When I converted six years ago, on the 14th of Heshvan on the Upper West Side of New York, I was excited about the parsha that week being Vayera – full of highlights and popular evergreens from the stories of the early years, following on the heels of God’s command to Abraham (or Abraham’s vision?) to leave his country, culture, and father’s house and go to a land that God would show him – into an unknown yet known land, to an undefined yet defined place. And what an unknown it was. Despite a basic Roman Catholic education as a child, I was quite ignorant about the Bible when I started the Intro to Judaism class. I remember one rabbi chuckling graciously when I confused Joseph and Daniel because “they were both in pits.” I had never heard the word Midrash. I had been to Israel once. I painstakingly produced Hebrew letters like maybe a kindergartner would. I had grown up in a typical German household that celebrated Christmas yet was devoid of religious or even spiritual practice or inquiry, uncomfortable, unaccustomed with the word God or the idea that God could be around us, inside us, a guide, a judge, a poetic inspiration, a millennia-old partner to love and struggle with. And yet, when I started the Intro class, I knew that I once had known all these things I was learning/repeating. I was returning to a place where I had always been.
When I married the Jewish people six years ago, on the 14th of Heshvan in New York City by the Atlantic Ocean, I imagined that this union being sealed during Parashat Vayera was a good siman, a good sign: There was hope I would still give birth to a child, before I would be too old – and still much younger than Abraham and Sarah! I could already hear my laughter. I thought it might have been a vision. I had always wanted children, and now, after my conversion, even more – at least one Jewish child. I imagined teaching the child about the creation of the world, of where I had come from, and that there are also beautiful things about Germany. I imagined the child having cousins in the States, Uruguay, Spain, Germany and Israel, and who knows where else, that they would contribute to each other’s understanding of what it means to have different passports and still belong to the same family. I imagined how exciting it would be to learn from the child as it would grow into a Jewish adult, and to see where he or she would go to one day.
Parashat Vayera begins with the line
וַיֵּרָ֤א אֵלָיו֙ יְהֹוָ֔ה בְּאֵלֹנֵ֖י מַמְרֵ֑א וְה֛וּא יֹשֵׁ֥ב פֶּֽתַח־הָאֹ֖הֶל כְּחֹ֥ם הַיּֽוֹם׃
Adonai appeared to him by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot.
According to Rashi, Abraham is sitting at the opening of the tent waiting for someone to pass by so he can invite them to come in. He is disappointed that no one is passing by, because God has made it too hot even for a caravan to travel. God wanted to spare Abraham, who is recovering from his recent circumcision, from having to host but Abraham is eager to, knowing that our tents become true homes only when we fill them with the presence of visitors and give them a temporary dwelling place. So God sends Abraham angels in form of men - הַמַּלְאָכִים עָלָיו בִּדְמוּת אֲנָשִׁים
Is this a fata morgana born out of the loneliness of a very hot desert day? Is it a prophetic vision? What does it mean for God to appear in the form of angels in the form of men?
There is a dispute between the RambaM and the RambaN, as to whether Abraham actually hosted God in the form of angels in the form of men. While both commentators agree that this episode happened, they disagree on the mode of the God’s manifestation, or appearance. Maimonides, the Rambam, says, it is all a vision, nobody walked over the sand, Abraham didn’t serve food and drink, Sarah didn’t laugh.
Nachmanides, the Ramban, says that “such words contradict scripture, and it is forbidden to listen to them, all the more to believe them!” Why, he asks, would the verse say “And God appeared to him” if God had not actually appeared to him?
He says that Maimonides is walking on thin ice -- or rather on quicksand – that he is blurring the line between dream and prophecy, intentionally (or unintentionally) elevating the former’s significance and lessening the latter’s unique status: Everybody can have dreams. Only a very few chosen ones can see God in a prophetic vision.
He would have agreed with Leonard Cohen, who, in his song Story of Isaac, says: A scheme is not a vision. And when you see an eagle, make sure – if you can – that it’s not a vulture.
When I entered the covenant with the God of Israel six years ago, on the 14th of Heshvan, in a place where God caused his name to dwell, I had many dreams as I envisioned my Jewish future. Some have remained dreams: At this point it’s quite obvious that I won’t be sending a (biological) child to a Jewish Day School -- and I can drop all the money that I’m saving on my own Jewish education.
About some, or the majority, the verdict is still out: Eagles or vultures? To paraphrase Leonard Cohen: I never may decide -- and that ambiguity is probably true for many of us.
And some dreams have become prophetic visions fulfilled: Since walking down Broadway on a warm New York October day, I have found many open tents, and I have opened mine to many travellers who have passed and, in the form of angels in the form of men and women, they all brought some godliness. I hope they all left with a morsel of warmth and sustenance, and am grateful to each of them. The scene of Abraham at the tent is often described as the foremost example of the Jewish value of hospitality. But we can only live hachnassat orchim when others come to visit. We can only laugh and build community together.
Shabbat Shalom!
And here’s a (very existentialist) teenage impression of me sitting at the entrance of a tent :)
