Delivered at Westchester Reform Temple on the second morning of Rosh Hashanah 5777.
A teacher of mine used to say: Poetry is the art of leaning two words against each other, and then listening in on their conversation. I love this description. And I think it accurately describes the power of poetry. A classic example comes from Homer, who frequently uses the phrase “the wine-dark sea.” Listen to the conversation between those words: we may not have thought of it before, but the sea is indeed as dark as wine—and also as tempting and as dangerous.
On the two-day holiday of Rosh Hashanah, we have the opportunity to lean not two words against each other, but rather, two stories. We read one Torah story on day one, a different story on day two, and then listen to the conversation that arises between them. And it was with this conversation in mind that the editors of our new High Holiday prayer book selected the passage we are about to read. On day one, we read the story of Abraham heeding God’s command to offer his son Isaac as a sacrifice. And this morning, we’re going to read the story of Abraham negotiating with God over the fate of the Sodom and Gomorrah. Listen to the conversation between these two stories: on day one, Abraham chooses God before his own family; on day two, Abraham chooses the human family before God. It is as if one story is asking the other: whom shall the religious person serve?
But this morning, I’d like to listen in on a different conversation, between two biblical figures who appear on the High Holidays. I’d like to listen to a conversation between the Abraham of Sodom and Gomorrah, about whom we’ll read this morning, and the anti-hero of Yom Kippur, Jonah.
God comes both to Abraham and to Jonah to announce God’s plan to destroy a wicked city. But the responses of each prophet could not be more different. Jonah tries to flee from God. Why should he care about the fate of some far away city? Abraham, by contrast, directly confronts God. Though Sodom and Gomorrah are not his home, he argues for justice on behalf of his neighbors.
This already would be an interesting conversation between Abraham and Jonah. We might imagine one asking the other: how wide is my circle of responsibility? But the conversation is deeper still than that. Because underlying each prophet’s story is a distinct theory of justice and mercy.
Jonah is an advocate for strict justice. He believes that the Ninevites are deserving of their punishment, and is upset when God forgives them. We might imagine Jonah saying: “Do the crime, serve the time.” He believes that even the most minor of offenses is deserving of swift and total punishment. Even when the Ninevites repent of their misdeeds, Jonah wishes that God hadn’t forgiven them.
Abraham, by contrast, has a far more nuanced understanding of justice and mercy. He convinces God to save the city if God should be able to find ten innocent people who live there. Notice that the request is not to save the innocent and punish the guilty, but rather to save the whole city on account of the innocent. The implications of this request are astounding. First: more grievous than the saving of an entire guilty city is the taking of even one innocent life. Abraham recognizes that the guilty can always repent, but the innocent dead can never be vindicated. A second astounding implication: Abraham seems to believe not in collective punishment, but in collective rewards. Abraham recognizes that righteous behavior is contagious—that we’re all responsible for the work of building a more just society, guilty and innocent and alike.
In our society, so fraught with racial tension and the politics of identity, with whom do we side in the conversation between Jonah and Abraham? Do we side with Jonah: that what happens in the neighboring town is not my problem; that even the most minor of offenses—like the selling loose cigarettes on the street—deserve swift and total punishment? Or are we with Abraham: that we’re all in this together; that even in a complex society, the taking of innocent lives should never be the necessary price for enforcing law and order?
In 5777, let us resolve to be remembered as the children of Abraham, and not the children of Jonah. Let us ask be prodded onward by the question that Abraham so famously asks God in this morning’s Torah reading: “Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?”
Kein y’hi ratzon. May this be our inheritance.
A teacher of mine used to say: Poetry is the art of leaning two words against each other, and then listening in on their conversation. I love this description. And I think it accurately describes the power of poetry. A classic example comes from Homer, who frequently uses the phrase “the wine-dark sea.” Listen to the conversation between those words: we may not have thought of it before, but the sea is indeed as dark as wine—and also as tempting and as dangerous.
On the two-day holiday of Rosh Hashanah, we have the opportunity to lean not two words against each other, but rather, two stories. We read one Torah story on day one, a different story on day two, and then listen to the conversation that arises between them. And it was with this conversation in mind that the editors of our new High Holiday prayer book selected the passage we are about to read. On day one, we read the story of Abraham heeding God’s command to offer his son Isaac as a sacrifice. And this morning, we’re going to read the story of Abraham negotiating with God over the fate of the Sodom and Gomorrah. Listen to the conversation between these two stories: on day one, Abraham chooses God before his own family; on day two, Abraham chooses the human family before God. It is as if one story is asking the other: whom shall the religious person serve?
But this morning, I’d like to listen in on a different conversation, between two biblical figures who appear on the High Holidays. I’d like to listen to a conversation between the Abraham of Sodom and Gomorrah, about whom we’ll read this morning, and the anti-hero of Yom Kippur, Jonah.
God comes both to Abraham and to Jonah to announce God’s plan to destroy a wicked city. But the responses of each prophet could not be more different. Jonah tries to flee from God. Why should he care about the fate of some far away city? Abraham, by contrast, directly confronts God. Though Sodom and Gomorrah are not his home, he argues for justice on behalf of his neighbors.
This already would be an interesting conversation between Abraham and Jonah. We might imagine one asking the other: how wide is my circle of responsibility? But the conversation is deeper still than that. Because underlying each prophet’s story is a distinct theory of justice and mercy.
Jonah is an advocate for strict justice. He believes that the Ninevites are deserving of their punishment, and is upset when God forgives them. We might imagine Jonah saying: “Do the crime, serve the time.” He believes that even the most minor of offenses is deserving of swift and total punishment. Even when the Ninevites repent of their misdeeds, Jonah wishes that God hadn’t forgiven them.
Abraham, by contrast, has a far more nuanced understanding of justice and mercy. He convinces God to save the city if God should be able to find ten innocent people who live there. Notice that the request is not to save the innocent and punish the guilty, but rather to save the whole city on account of the innocent. The implications of this request are astounding. First: more grievous than the saving of an entire guilty city is the taking of even one innocent life. Abraham recognizes that the guilty can always repent, but the innocent dead can never be vindicated. A second astounding implication: Abraham seems to believe not in collective punishment, but in collective rewards. Abraham recognizes that righteous behavior is contagious—that we’re all responsible for the work of building a more just society, guilty and innocent and alike.
In our society, so fraught with racial tension and the politics of identity, with whom do we side in the conversation between Jonah and Abraham? Do we side with Jonah: that what happens in the neighboring town is not my problem; that even the most minor of offenses—like the selling loose cigarettes on the street—deserve swift and total punishment? Or are we with Abraham: that we’re all in this together; that even in a complex society, the taking of innocent lives should never be the necessary price for enforcing law and order?
In 5777, let us resolve to be remembered as the children of Abraham, and not the children of Jonah. Let us ask be prodded onward by the question that Abraham so famously asks God in this morning’s Torah reading: “Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?”
Kein y’hi ratzon. May this be our inheritance.
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