Rosh Hashana begins at sundown on September 18, and ends at sundown September 20. This year, my synagogue is holding services via Zoom, since there simply is no way to hold them safely in person. So we won’t be reading from the Torah scrolls; if this feels weird on Shabbat, it will feel even weirder on the High Holidays. But this is why I chose a picture of the Torah scroll. In a class I’ve been taking, we have been discussing the ways in which rabbis through the ages have coped with the special circumstances an epidemic brings. This is one of the stories we studied, with an introduction by Rabbi Sanford Seltzer:
In 1848 all of Europe was in the grip of a cholera pandemic. The Jews of Vilna were particularly hard hit with many deaths, much suffering, hunger, poverty, etc. On Yom Kippur a rabbi named Yisroel Lipkin in the synagogue in full view of the congregation intentionally ate bread and drank wine as a means of emphasizing that at a time of such dire conditions, traditional observances could and should be suspended.
The rabbi named Yisroel Lipkin is much better known as Israel Salanter since he spent most of his life and career in the Lithuanian town of Salant. It was there that he authored what became most famous for, the Musar Movement in Judaism.
David Frishmann: Drei Vos Habn Gegessen (Yiddish) Shalosh She Achlu (Hebrew)
Three Who Ate
I was a child then, but I remember how I began to tremble when I heard these words. The Rabbi, speaks of cleanliness and wholesome air; of dirt which is dangerous to man, of hunger and thirst, when there is a pestilence devouring without pity. And the Rabbi goes on to say, "and men shall live by my commandments and not die by them." There are times when men must turn aside from the Law, if by doing so, a whole community may be saved.
I stood shaking with fear. What does the Rabbi want? What does he mean? Why does he weep? I see him standing on the Bimah and he makes a sign with his hand to the two Dayanim to the left and right of him. They whisper together. And then I heard these words: "With the consent of the Almighty and with the consent of the Congregation, we give leave to eat and drink on this Day Of Atonement."
Then the Rabbi as if speaking to himself, says, it is God's will. I am 80 years old and have never yet transgressed a Law. But this is also a Law: Vhay Bahem. You shall live by them. Then the Shamas brings cups of wine for Kiddush and rolls of bread. I shall never forget what I saw there and even now when I shut my eyes, I can still see the whole thing. Three rabbis standing on the Bimah in Shul and eating before the whole congregation on Yom Kippur.
My shul used to have a writing group before the High Holidays, and our work was included in the services at appropriate points. Over the years we did this, I wrote several midrashim around the Torah readings for Rosh Hashanah; on both days of the holiday, we read from the Torah about Abraham and his family. On the first day, we read about the birth of Isaac and the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael. On the second day we read about the Akeda, the binding of Isaac. I have not yet been able to figure out why we read these chapters, which I find very disturbing. But I suppose the more time we have to think about them, the better. Below I share some of my writings based on these stories.
One year I realized that Ishmael has no voice in the Torah. He never says anything, nor is his point of view about anything given. So I decided in the writing group to give him a voice, and the midrash that follows is the result. I assume Ishmael's age from Torah; he was 13 when Abraham and he were circumcised, and Isaac was born a year later. Sarah asks for his expulsion after Isaac's weaning, which is two or three years after that, making him 16 or so. I know in the Koranic story, he is a baby at the time, and is sometimes portrayed as such in Jewish commentary as well. But I am going according to the numbers in the text.
In The Wilderness: A Midrash
Ishmael couldn't open his eyes. He tried to think where he was but thinking hurt his head, which was throbbing with pain. He felt hot, and he felt under him the hard sand, not the straw bed of home. As consciousness slowly rose in him, he began to remember things. The party for his little brother's weaning. He had been playing with Isaac, a hiding game, and they were both laughing and teasing each other. His father had been smiling, watching them. Sarah had not.
His father...something about his father was just out of memory.
Now that he was old enough, his father had given him responsibility for the flocks, and he was learning to anticipate their needs. His father was teaching him how to recognize the best ewes to breed this year. He enjoyed his days out in the pasture with the sheep. Was that where he was now? He couldn't remember, but he didn't think so. It was hard to hear through the throbbing in his head, but he didn't think he was hearing the sheep around him, and his father wouldn't have sent him out if he were ill.
He was becoming more and more aware of how ill he was. It was not only his head that ached, his stomach felt like a hot stone inside him, and when he tried to move, he could barely lift his hand. It felt so heavy. He could feel how hot he was, but strangely he was not sweating. Where was his father? Where was his mother? He drifted out of consciousness again, he did not know for how long.
He saw his father and mother. His mother was crying and his father was giving her something. What was it, water? Was he dreaming, or was he awake again? He didn't know. He wanted that picture to go away, but it wouldn't. He cried out. Or he thought he cried out, he couldn't tell. That picture...
He began to feel a great weariness in all his limbs. And the sun feeling like a weight on his head. He remembered walking, trying to help his mother.
Suddenly he was aware of movement. Cool water was poured over his brow. His mother - he recognized her touch - lifted his head and put the water skin to his lips. He almost choked then he drank greedily. She poured some water over his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw her, then he drank some more and so did she.
Now he could hear the sound of a spring nearby. After a while she helped him stand up. Holding hands, they walked together to the spring. "Your father's god did this," she said. "I thought we would die, but he saved us. This is the place where his god saw us."
Another year I wondered whether Sarah had ever repented of the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael.
TESHUVA: A MIDRASH
Sarah fought tears. Hagar watched her warily across the low table. Ishmael’s wife had brought fruit and bread, then slipped out with her children.
“I came to ask your forgiveness.” Sarah looked at her hands.
Hagar remained silent.
“I told myself I was protecting Isaac’s future. But he has never stopped missing his brother, though he stopped speaking of it.”
“He has been here. More than once,” Hagar said.
“Has he? That is good,” Sarah paused. “You know, I was so happy when he was born; he brought me life. When I weaned him, I felt some of that life leave me…. What happened to you then? Tell me.”
“I thought we should die, but the God found us. It seems so long ago, another life. We were in Egypt for a while… why have you come here?”
“Nothing in my life has been as I thought it would be. My marriage began in a comfortable house in my city, near my family. And then…all these wanderings, this new God with his tricks, Isaac only in my old age… I have been sorry for a long time. I am tired and lonely.”
For a time there was silence.
Hagar said, “I was a slave, far from my people. I had nothing, then I had Ishmael. You had everything else.”
“We never knew each other.”
“No.”
They sat in silence, then they rose together.
“Will you come again?”
“If you will let me.”
“You will meet my daughter and the children. You will be welcome.”
As she was leaving, Sarah turned and embraced Hagar. For a moment they clung to each other, then Hagar watched until Sarah was out of sight.
And one year I wondered what Abraham thought about it all. When I read this during services the room went silent, and I felt that I was channeling another voice.
Love
Avram... I was Avram long ago, before
God's voice came to me. Avram, a farmer and
shepherd on my father's land. My life
was simple. But when I heard the words
God spoke to me, I followed. Who could resist?
Father of nations, I who had no children - how
could this be? But I followed.
And with me Sarai, as she was then,
neither of us young, but not old yet. We traveled
to Canaan and stayed until a drought
sent us to Egypt. I don't know
if Sarah ever forgave
what I asked of her there, sending her
to another man's bed. I never could ask.
I never rested that night, but left Egypt
a rich man with a wife
he was afraid to ask what happened.
We brought from Egypt a girl as Sarah's maid,
young and passionate in all that she did, Hagar.
I watched her grow to womanhood. She drew
my thoughts to her and yet I never
claimed my right to her. Then Sarah had the thought
that though I was to be father of nations, maybe she was
not to be the mother. She brought Hagar
to me. Did she know my thoughts? How can a husband
fathom the mind of a wife
he has come to fear, of a wife who remained
a mystery?
I am an old man now; I have loved two women
yet I think my love hurt them both. I am sure
that after I lay with Hagar, Sarah knew my love.
I could not protect her from her fears, and could not
protect Hagar from her wrath. No, if this is love
it did none of us good.
I loved my son with Hagar, Ishmael, who was
lively and learned from me readily all I undertook
to teach him. And he returned my love, son
to father. Then came the miracle of laughter,
the miracle of Isaac. Sarah laughed - I could not remember
the last time I heard her laughter. We were almost
young again. And yet she was terrible
in her triumph. She could see Isaac growing fond
of Ishmael. It was joy to me that my sons
loved each other. But such joy was a danger
to us all.
I have loved two sons, yet this God of mine
thought this too much. His promise was
that I would be a father of nations, not
a father surrounded by his sons and their sons.
I am told
that I will be called the ancestor
who loved God over all. Here I am,
estranged from my sons, living apart from them
and their mothers - is this because I love God?
Abraham listen to Sarah, he said. Abraham
take your son Isaac to the place I will show you,
he said. And I? Here I am, I said.
Do I love God? Who could love a God
who asked such things of him?
Love has brought me no joy. Love is pain.
Perhaps that has been God's lesson for me.
They just told me Sarah has died. I who am
not yet dead, now I am truly old.
I want no more love. It is time
for Isaac to marry and take on the burden
of the promise. As for me,
I will settle for peace.
L’shana tovah! May you be inscribed in the book of life.