The Torah in Parashat Vayera tells the famous story of akeidat Yitzchak, God’s command to Avraham to offer his son, Yitzchak as a sacrifice, and Avraham’s preparedness to comply with the command until an angel ordered him to withdraw his sword.
Among the more overlooked nuances in the story of the akeida is God’s calling Avraham by his name: “…God tested Avraham, and he said to him, ‘Avraham!’ and he said, ‘I am here’” (22:1). Later, too, when the angel appeared to Avraham as he stood near the altar, and instructed him to withdraw his sword, the angel said, “Avraham! Avraham” (22:11). God had spoken to Avraham on numerous occasions before this incident, but never introduced His prophetic message by calling Avraham’s name. (The one possible exception is the prophecy of berit bein ha-betarim, which God introduced by saying, “Do not fear, Avram, I will be your shield…” – 15:1.) What might be the significance of God’s calling Avraham by name, and why is this unique to the command of the akeida?
Rav Yehuda Amital zt”l (http://vbm-torah.org/archive/sichot/bereishit/04-57vayera.doc) explained that very often, a person who devotes himself to a certain goal or mission, especially one involving an idealistic vision, loses his personal identity and individuality. He is no longer himself, as his definition is overtaken by the goal he pursues. Rather than being a person, a private individual, he is an instrument, or a peg in the machine that works to produce a certain result. A person devoted to community service, for example, is likely to lose his personal identity and view himself as solely a servant or messenger of the community.
Prima facie, the command of the akeida, the sacrificing of his beloved child, required Avraham to reject, or to eliminate, his personal feelings and self-identity. On the surface, the akeida was an exercise in self-negation, in transforming oneself from an individual to an object, to a lifeless instrument, to a mechanical robot programmed to obey God’s command. But this is not what God wanted. He introduced His command by calling, “Avraham,” which Rav Amital zt”l explained to mean, “Return to yourself, to your natural emotions, to your feelings, to your family. From within all of this – and only from within it – you are commanded to ‘take your son, your only son....’” God did not want Avraham to look at his son upon the altar as a kohen looks upon a sheep offered as a sacrifice, or, for that matter, as a Jew looks at his lulav on Sukkot. Avraham was to look upon Yitzchak as his son, the child for which he spent decades of his life praying, the embodiment of his lifelong dreams, hopes and aspirations. Even as he held the knife in the air over his son tied upon the altar, Avraham was to see himself as Yitzchak’s father. Even at this moment, of the greatest possible expression of self-sacrifice and blind obedience, God wanted Avraham to act as a human being, with human feelings and emotions. He offered his son as a sacrifice not as a machine whose button was pressed, but as a thinking and feeling person.
Indeed, as Rav Amital zt”l often noted, the Midrashim depict Avraham in a state of sheer torment and anguish as he made his way to the akeida. He did not respond to this command robotically, like a computer executing the programmer’s instruction. The command of the akeida is referred to as a “test” precisely because Avraham was human – a loving father, and a sensitive, humane person. God’s commands are intended to be fulfilled within the framework of ordinary, human life. We are expected to serve God as human beings, with all our frailties and weaknesses, rather than try – in futility – to become angels.
The call of “Avraham!” is thus directed to each and every one of us, reminding us that God’s commands are for us, for ordinary, flawed human beings – as this is precisely for whom the Torah and its obligations were intended.
