More Questions and Fewer Certainties

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Por mais perguntas e menos certezas")

Between immediate obedience to Divine commands and vigorous protest against them, Avraham embodies strikingly different forms of religious leadership in this week's parashah, Vayera. When God reveals the plan to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah because their sin is overwhelming, Avraham challenges God's ethics in the strongest possible terms: "Shall not the Judge of all the earth do justice?!".[1] On the other hand, when, a few chapters later, God demands that Avraham sacrifice "his son, his only son, the one he loves, Yitzchak",[2] our patriarch consents without question, takes his son and walks with him to the place God had indicated for the sacrifice. If not for Divine intervention at the last moment, when the sacrificial knife had already been raised, Avraham would, in fact, have followed God's instruction and ended the life of his own child.

Across the centuries, both stories have been held up as models of virtue and religious conduct. Many commentators, pointing to the near-sacrifice of Yitzchak, have stressed that not only was Avraham willing to carry out the Divine instruction, but Yitzchak was also willing to be sacrificed, if that was God's plan. From this perspective, and from the lessons drawn from this biblical passage, devotion that rises above one's personal wishes and needs is the religious ideal to be sought. If Avraham was tested in this episode, these commentators argue, then he passed with distinction.

However, at least since Talmudic times, and despite attempts by rabbinic leadership to sideline this approach, a critique of Avraham's ready acceptance of the Divine order to sacrifice his own son has also featured in how commentators read the near-sacrifice of Yitzchak.[3] For them, Avraham's challenge to the revelation of Sodom and Gomorrah's destruction reflects a healthier posture in relation to authority, even Divine authority. In particular, for Avraham, seen as an iconoclast, one who would overturn idols and who was unafraid to stand against general consensus, such a stance would be more in keeping with his life story.

I think about these stories and how they relate to different theological models, not only the external Divine Voice that Avraham heard, which instructed him to leave the place he lived and build a new home in a land that God would show him, but also the inner voice, the one that comes from the Divine spark in each person. When do we listen to our inner voice almost without asking questions, and when do we challenge it intensely? When are our certainties so strong that we accept their premises at face value, without any questioning, like dogmas whose validity is beyond dispute and whose very acceptance becomes a form of unexamined devotion? When, on the other hand, do we ask the uncomfortable questions, unsure where they will take us, with a trembling fear that we might, in fact, be betraying our inner voice and who knows what else in the process?

These ancient tensions between obedience and questioning echo powerfully in our own time, particularly in how we engage with strongly held beliefs. In the age of social media, we define ourselves by the causes we champion, often speaking out with unwavering certainty. Like rival supporters whose clashes sometimes turn violent, a pattern we know too well across our sporting landscape, we share our side's arguments without questioning their validity, scrolling past opposing views without considering the wisdom they might contain. We become both perpetrators and targets of abuse, hardening positions and deepening divisions.

I take inspiration from Avraham's courage in challenging God over Sodom and Gomorrah, and from the lessons we can draw from that example. The dialogical relationship with the Divine that is established there is one of the Torah's most moving passages for me. In our beautifully diverse society, where we encounter different convictions and traditions constantly, this lesson feels particularly urgent. May we all learn from him to have the courage to ask more questions and hold fewer certainties, to break the cycles of abuse and violence into which our stances sometimes harden. May we pursue dialogue and ubuntu, the recognition of our shared humanity, and welcome each person's pains, traumas, joys and convictions, so that we can foster debates marked by greater respect, deeper understanding, and genuine fruitfulness.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Gen. 18:25
[2] Gen. 22:1–2
[3] See, for example, chapter 5 of J. Richard Middleton, Abraham's Silence: The Binding of Isaac, the Suffering of Job and How to Talk Back to God.