Written by Student Rabbi Ben Russell for Erev Shabbat Lech L’cha 5787
Last week, we encountered Noah.
The Torah tells us that Noah was righteous. He lived in a world filled with violence and corruption, and somehow he managed to preserve his integrity.
When God told him to build an ark, Noah built it.
And when God announced that the world would be destroyed, the Torah records no objection from Noah.
We don’t know why.
Perhaps he was afraid. Perhaps he was overwhelmed. Perhaps he believed there was nothing he could say or do.
The Torah doesn’t tell us.
But his silence left us with a question about the nature of righteousness and our responsibilities toward one another.
This week, we meet Abram.
And at first, his story sounds remarkably familiar.
God speaks.
Abram obeys.
Lech l’cha me’artzecha umimolad’techa umibeit avicha.
“Go forth from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s household.” (Genesis 12:1)
And Abram goes.
But think about what that means.
Abram doesn’t simply follow a few instructions.
He packs up his entire life.
He takes his household, leaves behind the world he knows, and begins a journey toward a future he cannot yet see.
And he does all of this because of a promise.
God tells Abram that he will become a great nation. That he will be blessed. That through him, blessing will reach others.
And so Abram begins walking.
But something happens along the way.
A relationship develops.
Abram doesn’t simply receive instructions from God and carry them out. He experiences life with God.
There are moments of extraordinary reassurance. There are dangers. There are victories and uncertainties. There are experiences that change the direction of his life.
And through all of it, Abram changes.
He’s becoming someone he might never have become without this relationship.
I think that’s something we sometimes overlook about relationships.
We tend to think of them in terms of the people we love, the people we trust, the people with whom we share our lives.
But relationships do more than give us companionship.
They change us.
Think about the relationships that have enriched your own life.
The laughter you’ve shared.
The experiences you never would have had on your own.
The difficult conversations. The disagreements. The moments when you had to reconsider something you thought you understood.
The times someone helped you discover something about yourself that you hadn’t recognized before.
Over time, all of those experiences become part of who we are.
We don’t simply accumulate memories together.
We become people we might never have become without one another.
We don’t simply accumulate memories together.
We become people we might never have become without one another.
And when a relationship has been something beautiful, something that has lifted us and enriched our lives, something else happens.
We become vulnerable.
Because the more meaningful a relationship becomes, the more we recognize what we stand to lose.
The higher it has lifted us, the farther we may feel we have to fall.
Not necessarily because anything is wrong.
Sometimes precisely because so much is right.
Not necessarily because anything is wrong. Sometimes precisely because so much is right.
And that brings us back to Abram.
By the time we reach the fifteenth chapter of Genesis, Abram has traveled a long way.
He has experienced extraordinary things.
He has built a life around his relationship with God.
But something is still missing.
The child God promised him.
God has told Abram that his descendants will become a great nation.
And yet Abram remains childless.
Then God speaks to him.
Al tira, Avram.
“Do not fear, Abram.” (Genesis 15:1)
And Abram responds with a question.
Adonai Elohim, mah titen li, v’anochi holech ariri?
“O Lord God, what will You give me, seeing that I remain childless?” (Genesis 15:2)
I wonder how we should hear that question.
Is Abram frustrated?
Perhaps a little.
Does he doubt God’s promise?
Perhaps.
But I wonder whether something else is happening.
Perhaps Abram has come to value this relationship so deeply that he is beginning to recognize just how much the future matters to him.
Think about everything he has experienced.
Everything he has learned.
Everything that has changed.
The journey has already been extraordinary.
And still, the future around which he has built his life has not yet arrived.
Perhaps his question isn’t simply, “Will You keep Your promise?”
Perhaps it’s something closer to:
After everything we’ve experienced together, what happens if the future I’ve been hoping for never comes?
That is a frightening question.
Not because the relationship has been bad.
Not because God has disappeared.
But because the relationship has been meaningful enough that its uncertain future matters enormously.
And I think many of us know something about that feeling.
Sometimes the more confidence we develop in a relationship, the more vulnerable we become.
Not because our trust is weakening.
But because the relationship has become increasingly precious to us.
And perhaps that is one of the great paradoxes of intimacy.
Can we truly give ourselves to a relationship without also giving it the power to break our hearts?
Can we truly give ourselves to a relationship without also giving it the power to break our hearts?
God responds to Abram by taking him outside.
God tells him to look toward the heavens and count the stars, if he can.
And God promises that his descendants will be just as numerous.
Then the Torah tells us something remarkable.
Vehe’emin baAdonai.
Abram trusted in the Eternal. (Genesis 15:6)
But the conversation doesn’t end there.
Just two verses later, when God speaks about the land Abram will inherit, Abram asks another question.
Bamah eda ki irashennah?
“How shall I know that I will possess it?” (Genesis 15:8)
Think about that sequence.
The Torah tells us Abram trusts God.
And then Abram asks how he can know.
Apparently, trust has not eliminated every question.
Perhaps it doesn’t have to.
Apparently, trust has not eliminated every question. Perhaps it doesn’t have to.
Perhaps confidence and uncertainty can exist together.
Perhaps we can believe deeply in a relationship and still wonder about the future.
And perhaps one of the remarkable things about a growing relationship is not that we eventually stop having questions, but that we become comfortable enough to ask them.
I wonder whether something similar happens in our spiritual lives.
We often speak about faith as though it should provide certainty.
As though a meaningful relationship with God should leave us reassured that everything will work out.
But that isn’t always how life unfolds.
We hope.
We pray.
We imagine futures that never quite arrive.
And sometimes, no matter how deeply we long for something, it simply doesn’t happen.
I wonder whether that possibility frightens us more than we recognize.
Could it be that sometimes we keep our spiritual lives at a distance because we’re afraid of what might happen if we allow ourselves to hope?
Perhaps we don’t want to become too invested.
Perhaps we don’t want to ask too much.
Perhaps it’s easier to avoid expecting anything than to experience the pain of longing for something that never comes.
I don’t know how often that’s true.
But I wonder.
How much of the Divine might we never allow ourselves to experience because we’re afraid of being disappointed?
How much beauty might we miss because we’re reluctant to become vulnerable?
How much beauty might we miss because we’re reluctant to become vulnerable?
And what might happen if we allowed ourselves to bring those uncertainties into our spiritual lives rather than keeping them outside?
Abram doesn’t have all the answers.
He doesn’t know how his story will unfold.
He has no way of knowing when the child he’s been promised will arrive.
But he has already experienced something extraordinary.
A relationship that has changed his life.
And when he finds himself wondering about the future, he doesn’t have to pretend that the uncertainty isn’t there.
He asks.
And the conversation continues.
Perhaps that’s something worth considering in our own relationships, with one another and with the Divine.
We cannot know everything that lies ahead.
We cannot guarantee that every hope will be fulfilled.
And we cannot give ourselves deeply to something without becoming vulnerable to what may happen.
But perhaps the possibility of heartbreak is not, by itself, a reason to keep our distance.
Perhaps it is simply part of what makes something precious.
Last week, Noah’s story left us wondering about the significance of silence.
This week, Abram reminds us that even in a relationship built on trust, there can be questions worth speaking aloud.
And perhaps the question we carry with us this Shabbat is not whether we can protect ourselves from every disappointment.
Perhaps it is whether, in trying so hard to protect our hearts, we sometimes prevent them from experiencing something beautiful.
שבתך שלום,
Student Rabbi Ben