Dust and Ashes: A dvar torah for vayera

Our Torah portion this week, parashat Vayera, stands out amongst the stories of the book of Genesis. During a visit from divine messengers, Abraham and Sarah learn that Sarah will become a mother, and despite Sarah’s rueful laugh, the story continues down a fated path as Sarah wrestles with motherhood. Through the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael, the story continues leading up to the fateful and iconic moment that we read on Rosh Hashanah with the story of Akedat Yitzhak, the binding of Isaac. 

Each Shabbat, we encounter Torah and it is up to us whether we look through it like a window, or look into it like a mirror. On this Shabbat,however,  there is one more story in parashat Vayera for us to consider. 

The divine messengers, having eaten and been hosted so generously by Abraham and Sarah, have just told Sarah that by this time next year, she will have a son. The men get up to leave and we read that they looked down upon Sodom, with Abraham walking beside them to see them off. 

And then we read: 

וַֽיהֹוָ֖ה אָמָ֑ר הַֽמְכַסֶּ֤ה אֲנִי֙ מֵֽאַבְרָהָ֔ם אֲשֶׁ֖ר אֲנִ֥י עֹשֶֽׂה׃

Adonai says— or thinks:  “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do—  Abraham, who is destined to become a great and populous nation, and a source of blessing?”

God wonders aloud— should I tell Avraham that I am going to destroy Sodom?

It’s such an interesting moment in the text— it is so rare that we have insight into God’s “thoughts”. 

The Torah goes on to describe the outcry in Sodom and Gomorrah— how great and grave their crimes are.  But what was it about Sodom and its sister city Gomorrah that were so bad? 

Where Torah is sometimes sparse in detail, our tradition of storytelling comes in to imagine the possibilities. 

In one mishnah, we read: 

When a poor person would happen to come to Sodom, each and every person would give him a dinar, and the name of the giver was written on each dinar. And they would not give or sell him bread, so that he could not spend the money and would die of hunger. When he would die, each and every person would come and take his dinar.

That same mishnah goes on to say: 

There were four judges in Sodom and they were named for their actions: Shakrai, meaning liar, and Shakrurai, habitual liar, Zayfai, forger, and Matzlei Dina, perverter of justice. 

A final story in that same mishnah describes Sodom’s sin in this way: 

There was a young woman who would take bread out to the poor people in a pitcher so no one could see it. The people of Sodom eventually found out and they smeared her with honey and positioned her on the wall of the city, and the hornets came and consumed her. This woman was killed for her act of kindness. It is due to that sin that the fate of the people of Sodom was sealed.

We come to understand that Sodom is a place of exploitation— where money is wielded as power, where justice is perverted, where falsehoods are sworn, where lies overtake honesty. A place where cruelty prevails. 

And so, when God wonders aloud— “Should I tell Abraham what I am planning to do?” we have to wonder: what is God worried about? What potential pitfalls might come from Abraham knowing that God intends to destroy Sodom? 

There’s hardly time for God to answer that question, before Abraham approaches, and begins to bargain: 

…If there are fifty innocent people there, will you still sweep away the place- killing innocent and wicked alike? 

God replies— Ok. If there are fifty innocent people in Sodom, I’ll pardon the whole place. 

And perhaps, if you are familiar with the text- you’ll know that Abraham keeps pushing, bargaining for the fate of innocent people, even if there are only forty-five, or forty, or thirty, or twenty, or just 10– one minyan of innocent people. 

But on this Shabbat, there is a verse that falls in the midst of this bargaining that catches my ear differently. 

After God agrees to spare Sodom for the sake of fifty innocent people, Abraham speaks again saying: 

“Here I venture to speak to my Lord, I who am but dust and ashes: וְאָנֹכִ֖י עָפָ֥ר וָאֵֽפֶר׃

I am nothing more than dust and ashes. 

Abraham’s humility in this moment is curious. On the one hand, we sense that God wants to tread lightly— noting the hefty burden that rests on Abraham’s shoulders to become a great nation, not wanting to compromise that by telling him this plan to destroy Sodom. 

On the other hand, what a burden! 

There are times when Torah is a window, and others when it is a mirror— and this moment in Torah stands out to me as a mirror to our worlds today. 

Imagine, Abraham— one hundred years old. He has left his home; his birthplace, and with his wives Sarah and Hagar, he has set forth on this journey.  in this moment, I have a lot of compassion for Abraham. 

No one wants to see a world destroyed. Perhaps Abraham knows the gravity of this conversation with God— he feels like it is up to him to save these people. It’s a prescient text– foreshadowing all of the people, much closer to him, that Abraham won’t be the one to save— not his son Ishmael, nor Isaac. 

But in this moment, looking out across the hill to Sodom, Abraham dares to ask God: are you really going to do it? Are you really going to sweep away the innocent with the wicked? And perhaps it’s because that question felt so chutzpahdik that just moments later, Abraham speaks more solicitously: Here I venture to speak to my Lord, I who am but dust and ashes. 

If this story, ripped straight from the scrolling headlines of our ancient text, feels more like a mirror than a window, then perhaps the question on this Shabbat is ‘what good does it do Abraham to be so humble and self-minimizing’? I am reminded of the famous line that Golda Meir was often quoted as saying: “Don’t be so humble, you’re not that great”. 

But I might argue that it’s not Abraham’s humble approach, but rather his bold question that we ought to pay attention to. 

Abraham’s words– anochi afar va’efer, I am but dust and ashes are echoed in a later teaching made famous by Reb Simcha Bunym of Pesycha of whom it was said that he carried two slips of paper, one in each pocket. On one he wrote: Bishvili nivra ha-olam—“for my sake the world was created.” On the other he wrote: V’anokhi afar v’efer”—“I am but dust and ashes.” He would take out each slip of paper as necessary, as a reminder to himself.

Perhaps the wisdom we can learn from Abraham in this moment is knowing which slip to take out, and when.  In facing God with that daring question– Are you really going to sweep away the innocent with the wicked? I hear steadiness in Abraham: confidence and faithfulness. Abraham is 100 years old, and has enough road behind him to know, in his heart, that it is worth speaking up on behalf of innocent people.  

One more teaching– in Pirke Avot we read about four character types that can be found in human beings: 

1. One that says: “mine is mine, and yours is yours”: this is a commonplace type. The rabbis pause here to note, there are some who would say, this is middat S’dom: this is the character of a Sodomite; the way of someone from Sodom. 

2. [One that says:] “mine is yours and yours is mine”: is an unlearned person (am haaretz)

3. [One that says:] “mine is yours and yours is yours” is a pious person. 

4. [One that says:] “mine is mine, and yours is mine” is a wicked person.

If the people of Sodom and Gomorrah were so irredeemably wicked, why then is the “mine is mine, and yours is yours” character type described as middat S’dom?  Why isn’t it the “mine is mine and yours is mine” person? 

Why is middat S’dom— the character trait of being like one from Sodom described this way? Perhaps it is to highlight that indifference and isolation are as grave a sin in our tradition as something more obviously and overtly wicked. 

Throughout our tradition, the term middat S’dom is largely used to describe "a refusal to accommodate others even when doing so presents no disadvantage or inconvenience to oneself".

Like the useless dinars presented to those in need of food, or the lying judges, or the punishment by honey and hornets, the story that emerges for me as we encounter Sodom and Gomorrah this year, is that to be isolated, selfish, and unconcerned with the well being of others is as wicked and sinful as it gets. 

When  Avraham says— who am I? I am but dust and ashes– I would argue that it is a moment of misplaced humility.  I believe that Abraham knows what is at stake. If we hold the mirror back up to ourselves, (without making too much of the parallel between the people of Sodom and those whose behaviors we believe may cause our downfall as well) I would elevate Abraham’s first question. I would privilege the note in his pocket that reminded him that for each human being is the world created— and there is bravery in asking God, in beseeching those with power, if destruction is the only option. 

You can be brave and scared at the same time. Fear and courage can live side by side, if only we are wise enough to know for which pocket we should reach. 

On this Shabbat, may we remember how these two fundamental truths exist side by side– as we encounter pain and suffering around us, and in moments when we are fearful and unsure what we should do: 

Bishvileinu nivra ha’olam: For our sake was the world created. 

And, Anachnu afar va’efer: We are no more than dust and ashes.