealed Himself to him amid the pieces of hacked-up animals, changed his name, and demanded that he circumcise himself; He had lunch at his tent, where for a second time He promised that a son called Isaac would be born to him, discussed with him the number of righteous men in Sodom, told him to obey Sarah and banish Ishmael and Hagar, and ordered him to sacrifice Isaac as a burnt offering.

All this came to an end. From the akedah onward there is no further mention of meetings or conversations between Abraham and his God. Abraham passed the test, but it would seem that the two now prefer not to see each other anymore, as though the akedah was a breaking point for both of them. God did not reveal himself or his word to Abraham again, nor did Abraham turn to Him and seek His presence. The death of his wife and estrangement of his son showed him how high a price his family had been forced to pay. And who knows, perhaps God too had second thoughts. Maybe He repented for what He had done, or maybe He was no longer interested in this sort of faith or believer.

And He Took Her as His Wife and He Loved Her

Time passed, but did not, as is commonly hoped and supposed, heal all wounds or lessen their pain. The mother has died, and the beloved son is forty years old and still alone, without a wife. The father knows how this came about, and also knows he won't be able to talk to him about it, or anything else, from the akedah onward.

Talking is impossible, but taking action is not. Abraham, whose relationships with his sons ended up with the expulsion of the first and the binding of the second, decided to do something more. Until now, in compliance with God's will and intent, he was the father of a people, of a multitude, "our father Abraham." Now, on his own initiative, he will be the father of Isaac alone. The damage has been done, but Abraham will be able to repair it, just a little.

At last, after long years of obedient acquiescence, Abraham did something of personal significance without getting instructions from his God or his wife. As opposed to the two horrors he perpetrated at their command, banishing Ishmael and binding Isaac, this deed was a good deed: Abraham sent his servant to Haran, to find and bring a wife for his son. A wife who will make his life easier, comfort him, fill his heart with love. The rift between the father and the son was so deep and absolute that Abraham couldn't send Isaac himself there, the way Rebecca would send Jacob in the next generation. He couldn't even tell him about it. The servant went on his mission unbeknownst to Isaac.

And so a small caravan arrived in Haran, Abraham's home town in the land of Aram: A few men, headed by Abraham's servant, and ten camels, laden with provisions and valuable gifts. The servant parked the caravan near the well outside of the city, let his weary camels kneel and rest, and asked God for a sign. He suggested to the Almighty that he would ask the maidens who draw water from the well for a drink. The one who replies, "Drink, and I will also water your camels," will be the one that God has intended for the son of the servant's master Abraham.

It should be noted that this servant was not necessarily Abraham's majordomo Eliezer, as is commonly held, but there is no doubt that he was a smart and serious person. The sign he thought up was not just any sign, but one that served both his immediate needs and his greater goal. A maiden who would say, "Drink, and I will also water your camels," would make a good wife for Isaac—generous, resourceful, strong, kind, self-confident. And indeed Rebecca the daughter of Bethuel, granddaughter of Abraham's brother Nahor, came to the well with her jug on her shoulder. The servant asked her for water. She said: "Drink, my lord," and gave him some, adding: "I will also draw water for your camels, until they finish drinking." Her words were not identical to those stipulated by the servant, but the words were less important than the readiness and good character that stood behind them.

Again and again she drew from the well and emptied the jug into the trough, until all the camels had drunk. This entailed a lot of heavy lifting. Ten camels drink a great deal of water after a long journey. Abraham's servant was thrilled. He gave her a nose-ring and bracelets made of gold, and she hurried home to tell her family about him. Her brother, Laban by name, the same Laban who will later cheat Jacob, was very excited by the sight of the expensive gifts. He ran to the well and invited the visitor to his home, along with his camels and men.

The twenty-fourth chapter of Genesis is one of the most detailed narrative passages in the Bible. The most interesting thing about the writing is the way the author repeats the events—once in the third person, describing the journey of the servant to Haran and the encounter with Rebecca and her family, and again in the first person, as the servant tells the family the same story about himself.

I won't go into all the details, many of which are related with relish by the skilled and seasoned author, but it should be emphasized that the sign that the servant designated was indeed significant. Rebecca was revealed as a young lady not only generous and virtuous, but also independent and decisive. Her family members were well aware of this, and when the servant declared his wish to leave right away and take her with him, they replied in words seldom heard in the Bible: "Let us call the girl and ask for her reply."

"They called Rebecca and said to her: èWill you go with this man?' And she said: 'I will go.'"

She and her maidservants mounted the camels and rode after the servant, who brought her straightaway to Isaac, who then dwelt in the Negev desert, near Be'er Lahai-Roi.

"Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening," as the author describes the scene. Isaac, it will be recalled, is forty and still a bachelor, a situation that even today arouses the attention of readers, friends, and family, and all the more so in the days of the Bible. His evening stroll testifies to his loneliness and solitude, to free personal time, fixed habits, comforting routines. All this will suddenly be undone by the appearance of Rebecca, and the Bible's description of their first meeting is so beautiful that I will quote it in full:

And Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening And, looking up, he saw camels approaching. Raising her eyes, Rebecca saw Isaac. She alighted from her camel and said to the servant, "Who is that man walking in the field toward us?" And the servant said, "That is my master." So she took her veil and covered herself. The servant told Isaac all the things that he had done. Isaac then brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, And he took Rebecca as his wife. Isaac loved her, And thus found comfort after his mother's death.

"He loved her" in biblical Hebrew is expressed in a single word: vaye'ehaveha, an elegant condensation of feeling, time, man, and woman. Here we finally arrive at the first love of a man for a woman in the Bible. Isaac's love for Rebecca.

And Abraham Took Another Wife

Let us return to Abraham. Even now, after his plan had been realized, and Isaac married Rebecca and was consoled over his mother's death, the father and son did not live together. The split between them had not healed. One may assume that Isaac knew that Abraham had orchestrated his marriage to Rebecca. The slave had told him "all the things that he had done", and obviously servants do not pick up and travel to far-off lands and bring women from there for the sons of their masters on their own account. Still, the connection between Isaac and his father was not restored.

To Abraham's credit it may be said that he chose a good and proper way to help his son. He had also obviously hoped to draw him closer. But even if he was disappointed, he didn't express it. He also did the right thing by not insisting that Isaac pay him back with a renewal of relations or expressions of gratitude. It was enough to know that he had benefited him, and the reader soon realizes that he benefited himself as well.

Indeed, immediately after Isaac took Rebecca for a wife and loved her, Abraham took himself a wife as well, a much younger woman named Keturah. And even as his son and daughter-in-law waited twenty years for their first pregnancy, the old man speedily sired many sons by his new wife.

Do not take this lightly. When he was a hundred years old, Abraham doubted his ability to beget Isaac. Now, at the age of more than a hundred and forty, and minus the visitations of angels and tidings or promises from God, he fathered six sons by Keturah, one after the next: "She bore him Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak, and Shuah."

The old father's marriage, so closely following that of his son, and his astonishing fertility, so much greater than the latter's, and the cute rhyming names of the little boys that trip merrily off the reader's tongue, represent a joyful flowering. Indeed, there is little doubt that Abraham has changed for the better. The akedah distanced him from his son but released him from the demanding omnipresence of his God and his wife, the two figures who ran his life with a heavy hand and made him commit such dreadful deeds as banishing his first-born son and offering the other as a sacrifice.

Now, with God silent and Sarah dead, and Isaac comforted by his love for Rebecca, Abraham finally found time for himself. He became a highly active and productive senior citizen. Apart from Keturah, he had concubines who also bore him children. The Bible emphasizes, of course, that Isaac was and remained the favorite son, to whom Abraham bequeathed all that he owned, and that Abraham sent away the sons of the concubines to the land of the East, lest they compete with the son of Sarah. But this is not what's important. The big story is Abraham's metamorphosis at such a ripe old age. He finally shed his role of father of a nation and a faith, quit being a symbol and turned into a private person. Again he undergoes a great transformation, which is more personal and happier and lovelier than the national and religious metamorphoses that preceded it, than the trek from country to country, the change of name and the circumcision.

Indeed, not only Abraham but his traumatized organ ceased serving as a symbol, and returned to its normal, pleasant function. It was no longer obligated to fly the flag of the covenant and supply the seed for the whole Jewish people. Now it becomes simply the happy flourishing organ of a man freed from his demanding God and difficult wife. And instead of a tied-up son and a deported one, who would fight from time immemorial until this very day over his love, Abraham sires ordinary kids, and instead of being the "father of a multitude of nations" he is the master of many concubines and father of a flock of children.

Abraham dies in ripe old age. "Old and contented," as the Bible has it, and the reader senses that at last he is satisfied, relaxed, even blissful. Ishmael, the son he expelled from his home on his wife's orders, and Isaac, the son he bound on the altar at his Lord's command, buried him together. I said earlier that maybe they showed up to make sure he was dead, but now it seems clear to me that Abraham's fine old age has a healthy effect on the reader too, and on the way he or she understands the story. Now I sense forgiveness for the father on the part of the sons, maybe even remorse that they didn't reconnect with him while he was alive.

The two buried Abraham alongside Sarah, nemesis of one of them and mother of the other, in the Cave of Machpelah, which many centuries later would also become a locus of discord. But it's doubtful that Abraham knew this, and even if he did, it's doubtful he would have cared. He lived well during his last good years, with his new wife and concubines and children. Now, after his death, he again finds himself alongside Sarah, who barely recognizes him, so good does he look.

 

פעם אחת הגעתי לכפר דייגים בים אנדאמאן. בניגוד לכפרי דייגים רגילים, הכפר הזה לא שכן על החוף, אלא צף בים. בתיו נבנו על דוברות שעגנו יחד ונקשרו זו לזו בחבלים ובמעברים של עץ.

הכפר התנודד לו בשלווה על הגלים, עלה וירד. חשתי תחושה משונה. בדרך כלל, כשיורדים מסירה אל המזח, מרגישים מיד את יציבותה האיתנה והנעימה של היבשה, ואילו כאן עברתי מנידנוד אחד לנידנוד אחר.

תושבי הכפר היו מוסלמים, דייגים ממלאיה. התהלכתי בין בתיהם הצפים עד שראיתי דלת פתוחה למחצה וגבר צנום יושב מאחוריה. החלפנו מבטים, האיש חייך ובתנועת יד הזמין אותי להיכנס. שתינו תה. על הקיר היו תצלום וציור. בתצלום נראה נוף אירופי כלשהו - עמקים ירוקים, פרות חומות-אדמדמות, מפלי מים ופסגות מושלגות. הציור נראה לי מוכר יותר: נער שוכב על מזבח, אדם זקן מניף עליו סכין, מלאך מרחף מעל, ומאחור גם האיל, קרניו אחוזות בסבך.

לרגע חשבתי שהגעתי לאחד מעשרת השבטים, וכבר ניסחתי בלבי מכתבים לרבנות ולסוכנות, שימהרו להעלות גם אותו לישראל. אבל לפני שנפלתי על צווארי אחי האובד, שאלתי אותו מה מתואר בציור. המארח שלי הורה באצבעו על הזקן עם המאכלת ובהגיה משונה אמר: "אברהים." אזי הורה על הילד ואמר: "איסמעיל." לא התווכחתי, אבל בשובי לירושלים בדקתי ומצאתי שכך באמת כתוב בקוראן. ישמעאל, ולא יצחק, הוא הבן שביקש אלוהים מאברהם כקורבן. אני מספר זאת בבושה מסויימת. צריך הייתי לדעת את הדבר קודם לכן.

במקום התמהון המתבקש חשתי צער. הסכסוך, כך הבנתי, אינו רק על הארץ ואף לא על המקומות הקדושים שבה. הוא ריב על נושא קשה יותר: על אהבה. וליתר דיוק - על אהבת אב. וכדי לסבך את הדברים אף יותר, אין זו אהבה שמתבטאת בתפירתה של כתונת פסים או במתן ברכה עדיפה, אלא דווקא במעשה הנורא מכל המעשים שבספר בראשית - בעקדה. בתנ"ך נאמר: "קח את בנך, את יחידך, אשר אהבת, והעלהו לי לעולה." קצת קשה לצאצאיו של ישמעאל לראות אחרי "את יחידך" ואחרי "אשר אהבת" את שמו של יצחק.

ישמעאל ויצחק עצמם, אגב, לא היו יריבים. בוודאי לא כמו קין והבל, יעקב ועשו, יוסף ואחיו. היריבות האמיתית במשפחה היתה בין שתי האמהות, שרה והגר שפחתה. גם העובדה שמשני אלה, מישמעאל ומיצחק, תצמחנה אחר-כך שתי דתות, עוד לא נודעה אז. אבל כשאלוהים אמר "יחידך" ו"אשר אהבת" על יצחק, וישמעאל ואמו כבר גורשו אל מחוץ לבית אברהם - נוצר הבסיס הריגשי לבעייה שאנו סובלים ממנה עד היום.

אבל עוד דבר יש כאן: ה"אשר אהבת" הזה הוא הופעתה הראשונה של האהבה בתנ"ך. אפשר למצוא בה שני דברים מעניינים. הראשון - שהיא אהבת גבר לבנו ולא אהבת גבר לאשה. זו נדחקה למקום השני, והיא תהיה אהבת יצחק לרבקה. והשני - שהיא אהבת אב ולא אהבת אם. אהבת האם הראשונה תהיה אהבת רבקה לבנה יעקב. היא תופיע רק במקום השלישי, וגם בה תהיה כרוכה הפליית אחים. רבקה תאהב את יעקב, ויצחק יאהב את עשו.

שני הדברים מוזרים. מבחינה ספרותית וחברתית, וגם מבחינה משפטית, אהבת האם נחשבת יותר מאהבת האב. ואשר לאהבת הזוג, הספרות המודרנית מעדיפה אותה על פני אהבת הורים לילדיהם, ומטבע הדברים היא גם קודמת לה. בלעדיה, לא יהיו ילדים לאהוב גם אותם. אבל התנ"ך מעדיף את המשפחה, ובמקרה הזה - את המשפחה שתיעשה לעם. וכך הוצבה אהבת אברהם ליצחק במקום הראשון. אהבת הורה לבת, אגב, לא נזכרת בתנ"ך כלל.

 

עדה וצילה

 

האם אהב אדם את חווה? האם אהבה חווה את אדם? יכול להיות, אבל יחסיהם לא תוארו במילה "אהבה". חבל. הקורא הרומנטי היה שמח להיתקל בשורש "אהב" דווקא במקרה הזה, כי אדם וחוה היו זוג מיוחד במינו, לא רק בגלל חיי הנועם בגן עדן, לא רק בגלל קירבתו האינטימית של אלוהים, אלא משום שהיו הזוג היחיד בעולם כולו. הם התנסו באופן אמיתי ומתמשך במה שזוגות ספורים ובני מזל חשים לעתים נדירות וקצרות. אבל התנ"ך לא מספר על אהבה ששררה בין הגבר הראשון ובין האשה הראשונה. הוא מזכיר מאפיינים כמו בושה, ידיעה, עבודה, עצב, שליטה, לידה והולדה. הוא מודיע לקורא שחווה תשתוקק לאדם והוא ימשול בה - אבל לא אומר מילה על אהבתם. אולי לא נחוצה אהבה כשאין בעולם עוד אשה ועוד גבר.

וכך, בלי אהבה, ידע אדם את חוה וחוה ילדה את קין. קין ידע את אשתו - ששמה לא נודע - והיא ילדה את חנוך. לחנוך נולד בן ושמו עירד, ועירד ילד את מחויאל ומחויאל ילד את מתושאל ומתושאל ילד את למך. כך כתוב שם - ילד. בדרך כלל הגבר מוליד והאשה יולדת, וכאן הגברים יולדים. אולי כך היה בימים הרחוקים ההם. על כל פנים - היו גברים, היו נשים, נולדו ילדים, אבל אהבה עוד לא נזכרה.

גם על למך לא מסופר שאהב, אבל שלא כמו לנשים האחרות של הדורות ההם, לנשותיו היו שמות, ולמך אף שר להן שיר שבעיניו, כך אני משער, היה שיר נחמד:

 

עדה וצילה, שמען קולי,

נשי למך, האזנה אמרתי,

כי איש הרגתי לפצעי

וילד לחבורתי.

כי שבעתיים יוקם קין

ולמך שבעים ושבעה.

 

המלים "שיר" ו"שירה" לא נזכרו שם, אבל הריתמוס והחריזה מדברים בעד עצמם, וכך היה למך האיש הראשון בתנ"ך שכתב יצירה ספרותית. למרבה הצער, לא היה זה שיר אהבה, אלא שיר התרברבות. אם למך אהב מישהו - את עצמו הוא אהב.

לפי אחת הגירסאות, הוליד למך את נוח, הוא נוח של המבול והתיבה, וגם לו היתה אשה. התנ"ך לא מספר עליה דבר, אבל אין לי ספק שהיא אהבה את נוח אהבה רבה. כרגיל בתנ"ך, גם כאן הגבר הוא הגיבור המרכזי של הסיפור. נוח היה איש צדיק תמים בדורותיו, הוא דיבר עם אלוהים, הוא בנה את התיבה. אבל אשת נוח, בזמן שבעלה התמסר לשגעון החדש שלו, ניהלה את חיי היום-יום של המשפחה.

הדבר לא נכתב, אבל אשת נוח היתה אשה אוהבת מאוד, ובודאי האשה הסבלנית שבכל הנשים הסבלניות שבתנ"ך. קודם נשאה בשקט את בניית התיבה, ואחר-כך את השהות הממושכת בתוכה, בתוך כלי שיט צפוף ומסריח, מלוכלך ורועש, עם חיות ועופות בפנים ומבול בחוץ, ולא רק עם מאות בעלי חיים, אלא גם עם בעל אחד, שלושה בנים ושלוש כלות. אין לאן לברוח, אין היכן להתבודד - לו היה הדבר תלוי בי, הייתי קורא לסיפור ולתיבה על שמה. לא תיבת נוח אלא תיבת אשת נוח, כי גם היא, ממש כמו אהבתה, לא נזכרה בשמה.

התנ"ך לא מתאר את החיים הקשים בתוך התיבה. אבל אפשר לשער אותם לפי הזמן הממושך של ההתאוששות מן השהייה בה. כשתם המבול והארץ יבשה וכולם יצאו ממנה, שב אלוהים והזכיר לנוח ולמשפחתו את תפקידו של המין האנושי - לפרות ולרבות. אבל רק שנתיים אחרי המבול הוליד שם, בנו של נוח, בן. כך מתברר שבתיבה נהגו כולם פרישות גמורה, וזו נמשכה עוד יותר משנה אחר-כך! דומה שהחיים הסגורים, הצפופים, עוררו בלב כל את הרצון לבדידות, ואולי אף להתנזרות, ועוד זמן עבר עד שהצליחו להתאושש.

בנו של שם נקרא ארפכשד. ארפכשד הוליד את שלח, ושלח הוליד את עבר, ועבר הוליד את פלג, ופלג הוליד את רעו, ורעו הוליד את שרוג, ושרוג הוליד את נחור ונחור הוליד את תרח, ותרח הוליד את נחור ואת הרן ואת אברם, הוא אברם שייקרא אברהם ויכונה "אבינו" ויישא לאשה את שרי, שתיקרא שרה ותלד לו את יצחק.

שרי היתה אשה "יפת מראה", וכיוון שאני עוסק כאן בפעמים ראשונות, אציין שהיא האשה היפה הראשונה של התנ"ך. ולמרות זאת, אף שיש לנו סוף-סוף גבר עם אשה כל-כך יפה, עדיין אין לנו אהבה. כבר עברו דורות על גבי דורות, וכבר פרינו ורבינו וכעסנו והרגנו, חטאנו ונענשנו, ובנינו עיר ומגדל ותיבה, והשתכרנו ובכינו, גירשנו וגורשנו, וצחקנו וציחקנו וכיחשנו ויראנו, נטענו כרם ואשל וחפרנו בארות - ועוד לא ידענו אהבה. כל השורשים האלה כבר הופיעו, ורק זה, אלף הא בית, עוד לא.

ואז - הפתעה. הפתעה נוראה: "קח נא את בנך, את יחידך, אשר אהבת, את יצחק, ולך-לך אל ארץ המוריה והעלהו שם לעולה."

הדיעה המקובלת היא שסיפור העקדה מבקש להבהיר שאלוהי ישראל מתנגד לקורבן אדם, פולחן שהיה מקובל אז, וגם תועד במקרא. מישע מלך מואב, למשל, הקריב את בנו הבכור לאלוהיו כשצבא ישראל גבר עליו במלחמה. אבל גם אצלנו התרחשה הזוועה הזאת. על המלך אחז נאמר: "וגם את בנו העביר באש כתועבות הגויים", והמקרה הידוע והקשה ביותר הוא מקרה בת יפתח. אביה, השופט יפתח הגלעדי, נדר נדר: אם ינצח במלחמה יעלה לעולה את הראשון שיקדם את פניו בשובו. בתו יצאה לקראתו בתופים ובמחולות וכך עשה. חז"ל היטיבו להסביר שיפתח יכול היה להיחלץ מנידרו, אם רק היה בקי דיו בתורה, אבל לא אפרט כאן את הסיפור הזה. הקורא יוכל לקרוא אותו בסוף פרק י"א בספר שופטים ולמצוא שמבחינות מסויימות סיפור בת יפתח ואביה נורא אף מסיפור אברהם ויצחק. באשר לעקדה עצמה, אינני סבור שסיפורה נועד להילחם בפולחן קורבנות האדם, אלא להראות לאילו סימטאות אפלות יכולה להגיע צייתנותו של המאמין הצייתן ביותר במקרא.

אם כך ואם כך, באותו פסוק בו דורש אלוהים להעלות לו את יצחק לעולה, מופיעה האהבה בפעם הראשונה בתנ"ך. רישומה מתקהה בגלל השכנות לזוועת העקדה, כמעט שאין מבחינים בה, אך אין זו סיבה להתעלם מקיומה. היא כאן, ולבד מהיותה אהבת אב לבנו דווקא, יש בה עוד דבר מעורר סקרנות: היא לא מופיעה בדברי הסופר ולא בדברי אברהם. לא אברהם אומר ליצחק שהוא אוהב אותו, ולא הסופר מספר לקורא שאברהם אוהב את בנו, אלא אלוהים הוא האומר זאת לאברהם, כמו מודיע זאת לא רק לנו אלא גם לאוהב הראשון עצמו.

למעשה, שב כאן אלוהים למנהגו היפה מימי הבריאה - לתת שמות. הדבר טוב ומועיל גם לכל התוהים מאז ועד היום: "מה זאת אהבה?" לעניות דעתי, מדובר בהתפנקות. הכל יודעים מה זאת אהבה. בעיקר כאשר היא ממלאת את הלב וגם כאשר היא חסרה. אני מעז לשער שגם ביאליק, שטבע את השאלה "מה זאת אהבה?" ידע לזהות אותה בבואה ובלכתה, אבל אפילו הוא התקשה לנסח את התשובה במלים.

טוב שהיה לאלוהים המנהג הזה, לתת שמות. כך הוא מסביר לנו את האהבה כבר בהופעתה הראשונה. אלוהים קרא לאור "יום" ולחושך קרא "לילה", ליבשה קרא "ארץ", למקווי המים "ימים" ולרקיע "שמים", ולזה, אברהם, לרגש הזה שאתה רוחש אל בנך, קוראים "אהבה". ועכשיו, אחרי שנתתי שם לאהבתך, קח את בנך אשר אהבת והעלהו לי לעולה.

 

שניהם יחדיו

 

וכך נפתח סיפור האהבה הראשון במקרא: "וישכם אברהם בבוקר ויחבוש את חמורו, וייקח את שני נעריו אתו ואת יצחק בנו, ויבקע עצי עולה, ויקם ויילך אל המקום אשר אמר לו האלוהים."

האב האוהב חרוץ ומסודר. פעלתנותו מרגיעה, נותנת לו מנוחת דעת וניחומים של עשייה. הוא מופיע ראשון, כי הוא הגיבור הראשי, והיחיד שיודע להיכן ולשם מה הולכים. אחריו נזכרים חמור אחד ושני נערים, ושלושתם אינם יודעים דבר אלא את תפקידיהם - לשאת ולשרת. אחריהם מופיע יצחק, הגיבור השני של הסיפור, שגם הוא לא יודע את האמת, ואז אבזרי ההצגה: קודם עצי העולה, דוממים ומעוררי תהיה וחשד, ואחר-כך יתגלו האש וסכין השחיטה. ולסיום ישלח אלוהים את האיל ואת המלאך, שלדעתו יפתרו את כל הבעיות, אבל יעוררו עוד קשיים, שלא ייפתרו בשום צורה.

ושרה? היכן היא? האם הבינה במה מדובר? האם נפרדה מבנה? דומה שלא. שרה כבר הראתה בעבר שהיא יודעת לכפות את רצונה על אברהם ואף הוכיחה שהיא מסוגלת להטיל ספק בדבר ה'. אם היא שותקת, שתיקתה מעידה שאינה יודעת כלום. אברהם בדה לה, מן הסתם, איזו בדיה, ואפילו היא, מי שאילצה אותו לגרש את בנו הבכור אל המדבר, לא יכולה להעלות על דעתה אפשרות מפלצתית כזאת - שהפעם מדובר בהעלאת בנם לעולה.

שלושה ימים הלכו יחדיו, האב האוהב והבן האהוב, ולא החליפו ביניהם אף מילה אחת. ביום השלישי ראה אברהם את המקום המיועד ואמר לנערים שימתינו עם החמור, "ואני והנער נלכה עד כה ונשתחווה ונשובה אליכם."

השקר שאברהם משקר כאן הוא שקר כפול. הוא מדבר על השתחוייה לאל ולא על העלאת עולה, והוא מבטיח שיבה בלשון רבים, הוא ובנו יחדיו. אם ידבר על העלאת עולה ישאלו הנערים כבר עתה מה שישאל יצחק אחר-כך: "איה השה לעולה?" אם יאמר "אשוב" בלשון יחיד ולא "נשובה" ברבים, יבינו הנערים שמשהו עלול לקרות ליצחק. מי יודע? אולי היה זה הדבר שאמר גם לשרה: שבי לך פה באוהל, ואני והנער נלכה להשתחוות לאל. נלכה ונשובה אלייך, אל תדאגי, שרה.

"וילכו שניהם יחדיו." האב האוהב ובנו. אלא שבשלב הזה עלו על הבמה המשתתפים החדשים, שלא התגלו במערכה הראשונה - המאכלת והאש, הכלים היעודיים, שקודם לכן הוסתרו, מן הסתם, ועתה הם מוציאים כל ספק ומאשרים כל חשש.

"וילכו שניהם יחדיו." האב האוהב נשא את הכלים: סכין לשחוט בה את בנו ואש לצלות בה את בשרו. הבן האהוב נשא את החומרים: את העצים ואת עצמו. מי יודע, אולי הוציא אברהם את המאכלת ואת האש כדי להבהיר ליצחק מה עתיד לקרות ולאפשר לו לנוס על נפשו? גם אם כך הדבר, יצחק הלך אתו. אולי לא ברח כי לא הבין, ואולי כן הבין ועל אף זאת לא נמלט. אבל עתה, כשהנערים אינם איתם, הוא העז לבטא את החשד שקינן בלבו מלכתחילה.

"אבי," פנה הבן האהוב לאביו האוהב, כמו מבקש לאשר שהאיש עם המאכלת הוא אכן אביו ולא גבר זר שמבקש את נפשו. "אבי," וזאת המילה הראשונה שנאמרת ביניהם, אחרי שלושה ימי הליכה.

"הנני, בני," ענה האב האוהב, כמו מבקש לאשר שהקשר המשפחתי ביניהם קיים.

"הנה האש והעצים, ואיה השה לעולה?"

את המאכלת קשה לו להזכיר, אבל גם היא שם, בידי האב.

"אלוהים יראה לו השה לעולה בני."

כך ענה אברהם, והקורא אינו יודע איך לפסק את דבריו האחרונים. איזה סימן לשים בין "השה לעולה" ובין "בני", פסיק או נקודתיים? האם "אלוהים יראה לו השה לעולה, בני." ושמא "אלוהים יראה לו השה לעולה: בני." כלומר, האם "בני" הוא פנייה ליצחק או הגדרתו כקרבן?

אבל חוץ מזה, ואת זאת יבינו הקוראים, אברהם ויצחק רק שנים הרבה אחר-כך, המילה "בני" היא המילה האחרונה שתיאמר בין השניים, לא רק בכאן ובעכשיו של העקדה, אלא גם מכאן ולהבא. הם ימשיכו ללכת בשתיקה אל המקום המיועד. האב יבנ&#




Meir ShalevMeir Shalev

Meir Shalev was born in 1948 on Nahalal, Israel's first moshav, and is one of Israel's most celebrated novelists. His books have been translated into over twenty languages and have been bestsellers in Israel, Holland, and Germany. In 1999 he was awarded the Juliet Club Prize (Italy). Meir Shalev is the recipient of the Prime Minister's Prize (Israel), the Chiavari (Italy), the Entholomogical Prize (Israel), the Wizo Prize in France, Israel and Italy, and the Brenner Prize of 2006—the highest Israeli literary recognition awarded for his last novel, The Pigeon and The Boy. Meir Shalev is also a columnist with the Israeli daily Yediot Ahronot. He lives with his wife and children in Jerusalem and in the north of Israel, where he is a motorcycle and jeep enthusiast.

Translated from HebrewHebrew by Stuart SchoffmanStuart Schoffman

Stuart Schoffman, a journalist and translator, is a senior fellow of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem and editor of Havruta: A Journal of Jewish Conversation. He has taught history at the University of Texas and film at the University of Southern California and Tel Aviv University. His translations from Hebrew include Lion's Honey by David Grossman and Friendly Fire by A.B. Yehoshua.