The binding of Isaac: a religious model of disobedience

LIBRARY OF HEBREW BIBLE/ OLD TESTAMENT STUDIES 468 Formerly Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Seri...

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LIBRARY OF HEBREW BIBLE/ OLD TESTAMENT STUDIES

468 Formerly Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series

Editors Claudia V. Camp, Texas Christian University Andrew Mein, Westcott House, Cambridge

Founding Editors David J. A. Clines, Philip R. Davies and David M. Gunn Editorial Board Richard J. Coggins, Alan Cooper, John Goldingay, Robert P. Gordon, Norman K. Gottwald, Gina Hens-Piazza, John Jarick, Andrew D. H. Mayes, Carol Meyers, Patrick D. Miller, Yvonne Sherwood

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THE BINDING OF ISAAC

A Religious Model of Disobedience

Omri Boehm

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Copyright © 2007 by Omri Boehm All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher, T & T Clark International. T & T Clark International, 80 Maiden Lane, New York, NY 10038 T & T Clark International, The Tower Building, 11 York Road, London SE1 7NX T & T Clark International is a Continuum imprint. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Boehm, Omri. The binding of Isaac : a religious model of disobedience / Omri Boehm. p. cm. — (The Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament studies ; 468) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-567-02613-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-567-02613-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Isaac (Biblical patriarch)—Sacrifice. 2. Abraham (Biblical patriarch) 3. Obedience—Biblical teaching. I. Title. BS580.I67B64 2007 222M106~dc22 2006103525 0607080910

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The NewJerusalemU font used to print this work is available from Linguist's Software, Inc., PO Box 580, Edmonds, WA 98020-0580 USA. Tel (425) 775-1130. www.linguistsoftware.com Printed by Biddies Ltd, King's Lynn, Norfolk

To fear God is not the same as to be afraid of him. We are afraid of God when we have transgressed and feel guilty, but we fear him when we are so disposed to conduct ourselves that we can stand before him. —Kant

To my parents, Eti and Amnon Boehm


CONTENTS Foreword by Jack Miles Acknowledgments

ix xiii

INTRODUCTION

1

PRELIMINARY METHODOLOGICAL REMARKS: ON TEXTUAL INTERPRETATION

4

Chapter 1 ABRAHAM: A MODEL OF OBEDIENCE?

12

Chapter 2 THE ORIGINAL VERSION OF THE STORY: ABRAHAM DISOBEYS

20

Chapter 3

THE TRIAL OF SODOM IN THE BACKGROUND: ABRAHAM'S ETHICAL PROTEST

34

Chapter 4

ABRAHAM'S JOURNEY TO MOUNT MORIAH: OBEDIENCE,

INTERNAL STRUGGLE OR PREDICTION OF DISOBEDIENCE?

41

Chapter 5

THE RELIGIOUS SIGNIFICANCE OF THE AKEDAH: ETHICAL RESPONSIBILITY, CHILD SACRIFICE AND THE EXISTENCE OF THE PEOPLE OF ISRAEL

49

Chapter 6

"ABRAHAM'S PREVENTION OF THE SACRIFICE": IBN CASPI'S INTERPRETATION OF GENESIS 22

58

Chapter 7

THE FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE OF PROPHECY: MAIMONIDES' ESOTERIC INTERPRETATION OF GENESIS 22

73

viii

The Binding of Isaac

Chapter 8

"HE DESTROYS BOTH THE INNOCENT WITH THE WICKED": BETWEEN JOB AND ABRAHAM

86

Chapter 9

ON FEARING GOD WITHOUT BEING AFRAID OF HIM: FROM KIERKEGAARD TO KANT

101

Chapter 10 A RELIGIOUS MODEL OF DISOBEDIENCE

121

Bibliography

137

Index of References Index of Authors

141 144

FOREWORD Jack Miles Before you lies a book that, long before I met its author, I yearned to read. Perhaps no passage in all of Scripture—surely no passage in the Tanakh—has provoked so broad and deep a literature of commentary as Gen 22, the story of the heart-stopping human sacrifice that somehow never took place. But this literature, many centuries in the writing, comes down to us in three streams that no one before Omri Boehm has brought fully to confluence. The first and oldest stream is that of traditional Jewish and Christian religious commentary: midrash, hagiography, and rabbinic or patristic exegesis. The second stream is that of philosophical and theological commentary, Jewish and Christian, again, but rising and subsiding in powerfully different waves: what Maimonides and Aquinas do with this haunting story is not what Spinoza and Kant do, and theirs was far from the last wave to break. The third stream is that of modern historical commentary, reading the ancient Israelite text critically by reading it in and against its context in the recovered literatures and reconstructed cultures of Semitic antiquity. Even the oldest of these streams continues to flow in a new way. Aggadic midrash—commentary by artful narrative expansion—lives on as biblically inspired poetry and fiction, now being written by women as well as men. As for philosophical and theological speculation inspired by Gen 22, it has been given a grim but overwhelmingly powerful new impulse by the Shoah, Finally, as regards the unfinished enterprise of historical-critical Bible scholarship, there awaits the still unexcavated and inexhaustible immensity of the ancient Near East. In the present context, I might mention, as just one example, the Harvard Punic Project, which unearthed the tiny skeletons of literally thousands of sacrificed infants from the "Tophet" of ancient Carthage. Because this trio of discursive streams continues to flow, but not for that reason alone, the last word about the Akedah, the Binding of Isaac, will never be written, and Omri Boehm makes no claim to the contrary. He has produced, nonetheless, an original thesis about the righteous

x


disobedience of Abraham that, far from merely listing earlier opinions, builds both on them and, so to speak, into them. The silences of the Bible may be its most eloquent moments. In the original, laconic version of the Akedah, as Boehm reconstructs it, Abraham falls silent after what is surely the most poignant exchange in the entire episode: Isaac: Abraham: Isaac: Abraham:

Father! Yes, my son. Here are the firestone and the wood; but where is the sheep for the burnt offering? God will see to the sheep for His burnt offering, my son. (Gen 22:7-8)

"And the two of them walked on together," the text continues, clearly implying silence. Abraham's reply to his son's question may no less grammatically be translated: "Let God see to the sheep for His burnt offering, my son." In Boehm's reconstructed text, these are the last words Abraham speaks, and they hang in the air as a challenge to the God who has commanded the inhuman. Is Abraham willing to comply or not? In an interpolated passage, the received text has an angel of the Lord attribute obedient, submissive intentions to Abraham, but Abraham never gives voice to these himself, nor does he express acquiescence or pleasure in the angel's praise. In effect, even in the received text, his last words to Isaac are his last meaningful words. Modern commentators have tended to be troubled by Abraham's presumed, scandalous obedience. Ancient commentators, less ready to credit the angel's praise, were often troubled by what they saw or suspected to be his latent, scandalous disobedience. Boehm—and this, I repeat, is the great merit and charm of this book—brings both "families" of interpretation into a single great conversation. Abraham's silence after Gen 22:8 is equaled, in the Bible, only by the thematically related and comparably portentous silence of Job 40:4-5 and 42:5-6. "I am of small worth," Job says to God in a first attempt to retreat into silence: What can I answer you? I clap my hand to my mouth. I have spoken once, and will not reply; Twice, and will do so no more. (Job 40:4-5)

But Job's silence only further enrages the Lord, who hears it, correctly, as resigned rather than repentant and who, in reply, blasts forth—"from the tempest"—the single most overbearing oration in the entire Bible.

Foreword

xi

But Job will not be provoked. His terse and enigmatic rejoinder ends, in the Jewish Publication Society translation: I had heard You with my ears, But now I see You with my eyes; Therefore, I recant and relent, Being but dust and ashes. (Job 42:5-6)

I have argued elsewhere for the translation: Word of you had reached my ears, But now that my eyes have seen you, I shudder with sorrow for mortal clay.

The wording aside, the effect upon God is beyond dispute. As before with Abraham, so now with Job, it is God who must be satisfied with his defiant creature's response rather than the creature with God's. In both exchanges, divine rhetoric inadequately masks a divine defeat. These two paradigmatic biblical encounters come together in the climactic eighth of Boehm's ten chapters: "'He Destroys Both the Innocent With the Wicked': Between Job and Abraham." At the end of Job's career as at the beginning of Abraham's, the issue is divine destruction of innocent life, and the reader must determine whether God's Favorite— the father of Israel or the archetype of all righteous Gentiles—is to be celebrated for his gracious submission or for his terminal defiance. In our day, as never before, theology has come round to theodicy. By bringing his exceptionally rich consideration of the Binding of Isaac to a focus on the death of the innocent, Omri Boehm—Israeli by birth and early education, American and European in his more recent formation— has written a commentary on one chapter of one book of the Bible that becomes, in its most cogent moments, an apology for the continuing, fertilizing relevance of the Bible as a whole and a refreshing reminder of why the wise look back as often as they look ahead.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I began thinking about the ideas presented in this book when I was eighteen, and still a high-school student. Special thanks are due to Leiki Saban and Tami Ezer, my Tanakh Hagbarah teachers, for inspiring my initial interest in the subject. I wish to thank also my friends, Ortal, Eliel, Alex, Shuvi, and Haggai, who encouraged me in pursuing the first steps of the writing. Professor Avi Horvitz, of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, read an early draft of my first paper on Gen 22, and Professor Ed Greenstein offered a great deal of help, criticizing and commenting on the material in the second and the fifth chapters. I have benefited greatly from my teachers, including Robert Adams, Sara Klein-Breslavi, Robert Burt, John Hare, Yair Hoffman, Menachem Fisch, James Ponet, and Osnat Zinger, as well as from the help of Christoph Levin, Hanna Kasher, liana Arbel, and Mati Schechtman. My grandmother, Shoshana Boehm, has provided much help with German texts, and Mira Reich proofread and corrected the manuscript, preventing many embarrassing errors. Special thanks are due to the red head girl, Anat Schechtman, for giving my book its name. Three institutions supported me in the period of writing the book: the "Adi Lautman Program for Outstanding Students," Tel Aviv University (2001-2003), the "Shalem Center," Jerusalem (2003), and Yale University (2004).


INTRODUCTION "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..." Must Abraham obey his God? It is usually thought that the Akedah presents not only an ethical question but also an ethical reply. But for the intervention of the angel, Abraham would have killed his son. The moral to be drawn would be that obedience to God takes precedence over morality as humanly conceived. However, in a textual study of Gen 22 (first presented as a paper in Vetus Testamentum 52 [2001]: 1-12), I suggested that the figure of an "angel of YHWH" (w. 11-12), apparently checking Abraham at the last moment before he kills Isaac, is a secondary interpolation in the original text (together with the second angelic speech which is usually considered as such). If this is so, in the original narrative Abraham actually disobeyed the divine command to slay his son, sacrificing the ram "instead of his son" (132 firm, v. 13) on his own responsibility: Then they came to the place of which God had told him, and Abraham built an altar there and placed the wood in order, and he bound Isaac his son and laid him on the altar upon the wood; And Abraham stretched out his hand and took the knife to slay his son... But Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold behind him was a ram caught in a thicket by its horns. And Abraham went, and took the ram, and offered it up for a burnt offering instead of his son. (Gen 22:9-10, 13)

The assumption that Abraham obeyed God's command has been commonly accepted by generations of readers. It is adopted not only by biblical scholars—philosophers, poets and painters have presumed it in their works, as well as Jewish and Christian theologians.1 In Judaism, Abraham's readiness to kill his son symbolizes the moment when the blessing of his children—Abraham's "seed"—is confirmed. "Because you have done this..." the angel proclaims, "I will indeed bless you"; "your offspring shall possess the gate of their enemies" (w. 16-18). In 1. There is an Islamic version of the narrative presented in the Qur'an, but it differs significantly from that of the Hebrew Bible.

2


Christianity the Binding2 prefigures the Crucifixion, the supreme event in world history: as Abraham was ready to sacrifice his "beloved son," God was ready to sacrifice his, Jesus of Nazareth. In this way, Abraham's obedience prefigures the redemption of the world. If he actually disobeyed, however, this tradition may be tested anew; we must reopen the religious and philosophical questions that are associated with the story. The first part of the book is designed to show that the "original" version of the narrative did not contain the angelic figure. This is suggested by a different style of writing, the use of different divine names and the structural considerations of the narrative. Anxious to conceal Abraham's disobedience, a later redactor interpolated the angelic intervention into the text, thereby shifting responsibility for halting the trial from Abraham to the angel, and commending Abraham's apparent obedience: "because you have not withheld your son, your only son from me, blessing I will bless you" (Gen 22:11-12,15-19). As soon as we observe that Abraham in fact disobeyed the divine command, however, his character appears more coherent. In the story of Sodom, for instance, he argues against God's unethical plan. "Far be it from you. Shall not the judge of all the earth do what is just?" (Gen 18:25). It is not necessary to assume a modern secular approach or a source criticism method of biblical interpretation ("higher"/"lower" criticism) in order to see the twofold meaning of the story.3 In the second part of the book, I re-examine some medieval religious interpretations of the narrative, showing that Abraham's disobedience was pointed out by traditional exegetes such as Maimonides and his followers. They believed that the story has an esoteric, concealed layer of meaning, besides the external one commonly realized by ordinary readers. According to these writers, whereas this external meaning is aimed to maintain politicalreligious stability, the esoteric layer in fact declares that disobedience to God's command was Abraham's true affirmation of faith. These esoteric interpretations have been so far overlooked by modern scholars. This, it seems to me, is precisely because Abraham's obedience has generally been taken for a fact. It is well known that S0ren Kierkegaard relied on a close reference to Abraham in developing his philosophical ideas about the "Knight of 2. Throughout the book I refer to Gen 22 as the "Binding" or the Akedah (mpr) interchangeably. 3. "Lower criticism" is the scholarly effort to recognize in the biblical text phenomena as copying errors and accidental mistakes, occurring during the transmission of the text; "higher criticism" is the attempt to recognize in the ancient text deliberate—sometimes even ideological—changes, created by later redactors.

Introduction

3

Faith" and the "teleological suspension of the ethical." Can these concepts be sustained after Abraham's disobedience is argued? Kant too referred to the story in his religious and political writings, condemning Abraham's readiness to slay his son. Abraham should have disobeyed, Kant contends, since he could never have been certain that the command was truly divine. In the third part of the book, I re-open the philosophical debate between Kant and Kierkegaard. It will become clear that the reinterpretation of the biblical text is relevant to both, shedding new light on their argumentation. In earlier days Abraham's readiness to sacrifice his son was perceived as a supreme act of faith. In our liberal-democratic culture people often regard it as a distressing and unethical religious submissiveness—perhaps even as an act of insanity or domestic violence. These views seem to me erroneous and misleading. Given the divine command to sacrifice Isaac—a situation perhaps inconceivable to a modern reader who is not ready, or able, to concede—disobedience cannot be regarded a "better" alternative to obedience. There is no "better alternative" for Abraham in this narrative, neither rationally nor ethically: killing one's son and disobeying a direct divine command are both unthinkable. Therefore, this book does not discuss such questions as what Abraham should have done or whether he in fact did the right thing. I do not know how to answer them and, in fact, would be suspicious of any account that claims to do so. Instead, I shall remain as close as possible to the narrative itself, attempting to verify textually what Abraham did. Having established his disobedience, I will go on, in the concluding chapters, to inquire into its philosophical significance and religious implications. Religious faith, drawing on the Binding as a model, has often been understood in terms of obedience. By reinterpreting Gen 22 I seek to argue against this conception. The monotheistic model of faith presented by Abraham was actually a model of disobedience.

PRELIMINARY METHODOLOGICAL REMARKS: ON TEXTUAL INTERPRETATION It is the aim of this book to propose an alternative interpretation for the text and meaning of Gen 22. Let me begin with a few methodological remarks. An alternative interpretation, as such, presents a case where a methodological stand must be adopted. It poses such questions as: Can a text be given a "correct" interpretation? Can there be an "objective" study of the text of the Bible? What are the methodological assumptions of such a study? The interpretation I intend to propose is rather radical in nature, breaking away from any of the traditional views; hence it becomes appropriate to state the criteria according to which I find this interpretation to be the most responsible one. 1 Can there be a "correct" interpretation of a biblical text? This question is closely related to the question of the reader's objectivity, a matter much treated in current philosophical and hermeneutic discussions without much agreement being reached. In recent years there is a growing interest in the "subjective" hermeneutic approaches (best represented in the work of Derrida and Barthes), which challenge the very possibility of assigning a text an objective significance. According to these views, a text does not have a fixed meaning, determined in the act of writing and waiting to be discovered by the reader. Rather, they consider it as created by the act of reading: the meaning of a story, a sentence or even a word is determined finally only in the context of reading, which readers bring with them to their encounter with the text. Therefore, a text's meaning is essentially in a flux: each reader, as a subject responsible for a different and individual worldview, is also the final and only authority for its "correct" interpretation. Clearly, if such a view is adopted it becomes impossible to conduct an "objective" study of the biblical text.1 1. For a full discussion, see Semeia 51(1990), an issue devoted to the impact of subjective, or post-structural theories, on biblical criticism.

Preliminary Methodological Remarks

5

Subjective approaches to biblical criticism are remote from the one adopted in this book. They seem to me to confuse perilously the reader as synonymous with the interpreter which in fact he/she is not. Whereas the first is an individual subject who may be correctly considered as the authority determining the meaning of a text for him/her, the interpreter should be acting under clear methodological restrictions. These may guide the reader's inquiry into the independent meaning of the text, and enable him/her to interpret it objectively. Naturally, since any interpreter is an individual subject, it is impossible to eliminate his/her subjective perspectives altogether; nevertheless, such tendencies can, and should, be reduced to a minimum, making place for such questions as: How can we find the meaning of the text itself? What are the criteria that enable to speak objectively of its content?2 The "objective" approach to textual interpretation has received systematic treatment in Austin's `"Speech Act Theory," suggesting what may be called the "performative" criterion.3 It considers the notion of meaning as strongly related to that of acting: to understand the objective meaning of a given text we must discover how the author intended to act upon the contemporary reader's mind. This approach is particularly suitable to biblical interpretation since the Bible is characteristically an ideological text, taking an active role in shaping a new identity for the Israelite people. Its redactors were well aware that their work would have cardinal influence on what people think and believe in; they did not spare an effort in editing and revising their material in order that the tradition they constitute would be the one they actually sought after.4 Thus many biblical stories—Gen 22 is a striking example—were consciously formulated as religious paradigms, attempting to achieve canonical authority over their readers. The performative criterion, as a guide to the comprehension of their content, becomes appropriate. Nevertheless, it will be necessary to modify this criterion in order to apply it to biblical criticism, since the Bible is very different from any 2. For a different approach, see E. Greenstein: "Deconstruction and Biblical Narrative," Prooftexts 9 (1989): 43-71. Greenstein proposes that Deconstruction may be relevant not for biblical interpretation only, but for theological purposes as well. 3. For a discussion of this approach's impact on biblical criticism, see Semia4l (1990). For an attempt to bridge somewhat the gap between the objective and poststructural approaches, see S. Fish, Is There a Text in This Class? (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980), 190-240. 4. On the Bible's canonical authority, see M. Halbertal, People of the Book: Canon, Meaning and Authority (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997), 1-90.

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modern text and consequently from any text that the criterion can be made to suit. While most modern texts are products of an instantaneous one-act composition (the final form being determined almost immediately after the writing process), the Bible is the result of a progressive process. Most scholars agree that this is a composite text, a product of writing, rewriting and editing, taking place in different places, times and even centuries.5 During this time period, the Israelite culture was undergoing through conscious struggles of determination of a new identity. Religious-political changes were continuously taking shape as the Israelites were not only breaking apart from the pagan world of without, but also struggling within as to the form of the monotheistic culture they constituted. Such an atmosphere naturally stimulated controversies and disagreements: What is the "identity" of the new monotheistic deity? What would be the correct way to worship it? Many traditional stories had to be continuously edited and revised by different authors of different schools, in order to be assimilated into changing world views. Hence Austin's criterion becomes problematic: it is difficult to ascribe a given biblical text to a definite author, or to determine its target of readership. Furthermore, since many biblical themes were formulated to carry religious significance and become canonical, their appeal to a contemporary readership is elusive: some may have been consciously designed to appeal to a future readership as well. This is not to say that Austin's approach should be dismissed altogether in the biblical context; but it must be closely accompanied by the methodological assumptions of biblical criticism, and modified by the specific characteristics of the biblical text.

The first appearance of a critical approach to biblical exegesis, analyzing the Bible as a composite text formulated by various human authors, dates back as early as Ibn Ezra's twelfth-century commentary on the Torah. In esoteric language, Ibn Ezra contested the traditional assumption that it was entirely written by Moses and hinted to his readers that several passages must have been composed later then the Mosaic period. He 5. There are some disagreements on the exact delineation of the formative period. Most scholars agree that the latest texts of the Bible were written during the second century B.C.E., while the earliest texts date from the tenth century B.C.E. If this view is adopted, the shaping of the biblical text continued for some eight hundred years. For more details, see A. Demsky, "Literacy in Israel and Among Neighboring Peoples in the Biblical Period" (Ph.D. diss., The Hebrew University, 1976 [Hebrew]).


1

seems to suggest, though not in explicit language, that these passages are in fact later interpolations, incorporated into the text by human authors.6 In 1670 Spinoza published his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus (The Theological-Political Treatise), contesting the authority of Scripture and insisting that the sacred text must be subjected to scientific methods of examination. It was only in 1753, however, six hundred years after Ibn Ezra's commentary on the Torah, that a modern critical approach was explicitly pronounced, in Astruc's "First Documentary Hypothesis." Astruc observed that some narratives in Genesis consistently refer to the Deity as (YHWH) iTliT while others equally consistently use (God) DTD^X, and suggested that Genesis was composed of two originally independent sources. The first he titled Elohiste (E), the second Jehoviste (J). Ever since Astruc first proposed the criterion of divine names for distinguishing different sources of the biblical texts, scholars have argued and disagreed about its correct elaboration and implication in biblical exegesis.7 In 1823 Stahelin offered his "Supplementary Hypothesis," arguing that the Torah is basically an E text into which J passages were only inserted. In 1853 Hupfeled revisited this assumption, pointing out that what had generally been recognized as the "Elohiste" should in fact be analyzed into two sources, differing in their style of writing, worldviews and age of composition (he recognized the first as the author of the basic text, identified today as E, the second as a much later source, identified today as the Priestly source [P]). In 1876 these hypotheses received a more stable articulation in the so-called Graf-Wellhausen "critical hypothesis." Graf and Wellhausen agreed that the text of Genesis basically belonged to two parallel sources, E and J, which were incorporated into one composite text by a later redactor (referred to today as RJE). They suggested that the latest source was P (dating to the exilic or post-exilic period), interpolated into the composite text of Genesis that had previously been redacted. In recent years there is a growing disagreement among biblical scholars as to the correct implications of the "documentary hypothesis," the "critical hypothesis" and the like. The uncertainty involved in them has even caused some scholars to suggest that they are inadequate for biblical criticism and should be abandoned altogether,8 It is beyond the scope 6. See R. H. Pfeiffer, Introduction to the Old Testament (New York: Harper, 1941), 43. 7. For instance, J. Skinner's Introduction to his Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Genesis (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1910). 8. For instance, T. D. Alexander, "Gen 22 and the Covenant of Circumcision," JSOT25 (1983): 17-22; G. W. Coats, "Abraham's Sacrifice of Faith: A FormCritical Study of Genesis 22," Int 27 (1973): 389-400.

8


of the present study to address these controversies here, which are not intimately related to my purpose. In what follows I shall briefly sketch the critical assumptions that are related and, it seems to me, can be generally agreed upon. The Bible is a composite text, created by several authors of different schools and different world views. These authors can sometimes be identified and distinguished by their usage of divine names, their style of writing and the manner in which they represent the Deity. If applied with caution, these criteria may be valid; some biblical texts do persistently prefer one divine name to another (this principle is somewhat asymmetric: E is particularly persistent in avoiding the term JTBT while J may at times use DVrfPK). The different sources were assimilated and fitted into one composite narrative (sometimes referred to as JE) by an act of general redaction; the relatively ''young source," P, was inserted into this composite text only after it had been redacted (actually there is some disagreement on this last point; however, this disagreement is irrelevant to my discussion of Gen 22). Even though they should not be taken uncritically, these assumptions are important; if applied responsibly they may adequately explain many biblical phenomena that otherwise cannot be accounted for (such as interpolations, repetitions of stories, different versions of the same story and so forth). But what, then, would count as a responsible application? To the best of my knowledge there has not been much methodological reflection on this matter by biblical critics. I shall briefly offer two necessary, though admittedly not sufficient, criteria.

3 a. The Ockham 's razor criterion is originally an ontological imperative: "Entities are not to be multiplied beyond necessity." One must not believe in the existence of more objects than a minimum necessary, since no entity exists without reason and hence would not be if it were not necessary. But it is the epistemological version of this reasoning and its methodological application that are of interest for the biblical scholar. When explaining a given phenomenon, one must appeal to the smallest number of factors required. That is, any phenomenon must be explained by the least number of explanatory elements. This criterion, which is frequently appealed to in the empirical sciences, can easily be made to apply to biblical interpretation: when explicating the meaning of a biblical text, a difficulty in it or any other biblical phenomenon, the interpreter should attempt to do so by the smallest number of explanatory factors possible (indeed, only the


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absolutely necessary ones). This is not only a useful restriction to apply when interpreting a text, but it may also guide when choosing among different alternatives: when facing several competing interpretations of a given text, all attempting to explain the same phenomenon (a story's meaning, a textual difficulty in it and so forth), the simplest explanation (i.e. the one using the least number of explanatory elements) is the one to be preferred. As Wenham has observed, this simplicity criterion is often violated in biblical scholarship.9 Many biblical stories receive complex explanations, dissected into different parts that are ascribed to a different source. Unfortunately, the present literature on Gen 22 is a good example of such a case; there lacks one simple interpretation that elegantly resolves the various difficulties found in the text. Von Rad writes that "in a case of a narrative like this one, which obviously went through many stages of internal revision, whose material was, so to speak, in motion up to the end, one must from the first renounce any attempt to discover one basic idea as the meaning of the whole."10 Caution, of course, is due. In view of the Ockham's razor criterion, however, such a remark is problematic. In particular when facing a complex narrative an economic interpretation—bringing to a simple solution a wide range of difficulties—has all the chances of being a plausible one. b. The Charity Principle, as it was originally defined by W. Quine, states that when a speaker's utterances can be interpreted in more than one way, one should prefer the interpretation that maximizes the number of statements which come out true (i.e. maximize its logical value).11 For instance, if a speaker's utterances are self-contradictory and meaningless, their contradictory character should, if possible, be interpreted by his/her hearer so that it makes sense and becomes logical. If my friend tells me that she is feeling "good and bad" I should not assume that her words are contradictory but, rather, interpret her to say that "sometimes she feels good and other times bad" or that at the moment of speaking she has "mixed feelings." Since the articulation of the Charity Principle was designed originally to deal with logical problems of meaning and translation, having to do 9. G. J. Wenham, Genesis 16-50 (WBC 2; Dallas: Word Books, 1994). 10. G. von Rad, Genesis: A Commentary (trans. H. Marks; London: SCM Press, 1961), 238 (italics in original). 11. For Quine's original discussion, see W. V. O. Quine, Word and Object (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT, 1960), 58-59. The principle was, in fact, first elaborated by Neil Wilson, "Substances Without Substrata," Review Of Metaphysics 12(1959): 521-39.

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with the truth values of judgments and utterances, it does not appear usefully applicable for textual problems of biblical interpretation. It was elaborated on by Ronald Dworkin, however, who extended it to account for a wider range of interpretational questions.12 Dworkin writes that when a text has more than one alternative interpretation, the one to be preferred is that yielding the most excellent literary work. This means that, pace Quine, logic should not necessarily be the only criterion of charity but may be supplemented by literary, aesthetic and other criteria. The best interpretation would be the one covering all aspects of the text (aesthetic, verbal and logical), maximizing their merits to the highest. It is interesting to see that the traditional exegetes of the Bible, on the assumption that the text is divine, actually applied the Charity Principle in their works quite persistently. They often comment not only on stories, words or phrases, but also on the significance of parts of speech and letters, not permitting the text to have even one logical error, flaw of formulation or even redundancy of words. Abrabanel, for instance, in his commentary on Gen 22:13 ("and Abraham went, and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son...") points out what appears to be an extremely minor literal flaw: How did Abraham know that the ram that he saw was there in order to be sacrificed "instead of his son" 031 nnn)? He [God] did not command him [to slay the ram]. This ram could have belonged to another person's flock, so that the burnt offering would turn out to be a theft.13

This gap of information—Abraham sacrifices the ram without first receiving a direct order—is not a minor deficiency in Abrabanel's eyes, making possible some uncharitable meanings in the text (for instance that the ram was a "theft" and therefore impure). On the assumption that the text is divine, this cannot be possible, and must be interpreted away. Abrabanel expends much effort to show that there was some satisfying reason to be found in the text, a good argument explaining why Abraham sacrificed the ram instead of his son, even though God had never commanded him to do so. It is not by coincidence that another aspect of this verse was criticized by a traditional interpreter. R. Yaacov Kuli, a well-known collector of Hagaddah stories, notes that the verse contains slightly more information than what is necessary: "Why does the text say 'and he offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son'!" He asks, "Obviously it was instead of 12. See R. Dworkin, Law's Empire (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985), 51-62. 13. I. Abrabanel, A Commentary on the Tor ah (Jerusalem: Bnei Abrabanel, 1964 [Hebrew]): Parashat Wayyera.


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his son, so why does the text have to explain?"14 As Abrabanel found it perplexing that Abraham sacrificed the ram instead of his son without being specifically ordered to do so, Kuli could not agree that the verse might be redundant. In his view, there must be a reason why the text mentions that the ram was sacrificed "instead of (in nnn) Isaac: by this time Isaac supposedly had already been saved by the angel (v. 12); why then is it explained that the ram was sacrificed "instead" of him? To modern eyes, this meticulousness may often seem exaggerated or even obsessive. As will become clear in the following chapters, this is actually a fruitful systematic application of the Charity Principle, yielding some of the most precise explanations of the biblical text; in this case, a most accurate one of Gen 22. Most biblical scholars no longer share the assumption that the text is sacred and divine, tending to analyze it according to ("higher"/"lower") critical methods, thus emphasizing the assumption that it is only man made. This tendency is problematic. Dworkin's Charity Principle reminds us that, man made or not, if we wish adequately to interpret the Bible, we must assume that it is of the highest possible perfection. A responsible interpretation, then, strives to discover the objective meaning of the biblical stories by asking: How did the author intend to influence the reader's mind? In answering this question a biblical interpreter should consider the possibility that the text may have more than one author (thus carrying with it more than one intention), and be able to account for such a phenomenon. Sometimes, this can be done by distinguishing different authors from each other according to their usage of divine names, their style of writing and other philological criteria. However, since these methodological assumptions are not definitive, any interpretation should be evaluated by the criteria of Ockham's razor and the Charity Principle. Among competing interpretations, that which observes them more successfully is the one to be preferred. I would like to emphasize that even though this book employs (particularly in the first two chapters) methods of biblical source criticism, it is by no means committed to them. As pointed out in the Introduction, this fact should be made clear in Chapters 6 and 7, dealing with Maimonides' and Ibn Caspi's interpretations. Clearly, Ibn Caspi and Maimonides did not approach the Bible with a modern-critical perspective. Yet, as I shall argue, their interpretations of the Binding come extremely close to the one elaborated in this book. 14. Y. Kuli, Yalqut Me 'am Lo rez: A Collection ofAggada, Commentaries, and Halakha. Genesis (Jerusalem: H. Wagshall, 1967 [Hebrew]), 430.

Chapter 1

ABRAHAM: A MODEL OF OBEDIENCE?

Abraham, don't let your thoughts grow proud! You built one altar and did not offer up your son, but I built seven altars and offered up my sons on them! ("The Woman and her Seven Sons," Yalkui)

It is usually thought that the purpose of the Binding was to put Abraham's obedience to the test. In order to examine him, God commands that he makes the most terrifying sacrifice conceivable. Is his faith strong enough? From this conception follows the common appreciation of Abraham's religious conduct; namely, that in his readiness to sacrifice his son he performed an exceptional act of obedience, presenting a model of unprecedented devoted faith. "The founding father's willingness to sacrifice his son as a proof of devotion," says Sarna, "created an inexhaustible store of spiritual credit upon which future generations may draw."1 Vermes similarly writes that by consenting to offer his son "Abraham proved his perfect love [for God], and his example became the cornerstone of the whole Jewish theology... "2 If we look more carefully, however, it appears that this common understanding cannot be adopted without reservations. The obedience Abraham displays in the narrative was in fact nothing out of the ordinary in the Near East, where stories of child sacrifice—in which the son is actually slain by his father—are frequently encountered. His sacrifice was no more tremendous, to give only one example, than that of Mesha the king of Moab who, observing that a battle was going against his city, "took his son who was to reign in his stead, and sacrificed him for a burnt offering upon the wall" (2 Kgs 3:26-27). Why not acclaim Mesha as a religious ideal, a "knight of faith"?

1. N. Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1989), 51. 2. G. Vermes, Scripture and Tradition in Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 1973), 193.

1. A braham: A Model of Obedience ?

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As we shall presently see, Gen 22 is formulated as a paradigmatic narrative, intended to present a significant model of faith to the reader. Yet if the narrative is to have such exceptional religious value, it cannot consist of the founding father's willingness to obey. 1 God's command to Abraham, that he sacrifice his only son Isaac is a distressing order on the personal level, that of a father's love for his son. As S0ren Kierkegaard puts it, Abraham's relation to Isaac is "simply expressed by saying that a father should love his son more dearly than himself."3 What is actually at issue in this narrative, however, goes far beyond the personal. The trial is set in order to pose a matter of principle: God is the monotheistic deity, Abraham the symbol of the monotheistic believer, and the sacrifice of the son constitutes a pagan ritual, where a grave moral sin is inherent. The impossible meeting of the three (God, father and son) presents a paradigmatic dilemma: "Must the father of monotheism obey his God?"4 That Abraham is a symbol of the monotheistic believer is recognized in a wide range of traditional texts, both in and outside the Bible. The clearest biblical expression is found in Gen 12:1, where God commands Abraham to leave his country and his father's house, and travel to a new land which he shall point out to him: "Go-you away [^7 *]*?] from your country and your kindred and your father's house, to the land that I will show you."5 This command marks the moment at which Abraham, who at that time still followed his father's pagan tradition, is ordered to break away and make a new beginning.6 3. S0ren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling (trans, and ed. H. Hong and E. Hong; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 59. 4. Ibid. Problem one: "Is there such a thing as a teleological suspension of the ethical?" 5. Translations do not do justice to the Hebrew, "]*? "]*?. This is an unusual rhyme, which echoes again in Gen 22: ITmQn fHK*? "]*? "]bl (translated in the KJV as "go to" and in the NSV as "Go from"). In both instances I have opted to read "go-you away." 6. Abraham's sort of "natural" monotheistic tendency was also reflected in a famous Midrash, describing the ten years old Abraham as he searches for his God: "Then he [Abraham] arose and walked about, and he left the cave, and went along the edge of the valley. When the sun sank, and the stars came forth, he said, 'these are the gods!' But the dawn came, and the stars could be seen no longer, and he said 'I will not pay worship to these, for they are no gods.' But again the sun rise, and he said, 'He is my god, him will I extol.' But again the sun set and he said 'He is no

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This symbolic reputation is repeated in Gen 22. God commands Isaac's sacrifice (v. 2) in the following words: "Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go-you away ["J*7 *]^] to the land of Moriah.. ,"7 The phrase "go-you away" takes us back to its first (and only other) appearance, when God commanded Abraham to leave his father's land and move to an unknown one: ".. .to a land that I will show you" (Gen 12:1). The similarity between the commands is expressed also in their structure, which is formulated along a parallel rhythm. In Gen 12 God says "Go-you away from your country, and from your kindred, and from your father's house, to the land that I will show you," while in the Akedah his command reads: "Take now your son, your only son, your only son Isaac, whom you love and go-you away to the land of Moriah..." Moreover, in both cases Abraham is ordered to start a journey, but the precise destination is withheld from him (".. .to a land that I will show you" [Gen 12:1];"... .upon one of the mountains which I will tell you" [Gen 22:2]). Thus, as we read of Abraham's reaction to God's command, we are reminded not only of his role as the father of Isaac but of his role as the father of monotheism. Isaac too is a symbol, and his part in the story cannot be merely that of Abraham's 'only son'. He was not chosen as the subject matter of this trial simply as being the most precious sacrifice that could be demanded from a father. Isaac was chosen because the future of God's promise to Abraham—the future existence of the Israelite people—depended on his life. As we recall, at the time of the command Abraham was an old man; Isaac's slaying, indeed horrifying on the personal level, is thus inconceivable in its public consequences, contradicting God's earlier promise to make Abraham the "ancestor of a multitude of nations" (Gen 17:5). This contradiction too is expressed in God's command "go-you away" ("[^ *]b). When God first said these words to Abraham, instructing him to leave his father's house, he related them to the promise to multiply his seed: "go-you away... I will make you a great nation, I will bless you and make your name great.. .and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed" (Gen 12:1-3) Using the same phrase, he commands the slaying of Isaac. Thus, as Speiser points out, while the first time Abraham is commanded "go-you away" he is ordered to leave behind his past god,' and beholding the moon, he called her his god to whom he would pay Divine homage. Then the moon was obscured, and he cried out: 'This, too, is no god! There is one who sets them all in motion.'" See L. Ginzberg's The Legends of the Jews (trans. H. Szold; Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1909), 189. 7. See also von Rad, Genesis, 234.


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(sacrifice it, if you will), the second time he is ordered to sacrifice his Israelite future.8 Since the command of sacrifice sets forth a paradigmatic trial, it is reasonable to expect that the narrative presents an exceptional moment of faith. Since Abraham was ready to do the inconceivable—checked by the angel at the very last moment and praised for not "sparing" his son—this paradigm has often been interpreted in terms of obedience. Indeed, to modern eyes this may seem obvious: a father's readiness to sacrifice his beloved son presents an exceptional act of submission. To earlier readers, however, this was not quite as obvious. On the contrary, as I already said, stories of child sacrifice were frequently encountered in the Near East; there was nothing out of the ordinary in Abraham's readiness to sacrifice Isaac. The Near Eastern stories all share a common pattern: they tell of a noble leader of a people or a city who, in a time of impending danger of destruction, sacrifices his son in order to appease the gods. The act of sacrifice and the death of the leader's son (who is often termed, like Isaac, his "only son," TIT9) are thus the key to the survival of the people: because the son was sacrificed, the people are saved. Isaac's case, indeed, is very similar in this respect. As the child of the promise, he too is the key to the survival of the people, though in a different way than that common in the Near Eastern tradition. If the people of Israel are to exist, Isaac has to live. This un-coincidental similarity indicates that the Akedah is not only similar to the Near Eastern traditions but must be somehow connected to them. I shall explore this relation in detail in Chapter 5. Suffice it to say here that in light of this association, Abraham's obedience, his readiness to go to the last moment, becomes quite immaterial. In the Near Eastern stories, the father is not only willing to slay his son but, unlike Abraham, eventually does so. 2

4 Maccabees reports an incident (167-164 B.C.E.) which later became known as the case of "the woman and her seven sons." A Jewish woman had to choose between eating from the meat of the Roman sacrifices or dying together with her sons, and chose death (4 Mace 14:26). A later 8. See also ibid., 239: "Above all, one must consider Isaac, who is much more than simply a 'foil' for Abraham, i.e., a more or less accidental object on which his obedience is to be proved. Isaac is the child of the promise. In him every saving thing that God has promised to do is invested and guaranteed." 9. See J. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), 25-31.

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midrash puts the following words in her mouth: "Children, do not be distressed... Go and tell Father Abraham: let not your heart swell with pride! You built one altar, but I have built seven altars and on them have offered up my seven sons.. ."10 These words are well known and frequently cited. Yet one element in them often remains overlooked, namely, that they are genuinely to the point. Through the mother's death speech, the midrash conveys an uneasy feeling that the paradigmatic instance of monotheistic faith, Abraham's "Last Trial," is not at all exceptional. Her act, as Spiegel writes, "could make the biblical hero blush: 'Yours was a trial, mine was the performance^"11 Indeed, in her story there was no angel. The same feeling is probably the explanation of the following aggadah, describing Abraham's reaction to the angelic command to desist: "When Abraham had been forbidden to lay a hand on Isaac, he said: Let me extract from him one drop of blood and let this be regarded as though I had slaughtered him" (Gen. Rab. 56:7). Had the readiness to perform the sacrifice been as noteworthy as modern readers usually assume, asking for a drop of blood would not have been necessary; Abraham would have sufficiently demonstrated his devotion without voicing such a request. This aggadah struggles to add to the Binding something that is actually missing in it. More traditions confirm the same impression; the following is from Don Isaac Abrabanel: And Abraham cried to his God... "Let now Thy mercy note well what all manner of men will say this day, namely, that I did not sacrifice my son, and that all of my intention was vain and a lie..." .. .The whole purpose of Abraham's prayer and supplication was that God would not prevent him from offering up oflsaac as a sacrifice even after the sacrifice of the ram, for otherwise his intention and wish to serve God would not be believed...12

A discourse in which Abraham's intentions are doubted is surely very different from our own, where stretching forth one's hand to the knife seems more than convincing. But evidently it was not: for earlier readers what is exceptional about the Binding was not that Abraham was ready to perform the sacrifice, but that eventually he did not do so. Thus if Abraham is to be presented as a religious ideal in this story, he cannot be one of obedience. A perplexing suspicion even arose; was Abraham faithful? The following prayer is put in his mouth in an aggadah quoted from Hezekiah bar Manoah: 10. Yalkut, Deuteronomy, 26 #938. 11. S. Spiegel, The Last Trial (New York: Behman, 1964), 16. 12. Quoted in ibid., 129.


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When they see my son returning with me, they will say that I proved the liar to God on high and despised His words, and they will not believe that the cause [of restraint] was the Lord's. Then let the Holy one, blessed be He, take note that I have not rebelled against His commands and may He be my Witness.1^

As we have seen, the Akedah is formulated as if to introduce a model of faith, putting the father of monotheism to a paradigmatic test. We may justifiably assume, therefore, that the narrative was designed to present an exceptional moment of religious conduct. Yet the perplexity expressed by generations of readers excludes the usual understanding. This is not a paradigm of exceptional obedience.

3 Philo of Alexandria, polemicizing with Hellenistic critics who ridiculed Abraham's obedience, invested much effort in dismissing such claims.14 There is a crucial difference between Abraham's "sacrifice" and those of other Near Eastern fathers, he argues. Whereas they served God to achieve a definite purpose, Abraham served God purely, with no intention of gaining anything in return. In the Near Eastern traditions fathers did indeed sacrifice their sons in order to gain something in return, namely, the rescue of their people.15 Thus Abraham, who does not embark on a sacrifice to rescue his people (but on the contrary jeopardizes their existence), is unique. His is a pure religious sacrifice. Kierkegaard adopts the same line of argument. He too finds himself defending Abraham's obedience, comparing it to the apparently superior religious conducts of noble fathers who actually sacrificed their sons (he calls them "tragic heroes"). The crucial difference, Kierkegaard says, is that while they were acting in an "ethical dimension" (that is, in so far as they sacrificed their sons for the purpose of saving their people their conduct was not murder but could be deemed "good") Abraham was not. His is not an ethical sacrifice made in order to save the public. It is solely religious, performed out of duty to God: The difference between the tragic hero and Abraham is very obvious. The tragic hero is still within the ethical. He allows an expression to have its telos in a higher expression of the ethical; he scales down the ethical relation between father and son or daughter and father to a feeling that has its

13. In Hezekiah bar-Manoah, Hizkuni (Lwow, 1859) (my emphasis). 14. Philo, DeAbrahamo 33.178. 15. Ibid.

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The Binding of Isaac dialectic in its relation to the idea of moral conduct... Abraham's situation is different. By his act he transgressed the ethical altogether and had a higher telos outside it, in a relation to which he suspended it... It is not to save a nation, not to uphold the idea of the state that Abraham does it; it is not to appease the angry gods.16

Thus Abraham's trial is an instance of sharp collision between an ethical dimension and a religious one. "Ethically speaking," says Kierkegaard, "Abraham was going to murder his son." Religiously, he adds, "he was going to sacrifice him." It is in this tension that the Akedah is different from any other story of child sacrifice, and in this respect (namely, the "teleological suspension of the ethical") that Abraham's act of faith is exceptional. With this explanation (which has a strong echo of Philo), Abraham is supposed to regain his incomparable character, justifying his place as the "father of monotheism"; in Kierkegaard's words, his place as the "Knight of Faith." Kierkegaard's line of defense is very attractive. It is, nevertheless, insufficient and inconsistent with the simple text. As the angel of YHWH explains in w. 11-12, it is by obedience—and nothing else—that Abraham has demonstrated his great act of faith: "for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me." There is nothing in these words to suggest Kierkegaard's argument that Abraham's willingness to slay his son was exceptional in being pure of purpose, a clean religious conduct; the angel acclaims the merits of Abraham's act of obedience with no further explanation. If anything, his words actually contradict Kierkegaard's argument, emphasizing that Abraham's obedience would receive a reward: "Because you have done this thing, and have not withheld your son.. .blessing I will bless you" (w. 15-19).

4 The difficulty in explaining the religious significance of the Akedah has led more recent scholars to suggest other alternatives. The first thing that strikes the reader as exceptional in this story is the fact that Isaac was not eventually killed. It has therefore been suggested that the story is intended as a polemic against the ritual of child sacrifice: it presents the well-known tradition of the noble father who sacrifices his son, but changes the outcome. The son survives; God does not will the death of the son. Thus Spiegel writes that "Quite possibly the primary purpose of the Akedah story may have been only this: to attach to a real pillar of the 16. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 69-70.


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folk and a revered reputation the new norm—abolish human sacrifice, substitute animals instead."17 Paul Mosca similarly argues that the original purpose of the story, "may well have been to explain why YHWH no longer—or never—demanded the sacrifice..."18 If this line of interpretation were to be adopted, the story would have regained its religious significance, marking a turning point in the history of religious thought. However, this view too is untenable. "Here is the fire and the wood," says Isaac, "but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?" (v. 7). Indeed, the story already assumes animal, not human sacrifice, prior to Isaac's rescue. Levenson comments here that, as an etiology of the redemption of the firstborn son, Gen 22 is "Most ineffective." "[Although Abraham does indeed spot and then sacrifice a ram just after hearing the gruesome command," he points out, "he is never actually commanded to offer the animal, as he was commanded to sacrifice his only beloved son..."19 (This is an important remark; I will return to it later.) Moreover, consider the angel's words at the time of checking Abraham: ".. .for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son from me..." There is nothing in these words to suggest that the Akedah is a polemic against child sacrifice. On the contrary: the angel of YHWH limits the story to the understanding of Abraham's deed in terms of obedience, praising him for his principled—even if not actual—willingness to slay his son. Thus neither Abraham's readiness to slay his son, nor a polemic against child sacrifice, can sustain the singular religious significance of the narrative. Abraham is undeniably a model of faith. But does the Binding justify the place he has been granted in the history of religious thought?

17. Spiegel, Last Trial, 64. 18. P. G. Mosca, "Child Sacrifice in Canaanite and Israelite Religion: A Study in Mulk and mlk" (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1975), 229. 19. See Levenson, Death and Resurrection, 13.

Chapter 2

THE ORIGINAL VERSION OF THE STORY: ABRAHAM DISOBEYS The view of the Akedah chapter is that the one who puts to the test and commands the Akedah is God (Elohim), and the one who prevents it and makes the [subsequent] promise is the angel of YHWH. (Nahmanides' commentary on Gen 22:12) Now it came to pass after these things that God tested Abraham. And said to him, "Abraham," and he said "Here I am." Then He said "Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of the Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you"; So Abraham rose early in the morning and saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him and Isaac his son; and he split the wood for the burnt offering and arose and went to the place of which God had told him; Then on the third day Abraham lifted his eyes and saw the place afar off; And Abraham said to his young men, "Stay here with the donkey; the lad and I will go yonder and worship, and we will come back to you"; So Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on Isaac his son; and he took the fire in his hand, and the knife, and the two of them went together; But Isaac spoke to Abraham his father and said "My father" and he said "Here I am, my son" Then he said "Look the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering"; And Abraham said "My son, God will provide for himself the lamb for a burnt offering." So the two of them went together; Then they came to the place of which God had told him and Abraham built an altar there and placed the wood in order, and he bound Isaac his son and laid him on the altar upon the wood; And Abraham stretched out his hand and took the knife to slay his son; But an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven and said "Abraham Abraham" so he said "Here I am" and he said "Do not lay your hand on the lad or do any harm to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me"; And Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold and behind him was a ram caught in a thicket by its horns. And Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up for a burnt offering instead of his son; And Abraham called the name of the place the Lord-will-provide; as it is said to this day "In the Mount of the Lord it

2. The Original Version of the Story

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shall be provided"; Then the angel of the Lord called to Abraham a second time from heaven; And he said "By myself I have sworn, says the Lord, because you have done this thing and have not withheld your son, your only son blessing I will bless you and multiplying I will multiply your descendants as the stars of the heaven and as the sand which is on the seashore; and your descendants shall possess the gate of their enemies; in your seed all the nations of the earth shall be blessed because you have obeyed my voice; So Abraham returned to his young men and they rose and went together to Beersheba; and Abraham dwelt in Beersheba. (Gen 22:1-19) 1

On the face of it, the story hardly calls for further interpretation: God commands Abraham to sacrifice his only son; Abraham wakes up the next morning, takes Isaac to the land of Moriah, binds him on the altar and seizes the knife. The angel intervenes, freezing the scene and saving Isaac's life at the last moment; Abraham then sees a ram and sacrifices it on the altar instead of his son. The most intimate emotions are expressed in this story without any cumulation of language. The most difficult philosophical dilemmas are expressed without overt appeal to complicated concepts. But for the intervention of the angel, Isaac would have been slain by his father; the moral to be drawn therefore is that obedience to God takes precedence over the moral, as humanly conceived. In spite of the apparent clarity of the narrative, however, its style and composition are quite elusive. It has been widely accepted by scholars that Gen 22:1-13, 19 is the original story, traditionally ascribed by source critics to E. This conclusion is based on the extensive use of God (DTTl^X) for the deity, the strong allusions to the story of Hagar (also usually ascribed to E) and a few other stylistic and structural components. The "second angelic speech" (w. 14-18) is, in this view, usually considered a later interpolation to the original account. In contrast to the body of the story, this angelic address uses the divine name YHWH (HUT), not God (DTn^K), and differs also in style and composition, being repetitive in wording and using long explanatory arguments; the rest of the story is economical in manner.1 Furthermore, if we simply disregard these verses, which come after the event has actually come to an end, the narrative remains coherent and the reading flows well. This point is striking, especially when keeping in mind the precise and delicate formulation of the narrative: 1. For a brief synopsis of critical standpoints, see Wenham, Genesis 16-50, 101-2.

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The Binding of Isaac And Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up for a burnt offering instead of his son... So Abraham returned to his young men and they rose and went together to Beersheba; and Abraham dwelt in Beersheba.(Gen22:10, 19)

Recent studies, however, have questioned this analysis. Genesis 22:1-13 also recognizes the divine name YHWH (the "first angelic speech," w. 11-12), making the traditional identification with E questionable. Moreover, the distinction between vv. 1-13, 19 as original and w. 14, 15-18 as secondary has also been questioned. Scholars have argued that Abraham's obedience to God, his successful emergence from such an extreme test, actually call for the extra blessings, which are bestowed on him only in the second angelic speech (w. 15-18). In light of Abraham's obedience, in other words, the story could not have been concluded without the angelic address of w. 15-18 that provides the indispensable reward. This being the case, this angelic speech cannot be reasonably regarded as a secondary interpolation simply inserted into the original narrative. G.W. Coats, for instance, holds this view, contending that these verses are uan integral part of the narrative arising from the test." He argues that since the emphasis is so strongly focused on Abraham's obedience, a reward for it is most appropriate.2 So does J. van Seters, who contends that without w. 15-18 "the whole purpose of testing would have no real consequence... [I]t is only with the inclusion in the second speech...that the ultimate aim of the testing becomes clear. Because of Abraham's obedience his children will be blessed."3 It may be concluded that there is a discrepancy between two, wellestablished observations. On the one hand, on stylistic grounds it is evident that the second angelic speech is not an integral part of the early, original episode. J. A. Emerton actually considered it a "clumsy addition" to what is otherwise a "beautifully written story."4 On the other hand, on narratory grounds, this speech is an indispensable part of the original account: Abraham's obedience necessitates a blessing which he receives only in the second angelic speech, which, therefore, could not have been simply interpolated in the original account5 This discrepancy has brought 2. Coats, "Abraham's Sacrifice of Faith," 395. 3. J. Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975), 239 (my emphasis). 4. J. A. Emerton, "The Origin of the Promises to the Patriarchs in the Older Sources of the Book of Genesis," VT32 (1982): 14-32 (18). 5. For a comprehensive discussion, see R. W. L. Moberly, "The Earliest Commentary on the Akedah," FT38 (1988): 302-23; see also Wenham, Genesis 16-50, 101-2.


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scholars to suggest that the author responsible for w. 15-18 left his mark also on the text and content of what has so far been considered the original account (Gen 22:1-13, 19).6 Thus Wenham writes that there may have been "a simpler, shorter account of the sacrifice of Isaac, but to identify the original account with w. 1-14 is too simple, for the author responsible for w. 15-18 has also left his mark on w 1-14, so that identifying the limits and content of earlier versions of the story is elusive."7 Wenham's observation that the author responsible for w. 15-18 influenced the text as well as the content of the original account is accurate. If there is some part which is not original to the narrative but is nevertheless an indispensable one arising from Abraham's obedience, it follows that the very nature of the original account must have differed from the story as it is known today. However, to my mind, to renounce explanation of the text—dismissing the limits of the original account as "elusive" without attempting to recognize them—is proper only in the absence of a reasonable alternative interpretation. This is implied by the Ockham's razor criterion (see discussion in the Methodological Remarks): in searching for an explanation, we should prefer the simpler one. I suggest that w. 11-12, where the angel checks Abraham at the last moment, bear the imprint of the author responsible for w. 15-18 in the original story, that is, that Gen 22:1-10, 13, 19 constitutes the original account. This is supported by textual considerations (usage of divine names and style of writing) as well as by the structure of the text. If this is so, in the original account Abraham actually disobeyed the divine command to slay his son, sacrificing the ram "instead of his son" (nnn 133, v. 13) on his own responsibility. This interpretation thus brings together the textual and narratory understandings of the text, explaining the reason for the later redaction of this story: anxious to conceal Abraham's disobedience, a later redactor interpolated the figure of the angel, thereby shifting responsibility for interrupting the test from Abraham to the angel.

2 The first evidence for the secondary nature of the first angelic speech is that, like the second speech, it uses the divine name YHWH (HIPP). This is at odds with the divine name used throughout the narrative, which is 6. L. Kundert, Die Opferung, Bindung Isaaks (WMANT 78; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1998), 1:32. 7. Wenham, Genesis 16-50, 103.

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always God (DTn^K). As noted above, scholars used to hold that the original story was an Elohistic composition while only the later interpolations use YHWH.8 However, such a simple distinction has proved problematic. Whereas w. 14-19 (containing the angel of YHWH) can readily be considered a later insertion in the original episode, we are left with the "angel of YHWH" of w. 11-12, apparently an integrated participant in the story. In fact, the angel appears to be not only an integrated but also a very necessary part, indeed, the climax of the whole. It is hard to imagine the story as logical without the angel. Thus, if one does not consider the possibility that these verses are secondary, one cannot distinguish between "original" and secondary on the basis of the divine names used.9 This was pointed out by Moberly, who observed that the criterion of usage of divine names, which has often been appealed to in this context is problematic. Gen 22:1-14 does in general use "elohim," while w. 15,16 both contain "yhwh." But 22:1-14 is not, in fact, consistent.. .the angel of verse 11 is the angel of yhwh... [This] usage is particularly significant since there is no good reason to consider it redactional.10

However, not only can this speech be redactional, there is in fact good reason to consider it as such. There is a strong polemical motive in this verse, since the angel stops the action at a volatile moment. As the angel explains at some length, this is just before Abraham sacrifices his son: "for now I know that you fear God, seeing you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me." Yet, discounting the angel's presence in the text, this is actually the moment just before Abraham lifts his eyes, sees, and sacrifices the ram instead of his son:

•jron naton ns nrroa DB pr\ rrrrfacn *b IQK -HDK mpnn ^K •ana*)... rfpan .m&sh *?I>QQ naton hv mi* o&n m pmr na *npm m&n HK TT0 HK omaK awn ...m nK Dine?1? rtotfan HK np'n TT HK nrroK irfwi *rtfn DK np'n oman -fri vnpa "poa ?nK2 nmt *nt nam irn rac& ->Kaa omax aan .in nnn rhzh Then they came to the place of which God had told him, and Abraham built an altar there and placed the wood in order, and he bound Isaac his son and laid him on the altar upon the wood; And Abraham stretched out his hand

8. It is not my present aim to address the recent disagreements regarding the use of the divine names as a guide to source analysis (e.g. Alexander, "Gen 22 and the Covenant Circumcision"; and Coats, "Abraham's Sacrifice of Faith"). The different use of divine names is mentioned here only in order to try and distinguish two different styles of writing. 9. See n. 3 above. 10. Moberly, "The Earliest Commentary on the Akedah," 308.


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and took the knife to slay his son... But Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, behind him was a ram caught in a thicket by its horns. And Abraham went, and took the ram and offered it up for a burnt offering instead of his son. (Gen 22:9-10, 13-14)

The criterion of the divine name can and should be appealed to for the distinction between original and secondary. It explains at once the style of writing and the content of the story: the exceptional verses which, with w. 14-18, differ in style and in the use of the divine name, taken together mark the difference between a story in which Abraham disobeys and a story in which he obeys. The "angel of YHWH" of the first angelic speech was interpolated in order to conceal Abraham's disobedience. The second angelic speech, undeniably a secondary interpolation, was thus necessitated by Abraham's apparent obedience. This observation is even more telling in view of the fact that the style of the first angelic speech, as the style of the second, is repetitive, poetic and full of explanatory arguments. This is in strict contrast to the economic manner of the body of Gen 22. As was pointed out by E. Auerbach, it is an essential feature of this story to avoid any descriptions and explanations; the text says only a necessary minimum, thus creating its forceful effect: The externalization of only so much of the phenomena as is necessary for the purpose of the narrative, all else left in obscurity; the decisive points of the narrative alone are emphasized, what lies between is non-existent; time and place are undefined and call for interpretation; thoughts and feelings remain unexpressed, are only suggested by the silence and the fragmentary speeches; the whole, permeated with the most unrelieved suspense and directed toward a single goal...remains mysterious and fraught with background.11

Auerbach's words have certainly often been in the minds of scholars when they point out the secondary nature of the second angelic speech. Moberly, for example, comments (with specific reference to Auerbach) that "the story is noted for its taut and economic style of telling, heavy with suggestion of background context and meaning which is passed over in silence. By contrast, the style of w. 15-18 is repetitive and cumulative, with the use of synonyms and similes."12 The same stylistic criteria are applicable also to the first angelic speech. Verses 11-12 have a cumulative style, using synonyms and similes, in contrast to the short, clipped manner of w. 1-10, 13: 11. E. Auerbach, Mimesis (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 11. 12. Moberly, "The Earliest Commentary on the Akedah," 307-8. Moberly explicitly refers to Auerbach, as can also be seen by the words chosen for the description.

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The Binding of Isaac But an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven and said "Abraham Abraham" so he said "Here I am" and he said "Do not lay your hand on the lad or do any harm to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me."

In fact, these stylistic differences have been repeatedly noticed and pointed out by commentators. The fact that the angel of YHWH's call to Abraham from heaven (v. 11) is a double call (i.e. "Abraham Abraham"), in contrast to Elohim's single call in v. 1, has attracted much attention. A midrash asks: BUT THE ANGEL OF THE LORD CALLED UNTO HIM OUT OF THE HEAVENS... He said to him (in vs 11): ABRAHAM ABRAHAM. And why two times? It is simply like a person who is walking on a remote road with his companion and leaves him behind. Then he calls to him: My companion, my companion! So the angel called: ABRAHAM ABRAHAM, what are you doing? And why did he talk to him hurriedly? Because Abraham was in a hurry to slaughter him.13

This midrash explains the double call from heaven as a sign of Abraham's devoted intention to sacrifice his son. This is implausible: why should Abraham "hurry" to do so? If anything, such an apologetic explanation, raising more difficulties than the problem it seeks to solve, indicates that the double call is problematic and demands an explanation. Ibn Caspi too finds it necessary to comment on the angel of YHWH's double call in v. 12 as against Elohim's single one in v. 1. In his explanation, he refers to the midrash cited above, remarking that according to the Rabbis the double call from heaven suggests that "the sword was already placed on Isaac's neck, out of Abraham's urgent desire to slaughter him."14 He dismisses that explanation, however, as addressed only to the common people, who are unable to understand the "secrets of the Bible." The knowledgeable reader, Ibn Caspi explains, who is able to understand such clues as the angel's double call, will be able to grasp the "true, concealed meaning" of the story. In Chapter 6 I discuss Ibn Caspi's interpretation in full, arguing that when he talks about an esoteric meaning of Gen 22, he is thinking along the lines I suggest here.15 Here it suffices to say that in Ibn Caspi's view the key to the secret of this story is the alternation of the divine names (mrP/OTT^X) throughout the narrative. 13. See Tanhuma Wayyeray Gen 4 in Midrash Tanhuma (trans. J. Townsend; New Jersey: Ktav, 1989), #128. 14. See Ibn Caspi's Gevia Kesef (throughout this work the following English edition will be cited: Joseph Ibn Kaspi 's "Gevia Kesef: A Study in the Medieval Jewish Philosophical Exegesis [trans. B. Herring; New York: Ktav, 1982]). 15. For the text of Ibn Caspi and a full discussion, see Chapter 6.


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The double call from heaven is not the only stylistic difference that marks the first angelic speech in the context of Gen 22. The angelic command "lay not thine hand upon the lad" in v. 11 is immediately followed by a poetic repetition "and neither do thou any thing unto him." This too has attracted much attention. Wenham writes that "Though the words of the third panel so often echo the first, how different is their thrust! The original order is now explicitly countermanded. The parallelism, "Do not lay... Do not do anything," gives the prohibition a quasipoetic flavor.. ."16 C. Westermann writes that the unusual style must be due to the fact that this is the climax of the story: "at its high points, the narrative often takes on poetic form."17 Since this is, apparently, the climax of the story, the narrative might well take on a poetic form. Nevertheless, as we are looking for the imprint of the later author on the original account, we may keep in mind that these verses, which in the first place use YHWH (?T)fP) and not God (DTH^K), also show a striking stylistic difference. Furthermore, it is suspicious that the angel takes on the burden of interpreting the story for the reader. It is the most essential characteristic of this text to avoid unnecessary explanations. In fact, the writer puts much effort into avoiding even some necessary ones as well, thus demanding from the reader an independent, subtle interpretation. "Thoughts and feelings," observes Auerbach, "remain unexpressed and are only suggested by the silence."18 This remark cannot be made to apply to the words of the angel. His speech provides detailed information of Abraham's internal states of mind, emphasizing his apparently unquestionable intention to kill his son. Why should Abraham's "unshaken intentions," which have so far remained in the dark, be so meticulously emphasized by the angel? In fact, the mere presence of a figure of an angel in this episode and the manner of its appearance—the call from heaven—are unexpected and unusual in this cycle of stories. This is especially true when we consider the context of the God-Abraham relationship which is notable for its face to face encounters. One need only recall their meeting in the story of Sodom (Gen 18) in order to sense the discrepancy. In this encounter God first asks himself "shall I hide from Abraham what I am doing?" (Gen 18:17-19) and immediately shares with Abraham his plan to destroy the city (Gen 18:20). Abraham's response is by no means less direct. He stands up, "and Abraham came near," and says: "would you also destroy 16. Wenham, Genesis 16-50, 110. 17. C. Westermann, Genesis 72-36 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 161. 18. Auerbach, Mimesis, 11.

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the righteous with the wicked? ... [F]ar be it from you to do such a thing as this... Shall not the judge of all earth do right?" (Gen 18:23-25). In the Akedah too it was God himself, not an angel, who commanded the sacrifice (Gen 22:1-2). Why, then, is he not the one to call it off? Yaacov Kuli asks: "As for the text, 'But the angel of the Lord called out to him from heaven,' it is known that the dwelling of the angels is in the firmament. So why did not the Holy One blessed be He himself in all his glory speak to him?"19 H. C. Brichto too points out the inconsistency involved in this angelic appearance, posing the questions: Why does an angel appear and not God (Elohim) himself as at the beginning of the episode? And if an angel instead of God (Elohim), why an angel of YHWH and not of Elohim?20 A famous midrash puts this difficulty in Abraham's own words: "BUT THE ANGEL OF THE LORD CALLED UNTO HIM. " Abraham said to him: Who are you? He said to him: I am an angel. Abraham said to him: When the holy one told me to sacrifice him, he told me so himself. So now I ask that he himself tell me [to stop].21

Most scholars seek to resolve the difficulty of the angelic call from heaven by suggesting that the urgency of the moment caused this unusual manner of intervention. As Sarna writes: "the critical urgency of the moment precludes their usual personal appearance...and dictates this exceptional mode of angelic intervention, just as it did [in the Hagar story] in 21:17."22 But could not God himself have stopped Abraham in time? Moreover, the angel who appears to Hagar in Gen 21:17 was called the angel of "God" (DTr6K -p6a) whereas in Gen 22:12 it is an "angel of YHWH" (miT "J*6a). Like Gen 22:1-19, Gen 21 is ascribed to E. Therefore the angel's presence here again presents the problem of the appearance of an "angel of YHWH" (mrp ""JX^fc) in the thick of what seems to be—but for this exception—a composition of E. Moberly comments on this issue, suggesting that since the expression "Angel of YHWH" is common in the Bible, the problematic use of the divine name here could be dismissed as "purely formulaic." However, he observes, the fact that "angel of Elohim" is used in the Hagar story in Gen 21:17 (also E) indicates that it could have been used here too and, therefore, "YHWH" must be more than merely formulaic in this verse.23 19. 20. 1998), 21. 22. 23.

Kuli, Yalqut Me 'am Lo 'ez, 430. H. C. Brichto, The Names of God (New York: Oxford University Press, 287. See Tanhuma Wayyera, Gen 4, #128. Sarna, Genesis, 153. Moberly, "The Earliest Commentary on the Akedah," 308.


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Comparing this angelic speech to the speech made to Hagar seems, then, to compound the problem rather than resolve it. C. Westermann also comments on the unusual nature of this angelic appearance. He observes that the angelic "call from heaven" is highly exceptional since, when there is an angelic intervention in the patriarchal stories, the narrative ordinarily refers to an "earthly messenger." Westermann associates this problematic difference with the fact that this episode is a late narrative.24 Genesis 22 is indeed a late narrative. Yet most scholars, including Westermann, recognize that in its original form it is early, and an integral part of the patriarchal stories.25 Could, then, this "angel of YHWH" appearing to Abraham in w. 11-12 have had a part in it?

3 The secondary nature of the first angelic speech is further suggested by its inaccurate placement at the climax of the story. It is remarkable that if we omit these verses, which are usually considered so vital a part of the episode, the narrative remains logical. In fact, it moves even more coherently. Abraham's actions in w. 1-10 follow on from each other, forming a rapid and laconic sequence, and heightening the tension up to the climax: "...they came...he built...he laid...he bound...he laid...he stretched forth.. .he took..." At this point, the intervention of the angel arrests the economical flow of the episode with wordier and more detailed phrases. This could seem a natural course of events, since the tension of the story does not have to increase at this point, but rather, to be resolved. However, the angelic speech tends to over-explicate Abraham's obedience, which does not seem to require explanation at this point. It comes instead of a sharp resolution of the tension, focused on the safeguarding of Isaac, which would be desirable here. G. W. Coats, for example, has noted that as we approach v. 11, "the tension must break with either the death of the son or his miraculous preservation."26 He therefore finds it problematic that at the peak of the tension the focus is instead on the angel's emphasis on Abraham's obedience—which, in his view, is not at all in question. This suggested to him that the angel's speech might be a dividing line between two different versions of the narrative. 24. Westermann, Genesis 12-36, 161. 25. See, e.g., T. Veijola "Das Opfer des Abraham: Paradigma des Glaubens aus dem nachexilischen Zeitalter," ZTK 85 (1988): 129-64; Moberly, "The Earliest Commentary on the Akedah," 302-23. 26. G. W. Coats, Genesis: With an Introduction to Narrative Literature (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1983), 160.

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But once again, is Abraham's obedience not at all in question? If we simply disregard the angelic intervention, we find that in v. 13 the stream of "doing" verbs continues to flow and to heighten the suspense, from the point where it last paused in v. 10: ".. .he stretched forth.. .he took... he lifted up...he looked...he went...he took...he offered..." In fact, not only does the stream of the verbs continue to flow, it actually accelerates, and with it the drama. Verse 13 alone, which consists of twenty words, includes five more "doing verbs." We also encounter here the dramatic phrase V3T DK KBP1 ("and he lifted up his eyes"), which is often used in the Bible of a protagonist experiencing a turning point,27 and the word n3m, literally "and here" or "and now," but in fact signifying much abruptness (it could almost be translated as "suddenly"). The tension here thus rises sharply, and strengthens the drama. This is perplexing. If the angel had already stopped Abraham by that time, if the preservation of Isaac had already taken place in w. 11-12, then the ram's appearance and sacrifice occur after the tension of the story has already been resolved. Why, then, does the drama not only not wane in v. 13, but actually become intensified? The tension we experience as we reach v. 10 is stretched out and hangs in the air in v. 13: "And Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, behind him a ram, caught in a thicket by his horns..." Only then does it break, collapsing into Abraham's independent preservation of his son: "And Abraham went, and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering instead of his son." Does the narrative have two turning points? Is this climactic verse the original crux, the first turning point of the original story? Yaacov Kuli, who at first questioned the suspicious angelic intervention in v. 12, here too shows considerable sensitivity in posing the question: "Why does it say 'And he offered it up as a burnt offering in the stead of his son'? Obviously it was in the stead of his son—so why does the text have to explain?"28 Indeed, the clause "instead of his son" 033 nnn) is a somewhat redundant, unnecessary insistence on something which would already be self-evident to the reader. This again is a hint that in the original narrative "the angel of YHWH" had not originally already taken the responsibility for halting the test. The redundancy of the cause "instead of his son" (133 nnn) also attracted the attention of the midrash, which explains it by putting the following prayers in Abraham's mouth: 27. Compare Gen 13:10; 18:2; 39:25. 28. Kuli, Yalqut Me 'am Lo 'ez, 429.


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Instead of his son (133 nnn)—Abraham said before him: Master of the whole universe, behold, I am slaughtering the ram; do Thou regard this as though my son Isaac is slain before thee. He took the blood of the ram and said: Do Thou regard this as though the blood of my son were being poured before Thee. As Abraham skinned the ram, he said: Do Thou regard this as though it were the skin of my son Isaac which is being flayed before thee. As he coated the ram with salt, he said: Do Thou regard this as though the salt were being poured on my son Isaac. As he offered the limbs of the ram he said: Do Thou regard this as though these were the limbs of my son Isaac being offered to thee. As he burned the ram he said: Do Thou regard this as though the Ashes of my son Isaac were heaped up on top of the altar before thee... (Gen. Rab. 13)

This midrash is troubled with the word "instead" (nrm), interpreting it as "as though." This is revealing: why should Abraham ask that the ram he sacrifices "instead of his son" be considered "as though" it were Isaac if the angelic voice from heaven had already checked the act? Isaac's sacrifice has, apparently, already been announced as unwanted. Spiegel famously suggested that this midrash transmits an echo of an "archaic" rite.29 But it is more plausible that the obsessive insistence with which it makes Abraham ask that God would regard the ram "as though" it were Isaac is intended to reflect the anxiety of the moment: the phrase "instead of indicates that this was the moment of disobedience—the instant when the ram was substituted for Isaac without Abraham being previously stopped by the angel. Abraham pleads with God to accept the ram as a legitimate substitute. Genesis Rabbah provides another version of the same midrash, differing only slightly in detail. Here Abraham does not ask God to accept the sacrifice of the ram "as though" it were Isaac, but "as though" Isaac had actually been slain: "And he offered it up as a burnt offering nnn (instead of) his son"—he said to Him: Master of the whole universe, do Thou regard [what I have done] as though first I sacrificed my son Isaac and thereafter I sacrificed the ram nnn, after him. (Gen. Rab. 56)

It is impossible to make sense of such a request if the angel had already announced that Isaac's blood is not required. This is a plea that the sacrifice of the ram nnn, "instead of Isaac—not previously authorized—should be accepted. Indeed, many traditional commentators found it perplexing to begin with that Abraham offered the ram as a sacrifice, even though God never actually commanded him to do so.

29. Spiegel, The Last Trial, 62.

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One scholar who came close to this interpretation was M. Berdichevsky (M. Bin-Gorion). In his late work Sinai und Garisim, he wrote that the angelic figure (w. 11-12) was a later interpolation. Commenting on the angel's speech, Berdichevsky says: "all this, it seems, is only explication of [the next verse] "and Abraham lifted up his eyes; Kahana: that the angel called from heaven—this is an interpolation..."; "Because of the surprising appearance of the ram an idea flashed through Abraham's mind to sacrifice it instead of his son."30 In Berdichevsky's account the angel—a later interpolation—is not the cause of the stopping of the sacrifice but an explanation or, indeed, an interpretation of it. The cause is Abraham. This is further elaborated in Berdichevsky's interpretation of v. 13: "And he offered it [the ram] as a burnt offering..."—this source does not know of the angelic speech. After the clause "and the angel of the Lord called to him..." (v. 12) that is, after Abraham was already surprised, the verse "and Abraham lifted up his eyes..." is not very appropriate. See also Rashbam: "and he lifted up his eyes"—probably he had already lifted up his eyes...31

It is noteworthy that even though Berdichevsky here observes the secondary nature of the angelic intervention, he never notices the implications of this observation, namely, that Abraham disobeys. This aspect of his interpretation of Gen 22, therefore, was never developed. (In fact, Berdichevsky did not complete his Sinai und Garisim, which was published only after his death.) In looking for the imprint on the "original story" of the author responsible for w. 15-18, we may venture to think that the first angelic speech was not necessarily an integral part of the early narrative. The angel is not a natural player in this cycle of stories; the style of his verses differs from the rest of the account, and his use of divine names is also different. Moreover, as shown above, if we omit these particular verses, which can be regarded as the climax of the event, the narrative flows well and coherently. What makes these textual observations more interesting is the evident polemical motive. These exceptional verses mark the transition between a story in which Abraham disobeys and one in which he blindly obeys. The point that started our investigation bears repeating. On the one hand, most scholars have observed that the style of the second angelic speech 30. M. Berdichevsky, Sinai und Garizim: Uber den Ursprung der Israelitischen Religion (Berlin: Morgenland, 1926), 35 n. 55. 31. Ibid.


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is clearly distinguishable from the rest of the story, and they contend that it is a later interpolation. Emerton even considered it a "clumsy addition."32 Others, again, have argued that the verses could not simply have been inserted into the original account. According to this view, since the focus is placed strongly upon the testing of Abraham, the story could not have been concluded without the extra blessings that he receives in return for his extraordinary obedience. As Wenham says: Had Abraham not undergone the test, there would have been no risk of losing Isaac's life. For God to spare Isaac's life, which would not have been at risk without Abraham's obedient submission to the test, and then merely to say "now I know you fear God," is somewhat of an anticlimax. Surely God should say more.. ,33

We can close this gap, and confirm both observations. The second angelic speech is secondary, though indeed necessitated by Abraham's obedience: his apparent obedience, created by the interpolation of the first angelic speech into the original account by the later author.

4 In the previous chapter I argued that the model Abraham presents in Gen 22 cannot be one of obedience: his "readiness" to sacrifice Isaac is not as convincing (in fact less so) than various contemporary fathers' actual sacrifice. Note that this difficulty was associated with the angelic personage who—acclaiming Abraham's obedience as the story's unequivocal center of gravity—creates a perplexing discrepancy: on the one hand, obedience cannot be the exceptional element of the story; on the other, it has to be, since this is what the angel actually says. We may now overcome this difficulty. The model presented by Abraham was indeed exceptional in the Near East, though not as an act of obedience; it was an act of disobedience. Should Abraham execute God's command under any circumstances, even though it is manifestly immoral? In the light of this episode it has constantly been argued that God's command takes precedence over the rule of ethics; as Kierkegaard formulated it, this is the "teleological suspension of the ethical." However, if Abraham actually disobeyed God's manifestly illegal order, it was he, the monotheistic believer, the "Knight of Faith," who was responsible for the determination of good and evil—not God. He thus presents us, not with the "suspension of the ethical," but with a preference for it. 32. See n. 3 above. 33. Wenham, Genesis 16-50, 102.

Chapter 3

THE TRIAL OF SODOM IN THE BACKGROUND: ABRAHAM'S ETHICAL PROTEST He is wise in heart, and mighty in strength; who has resisted Him and succeeded? He who removes mountains and they do not know it when he overturns them in his anger... He snatches away; who can stop Him? Who will say to Him "What are you doing?" (Job 9:4-12) 1

The story of Sodom in Gen 18 opens as God informs Abraham of his intention to destroy the city (w. 17-19). God first asks himself, "Shall I hide from Abraham what I am doing?" and immediately tells him about his intentions (Gen 18:17). Abraham's reaction is well known. He stands up, arguing in protest and attempting to prevent the unethical act: Will you also destroy the righteous with the wicked?... Far be it from you to do such a thing as this, to slay the righteous with the wicked, so that the righteous should be as wicked; far be it from you. Shall not the judge of all the earth do right? (Gen 18:23-25)

Can the same Abraham silently bind his son on an altar? Abraham's ethical integrity is fully expressed only in the next lines that show that even as he protests, he is well aware of his situation; a human contesting the divine authority: Indeed now I who am but dust and ashes have taken it upon myself to speak to the Lord, suppose there shall lack five of the fifty righteous; would you destroy all the city for lack of five? (Gen 18:27)

The tension embodied in these words is extreme. Abraham voices both a bold protest against the divine authority and a realization of his own finite being. This tension indicates more than his ethical integrity; it reflects the theological perspective of the author: this story was designed to demonstrate that divine ethical authority does not stand beyond human reach. A profound explication of such theological perspective was,

3. The Trial of Sodom in the Background

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interestingly, stressed by Immanuel Kant (without referring directly to Abraham). "God must be feared as a just judge," he writes. "To fear God is not the same as to be afraid of Him. We are afraid of God when we have transgressed and feel guilty, but we fear Him when we are so disposed to conduct ourselves that we can stand before Him."1 In fact, Abraham's outrage against God's plan is conveyed not only in his actual speech but also in the words the text chooses to describe it. Abraham's reaction to the divine plan is introduced by the phrase "And Abraham came near and said..." ODiT) DPrnx tori, Gen 18:17). »r% "came near," stands in Hebrew for much more than merely "got closer"; it expresses an angry protest, even a threat. R. Judah describes the feeling in the air: "'And Abraham drew near and said...' He drew near for battle.. ."2 Again, can this be the same Abraham? Sarna attempts to resolve the conflict by suggesting that in the Binding Abraham does not protest since it is his personal destiny that is on the line, not the lives of the people in Sodom: "He, who was so daringly eloquent on behalf of the people of Sodom, surrenders in total silence to his bitter personal destiny. He does not question the divine constancy."3 However, Isaac's death means much beyond Abraham's personal destiny: his is not only a personal sacrifice; the future existence of the Israelite people depends on Isaac's life. Moreover, Abraham's concern in Sodom is not so much with the lives of its people as it is with the idea that God, "the judge of all earth," is about to carry out an unethical plan. Since divine injustice certainly characterizes also God's command to slay Isaac, one cannot simply resolve the problem by saying that when Abraham's personal destiny is involved "he does not question the divine constancy." That Abraham is concerned in Sodom with "divine injustice," and not so much with the actual endangered lives, can be seen by comparing his speech to that of Moses in Num 14. In a famous scene, Moses finds himself in a situation similar to Abraham's in Sodom, learning of God's problematic plan to disinherit the Israelite people in the desert: Then the Lord said to Moses: "How long will these people reject me? And how long will they not believe me, with all the signs which I have performed among them? I will strike them with the pestilence and disinherit them, and I will make you a nation greater and mightier than they." (Num 14:11-12) 1. I. Kant, Lectures on Ethics (trans. L. Infield; Indianapolis: Hackett, 1980), 97. I shall return to these words in more detail in Chapter 9. 2. In Midrash Rabba (trans. H. Freedman and M. Simon; London: Soncino, 1961), 426. 3. Sarna, Genesis, 151.

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Like Abraham, Moses too attempts to prevent the deity from carrying out its intention, praying and asking to have mercy on his people: And Moses said to the Lord: "Then the Egyptians will hear it, for by your might you brought these people up from among them. And they will tell it to the inhabitants of this land. They have heard that you, Lord, are among these people; that you, Lord, are seen face to face and your cloud stands above them. .. .Now if you kill these people as one man then the nations which have heard of your fame will speak saying, 'because the Lord was not able to bring this people to the land which he swore to give them, therefore he killed them in the wilderness.' Pardon the iniquity of this people, I pray, according to the greatness of your mercy just as you have forgiven these people from Egypt even until now." (Num 14:13-19)

Since Moses says "if you kill these people as one man" it is clear that he too, like Abraham before him, is confronting a divine injustice; God does not intend to distinguish between the righteous and the wicked. Yet their speeches are very different. Abraham does not plead for his sons, the sons of Israel, as Moses does, but for the almost unknown people of Sodom; his speech expresses a sole concern with the divine plan: "Shall not the judge of all earth do right?" Since his reasons are not the same, his argumentation is also different. Abraham does not try to convince God by quasi-political arguments as Moses does (".. .the nations which have heard your fame will speak saying 'because the Lord was not able to bring his people to the land which he swore to give them, therefore he killed them'") but poses a strict ethical demand: "Far be it from you to do such a thing..." Lastly, he neither prays to God nor pleads for mercy as is the case with Moses (".. .1 pray according to the greatness of your mercy...), but sees himself responsible for changing God's unethical way: "...[I] have taken upon myself to speak to the Lord..." Since the actual lives in Sodom are irrelevant to Abraham in Gen 18, due to the fact that his personal destiny was supposed to be irrelevant in Gen 22— his concern being strictly with divine injustice—one must wonder why he did not question the divine order in Gen 22 as he did in the story of Sodom. Moreover, the story of Sodom, as the Akedah, is in fact a trial of faith: God first says "I have known him in order that he may command his children... that they keep the way of the Lord to do righteousness and justice..." and then, in Abraham's performative speech one can realize what doing "righteousness and justice," keeping the way of the Lord, actually means: "Shall not the judge of all earth do right?" Levenson writes:


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Whereas in chapter 18 Abraham passes the test God assigns him (w 1719) by speaking up in protest against God's own counsel, in chapter 22 he passes the test by obeying the divine command unquestioningly.4

Since this is the case, the disparity between the stories lay in more than Abraham's personal character; it reflects a contradiction in theological worldviews: not so much a tension in what Abraham actually did and how he acted, but in the evaluation of what he should have done. But let us re-examine the world view that underlines the story of Sodom; we will see that the contradiction is even sharper.

2 Abraham's rhetorical reaction to God's unethical plan can be analyzed into two arguments. "Will you also destroy the righteous with the wicked?" he asks, "Suppose there were fifty righteous within the city; would you also destroy the place..?" First, there is a demand for individual justice ("would you also destroy the righteous with the wicked?"), and second, a plea that if a certain number of righteous men will be found in the city it will be spared for their sake. These two arguments are rather different; while the first is strictly ethical in content, posing a demand to distinguish between good and evil, the second is nothing but a deal—a bargaining for mercy. In his reply, God meets only the second request, leaving the first unanswered: "If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city," he says, "I will spare all the place for their sakes." From now on, the dialogue does not extend much beyond this level. Abraham attempts to reduce to a minimum the critical number of righteous necessary to save the city while God complies with his pleas, reducing the amount. As they compromise on ten, the debate is over and the consequence well known: Then the Lord rained brimstone and fire on Sodom and Gomorrah, from the Lord out of the heavens. (Gen 19:24)

We are never told how many righteous men were eventually found in Sodom at the time of its destruction, but we assume that they were fewer than ten; for God had given Abraham his promise—the city would be saved if ten righteous men were found in it. It is surprising, therefore, that even though God did not reply to Abraham's ethical demand, he did not altogether ignore it, pulling Lot and his family out prior to the destruction of the city: 4. Levenson, Death and Resurrection, 129.

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The Binding of Isaac And it came to pass, when God destroyed the cities of the plain, that God remembered Abraham, and sent Lot out of the midst of the overthrow, when he overthrew the cities in which Lot had dwelt. (Gen 19:29)

Abraham's ethical protest, which appeared to have been forgotten, eventually achieved a small success. Not only did he not endure any angry reply to his disobedient words—he actually contrived to modify God's intentions. With this in mind, a re-examination of the opening scene of the story is worthwhile. In Gen 18:17-19 God asks: Shall I hide from Abraham what I am doing? Since Abraham shall surely become a great and mighty nation, and all the nations of the earth shall be blessed in him? For I have known him, in order that he may command his children and his household after him, that they keep the way of the Lord to do righteousness and justice...

What does "to keep the way of the Lord to do righteousness and justice" (BSOai np"TX rmsh 7I *]-n niOB^) mean here? Most scholars understand it as "Abraham will command his children to keep on going in God's way."5 However, as M. Fisch has pointed out, on this understanding God's question ("Shall I hide from Abraham what I am doing? .. .For I have known him in order that he may command his children.. .that they keep the way of the Lord to do righteousness and justice...") does not make sense.6 This question conveys an argument: "I, God, tell Abraham my intentions because he keeps my ways and will command his children to keep my ways." In the common understanding of this verse, this is illogical: why should the fact that Abraham commands his children to continue ("keep on going") in God's way be the reason for God to share his divine intentions with Abraham? As Fisch says, "A commander in the army does not share his intentions with his soldiers because he knows that they will unquestionably comply."7 "To keep the way of the Lord to do righteousness and justice" cannot be interpreted, therefore, as "Abraham will command his sons to keep on going in God's way, to do justice" but rather as: "Abraham will command his sons to keep God's way (i.e. guard his way)—to do justice." (The Hebrew remains just as valid: ...1JT3 DK iTCr n»X ]SCb TTUTP "O BSOQI fTpTO rtWSh mrp "pi inaen.) In fact, Rashi understood these words in the same way. He writes,

5. For instance Sarna, Genesis, 131. 6. M. Fisch, Brit Ha 'imut (Tel Aviv: Alpaym, 2001 [Hebrew]). 7. Ibid.


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"For I have known him"—signifies his [God's] affection...and why I have known him? "In order that he may command"—since he commands his sons, / must keep my ways"*

The theological worldview expressed in these words, namely, the idea that God does justice because of human ethical integrity, is a rather radical way to understand the meaning of this story. Nevertheless, this is the most reasonable explanation of the simple text (i.e. itspeshat meaning): this is the only possible way to make sense of God's argument that he communicates his divine intentions to Abraham, because he keeps God's way, and this is also the only way to fit God's saying into the content of the story: Abraham was not "keeping on going" in God's unjust way. On the contrary: he was taking care that God does "righteousness and justice." Fisch, who first pointed out this line of interpretation, concludes by asking: But how can we reconcile the Akedah with the story of Sodom? It seems that the trial of the Akedah, which many hold as the most important trial that Abraham was ever put through, is in direct contradiction to everything the story of Sodom is intended to reflect. How can the same person be attributed amazing willingness to stand on ethical ideas before God in Sodom, and at the same time obedient compliance, not less amazing.. .in the Akedah?9

These words seem to me very accurate; yet one of Fisch's observations is not as precise: whereas Abraham's ethical insistence in Sodom is indeed "amazing," his obedience in the Akedah, as we have seen, is not, for it is in fact inferior to fatherly acts of sacrifice known in the ancient Near East. If we observe that Abraham actually disobeyed, however, the discrepancy is only apparent: the "amazing" religious ideal he demonstrated in Sodom was not contradicted in the Akedah but elaborated further. Maimonides, concluding his interpretation of the Akedah, mentions the story of Sodom in what may seem a rather awkward manner. He says that the ideas that Abraham expressed "out loud" in Sodom are also embodied in his actions in the Akedah: Abraham was the first...to establish the faith [in God], to cause it to remain among coming generations, and to win his fellow men for his doctrine as scripture says of him "I know him, in order that he may command his children... etc" (Genesis viii 19). In the same manner as he was 8. Rashi, Perush al Hatorah [Hebrew] ("Commentary on the Torah") (my emphasis). 9. Fisch, Brit Ha 'imut.

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The Binding of Isaac followed by others in his true and valuable opinions when they were heard from him, so also the principles should be accepted that may be learntfrom his actions; especially from the act [= the Akedah] by which he confirmed the principle of the truth of prophecy.10

"I know him, in order that he may command his children..." is a quotation of the verse treated above, meaning that "because Abraham commands his children to keep the way of the Lord"—God does justice. What did Maimonides mean by quoting this verse and saying that the same opinions that people may learn from Abraham's words can be also taken from his actions? Is he not suggesting that the 'Valuable opinions" drawn from Abraham's words in the story of Sodom are the same drawn from his actions on Mount Moriah? In Chapter 71 shall discuss Maimonides's interpretation of Gen 22 at some length. It should become clear that he here gives a hint of his esoteric, "true" meaning of the story.

10. Maimonides, Guide 111:24 (my emphasis) (throughout this work the following edition is cited: M. Maimonides, The Guide for the Perplexed [trans. M. Friedlander; London: Routledge, 1928]).

Chapter 4

ABRAHAM'S JOURNEY TO MOUNT MORIAH: OBEDIENCE, INTERNAL STRUGGLE OR PREDICTION OF DISOBEDIENCE? The description of Abraham's journey to Mount Moriah is brief. As soon as God utters his command (v. 1) it takes the narrative no more than ten verses to reach the final scene. Yet the journey itself was actually quite long; it took Abraham some three days only to "view the place which God had told him from afar off." This time gap—long journey, short description—plays an important role in the narration. It shrouds Abraham's internal state of mind in obscurity, forcing the reader to speculate: What was he thinking? What were his intentions? Auerbach writes that the journey is like a silent progress thorough the indeterminate and the contingent, a holding of the breath, a process which has no present, which is inserted, like a blank duration, between what has passed and what lies ahead, and which yet is measured: three days! Three such days positively demand the symbolic interpretation which they later received.1 1

Since Abraham's intentions remain in the dark throughout the narrative, nothing definitive concerning the story can be drawn from them. Nevertheless, if we follow a different methodology, the enigmatic silence may tell something of value. Rather than speculate on Abraham's intentions, we may inquire into the author's: What is he trying to suggest by this manner of writing? What is the sentiment of this journey made to signify? The answer to these questions has not remained unarticulated; it is disclosed in the history of this text's interpretation. As proposed by many commentators, this silence progressively hints, up to the moment that 1. Auerbach, Mimesis, 10.

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Isaac is bound on the altar, that Abraham's obedience should not be taken for granted. The narrative begins with Abraham's preparations for the journey, which are made and described in an unreasonable sequence: Abraham rises up early in the morning, all in a hurry to start the journey. He saddles the donkey, collects his young men to come with him and fetches his son. Then—all this assembly is already waiting to go—he turns to cut the wood for the burnt offering. A careful reader must notice that this is an odd way of proceeding; why first assemble the men and Isaac and only afterwards cut the wood? This implausible sequence has been extensively commented upon and explained, in both the rabbinical and the modern literature. Was Abraham confused? Was he trying to hide his intentions? As Wenham writes: When they are ready to go, he suddenly goes to cut the wood for the sacrifice—not the most sensible order of proceeding. Can he not think clearly, or was he trying to hide the nature of his journey until the last possible moment to avoid awkward questions... Or is cutting wood the most painful part of the preparations?... His motives are left unexplained.2

Whether Abraham could think clearly or not is left for the reader to wonder. That this question reflects a real difficulty in the text is evident. When describing a reasonable sequence of proceeding an author may write somewhat loosely, without paying attention to details. In order to create such an illogical order, however, this author must have deliberately violated the logical one. This is an illogical order of proceeding in what is probably the most meticulously narrated story in the Bible. We must therefore inquire not only into Abraham's intentions but also into the author's—what was he trying to convey? As the journey continues the confusion grows worse. In contrast to Abraham's first swift actions (rising early in the morning, saddling the donkey, gathering the men, cutting wood), there comes a rather long, slow sentence: 'Then, on the third day, Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place that God had told him from afar off' (v. 4). This sentence is awkward. First, the reader must query the content: "Why did the journey take so long if Abraham was moving so fast? Why did it take Abraham three days to travel from Hebron to Mount Moriah? The rabbis have asked. This is a mere eight hour walk!"3 Was he confused? Was he deliberately delaying his arrival? There is also the style of the

2. Wenham, Genesis 16-50, 105. 3. Kuli, Yalkut Me 'am Lo 'ez, 314.

4. Abraham's Journey to Mount Moriah

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description. Given that Abraham's preparations are presented in a swift succession of verbs—"Abraham rose early in the morning and saddled... and took.. .and split... and arose and went..." (Gen 22:3)—the dragging effect of the next sentence—"Then, on the third day, Abraham lifted his eyes and saw the place that God had told him..." (Gen 22:4)—creates a lack of proportion. As it concludes saying that he "saw the place that God had told him—-from afar off" this disproportion becomes even more exaggerated. However this manner of writing may be explained, it is not intended to communicate Abraham's obedient faith. At the very least, these verses signify much hesitation and doubt—"internal struggle." More plausibly, this "struggle" is a foreshadowing of Abraham's eventual decision to sacrifice the ram instead of his son. Maimonides, who was well aware that Abraham's dawdling requires explanation, suggests that the longish interval indicates that Abraham was not obeying out of panic or fear, but after a long intellectual dwelling on God's command: If the act by which he showed his readiness to kill his son had taken place immediately when he received the commandment, it might have been the result of confusion and not consideration. But the fact that he performed it three days after he had received the commandment, proves the presence of thought, proper consideration, and careful examination.. .4

In the next lines Maimonides explains the delay a bit further: "He consented to kill him after a journey of three days";5 that is, "proper consideration" means that it was not clear that Abraham would eventually obey. Ibn Caspi, commenting on Maimonides' words, says: Maimonides excelled further in saying that the Torah, in informing us that the actual binding took place three days after the command, was so that we should not imagine that it was carried out in confusion...but rather after consideration and thought. For A braham must have wondered how the Lord could command him to perform such an abomination... ?6

Maimonides never explicitly said that Abraham's delay was due to any ethical doubts, only that it indicates "careful consideration." For some reason, Ibn Caspi insists that this was what Maimonides actually meant; we shall see later on that this is quite accurate. The time gap in Abraham's journey was also reflected in a famous Midrash, ascribing the delay to the devil's intervention on the way:

4. Maimonides, Guide 111:24. 5. Ibid, (my emphasis). 6. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesefl45& (my emphasis).

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The Binding of Isaac As they walked along, they suddenly encountered an old man, who was actually the Satan in disguise. He asked Abraham "Where are you going?" "To worship" replied Abraham. "And why are you bringing along wood and a slaughter knife?" "We may have to stay there a day or two. It's best to have what we need in case we need to prepare food." "Do you take me for an idiot?" asked the stranger. "Do you think that I do not know what you are doing?" The Satan then began to scream "You old fool! You were given a son when you were a hundred years old, and now you are going to kill him!"

The Midrash puts the voice of reason in Satan's words—not in God's or Abraham's. As the dialogue goes on and Abraham is not persuaded, the devil increases his attempts: "Maybe you were mistaken," he suggests, "who knows what the message really was"; "If you kill the boy, God will punish you for taking an innocent life.. .you will be nothing but a murderer." Yet Abraham is not convinced. He goes on his way, determined to carry out God's command. Satan then takes a step further, putting physical obstacles on the way: Seeing that he could not convince them [Abraham and Isaac], the Satan sat down in their path and disguised himself as a raging river. Upon approaching the river, Abraham went into it alone, wading up to his waist. Thinking that they would be able to ford the river, he summoned Isaac and took his hand. They had taken but a few steps, when the water reached up to their necks... (Gen. Rab. 56:4)

As with Ibn Caspi's reading, this Midrash explains the delay by ethical arguments, put in the devil's voice of reason. It would not be too much of a speculation to suggest that this Midrash actually expresses Abraham's thoughts, only transferring them to Satan. Verse 5 presents another difficulty. "Stay here with the donkey," commands Abraham his servants: "the lad and I will go yonder and worship, and we will come back to you" (Gen 22:5). "We will come back?" ask the rabbis, "if Abraham intended to sacrifice his son, how could he say, 'we will return to you'? He should have said 'I will return to you.'997 This would not seem to be a significant difficulty for it admits a simple explanation: Abraham is plainly lying to his servants, thereby hiding the truth also from his son. But is this in fact the case? Once again, the meaning of Abraham's words is obscure and open to speculation; as Wenham writes, he can be understood in various ways: He [Abraham] simply but enigmatically states "stay by yourselves... So that we can worship and return." In light of the command to sacrifice 7. Kuli, Yalkut Me 'am Lo 'ez9 314.


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Isaac, it is odd that he says "we shall return." Is this economy with the truth a smokescreen, hiding the true plan from the servants and Isaac? Is Abraham perhaps having second thoughts about sacrificing his son? Or does he hope that somehow Isaac would return as a result of Divine intervention? His remark leaves us to speculate, and the narrator does nothing to stop us.8

Again, it is the narrator's intention that we ought to inquire. Wenham envisages in the passage above three possibilities: a lie, disobedience and an affirmation of faith (that Isaac will eventually be saved). Another possibility, which he did not consider, is that his second and third proposals may converge into one: Abraham's words convey disobedience, which is nothing but the true affirmation of his faith. After what has been said in the previous chapters, this would seem a most appropriate understanding of the text. Ibn Caspi comments that Abraham was leaving his servants behind in order to conceal from them the true meaning of the Akedah. These servants "were inferior people," he says, "...not fit to accompany Abraham"; "they were not compatible with the revelation of so important a secret as this."9 There are some traditional interpreters who suggest that Abraham's phrase "we shall return" was a prophecy. Rashi is most explicit: "He [Abraham] prophesied that both of them would return."10 At first glance this line of interpretation simply indicates, once again, that Abraham's use of the dishonest "we" is obscure and requires explanation; but it perhaps discloses a more interesting possibility: What is the nature of such a prophecy? What does it mean, in other words, to "prophesy" Isaac's return? Maimonides says that "In truth," Abraham's religious actions in this narrative 'Validated the fundamental principle affirming the truth of prophecy."11 Could it be that Abraham's "prophesying" Isaac's return from the mountain is in fact related to his disobedience— to his thought not to sacrifice Isaac after all? However Abraham's words are explained, his intentions remain unclear. His obedience must not be taken for granted.

2 The confusion reaches a climax in v. 8. Isaac turns to his father with an innocent question—"Look, the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb 8. Wenham, Genesis 16-50, 106. 9. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesef 145a. 10. Rashi, Perush alHatorah. 11. Maimonides, Guide 111:24.

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for the burnt offering?"—but the father's reply is obscure: HXT DTTl^K ^32 rb*\xh ntDn 1^ ("God will provide for himself the lamb for a burnt offering, my son"). In fact, so obscure is this wording that the translation is not at all self-evident: The Hebrew HXT may be translated literally as "see," so that God would be the quiescent agent, "God shall see the lamb...," or as "show," so that God would become active: "God shall show the lamb." However, the word TOT is followed by another accusative, "6, which may be understood as "him," "himself or "for himself." Since such a combination, !*? TOT ("see himself), is exceptional in Hebrew, it is certainly crucial for understanding Abraham's words, placing a strong emphasis on God's passivity. This is not merely "God shall see" but "God shall see himself a lamb for a burnt offering" or even "God shall see for himself..." The KJV actually gives "for himself but escapes the provocative result that "God shall see for himself the lamb" by translating TOT not literally as "see" or "show," but as "provide": "God shall provide for himself..." While this is a possible interpretation of the Hebrew, there is no reason not to use here a simple translation. Thus the verse is more responsibly translated as "God shall see for himself the burnt offering, my son." In fact, the English reader may take into account that TOT could be also translated as "find out": "God will find out for himself the lamb, my son." Jack Miles writes: As for the sentence "God will see to the sheep..." ...Is this sentence spoken past Isaac to God? Is it a plea? Is it a challenge? The verb form translated "will see to" may be either future or jussive; that is, either "God will see too" or "let God see to."12

To my mind, it is striking that Abraham's answer is—in whatever interpretation we may assign to it—actually very accurate. Eventually, this is precisely what happens: God does "provide himself with—or "finds out for himself—the ram for the burnt offering. Is this a prophecy again? Up until the very last moment, as Isaac is already bound on the altar, the narrative is obscure:".. .And Abraham built an altar there and placed the wood in order; and he bound Isaac his son and laid him on the altar, upon the wood" (v. 9). A modern reader unacquainted with sacrifices and burnt offerings may not grasp how strange these words are. Yet what Abraham does is actually wrong—this is not the correct procedure for making a burnt offering. "If Abraham intended to sacrifice Isaac and brought fire and wood for the purpose," R. Yaakov Kuli asks, 12. Jack Miles, God: A Biography (New York: Random House, 1996), 59.


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why did he arrange the wood, bind Isaac, and place him on the wood without first igniting it? According to the laws of sacrifice, one must first kindle the fire, and only then can one slaughter the sacrifice.13

Levenson is even more informative: The ordinary procedure for the burnt offering is to slay the victim first, then to flay and section it, and finally to lay the pieces over the burning wood as "an offering by fire of pleasing odor to the Lord" (Lev 1:3-9). Abraham's act of tying Isaac to the altar, atop of the wood, is altogether anomalous.14

In other words, if Abraham was intending to follow God's command and sacrifice his son as a "burnt offering," he should have killed him first, then dissected the body and only afterwards laid the pieces on the altar flames. This is neither more nor less than the information conveyed in God's specific command (v. 2). Levenson tries to resolve this anomalous procedure by suggesting that we do not recognize it since this story is the only evidence we have for a ritual of human sacrifice. It seems to me, however, that this explanation is not very likely, however; for the narrative specifically defines the required procedure as "burnt offering" (n^lU ni^JWf?). As Levenson himself points out, we do have a clear understanding of what such a procedure consists, and Abraham's actions do not fit. It seems more plausible to explain the abnormality of Abraham's actions in that, here too, as throughout the narrative, his actions never completely suggest compliance. If we look back at Abraham's journey we find that it actually moves in two opposite directions: the background of the narrative leads in a direction opposite to Abraham's external moves, so that as he comes closer and closer to slaying his son the confusion surrounding his final decision progressively develops. Was this confusion supposed to break from the background of the narrative into the external moves at the very last moment, as Abraham seizes the knife but lifts his eyes and sees the ram? I do not wish to be drawn into speculation; one thing can be stated with certainty: up to the very last moment, when Isaac is bound on the altar, the reader cannot take it for granted that Abraham is going to obey. Of all the writers commenting on Abraham's hesitations, Miles seems to have gone the farthest. He points out that Abraham had never actually agreed to God's request and that he "resists even as he goes through the motions of compliance" and therefore ventures to doubt Abraham's 13. Kuli, Yalkut Me 'am Lo 'ez, 314. 14. Levenson, Death andResurrection, 135.

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eventual decision—even without the angelic intervention at the last moment. "Abraham goes through all the murderous motions," he writes, "but we never learn whether he would actually have gone through with the sacrifice."15 Or do we? The angelic intervention seems to be the product of a later redaction. In the original story, therefore, we actually learn whether Abraham would eventually have gone through with the sacrifice. ***

There is an early tradition, well known among biblical scholars, in which Isaac was actually sacrificed by his father. We are not acquainted with an extant version of such a narrative, but it is preserved obliquely, it seems, in quite a few traditions. Midrash Hagadol on Gen 22:19, for instance, relates that after the Binding God brought Isaac "into the Garden of Eden, and there he stayed three years." According to this Midrash, he apparently returned only when, eventually, he had to meet his beloved Rebecca. This tradition relies on one textual hint in particular. When Abraham leaves his servants behind, taking his son and starting the climb to "the place that God had shown to him," he says, "the boy and I will go over there; we will worship, and then we will come back..." (v. 5). When he comes back, however, the narrative for some reason speaks in singular: "...and Abraham returned to his young men..." (v. 19)—where was Isaac? "In heaven" is the answer, from where he returned only in order to get married. This tradition was apparently widespread during Ibn Ezra's times, since he was careful enough explicitly to reject it. Isaac was simply under his father's custody, Ibn Ezra explains, and for that reason not mentioned in the text: ".. .and any one who says that he slaughtered him and left him and that afterwards he came back to life has said the opposite of the text pirDH TD)."16 Ibn Ezra's words are well known and frequently recited. Yet their significance, it seems to me, has remained overlooked. Why opposite to the text? Surely the ordinary reading, in which Abraham was ready to kill his son and was only stopped by an angel, is nothing like opposite here. Surely, being ready to kill Isaac is not opposite actually to killing him. What was the meaning assumed by Ibn Ezra?

15. Miles, God: A Biography, 59. 16. Ibn Ezra's commentary on Gen 22:19.

Chapter 5

THE RELIGIOUS SIGNIFICANCE OF THE AKEDAH: ETHICAL RESPONSIBILITY, CHILD SACRIFICE AND THE EXISTENCE OF THE PEOPLE OF ISRAEL With a ready mind [Abraham] delivered up as a sacrifice to God his only begotten and beloved son, in order that God also might be pleased to offer up for all his seed His own beloved-begotten son, as a sacrifice for our redemption. —Irenaeus

What was the act that determined the Akedah's extraordinary religious impact on generations to come, establishing Abraham as the father of monotheism? I raised that question in Chapter 1, where it became clear that, when taking into account the context of the Near East, it admits no simple answer. Here I would like to propose one. 1 According to the common understanding, Abraham's religious significance lies in his readiness to obey: he is commanded to make the most precious sacrifice conceivable; by complying, he presents an unprecedented act of faith. As observed in Chapter 1, however, this is untenable. Similar stories of child sacrifice are frequently encountered in the ancient Near East where fathers are not only ready to sacrifice their "only beloved sons," but, unlike Abraham, also eventually do. It was therefore hard to see what is supposed to mark Abraham's model of obedience as exceptional; it is, in fact, inferior to that of his contemporaries. A different approach accounting to Abraham's religious significance, an approach which has been widely accepted among biblical scholars, explains the Akedah as a polemic against the ritual of child sacrifice: the story presents the well-known myth of child sacrifice but changes the ending; God does not wish the death of the son. As such, it apparently

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retained its religious significance, marking a transition in the history of religious thought.1 This approach too, however, as we have seen, did not appear more plausible than the former, contradicting the words of the angel:".. .for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me" (v. 12). These words do not suggest a polemic against child sacrifice; on the contrary, they praise Abraham for his willingness to conduct such a sacrifice. Apparently, since the angel's words are not, in fact, an integral part of the original narrative, this view could be returned to and more plausibly explain the Akedah's religious significance. It seems that Gen 22 can be viewed as a polemic against child sacrifice: Abraham presents a moment when the sacrifice of the ram is to be preferred to that of the "beloved son." This view, however, is quite inaccurate. There are better reasons to reject it than to uphold to it. N. Sarna points out that at the time when the Abraham stories were written down, human sacrifice could not have been an actively practiced ritual. This is shown, he says, by the account of the sacrifices offered in the story of Cain and Abel (Gen 4:3) and those made by Noah. Both accounts assume animal, not human, sacrifice. Indeed, Isaac's innocent question in the middle of the Akedah narrative obviously also anticipates an animal offering: ".. .the fire and the wood are here, but where is the sheep for a burnt offering?" (Gen 22:8). Sarna concludes that the traditional interpretation that the Akedah is a polemic against child sacrifice "cannot be supported."2 E. Speiser is no less persuasive. He observes that the command imposed on Abraham is at the outset regarded by the author as something "not normally expected" but as a terrifying, inconceivable demand. Had it been intended as a polemic against a practiced ritual, says Speiser, it would have been differently formulated. "Certainly," he writes, "the object of the story has to be something other than a protest against human sacrifice."3 Sarna, in fact, goes further, arguing that there is absolutely nothing between Gen 22 and the traditional ancient Near Eastern myth. Briefly outlining its leading motifs, he indicates that they are, in fact, absent in the stories of Abraham. "The Akedah has nothing in common with pagan human sacrifice, which was practiced in order to appease an angry or inattentive deity, as in 2 Kgs 3:27," he writes. "In such cases it is the worshipper who takes the initiative. In the case of Abraham, there is no 1. See, e.g, Spiegel, The Last Trial, 64. 2. Sarna, Genesis, 153. 3. Speiser, Genesis, 165.

5. The Religious Significance of the Akedah

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emergency, no impending disaster to be warded off. It is God himself who makes the request, and it is God who interrupts the sacrifice."4 It seems to me, however, that Sarna's denial of the relation has gone too far. Indeed, the traditional interpretation of the Akedah as a polemic against the tradition of child sacrifice is untenable. Nevertheless, this is not enough to allow us altogether to dismiss the striking similarities— both verbal and narratival—between the stories.5 As C. Westermann has argued, it seems evident that the writer of the Akedah knew similar stories of child sacrifice, allowing them to "echo" in his narrative.6 One of these echoes was already observed in Chapter 1: while in the ancient Near Eastern tradition a people is saved through the leader's sacrifice of his only "beloved son," in our story the people is saved because the child survived. God's promise to multiply Abraham's seed ("[I] will make you exceedingly numerous...you shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations," Gen 17:2,4) depends on Isaac's staying alive. Thus, despite the crucial difference, it seems clear that the similarities between the traditions are more than mere coincidence. There is a gap, then, between two, well-established observations. On the one hand, it is hard to deny that an ancient myth of child sacrifice reverberates—one way or another—in the stories of Abraham. On the other, Sarna's arguments are telling; it is doubtful that we can explain the relation between the stories as a polemic against that myth. We may return therefore to the initial question: If not a polemic against child sacrifice, what is it? What is the connection between the stories? In light of the observations made in the previous chapters, it would become possible to draw the comparison more precisely: its motifs being "the same but opposite," the Abraham narrative would appear to be constructed as a "reflection story" of the ancient Near Eastern myth. As soon as we recognize the outline of the reflection, we will be able to examine the nature of the polemic more adequately. "Reflection stories" are a well-known feature of the biblical narrative. As defined by Y. Zakowich, a reflection story is one in which we can find the same motifs as in another, different narrative, but in inverted 4. See Sarna, Genesis., 153. 5. See below for a full discussion. 6. Westermann, Genesis 12-36, 363. Similarly H. Gunkel (Genesis [Gottinger Handkommentar zum Alten Testament 1; Gdttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910], 240-43) has emphasized the striking parallels between Philo's testimony concerning the Phoenician ritual of child sacrifice and the Akedah; more recently, Levenson (Death and Resurrection, 37) has claimed that "without reference to the ancient myth associated with child sacrifice, certain biblical narratives.. .cannot be properly understood."

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form. Like an image and its reflection in a mirror, the inverted image and its movements become an antithesis of the original one. A reader who is able to trace the relation between such stories and understand it—in similarities but especially in differences—will be able to re-evaluate them; their participants, actions and contents.7 It will become clear that the striking resemblances between the Abraham narrative and the ancient myth of child sacrifice, together with the equally striking contrasts (such as those that suggested to Sarna that there is no relation between the stories at all), form such a reflection. The dissimilarities, in other words, are not without meaning; they are "opposite parallels." Only when we have recognized the details of the reflection, will we be able to appreciate the religious significance of the moment it introduced in the ancient Near East.

2 Shortly before engaging in battle against the children of Ammon, Jephthah vows a vow: And Jephthah made a vow to the Lord, and said "If you will give the Ammonites into my hand, then whoever comes out of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return victorious from the Ammonites, shall be the Lord's, to be offered up by me as a burnt offering." So Jephthah crossed over to the Ammonites to fight against them; and the Lord gave them into his hand. He inflicted a massive defeat on them from Aroer to the neighborhood of Minnith, twenty towns, and as far as Abel-Keramim. So the Ammonites were subdued before the people of Israel. Then Jephthah came to his home at Mizpah; and there was his daughter coming out to meet him with timbrels and with dancing. She was his only child; he had no son or daughter except her. (Judg 11:30-34)

The daughter lived for two more months, bewailing "her virginity on the mountains" (cf. Judg 9:34), but eventually returned willfully to her father, who "did with her according to the vow he had made" (Judg 11:38-39). Disregarding obvious differences, the similarities between this story and Gen 22 are striking.8 Jephthah's daughter is called his "only one" 7. See Y. Zakovich, "Reflection Story—Another Dimension of the Evaluation of Characters in Biblical Narrative," Tarbitz 54, no. 2 (1985): 165-76 (in Hebrew). Many reflection stories have been pointed out by Zakowich and others, showing how important this phenomena is for the understanding of biblical texts. 8. For a though analysis, see D. Marcus, Jephthah and his Vow (Lubbock, Tex.: Texas Tech, 1986).


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(rTPrP) while Isaac is named in a similar way, as Abraham "only" (TIT), three times in the course of the narrative: "[take] your only son, whom you love..."; "...you have not withheld your son, your only son..."; ".. .and have withheld your son, your only son..." (Gen 22:2,12,16). In both cases the act of child sacrifice is defined as making a "burnt offering" (ifTUJ HK^tf H: ".. .and I will offer it up for a burnt offering...," Judg 11:31;".. .and offer him there for a burnt offering," Gen 22:2) and also the climaxes of the narratives are formulated along a parallel rhythm. Compare "Then Jephthah came to his home at Mizpah, and behold, his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dancing..." (Judg 11:34) with "And Abraham lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, behind him a ram, caught in a thicket by his horns..." (Gen 22:13). These verbal similarities are revealing. Their joint recurrence strongly suggests that they both draw on some common origin—an ancient myth of child sacrifice. The same motifs reverberate also in the Story of Mesha, the king of Moab who sacrificed his son: When the King of Moab saw that the battle was going against him, he took with him seven hundred swordsmen to break through, opposite the king of Edom; but they could not. Then he took his firstborn son who was to reign in his stead, and offered him as a burnt offering on the wall. And great wrath came upon Israel, so they withdraw from him and returned to their own land. (2 Kgs 3:26-28)

Compare "and he took his firstborn son..." (in DK Hp^l, 2 Kgs 3:27) with "take your son" ("p HK X3 np) in the Binding (Gen 22:2) and also ".. .and offered him as aburnt offering" (nbwh irnim, 2 Kgs 3:27) with "and offer him there as a burnt offering..." (Tlbwb DC0 ir6um), occurring also in the vow made by Jephthah: ".. .to be offered up by me as a burnt offering..."(rfTU) inform, Judg 11:31). Further, while Abraham sacrifices the ram "under [i.e. instead of] his son" (133 Dnn, Gen 22:13), the king of Moab sacrifices his "firstborn son" who will rule "under [i.e. after] him" (ITinn, 2 Kgs 3:27). The verbal similarities are striking; it is difficult to argue as Sarna that the Akedah has "nothing in common" with the pagan myth of child sacrifice.9 As Levenson observes, "The terminology of Mesha's sacrifice of his first born is almost identical to the language of YHWH's initial command to Abraham.. .and to that of Jephthah's vow"; "At the very least, this argues for more continuity between Israel and its neighbors to the east.. ."10 9. See Sarna, Genesis, 153. 10. Levenson, Death and Resurrection, 15.

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Non-biblical evidence for the existence of the ancient Near Eastern tradition of child sacrifice is given by Eusebius. He writes that, according to Philo, at a time of danger to the Phoenicians, the leader would sacrifice his son and circumcise himself and his men in order to appease them (16, 11110,44:1V). Eusebius cites another testimony, saying that It was a custom of the ancients in great crises of danger for the rulers of a city or nation, in order to avert the common ruin, to give up the most beloved of their children for sacrifice as a ransom to the avenging daemons; and those who were thus given up were sacrificed with mystic rites.11

Eusebius mentions in more detail also a tradition about El: Kronos, then, whom the Phoenicians call Elus, who was king in the country and subsequently, after his decease, was defied as the star Saturn, had by a nymph of the country named Anobret an only begotten son, whom they on this account calles ledoud, the only begotten being still so called among the Phoenicians; and when very great dangers from war had beset the country, he arrayed his son in royal apparel, and prepared an altar, and sacrificed him.12

Here too one can trace both the similar motifs and the verbal echoes. Philo refers to the sacrificed son as the only begotten son, using ledoud (IsouS') that bears a strong resemblance to the biblical yahid (TIT). The motif of circumcision echoes Abraham's circumcision in Gen 17—where it is strongly connected to the protection of his seed (w. 4-13)—and the basic elements of those testimonies fit the story of Mesha who, similarly, practices child sacrifice in order to save his city. Again, the evidence suggests that all stories appeal to some common origin, a well-known myth of child sacrifice. Levenson concludes that "piecing together these texts we can, with all due caution, speculate that they all reflect a pattern. .." If such a pattern indeed existed, he writes, "then it is clearly one with a rich set of reflexes in the Hebrew Bible.. ."13 We may draw this outline as follows. First, the context is one of a disaster threatening a city or a people. This is so in the stories of Mesha and Jephthah, as well as the testimony of Philo. Second, the sacrifice of the son is not regarded as an everyday kind of act, carried out by ordinary people; it is the sacrifice of the son of the king, indeed his "only begotten son" (TfP), who is to rule after him. The son's terming as "only" (TIT) in this way is crucial, recurring in the stories of Jephthah 11. Eusebius, Praparatio evangelica 1.10.40. 12. Ibid. 13. Levenson, Death and Resurrection, 117.


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(his daughter being his "only" one), Abraham (as Isaac is termed as his "only son who you love") and in the writings of Philo. This term reoccurs in the Bible: Amos threatens that God will make the earth mourn as "for an only child" (Amos 8:10), and Jeremiah adheres to the same language, drawing the connection of the only son's sacrifice to the context of the impending disaster in a forceful lament: "My poor people.. .strew dust on yourselves, mourn as for an only child (TP *73K). Wail bitterly for suddenly the destroyer is coming upon us" (Jer 6:26). Third, the protagonist of the story takes action in order to save his people. He initiates the sacrifice—a "burnt offering" of his "only son"— in order to appease the angry deity. According to Philo's testimony, he also circumcises himself and his men. Fourth, these actions prove effective: it appears to be an accepted belief that the sacrifice of the only son and the act of circumcision are good ways to appease the gods and save the people. Thus, Jephthah vows on the assumption that this may help him gain a victory (and it actually does); Moab is saved because of Mesha's sacrifice; and, in Jeremiah's lament, we see that the people should moan as for an "only child" because the "destroyer is coming" upon them. In short, according to this scheme a people is safeguarded by its leader's sacrifice of his "only beloved son" as a "burnt offering." (Indeed, it is hard not to think here of Jesus, more precisely of the Crucifixion, in which the world is redeemed through God's sacrifice of his only beloved son. I discuss this issue in some detail in the conclusion of the book.) The recurrence of similar motifs is striking. But it is the joint recurrence of the verbal motifs that, it seems to me, really puts beyond doubt the existence of some common origin, a myth of child sacrifice, the motifs underlying which were reconstituted above.

3 We may now return to the initial question: What is intended by the purposeful composition of the Abraham narrative using traditional accounts of child sacrifice, but in a modified way? On a first comparison, the recurrence of two important motifs is evident: child sacrifice (Gen 22) and circumcision (Gen 17), Many commentators have observed these common features, noting that while both elements are found in Genesis, they are very different from the variants current in other versions of the myth. This was mentioned by Sarna, who observed that it is not Abraham who takes the initiative (like the hero of the ancient myth) but God himself, and even more important, that those motifs occur out of their

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expected context: "[child sacrifice] was practiced in order to appease an angry deity... In the case of Abraham, there is no emergency, no impending disaster to be warded off."14 Sarna's remark, however, is inaccurate. The connection between child sacrifice and the rescue of the people is crucial not only in the Near Eastern myth but also in the Abraham narrative. In Gen 15, prior to Isaac's birth, Abram protests before God that he had given him no offspring, so that "a slave born" in his house will be his heir. God's reply is unequivocal: "no one but your very own issue shall be your heir," God answers, inviting Abram to count the stars in heaven and promising that Abram's descendants will be as numerous (Gen 15:3-5). Against this context it is evident that, if the people are to exist, Isaac, indeed Abraham's "only," has to live. Thus, upon taking a careful look, we find that the content of the stories is the same, and that only their form is inverted. The first motif that occurs in the Abraham stories is circumcision (Gen 17). However, while the ancient Near Eastern tradition usually has the leader of the city initiate the act in order to appease his deity, it appears in Gen 17 without any such context; Abraham does not initiate the circumcision—rather, it is God himself who first demands it, the physical marker of a covenant he seeks to establish: "I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant..." Abraham's seed, his offspring through Isaac, would consistently appeal to this covenant in future calamities, the expectation being for divine safeguard and protection. Carrying on his circumcised body the sign of the covenant, Abraham later learns of the coming destruction of Sodom, even though he is not its leader, nor even an inhabitant. This is the point where the ancient hero would sacrifice his "only son" or conduct circumcision to appease his deity; Abraham, in contrast, stands up, arguing in protest, "Far be it from Thee to do such a thing... Shall not the judge of all the earth do right?" (Gen 18:25), thus setting an example for his offspring "to keep the way of the Lord to do righteousness and justice" (v. 19). The motif of child sacrifice occurs at Gen 22 where, again, it is not Abraham who initiates it but God himself who first demands it: in the Near Eastern myth the sacrifice of the beloved son is initiated by the leader of the people in order to appease his deity; the people are saved because the son is sacrificed. In Gen 22, it is precisely on this axis that 14. Sarna, Genesis, 153.


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the picture is inverted, and the reflection appears: the people would exist not through Isaac's sacrifice, but though his getting off the altar safely. Now that we recognize this inversion, we are in position to re-evaluate the religious significance of Gen 22—the narrative uses the ancient Near Eastern myth to introduce a daring theological conception: in the usual story the people are saved because its leader was ready to sacrifice his "beloved son"; in this story they are saved because of his refusal to do so. Abraham's ethical integrity thus becomes an essential foundation, underling the very existence of his seed.

Chapter 6

"ABRAHAM'S PREVENTION OF THE SACRIFICE": IBN CASPI's INTERPRETATION OF GENESIS 22 We may now go on to discuss the traditional interpretations of Genesis 22, starting with Ibn Caspi, already encountered in earlier chapters. In his Gevia Kesef, Ibn Caspi distinguishes two layers of meaning in the text of Gen 22: an exoteric and an esoteric one. The first, addressed to the common readers of the Torah, is more or less the traditional, well-known interpretation of the story: God put Abraham to the test in order to examine his obedience; Abraham, by his readiness to slay his son, successfully withstood the challenge. This interpretation is not, however, the "true" one, which can be realized according to Ibn Caspi only in the light of "hints" implanted in the text by the "writer of Torah." He enumerates these hints one by one; they are: Abraham's hesitations on the way; the exceptional manner of the angelic intervention; the "real intention" of v. 13 ("and [Abraham] sacrificed it [the ram] instead of his son") and, above all, the alternation of the divine name (PnnVDTn^K) in the narrative. Accordingly, the true meaning is, in Ibn Caspi's words, Abraham's "prevention of the sacrifice" (n^DH ^K anpBD m mB»» nman). In fact, Ibn Caspi is not alone among the traditional exegetes holding such views. He ascribes this interpretation of the Binding to Maimonides, insisting that his sole aim is to explicate the esoteric account provided in the Guide of the Perplexed. 1 Yosef Ibn Caspi was born in 1279-80 in Argentiere, a small town in southern France.1 In 1315 he traveled to Egypt, hoping to study the Guide with Maimonides' grandchildren in the land where it was written. 1. For a complete discussion of Ibn Caspi's life and thought, see Herring, trans., Joseph Ibn Kaspi 's Gevia Kesef.

6. "Abraham's Prevention of the Sacrifice "

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His later references to his Egyptian visit indicate that there he acquired some important exegetical skills, gaining acquaintance with Near Eastern traditions and some knowledge of the Arabic language. On his return to Europe in 1318 his first scholarly effort, Sefer Hasod (The Book of the Secret}, appeared. This work, which is a systematic study of methodological questions of biblical exegesis, was greeted most unfavorably by Ibn Caspi's contemporaries, most notably Kalonymus b. Kalonymus, the famous Jewish poet. Using exceptional sardonic language and addressing Ibn Caspi as "our master" and "the great prince who performs miracles," Kalonymus criticized many of the arguments presented in the book as "too pretentious," dismissing others as altogether wrong. The incident had a crucial effect on Ibn Caspi's attitude to contemporary scholars. He wandered throughout Europe in search of a teacher or a study companion in order that, as he once said, "the Lord may work a miracle for me, so that I find a disciple after my mind, to whom I may bequeath [my] inmost thoughts and opinions."2 He seems never to have found such a disciple or even a suitable place to settle, spending his mature years in continuous movement throughout Europe. But if Ibn Caspi's relation to contemporary scholars can be described as somewhat problematic, his attitude to the general Jews surrounding him may be regarded as truly hostile. In his attack on Ibn Caspi, Kalonymus once accused him of addressing the masses of the people as "nothing but animals." This was accurate; this attitude is indeed implied by his writings, considering common folk as "fools" who cannot think freely and whose thought is "wholly dependent on customary superstitious beliefs." Surrounded by enmity, he came to the conclusion that a person's quality stands in the opposite relation to his/her popularity: someone who is unpopular in his/her community has the chance of being a righteous person; a scholar not accepted among his/her contemporaries is very likely an innovative one. This hostility to the common people is beyond anecdote; it constitutes an important element in Ibn Caspi's thought. Basing his social ideas mainly on Averroes' commentary on Plato's Republic and on Maimonides' Guide-, he held that a religious community is essentially divided into two classes: the "common people" (DI?H Jion) and the "selected individuals" (rfr'tton TTP), Whereas the first group is constituted of the masses who are incapable of philosophical reflection, the second is comprised of the few who think freely and are independent of superstitious 2. Quoted in M. Steinschneider, Die Hebraischen Ubersetzungen des Mittelalters (Berlin, 1893), 111.

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beliefs. This division had an important implication for Ibn Caspi's biblical exegesis; he held that as the religious community is constituted of two levels, so also is the biblical text: whereas its usual meaning is addressed to the masses, instructing them through religious norms intended to maintain political-religious stability, there is also a concealed layer, containing more volatile notions, ones that may constitute a threat to the fundamental norms of the community. Genesis 22 is a good example of such a volatile narrative: bringing divine authority into conflict with human ethics, this story questions the role of obedience in religious life. Hence its accepted meaning is very different from the true one which, Ibn Caspi believed, had to be concealed. Ibn Caspi was very well acquainted with Greek philosophers such as Aristotle and Plato, Arab commentators such as Averroes and Avicenna and Jewish theologians such as Jehudah Halevi and Ibn Ezra. It was Maimonides, however, who had the most significant influence on his thought. This is evident not only in the large number of references to the Guide in his writings, but also from the fact that several of them are commentaries on it. In fact, he considered the quality of the Guide as second only to the Torah itself. "[N]o work as perfect as this one," he once said, "has been written amongst us since the Torah"; Maimonides "enlightened the whole world"; "in his light—is light seen."3 Nevertheless, in subjecting Maimonides to his own standards of criticism, Ibn Caspi is far from showing blind allegiance. As he correctly realized, Maimonides did not have the opportunity to read Averroes' commentaries on Aristotle, relying instead almost exclusively on Avicenna, whose work Ibn Caspi considered misleading. He thus saw himself in a position to "correct" those of Maimonides' views which appeared to be distorted. One of the most striking aspects he undertook to revise was the esoteric style in which Maimonides wrote his Guide. As is well known, Maimonides was occupied with the problem of how to reveal his "true" exegeses of the Bible to the few readers capable of understanding them, while, at the same time, concealing them from the public. Following al Farabi and Ibn Bajja, he adopted techniques of writing "between the lines" (contradicting himself, dispersing his arguments in different parts of the treatise and so forth), thus passing over his true ideas in apparent silence. The Guide, as a result, is an exceptional book: one text, carrying a twofold semantic axis, comprises an exoteric as well as an esoteric dimension. Averroes, however, contended that the esoteric manner of writing "between the lines" was ineffective, dangerously confusing its readers: 3. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesef, 135-276.


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knowledgeable readers would tend to dismiss the contradictory, obscure metaphysical arguments as "unphilosophical," while the metaphysical hints would only mislead the common readers, who are not able to appreciate them correctly. He therefore suggested writing separate treatises for each class of readers: philosophical books should be written in explicit philosophic language, while "exoteric" writings—explicating conventional, social opinions—should be presented in a manner accessible to the public. Such a way of writing is quite safe, he said, since books written philosophically will not be read by people incapable of understanding them in the first place. It seems reasonable to assume that, accepting this contention, Ibn Caspi wrote his commentaries on the Guide with the intention of explaining Maimonides' esoteric teachings in an explicit language. It should be kept in mind that Maimonides warned his readers that they must not do such a thing: "I adjure—by God, may he be exalted!" he writes in the introduction of the Guide', "every reader of this Treatise of mine not to comment upon a single word of it and not to explain to another anything in it.. ."4 Ibn Caspi's violation of this warning must have been due to his firm belief that, had Maimonides known Averroes, he would have taken a different route. Thus, Ibn Caspi's writings on Maimonides may be regarded as highly critical commentaries. Sometimes, he may simply repeat Maimonides' opinions in his own words. On other occasions, he attempts to explain the esoteric notions of the Guide in an explicit manner. Alternatively, he may also dismiss Maimonides' opinions as altogether misled, and move in a different direction. As has already been noted, Ibn Caspi insists that his account of Gen 22 is an instance of the second kind of commentary; that is, an explicit explanation of Maimonides' esoteric words.

2 The most fundamental assumption of Ibn Caspi's biblical exegesis, as already noted, is the idea that the text has two layers of meaning: one addressed to the common people, the other to knowledgeable individuals. Whereas the one presents the plain meaning of the text, the other is to be interpreted philosophically, according to the ideas found in the writings of the Greeks. This assumption is based on a traditional view, generally adopted by Jewish exegetes in the Middle Ages, that philosophy was completely known to the Hebrews as early as the Mosaic period but was 4. Maimonides, Guide, Introduction.

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lost in exile. Ibn Caspi thus found it not only appropriate to apply metaphysical and logical arguments as a means of explicating biblical texts— but absolutely necessary. One of Aristotle's fundamental metaphysical ideas, for instance, is his classification of the "four causes": "material," "formal," "agent" and "purpose." (In his book MitsrafLakeseflbn Caspi lists the four different Hebrew terms that signify causality, suggesting that each corresponds to one of the Aristotelian causes. These terms are, respectively, "lema'an" []OSb]9 "biglal" [^»], "ba'avur" [TDM] and "ya'an" []IP]. Later, the application of this classification to the biblical text would enable him to account philosophically for stories such as the creation, divine revelations and miracles.) Nevertheless, even when he appeals to complicated metaphysical notions, Ibn Caspi's first commitment is to the plain meaning of the text. As someone who wrote books on the methodology of interpretation, his position is very firm and well articulated: Everything should retain a simple meaning together with a hidden meaning as is proper and as our sages have said "a verse cannot depart from its plain meaning" (BT Sabbat 63a) unless Scripture indicates that it occurred in a prophetic vision, or else if the plain meaning is rationally impossible.5

When a biblical narrative involves a prophetic vision it is necessary to depart from the "simple" interpretation (thepeshai), on the assumption that in order to account for the way divine visions are perceived by human beings some philosophical explanation is required. Ibn Caspi would usually appeal to Aristotelian metaphysics or neo-Platonic theories of emanation, according to which prophetic visions are intellectual emanations overflowing from the "Active Intellect" to the human intellect, which in turn constructs them in the imagination as images and figures. (We will consider such explanation later as, with Maimonides, Ibn Caspi interprets Abraham's vision of the angel in the narrative as strictly prophetic.) Another necessary departure from the plain meaning of the text is dictated when it is "rationally impossible." This is actually an application of an idea similar to the Charity principle: on the assumption that this text is divine (and that the deity is the "separate intellect"), it cannot have any logical error. Its interpreter, therefore, must depart from the plain meaning in order to resolve any contradictory appearance. 5. Yosef Ibn Caspi, Maskiyot Kesef, 26, in Amudei Kesefand Maskiyot Kesef, Shnei Perushim al Sefer Hamore LeHarambam (ed. S. Werbluner, Frankfurt am Main: J. F Baeck, 1848). Ibn Caspi refers to Maimonides' Guide 1:8.


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Ibn Caspi's commitment to the plain (peshaf) meaning is made very explicit in his account of the Binding of Isaac. Having concluded a sophisticated philosophical interpretation of the angel's call to Abraham (v. 12), he warns the reader not to think that this interpretation is alien to the biblical text itself. "Do not take these minute observations that are made in regard to these delicate subjects," he writes, "as finding meanings that were never intended by their speaker [the writer of Torah]; for this is precisely the style of Him who gave the Torah in profound matters."6 This is accurate; as will become clear, Ibn Caspi never found ideas in the narrative that were not actually there. His philosophical interpretation is indeed a means of uncovering the original version of the text.

3 In his book on Ibn Ezra, Kevusat Kesef, Ibn Caspi says that from the names of God mentioned in scripture, "one can learn the most wonderful and sublime things."71 remarked earlier that Ibn Ezra gave the criterion of the divine names a central place in his exegesis, long before it was identified by the first biblical critic, Astruc, in 1757. Ever since Ibn Ezra first enunciated this criterion, traditional exegetes, including Maimonides, Halevi and others, applied it extensively in their commentaries. Ibn Caspi's remark shows that he too finds it fruitful. Discounting minor differences, he generally accepts Maimonides' view that the difference between "Elohim" (DTT^K) and "YHWH" (mm) should be explained philosophically: while the first is supposedly an "equivocal term," referring to God by the mediation of his attributes, the second is the deity's proper name, referring directly to his essence. As Maimonides observed in the Guide, "God" (DTTl^X) is not used solely in reference to God, but also to other beings, including deities, rulers and judges; he infers that this is a homonymous term which the Torah uses in describing any entity that has the attribute of judgment. The Tetragrammaton (mm, YHWH), by contrast, is never used with reference to any being other than the supreme deity; Maimonides therefore interprets it as the deity's proper name. Based on God's saying to Moses, "Ehyeh asher Ehyeh" (mflX n»X mnx, "I'll be whatever I'll 6e"), Maimonides holds that both its letters (mm) and the pronunciation indicate the notion of "existence." And since God's essence is identical with his existence, he argues that this name is a direct, "unequivocal" reference to it.8 6. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesef. 7. Ibn Caspi, Kevusat Kesef, 21. 8. See Chapter 7.

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Ibn Caspi's application of these principles in his biblical exegesis is evidently crucial, in particular when considering his account of Gen 22. He holds that the "writer of Torah" used either of the divine names in accordance with the prophetic degree of the person involved in a given narrative. Thus, when Balaam is the protagonist of a story, "God" (DTIl^K) would be used, not YHWH, since Balaam believed in the "heavenly spheres" and was a prophet of the second order; such would be the case also with Pharaoh or Hagar. However, when Moses or Abraham are involved, the text would in most cases use the deity's proper name; both believed, Ibn Caspi declares, in the "separate intellect" and were prophets of the most profound order. There are other criteria as well that determine the divine name used in a given text. For instance, the term "God" may appear in a story if the context concerns "material issues" that are not strictly religious. Thus, even though Abraham believed in the "world of separate intelligences" (miT), not in the "causative action of the heavenly spheres" (DTFl^K), Gen 17 refers to the deity as "God" (DTrfrs). The content of Abraham's visions in this text, Ibn Caspi says, involves "material matters and things of the imagination." Similarly in Exodus, Mount Sinai is named as 'the Mountain of God' (DVTlbK nn), not of YHWH, even though it was named by Moses whose prophetic degree is the highest. It would have been unsuitable, argues Ibn Caspi, to associate the deity's proper name with any specific place. Another factor determining the divine name used is a story's affinity to alien ancient Near Eastern customs. Genesis 22 is Ibn Caspi's clearest example where, even though the command to slay Isaac was delivered to Abraham, the name God is used (w. 1-2). Ibn Caspi points out that the command of sacrifice involves a strong echo of ancient Near Eastern traditions of child sacrifice; it is for that reason, he explains, that the term Elohim (DTrf^X) is used rather than YHWH (iTHT). Indeed, this term often signifies beings other than God—including pagan deities. Of course, Ibn Caspi did not overlook the fact that the Tetragrammaton miT also appears in the narrative. In fact, he argues that this is the crucial hint, provided by the "writer of Torah"—pointing to the true meaning of the story. 4

Ibn Caspi opens his account of Gen 22 by saying that God's command to Abraham that he sacrifice his only son constitutes a twofold moral sin: the "sin of murder" and "the sin of committing an abomination before


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the Lord."9 The first sin is that of taking innocent human life, the second is the contempt for religion involved in this act; that is, the performance of a moral sin in the name of an apparently religious conduct. Having taken such an extreme stand against the command, Ibn Caspi then has to reconcile his position with the story's central place in the Jewish tradition. How is it possible that "God" commands such an abomination and Abraham is supposed to obey? Why has the story become the most basic model of the Jewish faith? The solution is found in the twofold semantic axis of the biblical text. The first, addressed to the common reader, is that involving the abomination of God's demanding Isaac's sacrifice and Abraham, apparently, being supposed to obey. "However," Ibn Caspi says, "notice the difference between the lesson that a fool will glean from the verses of the Torah, and what a treasured individual will take from them." He offers a twofold explanation to four stages of the narrative, each addressed to a different class of readers. As the true meaning of each of these stages is uncovered, it turns out that the story has nothing like an abomination, but introduces what is actually one of the most fundamental principles of the monotheistic faith. "[A]nd God tested (TO3) Abraham" (v. 1). What does "tested" mean here? Why did God test Abraham? "Maimonides excelled greatly," writes Ibn Caspi, "when he said at length in the Guide 111:24 that the intended meaning (of 'God tested Abraham') was 'to make known and inform'." Yet "not every one," he continues, "will understand what he said." Ibn Caspi is alluding here to Maimonides' explanation in the Guide 111:24 that all the "trials" (niarcra) mentioned in Scripture were not intended as examinations or tests, but in some cases as exhibitions— demonstrations of religious models. In this view, when God tests a certain individual, commanding him to perform a particular act, the purpose of the test is not "the accomplishment of that particular act" but the demonstration of the tested individual's being "a model to be imitated and followed." Accordingly, Gen 22 was not intended to examine Abraham's faith but to demonstrate two fundamental religious principles. First, "the limits of love for God and...fear of him," and second, that "the prophets consider as true that which comes to them from God in prophetic revelations."10 At first, it may seem that Ibn Caspi is simply repeating Maimonides' explanation in his own words. "Firstly," he says, "[the writer of Torah] wanted to inform us that God tests people in order to show that there are 9. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesef, 143. 10. Maimonides, Guide 111:24.

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among them ones who love Him..."; "the second benefit (that we are to learn) is that it is correct for the Lord, as it is for us, to command something and then later to command its opposite—as was the case here." However, having given such a clear reference to the Guide, Ibn Caspi continues: "The third benefit, besides the ones mentioned by Maimonides, is the one that is most precious, and the greatest principle for which the chapter was recorded."11 Was there then a "third matter" which Maimonides does not mention explicitly? Ibn Caspi says: "It was the fact that Abraham prevented carrying it [the sacrifice] out at the point when he was approaching the act." On what grounds does Ibn Caspi arrive at this conclusion? At this point he goes on to speak of the continuous "hints" provided by the writer of the Torah. ".. .Then, on the third day, Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off (Gen 22: 4). As observed in Chapter 4, the rabbis repeatedly observed that this was actually too long: "why did it take him [Abraham] three days to travel to the Moriah?" they ask; "it should have taken him eight hours!"12 Maimonides argued that the delay in the journey indicates that Abraham's readiness to kill his son was not shrouded in "confusion or fear," but reached after careful, rational consideration. Ibn Caspi expounds: "Maimonides excelled further in saying that the intention of the Torah in informing us that the actual binding took place three days after the command, was so that we should not imagine that it was carried out in confusion or haste but rather after considered thought.. ,"13 Yet here too he goes on to ascribe to the interpretation ideas that are not found—at least not explicitly—in Maimonides: "...For Abraham must have wondered," he says, "how the Lord could command him to perform such an abomination—as was proven by [the story's] end." The "end" of the story, then, shows that Abraham's "careful considerations" were actually expressions of his ethical doubts. The story's end, of course, is the "prevention of the act" (HinDil). "Stay here by yourself," says Abraham to his servants, "and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and we will come pITTO] again to you" (Gen 22:5). As we have seen, the rabbis found this difficult. Why "we will come again?" they asked; "he should have used the singular, he was supposed to slay his son!" This is actually another hint, Ibn Caspi proposes. Abraham's servants, he says, "were inferior people... [They] were not fit to accompany Abraham in such a holy place"; "they were not compatible with the revelation of so important a secret as this, nor with 11. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesef, 217-19. 12. Kuli, Yalqut Me 'am Lo 'ez, 430. 13. Ibid, 273.


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the performance of so important an act by Abraham." Surely, the secret he is referring to here is not Abraham's willingness to slay his son; as Ibn Caspi repeatedly insists, such an understanding belongs to the common reader, not to the knowledgeable one. He continues: "nor that they should even recognize the existence of the problem of procrastination [nirmon] that is, of [Abraham's] hinted delay."14 The hints continue as the narrative goes on. "And the angel called unto him out of heaven Abraham, Abraham..." (w. 11-12). When God first calls Abraham, "the command is recorded as using only one name without repetition," Ibn Caspi observes; in the "preventing of the sacrifice," however, a repetition occurs. On the assumption that every word is weighty the difference is important. In Chapter 2,1 proposed seeing it as another indication that this is not the style of writing of the rest of the narrative. Ibn Caspi alludes first to the famous traditional explanation of this difficulty, according to which the double call was necessary in order to stop Abraham—who was apparently eager to slay his son—in time. In this view, he says, "the sword was already placed on Isaac's neck, out of Abraham's urgent desire to slaughter him [Isaac]." He dismisses this traditional explanation, however, as the one addressed to the public. "The knowledgeable individuals...will benefit from the first and truthful explanation," he says.15 This truthful explanation is that "the royal edict to desist was more perfect than the command to sacrifice." Unfortunately, however, he does not explain his meaning any further. The most important hint provided by the "writer of Torah" is the alternation of the divine names used in the narrative. "Notice" Ibn Caspi says, that in the command to slay Isaac (v. 1), and in the course of actions leading up to the sacrifice, the writer of Torah uses Elohim (DTD^K)—which is "not the glorious name"—while in the words of prevention "it is written 'the angel of the Lord' (iTIPP) instead of the angel of God": There is another careful usage by Him who wrote the Torah: when commanding the sacrifice, "God" is mentioned, not the glorious name (which is the Tetragrammaton, HUT). Accordingly Abraham said "God will provide himself the lamb for a burnt offering," and it says "of which God had told him." Even subsequent (to the order to desist), when speaking ex, post facto, it said "thou art a God-fearing man," instead of "a man who fears the Lord." When desisting, however, it is written "the angel of the Lord," instead of "the angel of God..." This is further explained elsewhere, where I explain the names of God.16 14. Ibid., 146. 15. Ibid., 146. 16. Ibid., 146^*8.

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This last statement makes it clear that the key to Ibn Caspi's account of the story is to be found in his philosophical explanation of the divine names. As we have seen above, "God" (DTD^X), is a homonymous term, referring to other beings as well—such as kings or other deities. A prophetic vision involving this term accordingly originates in "the heavenly spheres" (inferior to the "separate intellect"); it is mediated by the prophet's imaginative faculty, as opposed to prophetic visions perceived by his intellect: When the Torah refers to Abraham's act it is careful to say "thou art a God-fearing man (DTH^K K"V), seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thy only son..." for the sacrifice of his son was because he feared God, i.e. the heavenly spheres. Such an act was also the result of the imagination, for such was, and still is, the custom of the nations in making offerings and sacrifice.17

In other words, Abraham's being ready to slay his son—his being a "God-fearing" person—actually puts Abraham in the problematic position of idol worshiping, carrying out the pagan custom of child sacrifice. As Ibn Caspi writes at some length, lesser men than Abraham have already carried out such abominations, completing them by actually sacrificing their sons: The significance [of the custom of making child sacrifice] is known from the Torah and Prophets, in that the ultimate sacrifice in those generations was to offer their children as a sacrifice to their Gods. Whether that be by passing them through the fire, or to burn them completely, or to slaughter them and cast their blood as a food offering to their Gods... One could find a specific instance of this in the Book of Kings where the King of Moab sacrificed his eldest son, which was certainly a burnt offering to his God. It is known that one of our sins was that our people were unable to overcome such beliefs, in spite of all the prophylactic measures used by the Torah to make us understand the matter. Even Jephthah, who was not one of those considered wicked but only vain in that he was not wise, actually meant to fulfill the will of the Lord when he swore saying "Whatsoever cometh forth out of the doors of my house to meet me.. .it shall be the Lord's and I shall offer it up for a burnt offering"... Jephthah did not consider the sacrifice of a human being as an abomination.. .[and] his fate proves his lack of wisdom. For...had he been wise he would have withdrawn his vow. Instead he imagined that the consummation of his vow was an act of great piety ...It is possible that Jephthah expected an angel to call out to him "lay not thy hand upon the lad, " but continued to wait for it.18 17. Ibid., 123. 18. Ibid., 143 (my emphasis).


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Jephthah, then, had to "withdraw his vow" but, as a fool, waited for an angel to stop the sacrifice. Abraham was not a fool, however; as Ibn Caspi observes, the command to prevent the sacrifice is not associated with "God" (DTr6«) but with YHWH (mm). He infers from this that Abraham—as an individual human subject—is actually the one responsible for the prevention of the sacrifice. "The prevention," he says, "is necessitated of the intellection by the separate intellect and emanation from him [YHWH]." And, further, when our intellect emanates from the separate intellect, we "bring God inside our heads." 5 "And Abraham went, and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering in the stead of his son" (Gen 22:13). In Chapter 2 I argued that this was originally the climax of the story, where Abraham independently sacrifices the ram "instead of his son." Here too Ibn Caspi suggests a twofold interpretation. First, the story is supposed to mark a turning point: from human to animal sacrifice. As he observes, Abraham's sacrifice of the ram gave rise to traditions of animal burnt offerings, relying on the rationale that "God had prevented him [Abraham] from making such sacrifice to him by substituting a ram, and it is proper to us to do the same." A similar reasoning, it may be observed, has been adopted by modern scholars who hold that the narrative serves as a polemic against child sacrifice.19 Spiegel (quoted earlier) is most explicit, saying that the purpose of the story was "to abolish human sacrifice." Ibn Caspi rejects this view as that of the common reader. "While this was to be communicated to the masses," he writes, "it [v. 13] was also to be understood by the selected individuals"; "...it is stated that Abraham, of his own volition, took the ram and offered it up for a burnt offering instead of his son." He draws that the "first intention" (mitwn milD) of the verse is "the mentioned prevention" (mDT3f7 rUP3Qn). "The ram's sacrifice," he says, is only "reminded in it." Had Ibn Caspi thought that by the time Abraham sacrificed the ram "instead of his son" (133 nnn) the angel had already stopped the sacrifice, the sacrificing of the ram as a burnt offering would not have been merely "reminded" in the act of prevention. Shortly after Abraham sacrificed the ram, the angel of YHWH called from heaven a second time (w. 14-18). To be sure, it is generally agreed by modern scholars that this speech is secondary, interpolated by a later redactor. For a traditional exegete, however, holding as Ibn Caspi did 19. For discussion see Chapter 7.

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that Abraham's true conduct was disobedience, these angelic words pose a problem: while he cannot dismiss them as "secondary," they praise Abraham, rewarding his obedience: Then the angel of the Lord called to Abraham a second time from heaven; And he said "By myself I have sworn, says the Lord, because you have done this thing and have not withheld your son, your only son blessing I will bless you and multiplying I will multiply your descendants as the stars of the heaven and as the sand which is on the seashore; and your descendants shall possess the gate of their enemies; in your seed all the nations of the earth shall be blessed because you have obeyed my voice. (Gen 22:15-18)

Yet, the plain meaning of this speech is, according to Ibn Caspi, not the true one; Abraham was rewarded "twice," he says: first for the apparent obedience, but then for the "prevention": The Torah is careful to allude twice to reward. The first was at the beginning when saying "because thou hast done this thing and has not withheld thy son, thy only son," which refers to the command [to sacrifice]. The other was at the conclusion of his words, saying "because thou hast hearkened to my voice," which refers to desisting, which was superior.20 6

Thus, from v. 1 to v. 19, Ibn Caspi's interpretation consistently moves on two levels of meaning: one addressed to the general public, the other to the knowledgeable few. According to the first, God put Abraham to the test in order to examine his obedience; Abraham withstood the test successfully, being ready to slay his son; God then prevented the sacrifice at the last moment and Abraham—having sacrificed the ram— was rewarded for his obedience. The true meaning, however, is opposed to the common one. God's (DVrfTX) command of sacrifice is not imposed by the monotheistic deity but by the pagan tradition common to Abraham's times; on his way to carry out this "abomination" Abraham procrastinates, submerged in his ethical doubts—"how could God demand such an abomination from him?"; at the last moment on the mountain he sacrifices the ram instead of his son, by the command of the angel of YHWH. This angel, in contrast to God (CTTn^X), stands for the emanation of Abraham's intellect from the monotheistic deity. As Ibn Caspi holds, in such an emanation "we bring God inside our heads"; thus, the original intention of the ram's sacrifice "instead of Isaac" is actually the act of the 20. Ibid., 147.


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"prevention of the sacrifice"; finally, Abraham is rewarded for complying with the angel's command to desist, not for his obedience. There is a gulf between the usual meaning of the story and its true one. Their theological implications are contradictory, a fact that Ibn Caspi does not hesitate to emphasize: Notice the difference between the lesson that a fool will glean from the verses of the Torah, and what a treasured individual will take from them. For in this episode what is known to the selected individual to be a complete abomination to the Lord, is taken by the masses as something which, if completed, would constitute the pinnacle of worship and what is desired by God. This is certainly true of the masses of that generation to whom the Torah was given. They must have been proud of the piety of Abraham, the originator, who wanted to sacrifice his only son, and would have been even happier in praising this father had he finished the act, priding themselves before the Egyptians and their other neighbors. The Torah, that is perfect and without blemish, revealed the truth by using words and statements whose exoteric meaning points to things that will be understood by the foolish, but whose subtle and esoteric meaning points out the truth to the treasured few.21

In Mishneh Kesef^Jbn Caspi tells that in one of his travels in Valencia he encountered an old man—his beard "all white"—who explained to him that Isaac was actually slain by his father: "He told me the reason Isaac did not return (from the Moriah with his father) was that the Lord had sent him to Paradise, as a reword for all he had suffered when about to be slain." According to the elder, Isaac stayed in Paradise for some time— until he had to return from the dead in order to marry "the lovely Rebecca"; "That is why there is no mention of Isaac's name, neither in the account of Sarah's death not of Eliezer's mission.. ."^ As one who has written a book on Ibn Ezra, Ibn Caspi was not supposed to meet these words with surprise. As we have seen in Chapter 4, Ibn Ezra had already referred to the tradition of Isaac's actual sacrifice, writing that those adhering to it say "the opposite of the text" (133 2iron). Saying that the "foolish" masses would have been "happier in praising [Abraham] had he finished the act," Ibn Caspi would surely have taken sides here with Ibn Ezra; he must have regarded the elder as one of those masses. And it is perhaps here, in the esoteric meaning of the narrative revealed by Ibn Caspi, that we can speculate as to what were Ibn Ezra's intentions when he said that those who say that Isaac was actually slain "speak the opposite of the text." 21. Ibid., 145. 22. Y. Ibn Caspi, Mishneh Kesef (I use here Spiegel's translation from the Hebrew; see p. 7).

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Ibn Caspi, at all events, greeted the elder: "[May] your heart be blessed for putting my mind to rest." 7

More than once, Ibn Caspi insists that this account of Gen 22 is in fact an explicit explanation of Maimonides' own esoteric words; did indeed Maimonides himself suggest this interpretation? The possibility should not be ruled out. Ibn Caspi defines his Gevia Kesefas an explicit explanation of Maimonides' esoteric interpretations of the Torah; he even dwells on this fact in the opening of his account of the narrative, saying that "There are deep things in this matter [Gen 22] that are discussed elsewhere, but I will write here what is appropriate to the intention of this work." As noted earlier, Ibn Caspi never hesitates to criticize Maimonides or explicitly depart from his views wherever he sees fit. We may therefore safely assume that, as here he insists that this is actually Maimonides' interpretation, he sincerely believed so. In his first reference to the Guide 111:24 Ibn Caspi wrote that Maimonides stressed two important "benefits" for the sake of which this narrative was written, but that a third one, other than those openly discussed by Maimonides, is actually the most important. "The third benefit, besides the ones mentioned by Maimonides, is the one that is most precious, and the greatest principle for which the chapter was recorded"; "It was the fact that Abraham prevented carrying it out at the point when he was approaching the act." Can such a third benefit actually be traced in the Guide!

Chapter 7

THE FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE OF PROPHECY: MAIMONIDES' ESOTERIC INTERPRETATION OF GENESIS 22 According to Maimonides, the Binding of Isaac was intended to make known two basic principles of the Torah, that is, two "fundamental principles of the law." First, the Binding served to demonstrate to the readers of the Torah the extent to which the limits of love for God and fear of him" might reach; second, it functioned to show that prophets consider as an absolute truth whatever "comes to them from God."1 Having expounded how these two religious principles are "made known" in the narrative, however, Maimonides turns to conclude his discussion with a surprising assertion. "In truth," he writes, Abraham actually verifies in the narrative "the fundamental principle affirming the truth of prophecy" (Guide 11:24). This shift from the two "fundamental principles of the law" (i.e. the Torah) and that of "prophecy" implies, as I shall argue, that Maimonides points also to a third, esoteric principle that the narrative was supposed to make known. His words suggest that his "true" account of the narrative is to be studied in light of his theory of prophecy, which is expounded elsewhere in the Guide. As we shall see, when this is done it turns out that Maimonides ranks in the Binding two different dimensions of meaning, correlated to two different levels of prophecy that Abraham acquired during the narrative. The first is that of seeing "God," which is the lower kind of prophecy; the second that of seeing the YHWH angel, which is the higher (in fact, the highest) level. It shall become clear that when Maimonides writes that Abraham affirms in this narrative the "fundamental truth of prophecy," he refers to Abraham's eventual decision to violate God's initial command of sacrifice, accepting the angel's call to desist. Indeed, Ibn Caspi's claim that there is a "third," concealed matter in Maimonides' account of Gen 22 was quite accurate. 1. Maimonides, Guide 111:24.

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The Binding of Isaac 1

Maimonides did not write the Guide of the Perplexed as a running commentary on the Torah, nor can any other of his works be regarded as such. Nevertheless, biblical exegesis occupied a central place in his thought, and was one of his chief reasons for writing the treatise.2 Maimonides says in the Introduction to his work that he has two purposes in writing: first, "to explain the meaning of certain terms" that occur in the Bible and whose meaning is "equivocal"; and second, to explain "very obscure parables" that occur in it but have never been identified as such. Maimonides worries that if these terms and parables are misunderstood, they may "perplex" their reader and draw him/her away from the "true" meaning of the Torah. The exegetical project he undertakes in the Guide proposes to prevent such an unhappy consequence: as he/she uncovers the true meaning of the biblical text its reader will "take the right road and be delivered from...[his/her] perplexity." "That is why," Maimonides writes, "I have called this Treatise the 'Guide of the Perplexed'."3 That biblical exegesis is one of the central aims of the Guide is evidenced also in the way it stresses a consistent, well-articulated theory of interpretation. Its basic assumption is that the biblical stories, by means of their figurative language, convey the rational ideas found in the writings of the Greek philosophers. We have encountered this assumption already in Ibn Caspi. Maimonides shared the belief that philosophy was already completely known to the Hebrews as early as the Mosaic period but was lost and forgotten during exile.4 (The biblical account of creation, for instance, is in this view an expression of the philosophical notions found in Aristotle's Physics', similarly, Ezekiel's vision of the supernatural chariot conveys the ideas of Aristotle's Metaphysics^} If this is so, the application of philosophical criteria in textual exegesis is justified: it is not only possible but absolutely necessary to interpret the Bible philosophically. Yet, if the biblical stories actually convey intellectual ideas, why are they not expressed in rational language? What is the reason behind the Bible's figurative appearance? The answer Maimonides sees is 2. For a discussion of Maimonides' philosophical theory of biblical exegesis, see, for instance, S. Klein-Braslavy: "The Philosophical Exegesis," in Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation (ed. M. Saebo; 2 vols.; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 1:311-20. 3. Ibid., 5-6. 4. See, for instance, Maimonides' discussion in Guide 1:71.

7. The Fundamental Principle of Prophecy

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socio-political. He argues that the Torah is designed to address a wide variety of readers, most of whom are incapable of philosophical reflection. Had the metaphysical-philosophical ideas of the Torah been expressed in an abstract manner, he writes, most readers would not have been able to understand them and great harm would have resulted to their faith. "Know that to begin with this science [Metaphysics] is very harmful," he says. "If [one] begins with the divine science, it will not be a mere confusion in his beliefs that will befall him, but rather absolute negation."5 To prevent this from happening, the philosophical ideas of the Torah were encoded in a figurative language, accessible to the general public. In support of this claim, Maimonides quotes the famous dictum of the sages that "The Torah speaks in the language of man" (b, Shabbat). These words are usually taken to mean that even though the Torah is divine, it was written in ordinary human language; Maimonides understands them differently, however, interpreting the term "man" (DHSn '•aa) not as "humanity" but as "multitudes": the Torah was written in the language of the vulgar multitudes in order to appeal to a low readership denominator. In this light, Maimonides' attempt to uncover the true philosophical notions that underlie the biblical narrative is problematic, for the esoteric notions that the Guide is designed to uncover are those he himself says were rightly concealed. He therefore had to find a way to reveal his "true" interpretations of the biblical text to the "knowledgeable few" who are capable of understanding them but, at the same time, conceal them from the public.6 The esoteric writing technique he adopted was designed to achieve this purpose. "When reading a given chapter," Maimonides says, Your intention must be not only to understand the totality of the subject of that chapter, but also to grasp each word that occurs in it in the course of the speech, even if that word does not belong to the intention of the chapter. For the diction of this Treatise has not been chosen at haphazard, but with great exactness and exceeding precision.7

This is Maimonides' first method of concealing: to understand his opinions it will be necessary to pay particular attention to details; a single word may function as a crucial key to his true thoughts. The second method is scattering: "If you wish to grasp the totality of what 5. Ibid., 70. 6. This was best pointed out by L. Strauss in Persecution and the Art of Writing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1952). I discuss this issue in relation to Gen 22 in the Conclusion. 7. Ibid., 15.

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this Treatise contains..." he writes, "you must connect its chapters with one another."8 The true opinions of the Guide, in other words, are never presented in full at any one point. Its arguments, deliberately broken into fragments, are scattered throughout the treatise. In this way the reader is assigned an unusually active role of interpretation: to apprehend Maimonides' true opinion on some issue, he/she has to gather the various allusions to it from throughout the Guide and independently reconstruct it. Finally, such a reconstruction should make us able to perceive also the third concealing method, namely, that of writing in contradictions. Maimonides says that he included in the work some self-contradictory arguments: one line of argument may be developed on the basis of a certain premise and another on the basis of a second premise—contradicting the first. A reader encountering such arguments is left to speculate: Which did Maimonides genuinely intend? It may be noted that while these writing techniques are designed to conceal the true ideas of the Guide, they are at the same time also the key to their discovery. Wherever some word seems of particular, uncoincidental importance, whenever one paragraph sheds important light on another or when a contradiction occurs—the reader may rightly assume that Maimonides' true opinions should be looked for. In the Introduction to the Guide, Maimonides specifies two elements of the Bible's language that enable it to carry its twofold dimension of meaning: equivocal terms and parables. Equivocal terms are single words that can be understood in more than one sense; their signification is not unique. Parables are more composite units of narrative (such as verses or whole passages) that should be interpreted as allegories: they have both an "external" sense and an "internal" one, the first being the plain meaning of the text, the second the true one it encodes. One of the most important biblical words interpreted as an equivocal term is "God" (Elohim; DTTl^K). Needless to say, interpreting this word as equivocal may shed crucial light on many biblical stories, including the Binding. According to Guide 1:2, this word has no less than three different senses. "Every Hebrew knew," Maimonides writes, "that the term 'Elohim* [God] is equivocal, designating the deity, the angels and the judges governing the cities." "God" is not the deity's proper name, then, but only a general term. In 11:6, Maimonides is more specific. He argues that this term is not simply equivocal but derivative: originally designating the judges, it later came to signify also the angels and the deity; these beings too, he says, share the attribute of judgment. 8. Ibid.


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Maimonides' interpretation of the story of the Fall (Gen 3) provides yet another clue to his true account of this term. In the biblical story, having eaten from the forbidden tree mankind became "as God(Elohim; DTP^K), knowing good and evil" (Gen 3:5).9 It is usually thought that by gaining the God-like knowledge men achieved a superior—indeed divine—kind of knowledge to that it had previously possessed. As readers of the Guide., we may also speculate that, according to Maimonides, becoming "as God," knowing "good and evil," actually expresses the idea of being able to conduct ethical judgments. His interpretation of this notion goes even further, however, and is somewhat surprising. He argues that acquiring God's knowledge of good and evil actually describes the punishment imposed on mankind because of the sin: before the sin mankind possessed absolute, intellectual knowledge uncontaminated by conventional social beliefs. It was only after eating from the forbidden tree that this absolute knowledge was obscured by social, contingent notions of "good and evil," which are nothing more than "relative" norms: When man was in his most perfect and excellent state, in accordance with his inborn disposition and possessed of his intellectual cognition.. .he had no faculty that was engaged in any way in the considerations of generally accepted things even that which is most manifestly bad, namely, uncovering the genitals... However, when he disobeyed.. .he was punished by being deprived of that intellectual apprehension...becoming endowed with the faculty of apprehending generally accepted things, he became absorbed in judging things to be bad or fine... Hence it is said: "And ye shall be like God (Elohim; DTTfrK) knowing good and evil, and not: "knowing the false and the true," or "the apprehending of the false and the true." With regard to what is of necessity, there is no good and evil at all, but only the false and the true.10

These words explain more than the kind of punishment imposed on man because of the sin. They explain the kind of "judgment" the word "God" stands for. It does not signify the monotheistic deity who is characterized by necessary absolute truths, but stands for relative, ethical conventions, that are liable to cultural changes in different times and places. In this light, it appears that Ibn Caspi's discussion of this word was faithful to Maimonides, only made in more explicit language. As we recall, Ibn Caspi explained that the name "God" does not represent the 9. See S. Klein-Braslavy, Maimonides' Interpretation of the Adam Stories in Genesis (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1986), 43-106. The reading of Maimonides, I suggest, here is slightly different. 10. Maimonides, Guide 1:2.

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deity (= the "separate intellect") but the "heavenly spheres," standing for traditional customs and conventional beliefs (even the pagan gods). Unlike Maimonides, he did not adduce the story of the Garden of Eden to demonstrate his argument, but the Binding of Isaac: "When the Torah refers to Abraham's act, it is careful to say 'thou art a God (DTTl^X)fearing man'," he wrote. "For the sacrifice of the son was because he feared God (DTD^S), i.e. the heavenly spheres...; for such was, and still is, the custom of the nations making offering and sacrifice."11 Maimonides, in the light of his interpretation of the Fall, would have no quarrel with these words. 2 As has been noted, Maimonides interprets God's command to sacrifice Isaac and the angelic command to desist as moments of prophetic revelation. It is necessary therefore to consider first his theory of prophecy, before moving to his account of Gen 22.12 In the Guide 11:36, Maimonides analyzes the process of acquiring prophecies as the following: Know that the true reality and quiddity of prophecy consists in its being an overflow overflowing from God.. .through the intermediation of the Active Intellect, toward the rational faculty and thereafter toward the imaginative faculty. This is the highest degree of man, and the ultimate term of perfection that can exist for his species; and this state is the ultimate term of perfection for the imaginative faculty.

In this process, intellectual data overflowing from the Active Intellect reach the human rational faculty which in turn constructs them as images in the imagination. Apparently, then, the imaginative faculty of the prophet is only a secondary element of the process; indeed, the perception of divine ideas is possible also without it. However, the prophet's imaginative faculty in fact plays an essential role in any prophetic activity, for a prophet is not only a medium perceiving the divine overflow—he/she is also a medium communicating it to the public, a task that the figurative construction of prophecies enables him/her to carry out. It is only by the figurative expression of prophecies that the prophet can be understood by the multitudes, instruct them with the divine message and 11. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesef. 12. For a complete discussion of Maimonides' theory of prophecy, see, for instance, H. Kreisel, Prophecy: The History of an Idea in MedievalJewish Philosophy (Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2001).


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gain social and religious authority. When a prophet reaches the highest degree of perfection, Maimonides explains, his/her entire soul becomes a prophetic medium: his/her intellect perceives the divine overflow from the active intellect while his/her bodily organs—not only his/her imagination and speech organs—act according to its influence. Following al Farabi, Maimonides believes that not all prophecies are of the same degree of perfection. In 11:45, he enumerates eleven different degrees of prophetic activity, into which the prophetic instances recorded in the Bible can be classified. His first, general division is between prophetic "dreams" and prophetic "visions." Images appearing in a prophetic dream are experienced while the prophet is asleep and, in most cases, have a subjective manner of appearance. Images appearing in a prophetic vision, however, which are experienced while awake, are perceived as almost real, objective figures. A prophet seeing them, Maimonides writes, "sees a thing as if it were outside" (11:45). These two general divisions are later further classified into subdivisions. The lowest kind in the sequence is one where, in a prophetic dream, a prophet perceives and understands what Maimonides calls "prophetic parables" (that is, not plain articulated speech). From this stage there follow in ascending order hearing articulated speech, seeing a man speaking, seeing an angel speaking and seeing God (DTn^K) speaking, which is the highest degree of the lower kind of prophecies—those experienced while asleep. From this stage begins the classification of the prophetic visions. It follows a similar path: the lowest kind is that in which a prophet perceives parables while awake, from which follow hearing articulated speech, seeing a man speaking and, lastly, seeing an angel speaking. At this point Maimonides raises the question whether it would be possible also to see God in a prophetic vision, ruling this possibility out. The human imaginative faculty, he argues, is unable to construct an objective image of the deity. This is crucial: the highest possible prophetic degree is not that of seeing God speaking, but that of seeing an angel. "The eleventh degree," Maimonides writes, "consists in the prophet's seeing an angel who addresses him in a vision.. .as Abraham in the time of the Binding. In my opinion, this is the highest of the degrees of the prophets whose states are attested by the prophetic books..." (11:45). 3 Having conducted a comprehensive study of the story of Job, Maimonides turns in 111:24 to a more general treatment of the subject of "trials" recorded in the Bible. This subject, he says, is very difficult. "It is one of

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the great difficulties" of the Torah.13 In practice, it seems that his intention in this discussion is to go beyond a general treatment of the biblical concept of trial; for having discussed the conceptual difficulties involved in the biblical trial stories, he undertakes an extensive interpretation of one in particular: the Binding of Isaac. Maimonides offers some subtle argumentation, developing what seems an esoteric account of the narrative. I will therefore quote rather extensively, and comment on Maimonides words in some detail. The fundamental religious difficulty involved in the notion of trial is a problem of theodicy: How is it possible that the good deity torments a righteous man in order to test him, when he had not first committed a sin? Maimonides opens the chapter with an exposition of the common, vulgar solving of the problem, according to which "God sends down calamities upon an individual, without their having been preceded by a sin, in order that his reward be increased."14 Apparently, there is some equilibrium between righteousness and reward so that in order to increase a reward to a certain individual, God will first have to balance it by adding to his suffering. Maimonides rejects this explanation, however, contending that a fundamental principle of the Torah runs counter to it. This principle, expressed by a famous dictum of the sages, is that the deity is free of any such ethical flaw: "There is no death without sin," they said, "and no suffering without transgression" (b. Shabbai). At first, Maimonides' contention may seem an innocent insistence on the fundamental principle of theodicy. Any reader of the Torah "who is endowed with intellect," he writes, must know that it is impossible to ascribe such injustice to the deity. The context of these words, however, should also be borne in mind. Maimonides has just finished commenting on the story of Job and, a few lines later, he gives his interpretation of the Binding of Isaac. While a reader "endowed with intellect" would agree that no kind of injustice may be ascribed to the deity, such a reader will at the same time require a satisfying explanation. Maimonides' interpretation of the narrative will therefore have to supply a reasonable solution to the tremendous injustice (apparently?) ascribed to "God" (D'TTfrX) in these stories. (I deal with the story of Job in the next chapter.) From the theological problem of theodicy, Maimonides goes on to comment on the philosophical problem of omniscience. Particularly, why should the monotheistic deity, which is omniscient, examine its servants? Maimonides writes that the idea of examination is contained "externally" 13. Ibid, 111:24. 14. Ibid.


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in all the biblical trial stories. On this view, the trials took place "in order to test and to receive information so that one could know the degree of faith or the degree of obedience in the individual or nation in question."15 Yet, as we have seen, "externally" means for Maimonides that the trial stories are actually parables, where the idea of examination is not the true one. According to Maimonides, it is impossible that the omniscient deity would test his servants in order to receive information about their faith. He "already knew it," Maimonides says. Against these misguided conceptions Maimonides introduces his own: "Know that the aim and meaning of all the trials mentioned in the Torah is to let people know what they ought to do or what they must believe." The biblical trials are not intended as examinations but, rather, as exhibitions: demonstrations of religious models. "The notion of trial," he continues, "consists as it were in a certain act being done, the purpose being not the accomplishment of that particular act, but the latter's being a model to be imitated and followed."16 From this conception follows Maimonides' famous insistence that the Binding of Isaac was not intended to examine Abraham's obedience but to become a model of faith: it was supposed to "to make known" two great ideas that are "fundamental principles of the Law." The first, he writes, is the extent to which the "limits of love for God.. .and fear of Him" may reach: the story expresses that notion in Abraham's readiness to make a sacrifice that "bears no comparison," going beyond the value of property or even that of human life. "Because of his fear of God and his love to carry out His command," Maimonides explains, "Abraham held his beloved son as little." It follows from Maimonides' words that the notion that the story conveys is not the limits of love for God and fear of him but the fact that there are actually no such limits, for in relation to Abraham's love and fear, the sacrifice Maimonides defines as "bearing no comparison" becomes "little." His love and fear are therefore infinite. The second "fundamental principle of the law" (= the Torah) that the story is meant to make known is that prophets possess a certain, absolute knowledge of the divine messages they perceive. This, apparently, is demonstrated by Abraham's readiness to obey: "Even though this command came to Him in a dream or in a vision," writes Maimonides, "he hastened to slaughter." Were Abraham not certain of the divine message he had perceived, so the argument goes, or had some doubt intervened, he would not have found the strength to slay his son. 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid.

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Maimonides' words are problematic, however, as anyone acquainted with his theory of prophecy will see. As observed earlier, God's (DVrf7X) command could not have been perceived in a prophetic vision, only in a prophetic dream. The reader will therefore ask him-/herself why Maimonides mentions prophetic visions, even though this is inapplicable to the discussion of God's (DTD^X) command. The discrepancy does not seem to be a coincidence, for Maimonides himself has warned the reader that such hints and self-contradictions were to be found in his words. Besides, there is, in fact, also a vision in the narrative—that of the angel of YHWH. As we recall, Maimonides explicitly used the angelic appearance in the Binding as an example for the highest degree of vision prophecy. It seems appropriate to ask, therefore: What does the narrative "make known" by means of this vision? Maimonides does not provide here more information but, instead, turns to conclude the chapter. "In truth" he writes, the trial of the binding was made in order that people will learn to imitate Abraham's actions; "especially from this action through which he validated the fundamental principle affirming the truth of prophecy" (moan nrFQX nra).17 This is a crucial remark. At the beginning of the chapter Maimonides said that the story was intended to "make known" two religious principles, two fundamental principles of the "Law." He also explained these principles at some length, so that we should know by now what the story of the Binding was supposed to "make known." But do we? What Maimonides says we "in truth" have to learn from the narrative is not the two principles of the "law" that he has explained, but some third principle— that of "prophecy"—which he never does. What is this principle, then? To answer this question, we will have to "connect chapter with chapter," return to his account of prophecy. In his classification of the degrees of prophecy (11:45) Maimonides defined the appearance of "God" (DVrfTX) speaking in prophecies as the highest degree of the lower kind of prophecies—those experienced in a dream. There he explicitly posed the question whether it would be possible for a prophet to see God speaking in a 'Vision" as well, but ruled this possibility out. "With regard to the question whether it is possible that a prophet would also see in a vision of prophecy that God, as it were, addressed to him, this, in my opinion, is improbable." Taking these words into account, Maimonides' explanation of the "second matter" that the Binding was meant to convey drew our attention: apparently the Binding demonstrates that prophets consider as absolute truth whatever 17. Ibid.


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comes from "God" (DTD^K) to them. Yet, for some reason, he confused prophetic visions together with dreams. Let us consider this passage in full: [Scripture] wished to make it known to us that all that is seen by a prophet in a vision of prophecy is, in the opinion of the prophet, a certain truth, that the prophet has no doubts in any way concerning anything in it, and that in his opinion its status is the same as that of all existent things that are apprehended through the senses or through the intellect. A proof for this is the fact that [Abraham] hastened to slaughter, as he had been commanded, his son, his only son whom he loved.. ,18

How can the narrative demonstrate that what is perceived in a vision has the same status "as that of all existent things"? The command to slay Isaac was imposed by God and, therefore, must be ranked at the more subjective mode of dream prophecies. The confusion grows worse in the next lines. Abraham hastened to slay his son, says Maimonides, .. .even though this command came to him in a dream or a vision. For if a dream of prophecy had been obscure for the prophets, or if they had doubts.. .concerning what they apprehended in a vision of prophecy, they would not have hastened to do that which is repugnant by nature.19

Again, what is the reason for Maimonides' insistence on the alternative of vision? Why the mixing of visions with dreams? Furthermore, is it at all possible that God's (DTTI^X) command to Abraham should have the absolute status of an objective truth? As we have seen, "God" in Maimonides is not the deity's proper name but a derivative one. It stands for contingent judgments of "good and evil," relative to cultural changes, which are not assigned with absolute truth values. Could anything coming to Abraham from "God" have been perceived as a "certain truth"? That it could not is demonstrated also by the angel's command to desist. Had God's (DTTl^K) word been absolutely certain, the command could never have changed and negated by the angel. This problem was expressed in the following Midrash of which Maimonides, it is reasonable to assume, was aware: But the angel of the Lord (mm) called unto him (v. 12) Abraham said to him: who are you? He said to him: I am an angel. Abraham said to him: when the holy one told me to sacrifice, he told me so himself. So now I ask that he himself tell me [to stop].20 18. Ibid, (my emphasis). 19. Ibid. 20. Midrash Tanhuma Wayyera Gen 4, p. 128 (see also discussion in Chapter 2).

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It is not only that the angel contradicted God's word that is striking, but the fact that Abraham somehow eventually trusted it, violating God's initial command. Had God's command, perceived in a prophetic dream, been absolute, Abraham would not have trusted the angel. Moreover had the angel's command, perceived in a prophetic vision, had any doubt in it, Abraham would not have found the strength to violate God's initial command. The Akedah thus makes known a fundamental truth of prophecy: prophets doubt what comes from God (which may be interpreted here as the relative norms of the religious community) but do not doubt the direct revelations, emanating their intellect in prophetic visions. For that reason Abraham trusted the angel of YHWH—violating God's command of sacrifice. It is worthwhile here to remember again what Maimonides had said of the angel's appearance: "The eleventh degree consists in the prophet's seeing an angel, as Abraham at the time of the binding. In my opinion, this is the highest of the degrees of the prophets whose states are attested..." Maimonides' words contain yet another clue to his opinion on Abraham's act. In the concluding passage he refers to God's words about Abraham at the beginning of the story of Sodom, quoting the divine voice saying that "...I have known him (TH^T *O), to the end that he may command his children and his household after him, that they may keep the way of the Lord, to do righteousness and judgment..." (Gen 18:19). (We have considered these words in Chapter 3.) Maimonides compares them to the Binding of Isaac: "thus just as they followed his [Abraham's] correct and useful opinions, namely, those that were heard from him, so ought one to follow the opinions deriving from his actions" (11:24). The opinions drawn from what is "heard" of Abraham in Sodom are well known to his descendants. "Far be it from thee to do such a thing.. .shall not the judge of all earth do no right?" The same opinions are "made known," then, also from Abraham's "actions." "Especially," Maimonides writes, "from the act in which he verified the fundamental principle affirming the truth of prophecy" (nxiiwn nrPDK nr3). Let me conclude by repeating the main course of the argument. First, Maimonides writes in the conclusion of his discussion of the Binding that, "in truth," Abraham demonstrates in the narrative the "fundamental principle affirming the truth of prophecy" (nX*Q3n nrPQK nr55). As I have argued, these words suggest that we should study Maimonides' interpretation of the Binding in the light of his theory of prophecy. Second, when this is done, it becomes clear that Abraham receives in the narrative two kinds of prophetic revelations: prophetic dreams, which are the lower kind, and prophetic visions, which are the higher. Third, the command to sacrifice Isaac, imposed by God (DTH^X), belongs to the


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lower kind of prophecies; the command to stop the sacrifice, however, characterized by the revelation YHWH's (!T)!T) angel, is in fact the highest kind of prophecy attested in the Bible. Fourth, in the revealed, exoteric interpretation of the Binding, Maimonides had written that the story proved that prophets (in that case Abraham) do not doubt what comes to them in prophecies. This is proven—so he wrote—by the fact that Abraham was ready to do as God commands. Had Abraham had any doubts about the command, he would not have been ready to obey. However, fifth, in the light of Maimonides' theory of prophecy, the opposite is actually the case: Abraham did doubt what came to him from God in a dream (namely, the command to sacrifice Isaac), and decided to trust his vision of YHWH's angel. Sixth, thus the esoteric meaning of the story is opposite to the revealed one: whereas most readers assume that story demonstrates Abraham's agreement to do as God commands—for otherwise he would not have been ready to sacrifice his son—the contrary is the case. The story demonstrates that Abraham doubted what "God" had commanded—for otherwise he would not have stopped the sacrifice. With this in mind, let us return to Ibn Caspi. As we have seen, his main argument was that other than the two "principles of the Torah" that Maimonides explicitly stressed, there was also a third, esoteric principle, consisting of Abraham's "prevention" of the sacrifice. In the following passage Ibn Caspi gives hints about which of Maimonides' words are, on his interpretation, the clue to Maimonides' esoteric interpretation; notice the implicit (though clearly intentional) quotation from the Guide: The first two benefits, those that are mentioned by Maimonides, are in short to teach us the extent to which the fear of heaven can reach (as well as to teach us the confidence that a prophet has that his vision is accurate). The third benefit, is that we learn that the Holy King tests his servants, in order to make known thefundamental truth of prophecy (nrs

rrman nrrax).21

21. Ibn Caspi, Gevia Kesef, 150 (my emphasis). Compare the emphasized statement to Maimonides' saying (repeatedly dealt with in this chapter) that, "in truth," Abraham verifies in the narrative "the fundamental principle affirming the truth of prophecy" (nX*Q3n nTTQK Drs). It is important to point out that the English translation of Ibn Caspi's Gevia Kesef gives here something altogether different ("the third benefit is that the holy king tests its servants"). But this is mistaken. The Hebrew—as confirmed also against Ibn Caspi's own hand-writing manuscript—says nmin nrVQX nra ("the fundamental truth of prophecy"). I do not know what the origin of the translation error is. It could be related to the fact that the original thirteenth-century Hebrew manuscript is, after all, in Ibn Caspi's handwriting. Yet I would like to emphasize that this manuscript is not vague, but quite clear. I would like to thank Hannah Kasher for bringing this translation error to my attention.

Chapter 8

"HE DESTROYS BOTH THE INNOCENT WITH THE WICKED": BETWEEN JOB AND ABRAHAM Far be it from you to do such a thing, to slay the righteous with the wicked, so that the righteous fare as the wicked! Far be that from you! Shall not the judge of all the earth do what is just? —Abraham to God in Gen 18

The rabbinical literature presents a question concerning the opening words of the Binding. It reads: "'And after these things, God tested Abraham' (Gen 22:1)—but after what things!" (Sanhedrin 89). A famous answer given as a midrash in the name of R. Yohanan is: "after the things said by Satan." Doubting the motivation underlying Abraham's faith, Satan in this midrash urges God to set Abraham a test. This personage, who of course does not take any actual part in the Binding, is imported from the story of Job. For in response to God's question in the midrash "where have you come from?" Satan replies: "Master of the whole universe, I have traveled in the whole world, but did not find a person like Your servant Abraham, a blameless and upright man..." (Sanhedrin 89). The echo is clear. This dialog duplicates the dialog between God and Satan in the book of Job, only putting Abraham in Job's place. (Compare to Job 1:6-9: "The Lord said to Satan, 'Where have you come from?' Satan answered the Lord, Trom going to and from on the earth'... The Lord said to Satan, 'Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one like him on the earth, a blameless upright man, who fears God and turns away from evil.'") This is not the only instance where motifs from (he story of Job are borrowed for the interpretation of Abraham's and vice versa. The rabbis saw themselves justified in interpreting each by the other since there is, in fact, a close relation between them. Abraham and Job are the only individuals in the Bible to be subjected to a divine trial; and both are designed thereby to present a model of religious faith. It was therefore considered appropriate to compare the two and assess one character in light of the other.

8. "He Destroys Both the Innocent with the Wicked"

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This tendency is apparent in a wide variety of texts. Disputations revolve around questions such as whose faith was the more profound, or whether both worshiped the deity only out of the "fear of God" (HXT DTD^X) or also for "love" of him. While there seems to be a consensus as to Abraham—his faith was fundamentally rooted in love for God—no such agreement could be reached in the case of Job.1 Another controversy turned on the question of whose test was the more difficult. It was contended that, objectively speaking, Job's trial was harder. First, he lost his possessions when a "tremendous fire fell from heaven and burned the flocks and the youth and consumed them" (Job 1:16). Later, his sons and daughters, who were feasting in their older brother's home, were suddenly wiped out as "a great wind came from the other side of the desert, and struck the four corners of the house" (Job 1:19). Finally, after he successfully withstood these challenges by not "blessing" God to his face, Job's miseries increased even further. His own bones and flesh were assaulted, as "Satan smote him with bad boils from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head" (Job 2:7). Yet most authors agree that even though Job's pain was objectively greater, it was nevertheless Abraham (although he did not actually lose Isaac) who underwent the more difficult trial.2 This is so since Job is presented from the outset as a passive agent. The most active role he was supposed to take was "to bless God to his face" as a reaction to the afflictions imposed on him. Abraham's trial, on the other hand, was put into his own hands. He "rose up in the morning and saddled his donkey and took his young men with him and Isaac his son" (Gen 22:3); he is apparently hastening to bring his suffering upon himself. Here is an essential element of his trial and also a crucial difference from Job's: Abraham had not only the possibility of protesting against God's unjust command, but also that of actually going against it (for instance, by sacrificing the ram instead of his son). Job had no such terrifying choice; his flesh infected with boils, "he took himself a potsherd to scratch himself with, and sat down in the midst of the ashes" (Job 2:8). These comparisons cannot be dismissed as empty speculations. They were stimulated by strong, non-coincidental verbal allusions in the biblical text itself, indicating that it was the writer who deliberately invited the comparison. Thus, Job and Abraham are not only the sole individuals in the Bible subjected to a divine trial, but also the only ones named 1. Talmud Bavli Suta 27,51; Yerushalmi Suta 5. 2. See S. Yefet's fine treatment in "The Trial of the Binding and the Trial of Job: What's Between Them?," in Job: In the Old Testament, Philosophy and Art (ed. L. Mazor; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1992): 13-34 (25).

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"God-fearing" (DVrf7X XT) men. Abraham is thus termed at the end of the Binding, as a result of his successful emergence from the test: "For now I know that you fear God (DVn^X XT), since you have not withheld your son..." (Gen 22:12). Job's "fear of God" is noted prior to his trial, and was in fact the reason why it started. As we recall, God first boasted of his "God-fearing" (DVrfrx XT) servant Job (Job 1:8) whereupon Satan was tempted to pose his philosophical inquiry. "Does Job fear God (DTH^X XT) for nothing?" (Job 1:9). Both stories also assign a central role to the motif of "blessing" (!"O*n). God blesses Abraham repeatedly with respect to his possessions and undertaking ("and the Lord had blessed him in all that he did," Gen 24:1; "the Lord has greatly blessed my master" says Abraham's servant in Gen 24:35), as well as, in Gen 12:2-3, with reference to his future descendants: I shall make you into a great nation; I shall bless you and your name so great that it will be used in blessings. Those who bless you I shall bless, those who curse you I shall curse; All the people on earth will wish to be blessed as you are blessed.

Abraham's blessing in his seed is also an essential element in the trial of the Binding, where it is closely related to his "fear of God": because he was ready to kill his son—"because you are a God-fearing (DTTI^X XT) person," says the angel, "blessing I will bless you" (Gen 22:15). The same motif assumes a crucial part also in Job and, interestingly, it is here too related to his "God-fearing": Satan doubted the sincerity of Job's "fear" because, as he says, it may have been the mere result of God's blessing. "Does Job fear God for nothing?" he challenges God, "You have blessed (nmn) the work of his hands..." (Job 1:19).3 We need not enter at this point into a detailed listing of the textual and conceptual similarities, many of which will become evident later. Suffice it here to say that the wide-ranging intertextuality between the stories has been reviewed in recent studies, confirming what had previously been realized in the rabbinical literature;4 namely, that the relation between the 3. This parallel must be of particular significance here, for, as is well known, the application of the root "bless" (3"Q) in Job is highly unconventional. It is not used to indicate God's blessing of Job only, but also to describe Job's "blessing" of God, which is the Hebrew Bible's language for "curse." 4. See, for instance, Yefet's "The Trial of the Binding," and, more recently, T. Veijola, "Abraham und Hiob: Das Literarische und Theologische Verhaltnis von Gen 22 und der Hiob-Novelle," in Vergegenwdrtigung des Allen Testaments: Beitrdge zurbiblischen Hermeneutik. Festschrift fur RudolfSmendzum 70. Geburtstag (ed. C. Bultmann; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2002): 127-44.


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stories demands interpretation. "That which Abraham said," wrote the rabbis, "said also Job." But what exactly was it that they said? 2 The commonly accepted explanation of the relation between the stories is given by Y. Leibowich, in a paper titled "The Trial and the Fear of God in the Book of Job."5 The core of the relation, he suggests, is that for both personages the trial represents a moment of transition in their relation to God: from "improper" to "proper" "fear of God" (miMO TlfoVh naiQX na®b x'XD). He draws a distinction between the two kinds of fear based on their motivations. Whereas the first is moved by the anthropocentric interest—either personal or ethical ("ethical" meaning here "the good" of society rather than of one's self)—of obtaining divine protection, the second kind, essentially theocentric, is based on the desire to fulfill God's will. "There is a very big difference" Leibowich writes, "between faith in God as his being as God, and faith in the function attributed to Him, the belief in providence and protection."6 The first kind is relative —being determined in relation to human desires, understanding and ethics—but the second is absolute; it is an end in itself and requires no human or rational justification in order to be fulfilled.7 An example of such a distinction can be demonstrated in Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling* As I observed in Chapter 1, Kierkegaard had to defend Abraham's role as "knight of faith" from comparison with what Kierkegaard calls "tragic heroes" (such as Jephthah or Agamemnon): those heroes were not only ready to slay their children, but also, unlike Abraham, actually did. Kierkegaard explains that while their sacrifices were performed in a human, ethical dimension (as long as the telos, i.e. the purpose, of their acts was to save their peoples the sacrifice can be deemed "good"), Abraham's was not. The telos of his sacrifice, if it had any, was solely the fulfillment of God's command.9 Leibowich and Kierkegaard would agree on that point. The fact that there is no telos for Abraham's sacrifice makes him the "knight of faith"; in Leibowich's words, his sacrifice thus is a "proper" religious conduct. 5. See Y. Leibowich, "The Trial and the Fear of God in the Book of Job," in Mazor, ed., Job, 34-44. 6. Leibowich, "The Trial and the Fear of God." 7. For a further elaboration of the distinction between the two kinds of faith, see Y. Leibowich's "Abraham and Job," in Yahadut, Am Yehudi, u'Medinat Israel (Judaism, Jewish People and the State of Israel; Jerusalem: Schocken, 1975): 73-94. 8. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling. 9. Ibid., 59.

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Bearing that distinction in mind, let us return to Job. The question naturally arises: "Does Job fear God for nothing?" (Job 1:9). Satan first poses the inquiry; is there some human motivation to his faith? Apparently there was, for he did not successfully emerge from the trial assigned by Satan. He underwent the loss of his household without "blessing" God to his face ("blessing" in the Job context is, of course, the Hebrew Bible's clean language for "blasphemy" or "swearing God"); he even persevered—holding on to his "proper" faith—when his children were taken away. It therefore appeared at first that his faith was independent of any relation to divine providence or protection. Eventually, however, as his own body was infected with "severe boils," Job broke down. He opened his mouth and began to lament—"blessing" his God. As Leibowich observes, Job's charges are twofold, moving from a personal to a theoretical dimension. First, he complains about his personal fate and suffering. "Would the day in which I was born be lost... May that night be dark" (3:1-3); later he demands that his ethical conceptions will be, so to speak, ontologically rooted in human reality (cf. 26:1-14). As regards Leibowich's criteria of "proper" and "improper" faith, however, there is no real difference between the two complaints. Both are essentially anthropocentric, drawing on the assumption that the human attunement to the absolute deity is subjected to anthropomorphic purposes. And therefore Leibowich, who could have taken the role of one of Job's friends, would have accused him of never truly believing in God. "You only believed in divine providence," he would have said.10 In Leibowich's reading of the story it was God's reply "from the tempest" that put an end to Job's improper demands. God proclaims with much emphasis that Job is not in position to judge the deity. "Who is this who gives dark counsel, with words, without knowledge?" he asks, "Where were you when I founded the earth?" (38:2-3). Most scholars agree that it is hard to see what element of this speech was supposed to meet Job's accusations of injustice. Some suggest that the mere fact that God appeared at all may be said to meet part of Job's demand—for he asked not to be ignored. Yet there is much consensus as to the content of the reply. God ignored his fearful servant's demands for justice; he fails to give a straight answer to Job's plea to understand why he is suffering.

10. This can be inferred from "The Trial and the Fear of God," where Leibowich mentions an "important figure, both morally and intellectually very well established in the world of Judaism" who recently said that "after Auschwitz he has lost his faith in God." Leibowich says, "My reply is: this means that you never believed in God; you only believed in God's help" (p. 36).


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Leibowich's position in this respect is unusual. He would agree, I think, that the divine reply is not very much to the point. It is precisely this fact, however, that he thinks constitutes its particular "proper" strength. It presents "reality as it is, without any judgment," he writes; "it presents the cosmic and earthly world, from the living creatures to its physical objects, from glorious wonders to trembling monstrosities— especially the monstrosities—without hinting that there is some telos in them..."11 The lack of explanation constitutes God's proper answer, making Job realize that his demands for an explanation were out of place. In the course of the trial, his relation to God has undergone a change from improper to proper faith: "[Now] I know that you can do everything and no design is restrained from you...," he says. "I have heard you by the hearing of the ear, and now, my eye has seen you" (Job 42:2-5). It is against this background that Leibowich adduces on the Akedah. Genesis 22 opens with the words "After these things, God tested Abraham..." Leibowich takes them to refer to the previous stories of Abimeleh (Gen 15) and Sodom (Gen 18), more precisely to the improper conception of faith that Abraham expresses in them. He views the Akedah as a corrective of these stories. In the story of Abimeleh, Leibowich points out, Abraham expresses the idea that the "fear of God" (DTtfcK flXT) serves only a social-political function: the maintenance of political order. The fear of God is thus subjected in this story not only to human understanding but also to human manipulation and politics; that is, to human will. The story of Sodom gives rise to a similar notion. While the phrase "fear of God" does not appear there, the story obviously puts forward the idea that God's relation to men does not extend beyond human reach. As we have seen (see Chapter 3), Abraham did not only complain of God's unjust course of action, but actually made sure that he corrects it. Abraham thus defines God as the judge of all the earth, demanding from God to confirm: ".. .should not the judge of all the earth do what is right?" (Gen 18:25-26). In contrast to all this, God's command to Abraham in Gen 22 is unreasonable and unethical, and any reason why Abraham should comply is hardly conceivable—that is, other than the brute fact that the command is delivered by God. As we have seen in Kierkegaard's treatment of the story, there is no ethical (or other) telos for Abraham; ethically speaking, he was about to murder his son. Here, then, is the core of the intertextual relation between Abraham and Job, as Leibowich sees it. Just as the 11. Ibid,, 38-39.

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unreasonable pains imposed on Job were intended to shake his, so to speak, "improper" faith, so was the unreasonable command imposed on Abraham. And as God's reply from the tempest brought Job to a higher mode of faith—he was made to see what he previously could not—so too Abraham, by silently agreeing to perform the inconceivable.

3 Leibowich's explanation is attractive. His reading of Job, however, as well as his account of the story's relation to the Akedah, is problematic and hard to defend. The first objection with respect to his reading of Job concerns the way he understands God's reply. In Leibowich's view, the divine answer is the moral of the story; it is what made Job withdraw his improper wish to know the reason behind his suffering. However, if placed in the correct context, God's reply cannot serve the function Leibowich ascribes to it; for the answer uttered from the tempest—that there is no answer and that there need not be one—is actually ironic.12 As has been pointed out by scholars, there is a straightforward answer to Job's demand to know the reason. Even though Job himself is not aware of it, the reader is—and so is God: the reason is God's wager with Satan. In this light, Job did not suffer in spite of his "fear of God," but actually because of it, for he would not have been tested if he were not "God fearing"; indeed, he would not have suffered in the first place if God had not been boasting about him. This irony must be a key for understanding the moral of this story, since the author very carefully devised it as the context of the trial.13 And it would seem highly implausible therefore to suggest, as Leibowich does, that the moral of the story is to be found in God's words. We will see later on that the moral of the story is to be found elsewhere, not in God's reply to Job, but in his reply to Eliphaz (who serves as a model of an ordinary dogmatic believer). But there is yet another, more serious objection to Leibowich's view. As noted earlier, one motif that both stories share is a relation between the "fear of God" and the divine "blessing." We have seen that Job's trial is devised in order to make sure that his "fear of God" is not a mere result of God's blessing, and that Abraham was blessed (by the fulfilment of the divine promise to multiply his seed) because he withstood his trial; because he demonstrated his "fear of God" he was blessed by the angel. But here there is a fundamental defect in Leibowich's argument. 12. Cf. Y. Hoffman, Blemished Perfection (Jerusalem: Bialik, 1995 [Hebrew]), 215-25. 13. Ibid.


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His implicit assumption, that Abraham's willingness to sacrifice Isaac was a pure religious conduct, unrelated to any "reward," is inconsistent with the text. As he himself comments, the promise to make Abraham a great nation is a "classic case of 'reward'." Hence it is impossible to define the Akedah as a moment of transition from the improper to the proper kind of faith. If it is at all to be evaluated by these criteria, the Akedah is actually an instance of the first kind. At this point I would like to compare the two stories in light of the interpretation of the Binding suggested in this book. This, it seems to me, will enable us to account for the relation between them more efficiently. It will become clear that the Binding was not supposed to present some kind of transition in the conception of the "fear of God," but rather to subvert this conception from the very basis. Both stories replace the notion of the fear of God by a different one—that of "judgment" (BBtDQ). But to see this, let us return to a closer examination of the story of Job: the setting of his trial and the alternative model of faith he presents in contrast to the dogmatics of his friends. 4

Job's trial begins immediately after Satan introduces his philosophical doubts, proposing a challenge: "... stretch forth your hand (*]T JC n^C)" he suggests to God, "and touch all that he has; will he not blaspheme you to your face?" (Job 1:10-11). The first thing that comes to mind on reading this line is that the devil's words contain a verbal echo of the Akedah. Compare "stretch forth your hand..." ("]T K3 H^tD) to the description of Abrahams action in v. 10, "and Abraham stretched forth his hand" (..."TP nx DIT"QK n^ETI), as well as to the angel's cry from heaven in v. 12, "Do not stretch forth your hand..." (ninn ^K "]T n^BTI bx). God, at all events, accepts the challenge: "Behold, all that he has is in your hands," he says, "Only upon him do not stretch forth your hand... (^K *JT n^BD)" (Job 1:12). The consequence is well known. Job loses his cattle, his servants and his children but keeps his faith. "Despite all this," we are informed, Job "did not sin and did not ascribe unseemliness to God" (Job 1:22). Yet Satan is not convinced. "Stretch forth your hand," he insists, "and touch his bones and his flesh; will he not blaspheme you to your face?" (Job 2:4). As is well known, Job eventually does break down, soon after his friends come to comfort him but remain silent. "Nobody said a word to him," we read, "because they perceived that the pain was very great."

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And so—as if to break the silence—Job suddenly opens his mouth and begins to lament—cursing the day of his birth. At this point, Job apparently utters no direct attack on God, limiting his complaint to the cruel fate that has forced him into life. "Would the day in which I was born be lost," he begs, "let God not seek it from above and let no light shine upon it"; "Why did I not emerge from the belly and perish? Why did knees receive me and why were there breasts that I should suck?" It seems that some insult is conveyed in these words. What Job is asking here is to have not taken part in God's creation: "That night—may pitch darkness take it; shall it not rejoice among the days of the year" (Job 3:2-3). As soon as Job falls silent Eliphaz, the oldest and most respectable of the friends, begins to reply, saying that Job himself should know the answer to his complains. He reminds Job that he was the one who used to comfort suffering men by arguing that there is justice in the world: no righteous man ever suffers without reason. It has been observed that Eliphaz's words are somewhat ambiguous. They may convey some indirect criticism on Job since one plausible interpretation is "if you were as righteous as you claim, you would not have suffered." However, even if this be so, at this point Eliphaz is still pretending to be Job's friend. He is not accusing him but only trying to strengthen his faith. His next speeches, at all events, will become less ambiguous, as well as less polite. We shall return to this. In contrast to Eliphaz, Job's two other friends, Bildad and Zophar, go on the offensive from the first moment. "How long will you speak such things," asks Bildad immediately as he starts to answer Job, "seeing that the words of your mouth are [like] a mighty wind." It is clear that he does not intend to console his friend but to accuse him. He continues: "Does God prevent judgment? Or does the Almighty prevent justice?" This, of course, is a rhetorical question. In Biblical Hebrew, the name "God" (DTH^K) often stands for the property of judgment. Bildad's question is therefore bold: "is it possible that the judge will distort judgment?" Indeed, here Abraham again offers an analogy. He presented a similar rhetorical question, using the same logical assumption: "Shall not the judge (BBW) of all earth do justice (BBBD)?" But the difference between Abraham and Bildad is evident. While Bildad addresses his rhetoric to his friend, Job, Abraham addressed the deity. His assumption was not that God necessarily does justice, but that he necessarily has to. It is outside my scope here to present a full account of Job's debate with his comforters. Bildad and Zophar are never developed into full blooded characters; they serve merely as Job's background, and never present any sound theological argumentation that could resolve Job's


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accusations against God. As R. Gordis puts it, "Bildad is a traditionalist" whose sole contribution to the discussion is a "restatement of accepted views" while Zophar possesses "the brashness of dogmatism associated with youth."14 Eliphaz is very different. He does not serve merely as a background to Job but rather as his antithesis. In contrast to Bildad and Zophar, he attempts to offer a theoretical solution to the problem of his righteous friend's suffering—to reconcile it with his belief in divine justice. As Y. Hoffman argues, Eliphaz's solution consists of a non-intuitive understanding of "righteousness and wickedness" (IflZTT) p'HS), replacing the usual dichotomic definition by a linear one.15 We usually think of righteousness and wickedness as contradictory terms: a righteous man is one who does right and does not sin; a wicked man is one who sins frequently and whose sins are grave. It follows that a righteous man is someone who cannot be wicked—and therefore is not liable (if we hold to the idea of divine justice) for suffering. Eliphaz suggests seeing righteous and wicked not as strictly contradictory, but as opposed to each other. A righteous person would be one who sins the least and whose sins are negligible; and the wicked person would be one whose sins are more frequent and more ruthless. Man in that definition is born to sin, and therefore (here lies the solution to Job's predicament) also to punishment. This of course is an empty solution. Even if we were to accept Eliphaz's "linear" definition of wickedness, there would still have to be some reasonable relation between the quantities of suffering and of evil for there to be something we could call "justice." Job himself raises that argument in Chapter 6, in what seems a direct response to Eliphaz. "Only if ['I wish'] my anger and my calamity were weighed..." he asks; only if they were "put together on a scale..." But Job's pains are obviously out of any such reasonable proportion. As we were informed in the Prologue, indeed as God himself testified, Job is a "sincere and upright" man, "God-fearing and shunning evil." Eliphaz's attempt to hold on to the idea of divine justice has thus failed, and the alternatives he faces are threefold. He may blindly cling to the idea of divine justice, admit the fearful truth of Job's charges or, alternatively, keep silent. Eliphaz chooses the first course of action: Is not your evil great, and are not your iniquities without end? For you take a pledge from your brothers for nought, and you strip the naked of their clothes. 14. R. Gordis, The Book of God and Man (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965), 76-92 15. Hoffman, Blemished Perfection, 145-^8.

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The Binding of Isaac You gave the faint no water to drink, and you withheld bread from the hungry. Does a strong man own the earth, and does a respected one remain therein? You sent widows away empty handed, and the arms of orphans are crushed. Therefore, around you are traps—and sudden fear terrifies you. (Job 22:2-10)

Eliphaz's line of reasoning is clear. If Job's righteousness is incompatible with "divine justice" then he must have sinned. Moreover, if in order to maintain the idea of divine justice there has to be a proportion between the degree of evil and that of suffering (as Job indeed has contended), then Job must have sinned severely, for the suffering God imposes on him is extreme. As the reader knows, however, these accusations are false. Again, it is the Prologue that establishes the context: Job never took pledges from his brothers, neither did he send any widow away; he was "God-fearing" and "shunning evil." But what is crucial for the understanding of the story is that this truth is known also to Eliphaz. He is presented not merely as one who makes false accusations but as one who consciously lies. If Eliphaz had accused Job of hidden sins (such as murder or rape), he might not have been lying but simply committing an innocent mistake, that of deducing (a priori) that Job must has sinned—given the fact that he is actually suffering. The only assumption here, innocent even if dogmatic, would be that God does justice. This is not how things are presented, however. Eliphaz accuses Job of openly committed sins: vain pledging, stripping the naked and withholding water from the thirsty. If Job had committed such misdeeds, people would have known of it. If Job were guilty of these charges, in other words, Eliphaz would have to know it not only a priori but also from experience—which he obviously does not. His character thus presents the consequence of blind insistence on the dogma of divine justice. He starts by trying to defend it through complicated theoretical solutions, but ends up with lying accusations. Is this the kind of relation to God that this text proposes? While this would be the conclusion yielded by Leibowich's interpretation, it seems extremely hard to accept. Job presents the antithesis to Eliphaz's argument. He is not committed to a dogmatic appeal to the theory of reward and punishment, or to the axiom of divine justice. His sole commitment is to the truth, and he believes that God too must prefer it. Job therefore thinks that it is better to "bless" God to his face, rather than flatter him with lies:


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Is it for the sake of God that you speak falsehood? On his behalf that you utter lies? Will you show partiality toward him; Is it for God that you are arguing? Will he declare you in the right, if you show partiality to one side? Will not his majesty affright you, And his awe fall upon you? (Job 13:7-11)

Instead of basing his faith on a concept of "fear," Job attempts to found it on the idea of "judgment" (BSB7D). It is generally observed that this idea underlies many of his central arguments,16 but it has not been observed that this motif actually serves to bring Abraham back to the picture. The concept of judgment (BBBD) is well known in the lament literature of the Bible, where it serves a specific function: it is used to bridge the transition from a poet's descriptions of his sufferings to the affirmation of his confidence in divine providence. This concept often has a strong juridical connotation. Poets ask to be judged (i.e. to enter into judicial proceedings) by God, thus expressing their assurance that as soon as God will learn of their righteousness, he will stop their miseries. The book of Job is in many respects an integral part of the biblical lament literature and it is not surprising, therefore, that Job holds a very similar conception and insistently appeals to it. As he is certain of his innocence, the notion of judgment appears to be his last hope. If God will judge him and reveal his innocence, he may also put an end to his suffering. This is sadly ironic, however. God is of course well aware of Job's innocence. Had he not boasted about it in the first place, Job would not have suffered. Job's situation is therefore unpromising: his request to be judged turns out to be an attempt to take God to task. In this trial, God would be both judge and defendant. Much of the dialogic argumentation of the book revolves about this paradox. Eliphaz is the first to introduce it. In his first speech he asks: "Can a mortal be more righteous than God, or can a man be purer than his Maker?" (Job 4:17). The same argument is later made more clearly by Bildad, in his rhetorical question: "Does God prevent judgment, or does the Almighty prevent justice?" (Job 8:3). Job too confirms his awareness of the paradox, declaring at the beginning of his second lament that it is unreasonable for a human being to bring God to trial: "Indeed, I know that it is so—but why should man be righteous with God? If he wish to contend with him he would not answer..." (Job 9:2-3). Yet Job is very 16. See, for instance, S. H. Scholnick, "The Meaning ofMishpat in the Book of Job,"/#Z 101 (1982): 521-29.

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different from his friends. While they state the paradox as a rhetorical argument (Job is necessarily guilty for his innocence contradicts God's), Job confirms it only as a definition of the problem. He is well aware of the idea of divine justice, but at the same time aware also that it clashes with the truth. Eventually, Job too reaches the conclusion that appealing to the idea of judgment would be impossible for him, for it involves going against the Almighty. History teaches us, says Job, that no human has come back safely from a confrontation with God: "who hardened his heart against him and remained whole?" (Job 9:4). Even if we disregard that argument, he continues, who will have the courage to call God to justice? "Who can hold him back?" he asks, "who will say to him 'what are you doing ( HQ iTOUn)?'" (9:12). Lastly, even if God is proven wrong by one of his servants he will never change his course of action, he will "not turn back his anger..." (9:13). This set of arguments leads him to renounce the notion of judgment altogether. He declares, "'He [God] destroys both the blameless (DTI) and the wicked (JflEn)" (9:22), and asks to die. But is bringing God to justice truly impossible? The terminology of Job's declaration recalls much of Abraham's speech in the story of Sodom: "Far be it from you to kill the righteous (p'HJS) with the wicked (flan)," he protested, "Far be it from you to do such a thing." Job uses this terminology in arriving at the conclusion that it is impossible to enter into juridical proceedings with God; he states God's injustice as a fact. But Abraham, using a very similar formulation, has shown otherwise. God's injustice can be reversed. In fact, the verbal similarity between Job's argument and Abraham's can be even more closely connected, if we consider Job's unusual employment of the word innocent (DPI). Abraham uses the formula "righteous (p*nx) and wicked (U8n)," but Job changes the first term to "innocent." The fact that he does not use "righteous" cannot be accidental. The combination "righteous and wicked" is a recognized idiom in the Bible while "innocent and wicked" is not Statistically, for every time that one of the synonyms of the term "righteous" (such as "innocent") appears in Psalms or Proverbs, the actual term appears about twice. In Job, however, for every use of the word "righteous," one of its synonyms is seen four times.17 The word "wicked" (SVH), it is interesting to observe, appears at the same rate as in the rest of the Bible. I have no explanation for the author's avoiding "righteous" (thus blurring the relation to Abraham). R. Zarhia ben Isaac, a medieval exegete, once said of Job that it was "written and arranged in order to suggest and hint 17. The statistics are drawn from Hoffman, Blemished Perfection, 341.


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secrets..." He asserts further that had the writer openly revealed his intentions, "most human beings, or all human beings, would have run from it."18 At all events, it seems clear that when Job is made to say that God "destroys both the innocent and the wicked," his words actually refer to Abraham, who prevented God from doing precisely that. Abraham is the counter of Job's arguments, refuting the reasoning that led Job to declare judgment impossible. Abraham is the one who confronted God but "remained whole," the one who had the courage to bring God to justice. Contrary to Job's argument, God changed his course of action when he was proved wrong by Abraham. "Who will say to him 'what are you doing (!TO17n HD)?'" asks Job, which appears to be a rhetorical question. But in the esoteric dimension of the text there is an answer— Abraham has actually said: "Far be it from you to do such a thing"

(mn nrro rntayo).

5 "And it came to pass after the Lord had spoken these things to Job, that the Lord spoke to Eliphaz the Temanite..." (HIIT im "IPTX rpm n^XH D*H3"Tn DS. ..). Here, in God's reply to the dogmatic believer, not in his reply to Job, the real moral of the story is expressed. His words to Eliphaz are much shorter than his words to Job, but also much more to the point: "My wrath is kindled against you and your two companions," he says, "because you did not speak correctly, as did my servant Job" (Job 42:7). Eliphaz thus confirms Job's earlier contention that uttering dogmatic lies is worse than "blessing" God to his face. It is in light of this understanding of the story that its relation to Abraham is better accounted for: Abraham and Job are both seeking to ground their faith without adopting the dogma of divine justice. Their ideal is one of bringing God to judgment, or even of guarding his ways (see the discussion in Chapter 3). Only Abraham, however, achieves this aim. Leibowich would contend that this kind of faith is grounded on anthropocentric principles. This is true, as long as it subjects God to human understanding. It is not true, however, that this conception yields the shallow religious attitude that Leibowich so persistently argues against; reason-based religion is not necessarily the vacuous religious attunement Leibowich opposed. For without insisting to subject God to human understanding—if based merely on absolute surrender before God—faith would be drained of substantial value. Kant addressed that issue, commenting specifically on Job: 18. Quoted in ibid.

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The Binding of Isaac [O]nly sincerity of the heart and not distinction of insight; honesty in openly admitting one's doubts; repugnance to pretending conviction where one feels none, especially before God...—these are the attributes which, in the person of Job, have decided the preeminence of the honest man over the religious flatterer in the divine verdict... ... [Job] proved that he did not found his morality on faith, but his faith on morality: in such a case, however weak this faith might be, yet it alone is of a pure and true kind, i.e. the kind of faith that founds not a religion of supplication, but religion of good life conduct.19

Indeed, it would have been easier for Job to hold on blindly, like Eliphaz, to the dogma of "reward and punishment." But this would not be more "proper" than "blessing God to his face." Similarly, it would have been easier not to argue against the injustice involved in the destruction of Sodom, as Abraham did in Gen 18. And lastly—even if this is hard to conceive—it would have been easier for Abraham to sacrifice Isaac after all. It is only by his disobedience that Abraham insists that man's relation to God must be rooted in something other than mere fear. "That which Abraham said," wrote the rabbis, "said also Job."

19. Immanuel Kant, "On the Miscarriage of all Philosophical Trials in Theodicy" [ 1791 ], translated by Allen Wood in Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason and Other Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 26.

Chapter 9

ON FEARING GOD WITHOUT BEING AFRAID OF HIM: FROM KIERKEGAARD TO KANT

Can it be wrong for the father of monotheism to do as God commands? Can it be right for Isaac's father to kill his son? Our primary concern so far has been textual, verifying what Abraham in fact did; less the philosophical question of what he should have done. Of course, this question is one which modern discussions hardly ever fail to address; yet they all rely on the assumption that Abraham obeyed. It is time, therefore, to pose the question again: Did Abraham do the right thing? From a philosophical perspective, "Abraham's Dilemma" can be analyzed as a formal inconsistency, represented by the following three propositions:1 1. If God commands one to do something, it is not morally wrong to comply. 2. God commanded Abraham to kill his son Isaac. 3. It is morally wrong to kill one's son. Each of these propositions, when considered on its own merits, is persuasively true. That it is morally right to do as God commands (Proposition 1) follows from the ordinary monotheistic conception of the deity as the Ens Perfectissimum, "the most perfect being": whereas human beings have limited knowledge and some evil inclinations, the Ens Perfectissimum is by definition good in will and intention, as well as omniscient. Obeying it must be, at the very least, morally plausible. That God commanded Abraham to kill his son (Proposition 2) is a brute fact, so to speak, established by the plain words of the biblical text: "...and 1. These propositions follow Adams, with slight changes (see R. Adams, Finite and Infinite Goods [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999], 277-91 [280ff.]). Adams uses the terms "morally right" and "morally wrong" according to specific definitions which are not directly relevant to my present discussions of Kant and Kierkegaard.

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God tested Abraham and said 'take your son, your only son whom you love, and offer him up for a burnt offering..." (Gen 22:2). If one wishes to question this premise, one has to apply some sophisticated strategy of textual interpretation. (The Maimonidean interpretation considered in Chapter 7, for instance, is a good example of such a strategy. It denies the second proposition by explaining the "God" [DTTI^X] commanding the sacrifice as "public norms and opinions," or even pagan gods. That is, it is not the monotheistic deity who issued the command.) Lastly, it is wrong for a father to kill his son (Proposition 3) both ethically and religiously: ethically, since this involves taking innocent human life (of a son whose existence depends on his father's protection); religiously, since it is a pagan ritual, forbidden by the monotheistic law (cf. Jer 7:31; 19:1-10). The story brings these propositions into conflict; its force lies in the formal inconsistency among them: if compliance with God's command is morally justified (Proposition 1), and God commanded Abraham to slay Isaac (Proposition 2), then it is not wrong for him to kill his son (i.e. notProposition 3). Contradiction would arise from any of the combinations: if 3 and 2 are granted, then not-l; if 1 and 3, then not-2. In short, to resolve Abraham's Dilemma one must restore formal consistency, by denying (at least) one proposition. But which one? 1

"Take your son, your favored one whom you love, and offer him up as a burnt offering"—thus God to Abraham. And we call him Abraham "our father"; what kind of father is he who was willing to sacrifice his son on the altar? —Y. Amichai

The modern frame of mind dictates an almost a priori angry objection to Abraham's obedience. Amichai's words mirror a characteristic reply; readers typically contend that Abraham ought to have denied the first proposition: sometimes, it is morally wrong to do as God commands. The writer S. Izhar expresses this with exceptional outrage. "I hate 'our father Abraham' who is going to slay Isaac," he writes. 6CWhat right has he over his son? Let him slaughter himself!"2 It seems to me, however, that the first proposition is in fact quite plausible. If one comes to assess it rationally one would have to grant that God's understanding, judgment and good will (I rely here on a commonsensical understanding of these notions) exceed ours by far and, 2. S. Izhar, The Days ofZiklag (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1958 [Hebrew]), 14.

9. On Fearing God Without Being Afraid of Him

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therefore, that it cannot be morally wrong to fulfill his demand. At the very least, it cannot be evidently wrong to do so: there are possible states of affairs in which the command of sacrifice, utterly insane from Abraham's perspective (and that of the human reader), can be quite reasonable and justified—ethical even. Modern objections to Abraham's obedience seem to be due more to the denial of the second proposition ("God commanded Abraham to kill Isaac"), not so much the first. How many readers can genuinely grant that God, the omnipotent creator of this world, personally addressed Abraham and instructed him to kill his son? Early readers may have conceded this more readily, but after God had been secularized in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century philosophy or, worse, murdered, as Nietzsche would have it, readers have become quite skeptical. R. Adams reports that he used to ask his students "What would you think if you asked your neighbor why he was building a large stone table in his back yard, and he replied, Tm building an altar, because God has commanded me to sacrifice my son...'" Everybody in the classroom agreed that the neighbor should be "committed to a mental hospital."3 Rabbi M. Lerner has taken this fancy a step further, actually diagnosing Abraham's mental sickness. It was a "repetition compulsion" disorder, he suggests, the human tendency to oppress others in the same way that they were abused in childhood, "thereby mastering situations in which [they] were powerless and victimized."4 Lerner observes that Abraham—the first monotheist—grew up in a pagan tradition, where idol worship and child sacrifice were commonly practiced. He concludes that Abraham was victimizing his only son in the way that his father had victimized him: "like so many of those in the land that he left, Abraham hears the voices of the gods of his past, now in the voice of God, telling him to do to his own son what was done to him. As he was thrown into the fire, so he will pass on the pain to his beloved."5 To those who consider Abraham's obedience a psychological aberration or an evident crime, the analysis proposed in this book may appear agreeable. From this perspective, it apparently saves the father of monotheism—the "Knight of Faith"—from a tragic mistake. These views, however, seem to me erroneous and misleading, failing to recognize the genuine complexity of Abraham's Dilemma. The text provides no evidence of Abraham's insanity; quite the contrary: his journey to Mount 3. Adams, Finite and Infinite Goods, 284. 4. M. Lerner, Jewish Renewal: A Path to Healing and Transformation (New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1994), 41-45. 5. Ibid., 41-45.

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Moriah takes longer than expected, which suggests that his eventual decision was not the result of mere anxiety. "If he had chosen to do this immediately, as soon as the order came to him, it would have been an act of stupefaction and disturbance in the absence of exhaustive reflection," Maimonides writes. "But his doing it days after the command.. .shows that the act sprang from thought [and] correct understanding.. ."6 Further, as stressed above, on the assumption that Abraham was not deluded, that the ultimate God actually demanded the sacrifice, disobedience cannot easily be called the "correct" alternative, as some authors have ventured to think. It would not have been more virtuous, sane or rational to violate a direct divine command; not necessarily more ethical even. This is not to suggest that obedience would have been the correct alternative and that Abraham should be condemned for violating God's word—far from it. It is rather to insist that the story contains an essential tension that does not tolerate any visible mistakes or easy alternatives. (Perhaps it tolerates no answers at all, as some authors have proposed; we will consider this possibility in the next chapter.) For that reason let us hold fast to the initial strategy. Rather than ask what Abraham ought to have done, we may rely on the text as an authority and ask: Given Abraham's disobedience, what is the religious value of his deed? As we shall see, this question leads back from Kierkegaard's interpretation of Abraham to that of Kant. It leads from Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling back to Kant's Religion Within the Boundaries of Reason Alone. 3

Which proposition does Kierkegaard deny? Certainly it is not the second. He does, occasionally, entertain the thought that the test could have been only a tragic mistake—Abraham could have been merely suffering from a delusion. His prevailing view, however, is clearly that Abraham was "great" since he "had faith and did not doubt."7 Had Abraham doubted, Kierkegaard suggests, he would not have consented to kill his son. He would have gone to Mount Moriah, split the wood, lit the fire and seized the knife. Eventually, however, he would have killed himself rather than his son: "he would have thrust the knife into his own breast."8 Nor does Kierkegaard deny any of the remaining propositions. He explicitly recognizes that from an ethical perspective Isaac's killing 6. Maimonides, Guide 111:24. 7. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling. That he may have been deluded is suggested for instance on p. 61; that he "had faith," see p. 20. 8. Ibid.


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would be a terrible crime, a murder of the worst kind (hence granting Proposition 3). A father, he explains, "should love his son more dearly than himself." Yet, at the same time, he approves also Abraham's obedience—from a religious perspective—and commends it as worthy of the highest praise. "Venerable Father Abraham! Centuries have passed since those days, but you have no need of a late lover to snatch your memory from the power of oblivion, for every language calls you to mind—and yet you reward your lover more gloriously than anyone else.. ."9 Kierkegaard thus chooses the contradiction; he chooses not to restore formal consistency to the story. Abraham's great act of faith, he explains, was carried out "in virtue of the Absurd." On that reading, Kierkegaard's notion of the "Absurd" seems a theoretical idea, which can be defined as believing something that is impossible, that is, something contradictory. Abraham thus emerges as a "Knight of Faith" for genuinely believing that the same deity that demanded Isaac's life would change its mind; only by such extreme belief in the impossible can one grasp the paradox of Abraham's faith: "It certainly was Absurd that God, who required [the sacrifice] of him, should in the next moment rescind the requirement."10 However, while this reading has some plausibility, it cannot be quite accurate. Kierkegaard insists elsewhere that the Absurd "is not identical with the improbable, the unexpected, the unforeseen,"11 and "believing the impossible" would be just that.12 Kierkegaard's interest in Fear and Trembling is not so much in what Abraham believed, but much more in something he actually did. As Adams puts it, "it is 'the movements of faith' that Johannes [Kierkegaard's pseudonym] cannot perform and this seems to be something he cannot do, much more than something he cannot believe."13 The questions unlocking Fear and Trembling are therefore: What was it that Abraham did but Kierkegaard could not? And how did Abraham do it? To be sure, it is not Abraham's ability to forfeit his "beloved son" that Kierkegaard finds astonishing. Kierkegaard does not stumble into that trap; as we have seen, he is well aware that readiness to kill the "beloved" is far from being peculiar to the "Knight of Faith" (see Chapter 1). "Tragic heroes" such as Agamemnon, Jephthah and Brutus have done it, 9. Ibid.

10. Ibid., 35. 11. Ibid., 46. 12. See also R. Adams, "The Knight of Faith," Faith and Philosophy 1 (1990): 383-95. 13. Ibid., 388.

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going further than Abraham by actually killing their children. In fact, Kierkegaard takes pride in having accomplished a similar deed by ending his relationship with his beloved fiancee, Regina Olson. And he dares to argue that in terms of obedience, he is not inferior to Abraham: I would not have been cowardly enough to stay at home, nor would I have dragged and drifted along the road or forgotten the knife in order to cause a delay. I am quite sure that I would have been punctual and all prepared—more than likely I would have arrived too early in order to get it over sooner.14

Abraham's readiness to slay Isaac does not constitute comprise for Kierkegaard his role as the inconceivable "Knight of Faith." Kierkegaard can "conceive that this can be done." It is only the "next move" that he finds astonishing—the reason why looking at Abraham makes his brain "reel": Abraham was able, somehow, to win Isaac back. This move alone distinguishes him from tragic heroes who actually sacrificed their sons, or from Kierkegaard himself who actually lost Regina. How could Abraham win his son back after having consented to sacrifice him? "By faith Abraham did not renounce Isaac," Kierkegaard writes: "by faith Abraham received Isaac again."15 Getting Isaac back was a "marvelous Absurd" since it required Abraham to move simultaneously in two opposite directions. To renounce Isaac, he had to exhaust his power in the act of "infinite resignation"; how could it be possible for him, at the same time, to take hold of Isaac again? If we apply this question to the biblical text, Kierkegaard would be actually asking here: How could Abraham listen to the angel of YHWH and stop the sacrifice? If this can be accomplished, it is a sheer absurd; and yet while Kierkegaard himself could not perform the reversal, Abraham apparently did: By my own strength I cannot get the least little thing that belongs to finitude, for I continually use my strength in resigning everything. By my own strength I can give up the princess.. .but by my own strength I cannot get her back again, for I use all my strength in resigning. On the other hand, by faith, says the marvelous knight, by faith you will get her by the virtue of the absurd. But this movement I cannot make.16

As Adams observes, understanding the Absurd as a practical, rather than a theoretical notion, can illuminate why Kierkegaard has considered it the most crucial feature of religious life. The inconsistency of 14. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 31. 15. Ibid., 36. 16. Ibid., 49.


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simultaneously renouncing and winning back is in a sense involved in most, if not all, forms of religious life: in order to be able to keep a relation to God, to maintain a relation to the infinite, it seems necessary to detach oneself from the world of finitude (thus symbolically making precious sacrifices is a universal religious practice); and yet how can humans escape his finitude? How can a human being of "dust and ashes" —flesh and blood—detach from this world? There is a paradox here which is very much the one Fear and Trembling seems to comment on. "Some sort of detachment from 'the world'...," writes Adams, "is an important goal for many religious traditions. Yet it is difficult to see how a human being can even live without some interest in finite things. The question therefore arises how detachment can be combined with interest in finite things."17 There is an interesting similarity between my reading of Gen 22 and Kierkegaard's. Both recognize that Abraham's great act could not have been his readiness to slay Isaac, and both identify it as taking Isaac back. I would also agree with Kierkegaard's notion that this was a genuine marvel, a great religious conduct. The disagreement lies in the explanation of this conduct: Kierkegaard introduces here the notion of the Absurd, whereas I have argued for disobedience—which is far from an easy, ethical alternative. We will come to appreciate the religious significance of such disobedience shortly, when we consider Kant's interpretation of Abraham. Yet before we move from Kierkegaard to Kant, a question remains: How genuine, or well founded, is my argument with Kierkegaard? He provides a philosophical analysis of the Absurd, while my interpretation is essentially textual. Does the reinterpretation of Gen 22 affect Kierkegaard's philosophical reasoning? Is it arguable that if the biblical Abraham won Isaac back in virtue of disobedience, not the Absurd, then Kierkegaard is wrong? There is a tendency in modern scholarship to dissociate Kierkegaard from the biblical text: to divorce the Abraham of Gen 22 from the Abraham of Fear and Trembling. On this view Kierkegaard, as a philosopher, employs the Binding for rhetorical purposes only, to demonstrate a philosophical argument. The Abraham he refers to need not be identical with the biblical Abraham therefore, and it is hard to see why a textual interpretation of Gen 22 should have any affect on his theoretical argument.18 17. Adams, "The Knight of Faith," 388. 18. Such view is explicitly assumed, for instance, by Adams, both in "The Knight of Faith," and Finite and Infinite Goods.

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This approach seems to me inaccurate. Genesis 22 is an essential element in Kierkegaard's thought and so is the question of what Abraham did or did not do. For one thing, Kierkegaard is clearly writing as a religious philosopher, a Christian, who considers his work to be highly committed to Christian doctrines.19 Kierkegaard's Abraham is thus not quite the inessential biblical example one might think him to be. This claim may be disputed—with reason, I think—on the grounds that it is not Kierkegaard who is directly responsible for Fear and Tremblfngbut Kierkegaard's pseudonym, "Johannes de Silentio." In contrast to Kierkegaard, "Johannes" dissociates himself several times from any religious commitments; and Kierkegaard surely had good reason to write this book through this fictional persona rather than his own. However, it is actually Johannes' line of reasoning, immanent to Fear and Trembling, that commits his argument to the religious authority of the biblical text—much more crucially than Kierkegaard's own personal commitment to it. It is important to notice that he, Johannes, repeatedly announces his inability to understand Abraham and that, "in a certain sense," he can "learn from him nothing except be amazed." Abraham is altogether inconceivable, he explains, to him or anybody else: "The observer cannot understand Abraham at all; neither can his eye rest upon him with confidence." Thus, if we were to ask Johannes whether he thinks Abraham was truly the "Knight of Faith," his reply is not very likely to have been a simple "yes." Rather, it would take the form of an either/or argument: "either Abraham was a knight of faith or, else, a murderer of the worst kind." Consider the form of the following argument: [Abraham's] position cannot be mediated, for all mediation takes place only by virtue of the universal; it is and remains for all eternity a paradox, impervious to thought. And yet faith is this paradox, or else (and I ask the reader to bear these consequences in mente [in mind] even though it would be too prolix of me to write them all down) or else faith has never existed simply because it has always existed, or else Abraham is lost.20

These lines draw heavily on the religious authority of the biblical text. Johannes' argument would have been futile had he been referring to some arbitrary fictional character, asserting with great pathos that faith must be a paradox, since otherwise this personage is "lost," that is, nothing but a murderer. Were that his argument, it would be very 19. For a discussion of the problem of religious authority in Kierkegaard, see, for instance, John Whittaker, "Kierkegaard on the Concept of Authority," International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 46, no. 2 (1999): 83-101. 20. Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling, 56.


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reasonable—indeed, more reasonable—to decide that the personage ("Abraham," "Adler" or whatever) is in fact a murderer. Notice the argument in parenthesis in particular: "Faith is a paradox or else (and I ask the reader to bear these consequences in mente [in mind] even though it would be too prolix for me to write them all down) or else..." This is almost a threat: either there is a paradox, Johannes warns us, or we must bravely bear the "consequences." He does not write them all down but they are clear enough. If Abraham is nothing but a murderer, monotheism is tragically founded on a crime. For Christianity, the case would be even more complex, since the Binding prefigures crucifixion: God sacrifices his beloved son, as Abraham was going to sacrifice his (I will discuss the Crucifixion in detail in the next chapter). The argument would not hold without the text as an indispensable origin. Johannes' proposition can be effective only if Fear and Trembling relies on Gen 22; only if Johannes' "Knight of Faith" refers directly to the biblical Abraham. I ask again therefore: What are we to make of Abraham's disobedience? What religious value does it convey? 4

In a famous statement in the Introduction to the second edition of the Critique of Pure Reason (the "First Critique"), Kant comments that he "had to deny knowledge, in order to make room for faith."21 That statement encapsulates the essential move of his philosophy of religion; it is in its light that we shall consider the religious merits of disobeying the command of sacrifice. Kant's transcendental idealism rests on the assumption that for human experience to be possible, the most basic elements that constitute it (space, time, causality and so forth) must be "a prior?'—that is, rather than thinking of them as parts of the world, existing independently of experience, Kant thinks of them as features that our own mind imposes on nature to perceive and understand it. This conception yields a twofold result. On the one hand, it paves the way to the restoration of scientific certainty, which Kant wished to establish. It is well known that David Hume had disturbed his "dogmatic slumber" by obliterating the possibility of natural science; Hume's skepticism rendered all scientific knowledge, including Newton's physics, which Kant took as utterly true, to be nothing but a probable conjecture. If nature's fundamental elements are 21. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason (trans. N. Kemp Smith; New York: St. Martins, 1965), Preface.

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actually features of our own mind, however, apodictic science is possible again: we can deduce the laws that govern natural events by conducting a pure, a priori science of nature.22 On the other hand, the price of scientific certainty is rather high. For if our knowledge of the world is fundamentally structured by our mind, any possible knowledge becomes essentially "knowledge for the subject" and every perception "perception of the perceiver": we must renounce as improper such questions as what the world is like or how it may be outside own our experience; they become altogether meaningless. The price of certainty, in other words, is Kant's famous distinction between "Phenomena" and "Noumena" or "appearances" and "things in themselves." Phenomena are the objects of the world that are structured by our mind, lending themselves so to speak to scientific knowledge. Noumena are those things into which we in principle lack insight. This term does not even refer to a class of worldly objects; its primary significance is to emphasize the limits of our perspective and the finitude of our knowledge.23 The consequences of Kant's revolution are profound, not only for scientific practice but also in the realm of religion. We usually think of the deity in terms of transcendence: in philosophy, it is conceived as the ultimate being, the "Ens Perfectissimum" which exists in virtue of itself and knows no boundaries; in biblical theology, God is usually represented as the author of the world—an omnipotent and voluntary agent. Kant's restriction of experience to the scope of phenomena leaves no room for knowledge of such a being. As infinite, God cannot be perceived by our senses; as voluntary, he cannot be understood by the causal categories of our thought. As a result, it is according to Kant impossible to experience personal divine revelations (as alleged by the biblical prophets) and illegitimate to argue God's existence from metaphysical assumptions (as alleged by medieval and early-modern philosophers). God may or may not exist, Kant argues, and may or may not be relevant to our lives. But his existence and relevance cannot be theoretically demonstrated: 22. Kant would later attempt, in his Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science (1786), to prove that Newton's physics is, in fact, such a pure science, deducing it by a pure, a priori construction. 23. This is of course an oversimplified summery of Kant's "Copernican Revolution." For the present purpose—supplying a brief background to Kant's understanding of Gen 22—what is offered above will suffice. For book-length discussions of Kant's Transcendental Idealism, see, for example, E. Cassirer, Kant's Life and Thought (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981); Henry Allison, Kant's Transcendental Idealism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983).


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No one, indeed, will be able to boast that he knows that there is a God, and future life: if he knows this, he is then the man for whom I have long and vainly sought. All knowledge, if it concerns an object of mere reason, can be communicated; and I might therefore hope that under his instruction my own knowledge would be extended in his wonderful fashion... (Critique A829/B857)

Kant's sarcasm discloses the meaning of his "denial of knowledge." We have seen above Kierkegaard's desire to sacrifice the bonds of finitude in order to gain relation to the infinite. Kant's philosophy renders that sacrifice impossible, tragic: our very nature binds us to finitude with no escape; faith will have to find different foundations. But what is the religious value of this claim? What may be the religious merits of excluding any personal or theoretical relation to God? Kant surely thought there was such an intrinsic worth; as we recall, he thought of his revolution not only as philosophical but also in religious terms: the denial of knowledge only "made room for faith." The first and foremost religious merit of Kant's move is the value of truth and the critical destruction of religious hypocrisy. If humans cannot be certain of God's existence and divine providence, thinks Kant, they are better off if they admit it. There is a similar contention in the lament of Job (see the discussion in Chapter 8): "Is it for the sake of God that you speak falsehood?" he asks his friends, "on his behalf that you utter lies?" (Job 13:7-8). Kant was very content with these words. Quoting them in his essay "On the Miscarriage of all Philosophical Trials" (1791), he commends Job who "speaks as he thinks," in contrast to his friends. "Their malice in pretending to assert things into which they must admit they have no insight, and in simulating conviction which they in fact do not have, contrasts with Job's frankness—much to his advantage."24 Kant is not simply commenting here on Job's comforters but is actually showing a lack of esteem for his own contemporaries: they claim religious pledges they cannot maintain. Only Job, Kant continues, had a sincere faith of a "pure and true kind"; only Job "proved that he did not found his morality on faith, but his faith on morality.. ,"25 This is an important remark. Kant here defines not only Job's belief but his own, disclosing the kind of faith his "denial of knowledge" is supposed to make room for. Rather than establish belief on theoretical assumptions or seemingly divine revelations, he grounds it on moral foundations: while his First Critique overthrew any theoretically based

24. Kant, "On the Miscarriages of All Philosophical Trials in Theodicy," 24-25. 25. Ibid.

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knowledge of God, his Second Critique, the Critique of Practical Reason, proposes an alternative strategy, one based on ethical principles. Kant's moral theory is founded on the supposition that for an action to have moral value, it must be universally good and necessarily binding: its moral worth cannot be contingent upon changing circumstances. This brings him to base morality on the analysis of good intentions since, he posits, only the inner "maxims" that underlie an action can maintain their moral worth, regardless of contingent external consequences. There is nothing that can be "regarded as good without qualifications," Kant posits, "in the world or even without it, except a good will."26 By generalizing that claim he deduces the famous moral law, the "Categorical Imperative," which he considers a priori and apodictically certain: "Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law."27 The force of that principle is that it bases our moral judgments on logical (and hence indeed universal and necessary) principles. One must not lie, for instance, since it is logically impossible for this action to become a universal law: deceiving one's friends requires that, in most cases, people would speak the truth, otherwise people would not believe one another, which would render lying impossible. Thus while speaking the truth can be willed universally and is therefore moral, lying cannot, and is therefore amoral. Only actions that can be universalized may be morally "good." From that principle Kant deduces his well-known argument that it is "morally necessary" for us to assume the existence of God. This is not the place to follow the argument in detail; the general line runs thus.28 First, the "general principle of morality" binds us to consider it our duty to do all in our power to promote and realize the idea of the summum bonum or "the highest good" in the world. This state of affairs is one where there is a strict proportion between one's moral virtues and one's happiness; in this state all people are "worthy of happiness" and are 26. Immanuel Kant, Groundingfor the Metaphysics of Morals (trans. James W. Ellington; Indianapolis: Hackett, 1981), 7 (emphasis in original). 27. Ibid. Kant gives several formulations of the Categorical Imperative. This one, which is more general than the others, is known as the "formula of universal law." Here too, it is important to emphasize that I give only a brief background of Kant's Practical Philosophy—the necessary minimum to understand his interpretation of Abraham. For a good book-length discussion see, for instance, H. Paton, The Categorical Imperative: A Study in Kant's Moral Philosophy (London: Hutchinson, 1947). 28. For a more comprehensive discussion, see Manfred Kuehn, "Kant's Transcendental Deduction of God's Existence as a Postulate of Pure Practical Reason," Kant-Studien76(l985): 152-70.


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indeed as happy as they are worth. (Kant defines "happiness" as a state of satisfaction of our inclinations: the "harmony" of will with nature.) However, second, even though such a state of affairs is not altogether inconceivable—reason does not judge it contradictory—our experience teaches us that it is quite fantastic. Our everyday acquaintance with ourselves and with our neighbors shows that actually establishing the summum bonum should not be regarded as a real possibility. Further, third, since obtaining "universal happiness" involves among other things also physical changes (such as the abolition of hunger and pain), we have not the "least ground" to expect that our moral choices can by themselves bring any progress. The "acting rational being," Kant says, is not at the same time also "the cause of the world and of nature itself." Fourth, this is apparently a contradiction, an "antinomy": the moral law binds us to establish an end that we cannot genuinely hope to accomplish; since the moral law is a priori and compulsory, the "highest good" is a necessary end and therefore must be genuinely possible. (This is an extreme example of Kant's famous derivation from "ought" to "is"—that is, from a moral obligation to ontological commitment.) Kant concludes that, fifth, we must believe in the existence of the sufficient conditions that render it as such. God's existence is among these conditions, since, sixth, only if the "author of nature" is a moral agent, "possessing understanding and will," can our moral choices yield actual progress. We may hope that if we do our best—"if we do what lies in our power"—God will "make up our shortcomings." Thus, while Kant dismisses any attempt to argue God's existence from metaphysical foundations, he suggests that moral ones establish the same end: "it is morally necessary to assume the existence of God," he concludes. Again, it is outside my scope to analyze Kant's argumentation in detail. But it should be noted that his strategy is far from trivial: the usual line of reasoning at the period was just the opposite; Kant's contemporaries would ordinarily adhere to metaphysical arguments for God's existence (as in the case of Descartes' version of the Ontological Proof, for example), generally regarded a priori and apodictically certain, and proceed to base morality on divine authority. Ethics is here nothing but an outgrowth of religion, a system of divine commands: anything God forbids is by definition morally wrong and everything he demands— everything—becomes morally right. Kant, however, turns this reasoning upside down. Rejecting metaphysical attempts to prove God's existence, he subverts also the attempt to define morality relative to divine authority and command. Yet, at the same time, he posits the Categorical Imperative as an a priori principle that can be known with certainty, "clearly and distinctly," so to speak.

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From that origin, he proceeds to elaborate the basic set of arguments from which God's existence is derived. It is here that Kant's identification with Job—"basing his faith on morality, not his morality on faith"— is most clearly seen. Kant's interpretation of the Binding pursues the same line of reasoning. We cannot confidently verify a divine revelation as such, Kant argues, since any command that appears to be one would overwhelm our senses, defy our experience, and must therefore provoke skepticism: it may or may not be truly God's. Such epistemological concern severely challenges Proposition 2 ("God commanded Abraham to kill Isaac"). Should Abraham obey the transcendent command to kill his son even though he must remain ambivalent as to its source? Sartre reflects the dilemma in the lecture Existentialism is Humanism. Anyone in Abraham's position, he contends, must wonder whether it was truly the deity that demanded the sacrifice: "If I hear voices, who can prove that they proceed from heaven and not from hell, or from my own subconsciousness or some pathological condition? Who can prove that they are really addressed to me?" "Where are the Proofs?"29 A similar contention is encountered in a Midrash (see Chapter 3), putting a rational doubt in the words of Satan: "What has happened to you old man, have you gone crazy? .. .How do you know it is God? Maybe tomorrow he will change his mind and call you a murderer."30 But Kant goes further than Satan. He argues that there is in fact a type of heavenly revelation whose source we can verify with certainty, as our reason at least has "a negative criterion at its disposal." He writes: "if something is represented as commanded by God in direct manifestation of him, yet is directly in conflict with morality, it cannot be a divine miracle despite every appearance of being one."31 In other words, whereas any command that is morally "indifferent" is opaque to reason and its source must remain undecided, we do have some knowledge of the deity —knowledge springing from moral principles. Any command that contradicts the moral law thus negatively discloses its source: it cannot be truly divine. Kant suggests here, within parenthesis, an example: "e.g., if a father were ordered to kill his son who, so far as he knows, is totally innocent."32 29. Jean-Paul Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism in Existentialism from Dostoevsky to Sartre (ed W. Kaufman; Cleveland, Ohio: Meridien, 1956), 287-311. 30. Gen. Rab. 56:4. 31. Immanuel Kant, Religion Within the Boundaries of Mere Reason and Other Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 100. 32. Ibid.


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This remark, in Kant's Religion Within the Boundaries of Mere Reason, is not the only occasion where he condemns Abraham's obedience, nor is it the most explicit one. At the time that Kant was preparing Religion for the press, he was living under the rule of Frederick William II, a religious and political conservative who strove to censor the philosophical liberty permitted during the days of his predecessor, Frederick the Great. By the time Religion's second edition went to press, Frederick had already expressed his opposition to Kant's religious ideas, extorting from him a promise to avoid public expression on religious matters.33 In such an atmosphere, it is not surprising that Kant's comment on Gen 22 was somewhat esoterically adumbrated between the lines, inserted within parenthesis, not even mentioning Abraham by name. Kant resumed his religious writing after Frederick's death in 1797, most famously in an essay titled "On the Conflict Between the Faculties." He contends in the Introduction that his promise to the king was a personal one, and therefore came to an end with the king's life. In this essay he presents also his opinion of Abraham rather explicitly: If God should really speak to a man, man could still never know that it was God speaking. It is quite impossible for man to apprehend the infinite by his senses, distinguishing it from sensible beings, and recognize it as such. But in some cases man can be sure the voice he hears is not God's; for if the voice commands him to do something contrary to a moral law, then no matter how majestic the apparition may be, and no matter how it may seem to surpass the whole of nature, he must consider it an illusion.34

And in a long footnote, he adds: We can use, as an example, the myth of the sacrifice that Abraham was going to make by butchering and burning his only son at God's command (the poor child, without knowing it, even brought the wood for the fire). Abraham should have replied to this supposedly divine voice: "That I ought not to kill my good son is quite certain. But that you, this apparition, are God—of that I am not certain, and never can be, not even if this voice rings down to me from (visible) heaven."35

Kant not only challenges Proposition 2 but explicitly rejects it. Abraham should have disobeyed since God was not the one to command the sacrifice.36 33. See, for instance, Cassirer's discussion of this affair, in Cassirer, Kant's Life and Thought, 375-81. 34. Immanuel Kant, On the Conflict Between the Faculties (Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis, 1979), 115. 35. Ibid. 36. To be sure, Kant's rejection of the second proposition is altogether different from the speculations of the recent authors mentioned above. While their rejection is

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It is interesting to compare Kant's understanding of the Binding to Maimonides'; despite obvious differences, the two share remarkable similarities. As we recall, in the plain, "exoteric" interpretation of the Binding, Maimonides proffered a rather awkward philosophical claim. This narrative proves, he wrote, that prophets do not doubt "what comes to them from God": had Abraham had any doubt in the nature of the command or its source, he would not have found the strength "in his soul" to slay his son. However, if we consider this argument in light of Maimonides' philosophical theory of prophecy (and, as I argued above, Maimonides invites us to do so) this argument becomes strikingly implausible and arguably esoteric. In Maimonides, the word "God" (DTTI^K, used to describe the command of sacrifice—"And God pTffi^K] tested Abraham") often stands for contingent norms and social opinions, as opposed to necessary truths. Such a doctrine does not allow for Abraham (or anybody else) to have any apodictic certainty in "God's" command, since it lacks such "absolute" truth value. Further, that the command could not have been certain for Abraham is proven also by the fact that it was negated by the angel of YHWH's command to desist (w. 11-12). Had "God's" command been absolute, it would not have been liable to change, let alone through an angel who is not God's but YHWH's. This point is crucial; besides the fact that the angel negated the command of sacrifice, Abraham actually trusted the angel's words and violated "God's" initial command. Could Maimonides have plausibly argued that the story proves Abraham's confidence in God's command? I think not; here, it seems, lies Maimonides' true, esoteric interpretation of the Binding, opposed to the revealed one: it "makes known" that prophets do doubt what comes to them from "God" (i.e. they may refrain from adhering to commonly held public opinions) but have absolute certainty in prophecies directly emanating their intellect—represented here by the angel of YHWH's command to halt the sacrifice. Had Abraham had no doubt in God's command to sacrifice Isaac—or alternatively had he doubted the angel's authority in instructing him to desist—he would not have been able to stop the sacrifice. Indeed, elsewhere in the Guide, fundamentally psychological—ascribing some kind of mental sickness to Abraham—Kant's is philosophical. This is an important difference; if confronted with the question of what Abraham ought to have done assuming that the command was divine, and Abraham was able to know it, the adherent of the psychological interpretation would have to balk. He/she would have to rethink his/her position and, it seems to me, admit that obedience is in fact far from irrational. Kant, I take it, would not have balked. He would have replied with confidence that the question was utterly meaningless.


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Maimonides explicitly ranks the "degrees of prophecy" (111:45), writing that a revelation of an "angel of YHWH"—as opposed to a revelation of "God"—is the highest possible kind of prophecy; and he adduces as an example the angel appearing to Abraham in the Binding. "In my opinion," he writes, "this is the highest of the degrees of the prophets whose states are attested in the prophetic books..." (see Chapter 7). In a sense, Kant's epistemological analysis of Gen 22 provides an explicit, more modern explanation of what is implicit in Maimonides' theory of prophecy. His transcendental account of experience explains how a divine command—overwhelming our senses and defying our knowledge—is necessarily vulnerable to doubt; and his account of morality makes it clear why the moral command, the Categorical Imperative, is a priori and therefore absolutely certain. Had Kant known that Abraham in fact disobeyed, had he known of Maimonides' interpretation, he would have had no quarrel with the view that Abraham violated "God's" command by "bringing God inside his head."

5 Kant concludes the Second Critique with a comment on the experience of the "sublime," anticipating the analysis in the Third Critique, the Critique of Judgment. The notion of the sublime has important religious implications, as we shall see, since Kant applies it to the interpretation of religious experience, revisiting the biblical notion of the "fear of God." "Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and reverence..." Kant writes, "[t]he starry heavens above me and the moral law within me."37 The starry heavens, infinitely large, defy our sensual apprehension and threaten to annihilate our human sense of worth; compared to the immensity of the skies, everything else appears absolutely small. According to Kant, the experience of the sublime occurs before colossal natural objects that exceed our sensual abilities. He invites us to consider the "boundless ocean" at it is "heaved up," violent thunders and "devastating hurricanes": "Compared to the might of any of these, our ability to resist becomes an insignificant trifle."38 Indeed, any of these threaten to tear the human body apart, provoking terror and fear. The experience of the sublime, however, is very different from one of mere fear. Kant maintains that it is possible for us "to consider an object 37. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Practical Reason (trans, and ed. M. Gregor; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 133-34. 38. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgment (trans. M. Gregor; Indianapolis: Hackett, 1987), 120.

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fearful without being afraid of it."39 If we observe the "heaved up" ocean, for instance, but at the same time we are confident of our secure personal position, its sight would become not only fearful but extremely attractive—in fact, the more fearful the more attractive. Kant explains this attraction by contrasting it with the attraction of the beautiful. Beauty, in his view, is experienced when nature welcomes our comprehension, lending itself as if purposefully designed by a deity harmoniously to accord with our understanding. The sublime, according to Kant, provokes the opposite sensation: the might of nature, embodied in such natural events as erupting volcanoes or hurricanes, overpowers our senses and lacks the traces of purposeful design. Facing its inability to apprehend such overwhelming power, our reason turns (by means of "a certain subreption") to reflect on its own, inner immensity; not immensity by any natural standards, of course, but by moral ones—in relation to human morality, nature's infinite power is immaterial. Physical power can perhaps tear our body apart, but would never overcome our dignity as rational agents: Though the irresistibility of nature's might makes us, considered as natural beings, recognize our physical impotence, it reveals in us at the same time an ability to judge ourselves independent of nature, and reveals in us a superiority over nature that...keeps the humanity in our person from being degraded.40

It is not the frightening power of nature that we judge as sublime, but the superior power of our reason, embodied as an ethical experience; the starry heavens brought Kant to reflect on the moral law "within him." Such experience "infinitely raises" human worth, revealing admirable life "independent of animality and even of the whole sensible world."41 If nature is to be called "sublime" here, it is only for elevating our own experience to the point where we can recognize our infinite "nonsensible standard." "In contrast to this standard," Kant writes, "everything in nature is small."42 Kant is well aware, however, that most people ordinarily imagine divine revelations in violent natural events such as "tempests, storms, earthquakes and so on"; "we usually present God as showing himself in his wrath but also in his sublimity..."43 This suggests an immediate objection to his account: is it reasonable to assume that divine revelations 39. Ibid., 119. 40. Ibid., 121.

41. Kant, Critique of Practical Reason, 133. 42. Kant, Critique of Judgment, 121-23. 43. Ibid.


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only elevate our own personal dignity? Is it reasonable that divine power is immaterial and small in relation to our reason? Indeed, it is commonly assumed that in the presence of God sublimity must be attributed to outward events, not to our own reason, and hence that the proper religious response is not experiencing the sublimity of our own nature, but "submission, prostration and feeling of our utter impotence..." This is an experience of fear: It seems that in general the only fitting behavior in the presence of the deity is prostration, worship with bowed head and accompanied by contrite and timorous gestures and voice; and that is why most peoples have in fact adopted this behavior and still engage in it.. .^

Kant rejects this conception, objecting that it is by no means intrinsically connected with "the object of religion" (i.e. God). As we have seen, he founds his faith on the inner principle of morality (i.e. the Categorical Imperative) and therefore welcomes the definition of the sublime in inner terms. The "fear of God" must not be understood as mere fear but as an extreme experience of sublimity: "A virtuous person fears God without being afraid of Him," Kant says, "for he does not think of wanting to resist God and his commandments as a possibility that should worry him. But for every such case, which he thinks of as not impossible intrinsically, he recognizes God as fearful."45 In his Lectures on Ethics, Kant stresses this notion even further: "to fear God is not the same as to be afraid of Him"; "we are afraid of God when we have transgressed and feel guilty, but we fear Him when we are so disposed to conduct ourselves that we can stand before Him."46 Consider Abraham's reaction to God's intention to destroy the city of Sodom (Gen 18). He personally approaches the deity, "and Abraham came near...," protesting with outrage: "far be it from you to do such a thing, to slay the righteous with the wicked.. .far be it from you; shall not the judge of all the earth do what is just?" (Gen 18:25; see the discussion in Chapter 3). Far from expressing mere fear, Abraham remains here just as far from ignoring God's power as a great might; he voices his ethical protest but is aware of his precarious situation, a human being disputing directly with an angry deity: "Let me take it upon myself to speak to the Lord, I who am but dust and ashes.. .do not let the Lord be angry if I speak..." None of Kant's writings on the sublime, none of his philosophical explanations of the virtuous "fear of God," can demonstrate this 44. Ibid.

45. Ibid., 120. 46. Kant, Lectures on Ethics, 97-98.

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notion as forcefully as Abraham does; the harmony between Abraham and Kant is striking: "while we may be conscious of our own littleness before Him," says Kant, "our reverence can take no other than the moral form."47 Kant looked up to Job as his model of faith, not to Abraham whom he condemned as immoral. However, as we have seen, the Job model is actually profoundly structured in the light of Abraham (see Chapter 8): his protest very literally echoes Abraham's outrage in Sodom and disobedience on Mount Moriah. The only two individuals the Bible terms as "God-fearing" (DVTlbx ''XT) men sought to reconsider that notion, and in a way not dissimilar to Kant's: both Job and Abraham insisted that humanity's relation to God, the proper "fear of God," must not be rooted in mere fear. They both insisted, instead, on grounding their faith in terms of "justice" (CD5DCDD). Kant's philosophy thus enables us to grasp the religious significance of Abraham's disobedience to the divine command. It is the attempt, as Kant says, to "ground faith in morality, not morality in faith."

47. Ibid.

Chapter 10

A RELIGIOUS MODEL OF DISOBEDIENCE "After these things and God tested [trialed, H03] Abraham..." (Gen 22:1). Approaching a conclusion, it becomes appropriate to comment on the first words of the narrative. In a sense, the complexity they embody represents the essential motif of this book. What does "tested" (HD3) mean in this verse? Commentators hardly ever fail to address the question. English translations nearly always give "tested," thus confining the meaning of the verse to one possible interpretation which seems, at a first glance, plausible: "God examined Abraham" to know his faith; is it strong enough?1 This is undeniably the ordinary understanding of the narrative that is widely agreed upon by common readers and scholars alike. "Standing the test," writes E. S. Hartom, "bears witness to Abraham's complete faith in God, and to his willingness to do what he is commanded without hesitation or doubt."2 Medieval commentators read the Hebrew words quite differently, however. Rather than read H03 as "tested," they read "presented" or "exhibited": not "God tested Abraham" but "God presented Abraham as a model." This is famously expressed by Maimonides who insists, as we have seen, that the "aim and meaning" of all trials recalled in the Torah is not to examine the individuals subjected to them but "to let people know what they ought to do or what they must believe." The trials are designed to demonstrate an ideal of faith and be "imitated and followed." Accordingly, Abraham's trial of faith was not intended to test him, says Maimonides, but to "inform of and "make known" two fundamental 1. Thus, for instance, in the New Revised Standard Version (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); cf. the Revised Standard Catholic Edition (Camden: Thomas Nelson & Sons, 1966). Other translations sometimes give "tempted"; cf. the New Catholic Edition (New York: Catholic Book, 1951). 2. E. S. Hartom, "Genesis 22", in The Books of the Bible (ed. M. D. Cassuto; Tel Aviv, 1962 [Hebrew]), 47^9.

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religious principles: "two fundamental principles of the law" (see the discussion in Chapter 7).3 Maimonides himself was not the first to introduce this line of reasoning—he, in fact, appropriated a view that had been expressed by his predecessor, Saadia. Saadia Gaon, the tenth-century author (882-942 C.E.) who first translated the Bible from Hebrew into Arabic (a translation that is still used by Jewish Arabic readers), suggested a rather original reading of the angelic speech made to Abraham in w. 11-12: rather than translate the Hebrew "now I know..." (...TlirpfflTUJ)into Arabic as "araftu" he gave "arraftu alnas" (i.e. "now I informed the people"), thus escaping the problematic connotation of God's apparently examining Abraham to gain knowledge he had previously lacked. Unlike the biblical God, Saadia's God is the "God of the philosophers"—an omniscient being. Saadia was not ready to tolerate the reading that God may test his servants in order to gain "empirical knowledge" about their faith. The same interpretation is found also in the Christian tradition, clearly articulated by Augustine. "Abraham was tempted about the offering up of his beloved son Isaac, to prove his pious obedience and so make it known to the world, not to God..." ...It is said, "now I know," that is, now I have made to be known; for God was not previously ignorant of this. Then, having offered up that ram instead of Isaac his son, "Abraham," as we read, "called the name of the place the Lord seeth: as they say this day, In the mount of the Lord hath appeared" as it is said, "now I know," for now I have made to be known...4

The plausibility of this interpretation is that besides preserving the philosophical insistence on God's omniscience, it is also consistent with the Hebrew root of the verb "tested" (PT03). The conformity here between the philosophical interpretation and the Hebrew text is remarkable. While 1103 may be understood according to the root ^-0-3 (n-s-y) which signifies a test, it can also be analyzed as 0-0-3 (n-s-s), signifying an emblem or a beacon. The root is used in this meaning by Isaiah, for instance, as he prophesies that God "will raise a signal (03-XB31) for a nation far away, and whistle for a people at the ends of earth" (Isa 5:26; compare 11:12, "[God] will raise a signal for the nations"), or as he invites the Israelites, "lift up an ensign (03) over the people..." (62:10). God's testing of 3. Maimonides, Guide 111:24. 4. Saint Augustine, City of God (trans. M. Dods; New York: Modern Library, 2000), 554^55.

10. A Religious Model of Disobedience

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Abraham is thus understood by Saadia in a similar fashion: it is supposed to raise him as an "ensign," to present him as an ideal of faith. That the trial was intended to present Abraham as a model, not to test his faith, is further suggested by the paradigmatic manner of the setting, already considered in Chapter 1. In this narrative, Abraham does not appear as a mere accidental individual, but as a model of faith. God's command to sacrifice Isaac uses the phrase "and go-you away (*]h fb) to the land of Moriah...," bearing a strong echo of the previous command imposed on Abraham, to leave behind his father's pagan tradition. "Goyou away (*]h *fi) from thy country and thy father's house, and go to the land which I will show you..." This locution is used only in these two instances in the whole Bible, and it is clearly intended to emphasize Abraham's performance in the Binding as a model of faith, the "father of monotheism." The content of the command—sacrificing Isaac as a "burnt offering" (rfyifi)—is also symbolic. It is not merely a horrifying personal command imposed on Abraham as Isaac's father but, first and foremost, a red flag of pagan worship. The Bible condemns this act as an abomination to the Lord no less then sixteen times.5 What is at stake is therefore a question of principle: should the father of monotheism obey a forbidden command? In this respect, Isaac's role as the "beloved son" (considered in more detail in Chapter 5) is crucial. Terming him thus imports into the Binding the general pattern of the ancient myth of child sacrifice, where fathers are required to sacrifice their "only beloved" in order to safeguard their people from an angry deity: the people survive because the leader has sacrificed his "beloved" 0TIT). As we have seen, however, terming Isaac as Abraham's "beloved" is intended to invert the ordinary mythical concept: the fulfillment of God's promise to make Abraham a "great nation" depends on Isaac's staying alive. This symbolic subversion of the pagan myth renders Abraham's trial a religious model par excellence, and his choice becomes the constituting moment of the monotheistic people. In contrast to the pagan myth, the monotheistic people exist, not because the father of monotheism sacrificed his "beloved son," but because he refused to do so. Indeed, the Binding does not so much test Abraham as present him as a model of faith. Understanding the trial as exhibition rather than examination makes a crucial difference—it fixes the story in a different context, altogether changing its meaning. If Abraham is tested, the narrative assumes a 5. Lev 18:21; 20:1-8; Deut 12:31; 18:10; 2 Kgs 13:27; 16:3; 17:31; 21:6; 23:10; Jer 7:31; 19:5; Ezek 20:31; Mic 6:7; 2 Chr 28:3; 33:6.

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specific way for him to meet the challenge—in this case, apparently, to obey. A "correct" response is required from him, in other words, in order to emerge successfully from the trial. If Abraham is "exhibited as a model," however, nothing is assumed prior to the trial. His act determines, for future generations, the measure of an approved religious conduct; but at the moment he himself acts on the stage, no such measure already exists.6 E. Mooney, revisiting Kierkegaard's notion of "fear and trembling," has observed that in order for there to be a genuine anxiety in the narrative there must be no right and wrong alternatives for Abraham. "If Abraham could know, or we could know that he had picked the 'right' alternative," Mooney writes, then there would be no terrifying dilemma, no fear and trembling... Having a rule for breaking the deadlock of even the worst imaginable dilemma, reason would have triumphed, things for Abraham would be clear cut, settled. But if this is indeed a story of fear and trembling, there can be no such rationalistic solution available. There is no "right choice" for Abraham to make.7

Indeed, philosophically speaking there is not. But we must remember that this is a religious text, presenting a model—an "ensign" of faith; religiously, therefore, there may be right and wrong here, namely, those values established by Abraham's model. A reader conceding the religious authority of the text can tell how Abraham acted and measure his or her religious practice by Abraham's standard. It seems to me that this is the most profound and charitable understanding of the narrative as a "trial" qro^). Nevertheless, modern scholars tend to reject the understanding of the trial as "exhibition" as mere apologetics. On this view, the medieval commentators, anxious to preserve the notion of an omniscient deity, adopted an interpretation inconsistent with the simple text. The reasons behind this contention are not far to seek: the angel of YHWH, stopping Abraham at the last moment before he kills his son, asserts that the purpose of the trial was to test Abraham's obedience, and that Abraham stood it successfully: "...for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, you only son..." (Gen 22:12). Indeed, these words firmly declare, first, that the trial is a test and, second, that there 6. Philosophical-minded readers may think of this as Wittgenstein's problem of measuring the standard Meter. 7. E. Mooney, "Abraham and Dilemma: Kierkegaard's Theological Suspension of the Ethical Revisited," International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 19, no. 2 (1986): 24.


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was a correct way for Abraham to withstand it. In view of the angel's words, how could Maimonides or Augustine responsibly say that the purpose of the trial was not to test Abraham but to present him as a model? N. Leibowich thus contends that Maimonides' explanation "does not fit the narrative as a whole and, most certainly, not the words of the angel..."8 J. Licht, in a work titled Testing in the Hebrew Scripture, similarly explains that Maimonides' position diverges from the "plain meaning of scripture"; "There is no doubt that the simple meaning is directed to God's knowledge" he writes. "The violence of Maimonides' methodology is clear...[in the Akedah] where it is said 4I know'."9 These views seem to me to oversimplify Maimonides' position. He was well aware of his inconsistency with the angelic speech and commented on it specifically. Admitting that the "subject of trial" is "very difficult," he makes the following comment: ... the external meaning of the trials mentioned in the Torah in the passage in question is that they took place in order to test and to receive information so that one could know the degree of faith or the degree of obedience of the individual or nation in question. And this is a great difficulty, especially in the story of the binding, which was known only to God and to the two individuals involved, to one of whom it was said: For now I know that thoufearest God.10

Very explicitly, Maimonides here tells the reader that the notion of trial as "exhibition" is problematic—especially in the Binding, where, as Licht observes, the angel says "now I know." Maimonides actually takes pains to cite the Hebrew—not Saadia's Arabic translation which masked the difficulty. How, then, does he resolve the inconsistency? Even though less explicitly, the answer is conveyed in the same lines. Consider the first words: "the external meaning of the trials..." Here, the phrase "external meaning" is revealing. As we recall, one of Maimonides' intentions in the Guide was to interpret the parables of the Torah—parables defined as narratives having two layers of meaning: an external and an internal one; an exoteric as opposed to an esoteric (i.e. "true") one, respectively. Maimonides thus implies, first, that Gen 22 is a parable conveying an esoteric dimension; second, that the notion of trial as "exhibition" is indeed inconsistent with the external meaning but consistent with the true one; and third, that the angelic speech that he 8. N. Leibowich, Themes in Genesis (Jerusalem: International Zionist, 1974 [Hebrew]). 9. J. Licht, Testing in the Hebrew Bible and in Post-Biblical Judaism (Jerusalem: Magnes, The Hebrew University, 1973), 26. 10. Ibid, (emphasis in original).

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cites in this passage—the speech that apparently stops Isaac's sacrifice and confines the story to the interpretation of a test—belongs only to the external meaning. This, of course, should not come as surprise: Maimonides' claim is very consistent with his overall esoteric interpretation of Gen 22, as explained in Chapter 7. Since the angelic speech belongs only to the external meaning of the Binding, there is good reason to uphold the interpretation of the trial, not as a test, but as model of faith: in order that his actions, as Maimonides says, will be "imitated and followed." However, if the angel is not part of the true meaning, the narrative is essentially different, for Abraham disobeys. The question arises: What kind of religious model was the Binding supposed to establish? And how far is it from the kind of model it has so far been? 2 The earliest illustration of Gen 22's paradigmatic force as a model is reported in 4 Maccabees (referring to a story in 2 Maccabees), which recalls an incident known as that of "Eleazar and the Woman and Her Seven Sons" (see also Chapter 1). The main characters in this story were forced by Antiochus' soldiers (Antiochus IV, 167-164 B.C.E.) to choose between bowing down to an idol and eating from the meat of the Roman sacrifice—the other alternative was to face torture and death. Eleazar chose death, setting an example to his people: "Children of Abraham, you must die nobly for piety's sake" (4 Mace 6:23), he declared, and, pleading for God to make of him an atoning sacrifice for them, entreated, "Make my blood their purification and take my life as a ransom for theirs" (4 Mace 6:29-30). The woman watched each of her seven sons die a martyr's death, and followed their fate. The text states that "Not even her affections for her young caused the mother, whose soul was like Abraham's, to waver" (4 Mace 14:20). A later Midrash blurs the historical context of this event but visualizes the incident in much more detail, putting words into the mother's mouth. These words would echo for generations to come: "Children, do not be distressed, for to this end you were created—to sanctify in the world the Name of the Holy One, blessed be He. Go and tell Father Abraham: let not your heart swell with pride! You built one altar, but I have built seven altars and on them have offered up my seven sons...." She then addresses Abraham herself: "Yours was a trial; mine was an accomplished fact!" A different tradition suggests another echo: "You built one


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altar and did not offer up your son, but I built seven altars and offered up my sons on them.. ."n Writing more than a thousand years later that the Binding was intended "to be imitated and followed," Maimonides may well have been aware of this mother's words. As Rabbi Shlomo Riskin observes, Abraham was "asked to do" what all "subsequent generations of Jews" would have to perform.12 The case of the woman and her seven sons would recur again and again. For example, the Jews of Mainz believed that their failure to defend themselves was due to their sins. The year was 1096 and their attempts to fend off the attacks of the first Crusaders were collapsing: "Oh, because of our sins the enemy prevailed and captured the gateway." The Crusaders, like the Romans, forced them to make a choice—convert or face torture and death. Here too the Jews looked up to Abraham, choosing martyrdom and refusing to abjure their religion: Oh, our good fortune if we do His will! Oh, the good fortune of everyone slain and butchered and killed for the Unification of his name. "There is none better to sacrifice our lives to than our God..."; When were there ever a thousand and a hundred sacrifices in one day, each and every one of them like the Akedah of Isaac son of Abraham?13

A similar scene recurs in Wevelinghofen where "Men, women, and children" all chose death for the Lord's sanctification rather than convert. One episode in particular attracts attention there, that of Rabbi Shmuel Bar Yehiel and his "only son." As they fled together from assailants, the son "offered his throat" to his father who recited the appropriate blessing for the "slaughter of cattle and fowl." The son replied "Amen," as the Jews who were witnessing the sacrifice accompanied it by Kriat Shema. "Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One."14 It is reasonable to assume that the Jews believed the persecution was the outcome of God's wrath and that, through sacrifice, they would be saved. The pattern of these incidents and the language of the Akedah suggest strong similarities to the scheme of child sacrifice (reconstructed in Chapter 5): when a people or a nation faced impending destruction, rescue was supposedly contingent upon their leader's sacrifice of his "only son." 11. Yalkut, Deuteronomy, 26. 12. S. Riskin, S. Zimmerman, and A. Miller, "The Binding of Isaac: Three Rabbis Study and Teach a Text," The Jewish Spectator, 31. 13. Quoted in Spiegel, The Last Trial, 18. 14. Ibid.

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In the Jewish tradition, the people (apparently) exist because their father Abraham was ready to sacrifice his beloved son. The Angel of YHWH appearing at the conclusion of the trial expounds this notion in detail. "Because you have done this, and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you... And your offspring shall possess the gate of their enemies..." (Gen 22:16-17). A famous Midrash thus relates that God split the Red Sea for the Israelites departing from Egypt as a reward for Abraham's "splitting" the wood to make a burnt offering of Isaac.15 The martyrdom of the woman and her seven sons, as well as that of R. Shmuel Bar Yehiel, calls for a similar miracle. Both recollect Mount Moriah as if asking to be saved through the merits of their father Abraham. The following is a verse of the Selihot—a lament recited in synagogues in the Middle Ages (quoted in Spiegel): On the Merit of the Akedah at Moriah once we could lean Safeguard for the salvation of age after age— Now one Akedah follows another, they cannot be counted.

These words are rooted in an enduring Jewish tradition according to which Abraham's readiness to sacrifice his beloved son is supposed to atone for Israel's sins and safeguard it in impending persecutions. In the following Midrash, given in the name of R. Johanan bar Nappaha, Abraham demands from God the following reward for his obedience: "I implore thee, that when the descendants of Isaac fall into sin and under the power of evil impulses, and no one intercedes for them, Thou wilt be their intercessor; be Thou mindful of his [Isaac's] Akedah and be merciful upon them."16 The aetiology assigned to the blowing of the Shofar (a ram's horn) on New Year's Day, Rosh Hashanah, appeals to a similar idea. It connects the Shofar with the ram that was "caught in the thicket by his horns" (v. 13) and sacrificed by Abraham instead of Isaac: "The Holy one, praised be His name, said, 'Blow before me on a ram's horn so that I may remember in your behalf the sacrifice of Isaac, the son of Abraham, and that I may reckon it to your credit, as if you let yourselves be bound for my sake."17 Another source continues: "[and] turn for them the attribute of justice into mercy" (Lev. Rab. 23:24). The alternation of attributes between "justice" and "mercy" is a direct reference to the alternation taking place in Gen 22 between "God" who demanded the sacrifice and 15. Gen. Rab. 55. 16. Midrash Kabbah, Gen 22. 17. R. Abbahu, Rosh Hashanah 16a.


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the "Angel of YHWH" who stopped it. "God" is the attribute of Justice, YHWH of Mercy. (Nahmanides, for instance, writes in his commentary on Gen 22 that "the view of the Akedah chapter is that the one who puts to the test and commands the Akedah is "God" [QTH^K], and the one who prevents it and makes the promises is the angel of the Lord [miT].") Through a history of persecutions and massacres, through the Holocaust and endless wars, the Binding has become for Jews a source of hope for protection and, at times, redemption. "Thy children will be involved in one empire after another, from Babylonia to Media, from Media to Greece, from Greece to Edom; but finally they will be redeemed through the horns of the ram."18 Clearly, these traditions do not simply rely on Gen 22 but on a specific interpretation of it. As Sarna summarizes this tradition, "the willingness of the founding father to sacrifice his son as proof of his devotion to God created an inexhaustible store of spiritual credit upon which future generations may draw."19 This reliance, as I have argued, is distorted. The Abraham stories (encompassing especially Sodom [Gen 18], the act of circumcision [Gen 17] and the Binding of Isaac [Gen 22]) were intended to take up the basic scheme of child sacrifice—where a people is saved through the sacrifice of the "beloved son"—and invert its theological implications. In the Binding, the people survive because their father refused to sacrifice his "beloved son".. .not because he did so. We may say that, very literally, the monotheistic people were saved through the horns of the ram: Abraham noticed it "caught in a thicket" and decided to sacrifice it instead of his son. In this light, blowing the Shofar may be interpreted as an appropriate ritual for Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. But such an interpretation would be quite different from the one traditionally adopted. The model of the Binding still reverberates through Jewish tradition, most evidently in the state of Israel where many individuals (among them artists, politicians and rabbis) picture their political situation as a tragic recurrence of the events on Mount Moriah. Naturally, conflicting political parties interpret the narrative in different fashions. Some tend to emphasize Abraham's brave submission, others the fact that Isaac was eventually saved. Some evoke the Binding to encourage or even justify the unavoidable sacrifices of war, while others withdraw from the story, denying any commitment to its tradition. The poet Haim Guri depicts the Jewish fortunes in the following verse: 18. Genesis Kabbah, Gen 22. 19. Sarna, Genesis, 394.

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The Binding of Isaac The ram came last of all. Abraham did not know that it Answered the Boy's question, First of his strength as his day faded. The old man raised his head. Seeing that he was not dreaming, And that the angel stood there— The knife slipped from his hand. The boy, released from his bonds, Saw his father's back. Isaac, as the story goes, was not sacrificed. He lived for many years, Saw all that was good until his eyes grew dim. But he bequeathed that hour to his heirs. They are born With a knife in their hearts.20

These words are frequently recited in Yom Hazikaron ceremonies, the day Israelis remember the sons who fell in their wars. The echo of the Akedah is striking. The poet David Avidan plays a variation on Guri's canonical theme: Father, I don't want to die! The man called out at the edge of his days The weather was bright and his father Blew bubbles to the salty light: The angel had already sharpened his knife, my son, For many, many times, my son For many, many times, my son On many, many mountains, my son.21

The English translation cannot quite capture the significance of the Hebrew "sharpened" (HIVD) and "times" (DTPU), which refer to Isaiah's famous peace prophecy: "...They shall beat (T)nDn) their swords into plowshares (DTPU), and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more" (Isa 2:4). Isaiah's prophecy too is frequently recited during Yom Hazikaron. After the Six Days War in June 1967, rejection of the Binding became quite striking among many Israelis. "I am not willing to be an eternal Isaac," commented Gideon, a young Israeli, "climbing onto the altar

20. H. Guri, "Yerushah," in Shoshanat ruhot (Tel Aviv: Hakkibutz Hameuchad, 1960), 83 (Hebrew). 21. D. Avidan, Mashehu Bishvil Mishehu (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1966).


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without asking why."22 It is interesting to contemplate the difference between these words and the "Amen" of Rabbi Yehiel's son in 1096. There is an unbridgeable gulf between the two sayings, and yet they have something in common. Both Gideon and Rabbi Yehiel's son think of themselves in Isaac's figure; both think of the Jewish faith in the image of the Binding. In the following verse, Yehuda Amichai suggests that this image is actually an idol, inviting Abraham's descendants to shatter it: We are all the children of Abraham but we are also the grandsons of Terah, Abraham's father and perhaps it is time for Abraham's children To do to their father the same as he did to his father When he broke his pagan idols But this also will be a beginning of a new religion.23

Naturally, when Amichai condemns the Binding as an idol he assumes the ordinary reading. In this sense, he is very accurate. It is indeed an idol—a trace of the myth of child sacrifice in which the people are preserved because of the sacrifice of the son. Without the angelic figure, however, it turns out that Abraham himself had already broken the idol. Abraham's monotheism was perhaps not very different from the "new religion" Amichai wants for "the grandsons of Terah." Rabbi Riskin concludes that "the paradox of Jewish history is that, had we not been willing to sacrifice our children to God, we would never have survived as a God inspired and God committed nation."24 Riskin's observation demonstrates with exceptional clarity that the model of the Binding has not been forgotten. Well versed in the rabbinical traditions cited above, Riskin—unlike the young Israeli—is not altogether different from R. Yehiel who sacrificed his son, or the "Woman and her seven sons." A thousand years separate them, the political situation of the Jewish people has changed, and yet the model of faith is essentially identical. The political conflict in Israel is literally explosive: Riskin is truly ready to give his sons (and himself, I believe) for the sanctification of the Lord—to remain a "God inspired nation." But his words are tragic. It is not Gen 22 that they assume as their model, and not Abraham's ideal of faith that they duplicate. It is the pagan myth of child sacrifice. 22. G. Telpaz, Israeli Childhood Stories of the Sixties (Chicago: Scholars Press, 1983), 39. 23. Y. Amichai, Patuah Sagur Patuah (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1985). 24. Rabbi S. Riskin, "The Akedah: A Lesson in Martyrdom," The Jerusalem Post (October 1994): 21.

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Jesus' claim that the promises made in the Old Testament would be fulfilled and granted to his followers evoked an immediate, profound Christian bond to Abraham. He is the ultimate patriarch, the founder of monotheism and "father of many nations," whose people are the people of God. The Old Testament emphasizes with great care that his descendants—his "seed" (IHT)—are the heirs of the divine blessings. In Gen 13:15, God makes a promise to Abram that "all the land that you see I will give to you and to your offspring forever," and, later, renaming him "Abraham" and pronouncing him the father of "many nations," he seals the Covenant with him: "I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations...to be God to you and to your offspring after you... I will be their God" (Gen 17:8). Indeed, Gen 22 repeats the same motif as the angel of YHWH who stopped the sacrifice appears a second time from heaven, reaffirming the blessings on Abraham's seed and, in fact, reinterpreting them in an important way. In the angel's speech, they are presented as contingent upon the father's readiness to slay his "beloved son." Because of Abraham's obedience, Gen 22:15-18 affirms, his descendants will be blessed: The angel of the Lord called to Abraham a second time from heaven, and said, "by myself I have sworn, says the Lord: Because you have done this, and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you, and I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore. And your offspring shall possess the gate of their enemies, and by your offspring shall all the nations of the earth gain blessing for themselves, because you have obeyed my voice.

Conceiving themselves as the heirs of these blessings, Christians identify their religion as Abraham's genuine "seed." Stephen recalls "our father Abraham" (Acts 7:2) and Paul insistently says "I am an Israelite, from the seed of Abraham" (Rom 11:1). Later, disputing with Jewish opponents, he exclaims, "Are they the seed of Abraham? So am I" (2 Cor. 11:22). As Paul's remark implies, however, the Christian identification as Abraham's seed yields a complex quarrel with Judaism. The Jews too see themselves as Abraham's "seed"—indeed, as the rightful heirs of his blessings. The Jewish tradition looks up to Abraham as a mark of identity and, as we have seen, protection; and this relation they seal symbolically on their bodies by circumcision. As Abraham did to himself and his son, they do to theirs (Gen 17:9).25 25. For a full discussion, see, for instance, W. Baird, "Abraham in the New Testament: Tradition and the New Identity," Int 42 (1988): 367-79; cf. R. Wilken,


133

The New Testament launches a direct assault on the Jewish premise that being "Abraham's seed" defines a blood-type relation, one which can be attested by the flesh. John the Baptist contends that this is not at all a necessary condition. "God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham" (Matt 3:9; Luke 3:8), and Paul offers textual evidence, relying on Gen 22. Abraham was commanded to sacrifice his "only son," Paul explains, even though at the time he had two children, Isaac and Ishmael. It follows that not every physical descendant is Abraham's seed, and not every physical descendant a true heir: "For it is written that Abraham had two sons, one by a bondmaid and one by a freewoman. But the son of the bondmaid was born according to the flesh, the son of the freewomen through promise. Now this is an allegory: these women are the two covenants" (Gal 4:22-24). (Indeed, many Muslims would be surprised by these lines. In Paul's allegory it is not they but the Jews who are the descendants of Hagar, and the Christians of Isaac.) The problem of blood heritage was naturally acute especially for Paul, who was fulfilling the imperative to convert the Gentiles. One crucial way in which he met the challenge was by a sophisticated interpretation of the Hebrew "[inT1? ("to your seed"). Applying a rather rabbinical methodology, as some scholars have observed,26 he explains that the term "Jin?1? is not a plural word referring to the many individuals of the people of Israel but a singular term, referring directly to Jesus of Nazareth. Through Jesus, the blessings are made to apply to Gentiles as well; not by blood relation but "through faith": Christ ransomed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us, for it is written, "Cursed be everyone who hangs on a tree," that the blessing of Abraham might be extended to the Gentiles through Christ Jesus, so that we might receive the promise of the Spirit through faith... Now the promises were made to Abraham and to his descendants. It does not say, "And to descendants," as referring to many, but as referring to one, who is Christ. (Gal 3:13-16)

Intuitively, the Hebrew "[in? ("your seed") in Gen 13:15; 17:8 and 22:17 is read in the plural. But, as Paul insists, it may just as well signify a particular person—"your descendant." Paul's addition, "who is Christ," identifies this descendant not as Isaac but as Jesus. Being of Abraham's blood is thus neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition of becoming an heir; it is unnecessary, since God can raise children to Abraham "from stones"; insufficient, since Ishmael too was Abraham's blood but not "The Christianizing of Abraham: The Interpretation of Abraham in Early Christianity," Concordia Theological Monthly 43 (1972): 723-31. 26. Ibid.

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his heir. His "seed" refers exclusively to Christ. For Paul, one condition has to be met in order to satisfy the necessary and sufficient requirements for Abraham's blessings: participating in Abraham's model of faith. The ideal of faith this introduces is quite evident; it suffices to note a quotation from Hebrews: By faith Abraham, when he was tried, offered up Isaac: and he that had received the promises offered up his only begotten son, of whom it was said that "In Isaac thy seed is called." (Heb 11:17-18)

The argument that the people of the Christian faith are Abraham's true heirs was reinforced by yet another method of textual interpretation, which is not rabbinical in origin but altogether Christian. Through it the people of the new faith absorbed the model of the Binding into their theology in a much deeper and more profound way. This is the act of Crucifixion which, according to the Christian tradition, is prefigured in the Binding: Jesus replaces Isaac and God replaces Abraham, in the sacrifice of the "son" for the redemption of the world. The first indications of this concept are already conveyed at the time of Christ's baptism and later in the Transfiguration.27 In both cases a heavenly voice employs the language of the "beloved son": "You are my beloved son; with you I am well pleased" (Mark 1:11; Luke 3:22). "Then from the cloud came a voice, 'This is my beloved son. Listen to him'" (Mark 9:7; Luke 9:35). This term refers to Abraham's "beloved son" in the Binding, Isaac, but not exclusively to him. As we have seen, the attribute "beloved" son brings with it a wide context—the general theme of child sacrifice. Genesis 22 is only one—and highly unconventional— variation of it. By "theme" I mean the safeguarding of a people by their leader's sacrifice of his beloved son; by "unconventional variation" I mean that in the Binding the people are saved precisely by Abraham's refusal to do so. Christ, like Isaac, carries the wood himself: the one for the burnt offering, the other for the Crucifixion, both to be sacrificed. Tertullian makes the parallel very explicit. Isaac, he writes, "when delivered up by his father for a sacrifice, himself carried the wood.. .and did at that early date set forth the death of Christ, who when surrendered as a victim by his father carried the wood of his own passion" (Tertullian, Against Marcion 3.18.225). These words refer to Gen 22: 16 where, having left his "young men" behind, Abraham "took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on his son..." Midrash Rabbah recognizes a similar analogy 27. See Levenson's analysis in Death and Resurrection, 200-202.


135

as Tertullian and, commenting on v. 6, says: "'and Isaac took the wood for the burnt offering etc...' like one who carries his cross on his shoulder." Carrying the wood for one's own sacrifice is an important motif in both Judaism and Christianity, since it emphasizes the victim's faith. In both traditions not only the father is praised for obedience but also his "beloved." Thus Luther writes, referring to Isaac, that "With the exception of Christ we have no such similar example of obedience."28 It may be observed, however, that this remark is inaccurate. Luther is overlooking a long line of sons who were ready to offer their throats to their fathers. These sons too were relying on Gen 22 as a model. Others have identified Jesus not with the son but with the Lord's sacrificial "lamb": his hanging on the cross and the crown of thorns on his head recall the ram that was "caught in a thicket by his horns" (Gen 22:13). It is important to note, however, that even as the Lord's Lamb, Christ's sacrifice fulfills the same sanctifying function: "Behold, the lamb of the Lord, who takes away the sin of the world" (John 1:29). Finally, as Jesus replaces the Binding's ram or "son," God replaces Abraham: He who did not spare his own Son but handed him over for us all, how will he not also give us everything else along with him? Who will bring a charge against God's chosen ones? It is God who acquits us. Who will condemn? It is Christ who died, rather, was raised, who also is the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us. What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? (Rom 8:32-35)

"He who did not spare his own Son" refers directly to the Binding, more specifically to the angelic speech commending Abraham for not "withholding" or "sparing" ("[OH) his son. "Spare" in this passage is the Greek verb used in the Septuagint for "withheld" (pheidomai) in both cases. This explicit reference to Gen 22 shows not only that Abraham's readiness to sacrifice his son prefigures God's but, more precisely, that the model of the Binding is supposed to prefigure the model of Crucifixion. That is, Abraham's readiness to kill his beloved son ensured the blessing of his seed—the people of God; in the same fashion, Christ's sacrifice by his father will ensure the redemption of the world. Irenaeus expresses this theology very lucidly:

28. P. Jaroslav, ed., M Luther: Lectures on Genesis (Saint Louis, Miss.: Concordia, 1964), 114.

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The Binding of Isaac Righteously also do we, possessing the same faith as Abraham and taking up the cross as Isaac did the wood, follow Him... For in Abraham man had learned beforehand and had been accustomed to follow the word of God. For Abraham, according to his faith, followed the command of the Word of God, and with a ready mind delivered up, as a sacrifice to God, his only begotten and beloved son, in order that God also might be pleased to offer up for all his seed His own beloved and only begotten Son, as a sacrifice for our redemption.29

The model of the Binding thus becomes the underlying element of the Crucifixion. In the Old Testament, Abraham's seed is supposedly safeguarded through his readiness to kill his beloved son, Isaac. In Christianity, the world is redeemed through God's actual sacrifice of his beloved, Jesus. But the Binding was, in fact, intended to play a different variation on that theme. The survival of Abraham's seed was not the result of his readiness to kill the beloved son—it was the result of his refusal to do so.

29. Irenaeus, "Against Heresies," in The Ante-Nicene Fathers (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1903), 1:467.

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INDEXES INDEX OF REFERENCES HEBREW BIBLE Genesis 3 3:5 4 4:3 8.19 12 12:1-3 12:1 12:2-3 13:10 13:15 15 15:3-5 17

17:2 17:4-13 17:4 17:5 17:8 17:9 18

18:2 18:17-19 18:17 18:19 18:20 18:23-25

77 77 83 50 39 14 14 13,14 88 30 132, 133 56,91 56 54-56, 64, 129 51 54 51 14 132, 133 132 27, 34, 36, 37,86,91, 100,119, 129 30 27, 34, 37, 38 34,35 56,84 27 28,34

18:25-26 18:25 18:27 19:24 19:29 21 21:17 22

22:1-19 22:1-14 22:1-13 22:1-10 22:1-2 22:1

22:2 22:3 22:4 22:5

91 2,56,119 34 37 38 28 28 1-5,8,9, 11,13,14, 19, 24, 25, 27, 29, 32, 33, 36, 37, 40, 50, 52, 55-58, 60, 61,64,65, 72, 73, 78, 88,91, 107-9, 115,117, 125, 126, 128, 129, 131-35 28 23,24 21-23 23, 25, 29 28,64 26,41,65, 67, 70, 86, 121 14, 53, 102 43,87 42, 43, 66 44, 48, 66

22:6 22:7 22:8 22:9-10 22:9 22:10 22:11-12

22:11 22:12

22:13-14 22:13

22:14-19 22:14-18 22:14 22:15-19 22:15-18 22:15 22:16-18 22:16-17 22:16 22:17 22:19

135 19 50 1,25 46 22,30 1,2,18, 22-24, 29, 30, 32, 67, 116,122 24, 26, 27, 29 11,20,26, 28, 30, 32, 50, 53, 62, 83, 88, 124 25 1, 10,23, 25, 30, 32, 53, 69, 128, 135 24 21,25,69 22 2,18 22, 23, 25, 32,70,132 24,88 1 128 24, 53, 134 133 21-23,48, 70

142


Genesis (cont.) 24:1 88 24:35 88 39:25 30 Leviticus 1:2 1:3-9 18:21 20:1-8

47 47 123 123

Numbers 14 14:11-12 14:13-19

35 35 36

Deuteronomy 12:31 18:10

123 123

Judges 9:34 11:30-34 11:31 11:34 11:38-39

52 52 53 53 52

2 Kings 3:26-28 3:26-27 3:27 13:27 16:3 17:31 21:6 23:10

53 12 50,53 123 123 123 123 123

2 Chronicles 28:3 33:6

123 123

:10-11 :10 :12 :16 :19 :22 2:4 2:7 2:8 3:1-3 3:2-3 4:17 8:3 9:2-3 9:4-12 9:4 9:12 9:13 9:22 13:7-11 13:7-8 22:2-10 26:1-14 38:2-3 42:2-5 42:7

93 93 93 87 87 93 93 87 87 90 94 97 97 97 34 98 98 98 98 97 111 96 90 90 91 99

Isaiah 2:4 5:26 11:12 62:10

130 122 122 122

Jeremiah 6:26 7:31 19:5

55 102, 123 123

Ezekiel 20:31

123

NEW TESTAMENT Matthew 3:9

133

Mark 1:11 9:7

134 134

Luke 3:8 3:22 9:35

133 134 134

John 1:29

135

Acts 7:2

132

Romans 8:32-35 11:1

135 132

2 Corinthians 132 11:22 Galatians 3:13-16 4:22-24

133 133

Hebrews 11:17-18

134

PSEUDEPIGRAPHA

4 Maccabees 6:23 6:29-30 14:20 14:26

126 126 126 15

MlSHNAH

Job 1:6-9 1:8 1:9

86 88 88,90

Amos 8:10

55

Micah 6:7

123

Sanhedrin 89

86

Index of References TALMUD Bavli Suta 27 51

CLASSICAL Eusebius Preparatio evangelica 16, 11110, 44:1V 54 1.10.40 54

Maimonides Guide for the Perplexed Introduction 61 1:2 76,77 1:8 62 1:71 74 11:24 73 11:36 78 111:24 40,43, 45, 65, 72, 73, 104,122 111:45 117

Tertullian Against Marcion 3.18.225 134

Philo De Abrahamo 33.178 17

Leviticus Rabbah 23.24 128

87 87

Yerushalmi Suta 5 87 MlDRASH Genesis Kabbah 13 31 22 129 55 128 56 31 56:4 44,114 56:7 16

143

Tanhuma Wayyera Gen 4 26,28,83

INDEX OF AUTHORS Abrabanel, I. 10 Adams, R. 101,103,105,107 Alexander, T. D. 7,24 Allison, H. 110 Amichai,Y. 102,131 Amit,Y. 999 Auerbach,E. 25,27,41 Augustine 122 Avidan,D. 130 Baird,W. 132 Bar-Manoah, H. 17 Berdichevsky, M. 32 Boehm,O. 999 Brichto, H. C. 28 Cassirer,E. 110, 115 Coats, G.W. 7,22,24,29 Demsky, A. 6 Dworkin, R. 10 Emerton, J. A. 22 Fisch,M. 38 FishuS. 5 Ginzberg, L. 14 Gordis,R. 95 Greenstein, E. 5 Gunkel,H. 51 Guri,H. 130 Halbertal,M. 5 Hartom,E. S. 121 Hoffman, Y. 92,95,98,99

Ibn Caspi, Y. 26, 43, 45, 60, 62, 63, 65,66,71,78,85 Irenaeus 136 Izhar,S. 102 Jaroslav,P. 135 Kant, I. 35, 100, 109-12, 114, 115, 117-20 Kierkegaard, S. 13, 18, 89, 104-106, 108 Klein-Braslavy, S. 74, 77 Kreisel,H. 78 Kuehn,M. 112 Kuli, Y. 11,28, 30,42,44,47, 66-68, 70,71 Kundert, L. 23 Leibowich, N. 125 Leibowich, Y. 89-91 Lerner,M. 103 Levenson, J. 15, 19, 37, 47, 51, 53, 54, 134 Licht,J. 125 Marcus, D. 52 Mazar, L. 999 Miles,!. 46,48 Miller, A. 127 Moberly, R. W. L. 22, 24, 25, 28, 29 Mooney, E. 124 Mosca,P. G. 19 Paton,H. 112 Pfeiffer, R. H. 7 Quine,W.V.O. 9

Index of Authors

145

Rad, G. von 9, 14, 15 Riskin,S. 127,131

Veijola, T. 29, 88 Verities, G. 12

Sama, N. 12, 28, 35, 38, 50, 51, 53, 56, 129 Sartre, J.-P. 114 Scholnick, S. H. 97 Seters, J. van 22 Skinner,]. 7 Speiser,E. A. 50 Spiegel, S. 16,19, 31, 50, 127 Steinschneider, M. 59 Strauss, L. 75,76

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