“Vayeilchu sh’neihem yachdav”

Unetaneh tokef kedushat hayom ki hu norah v’ayom.

“Let us now relate the power of this day’s holiness, for it is awesome and frightening.” These words, which we spoke and sang aloud earlier today are mirrored in today’s society—how awesome it is to be here together, today at Caramoor whether physically or watching at home. How awesome when we are able to unite under beautiful circumstances, to come b’yachad, together on this day of awe. How incredible it was to see, even a few days ago, people come together in order to help each other during a frightening moment as Tropical Storm Ida flooded the streets and villages of New Jersey and New York. It is incredible and awesome when we are able to come together, as so often we find our communities torn asunder, split by political issues or differing assumptions, unable or unwilling to hear each other, failing to encounter one another as daily our paths diverge.

However, today, on our Second Day of Rosh Hashanah, we will hear, in the second Aaliyah, a phrase that will be read twice: “Vayeilchu sh’neihem yachdav,” – “the two of them walked off together.” The phrase is first heard when we hear of Abraham’s first act of sacrifice. Abraham, old, troubled, and gray, places the wood for “the burnt offering” upon the most treasured thing he can offer, the son born of his old age, Isaac, his favorite son, the one he loves. Isaac carries the wood upon his back, while Abraham carries his firestone and a knife that was created to consume flesh. “Vayeilchu sh’neihem yachdav”—and the two of them walked off together, apparently consumed with little other than their own thoughts. 

Commentators explain this phrase “Vayeilchu sh’neihem yachdav” to mean that Abraham and Isaac were on the same emotional plane, joyfully walking together while Abraham was aware that he was going to kill his son, and Isaac was not, with one midrash interpreting the phrase “vayeilchu sh’neihem yachdav” as “and they went both of them together, one to bind and the other to be bound, one to slaughter and the other to be slaughtered.” There is a difficulty here—truly, there are many difficulties here—but how could they be “together” when one of them is unaware of the task at hand? 

Isaac interrupts our repeated phrase with a question that emphasizes their relationship and perhaps undermines that Isaac is truly in it “together” with Abraham. “Vayomer Yitzhak el Avraham aviv “Avi!!” Isaac says to his father Abraham: “Father!” Avi—my father! Vayomer: “Hineni, b’ni.” Abraham answers his famous line “I am here.” B’ni—my son! They are a pair, acting together, in sync, in relationship. Abraham is as willing to act as the prayer leaders who chant Hineni before they lead their High Holy Day services, he is ready to lead, he is ready to answer, he is ready to play his role. But first, Isaac speaks: he acknowledges the fire and the wood (yet makes no mention of the knife), and asks “Where is the sheep for the burnt offering?” Is Isaac a joyous and willing participant? Does his question reveal a lack of knowledge—or does it reveal a particular insight—that he knows his role in this peculiar story? 

Rashi believes that Abraham’s answer points most likely to the latter: “Elohim yireh-lo ha-seh l’olah b’ni”—"God will see to the sheep for God’s burnt offering, my son.” The trick is simply where Abraham chooses to puts the emphasis. It could be read as “God will see to the sheep for God’s burnt offering, my son. Don’t you worry.” OR it could be read as: “God will see to the sheep for God’s burnt offering, colon, MY SON.” I might argue that this could very well be a time for worry. Yet the Torah and Rashi disagree, for the very next line we hear is our repeat phrase: “Vayeilchu sh’neihem yachdav”—“and the two of them walked on together, with Rashi emphasizing that they are venturing on “with the same ready heart.” They are literally approaching the apex of their story, the sacrifice itself, as they draw near to their relational (and physical) precipice on top of Mount Ha-Moriah, commentators explaining that “they continued walking together,” the two of them acting “of one mind and of one spirit.” 

This is astounding. In the face of ambiguous and potentially heartbreaking news, how many of us have been able to “continue on with one heart, one mind, and one spirit?” It’s unlikely to occur unless there is some real investment in the relationship, an understanding that each entity is doing what’s best for the family. It becomes even harder from a leadership perspective when we’re scaling up to a community structure—in the world of “ten Jews, twelve opinions” how do we find a way to walk, all of us, together with “the same ready heart?” Perhaps, even now — perhaps especially now — the message of “vayeilchu sh’neihem yachdav” should ring louder and truer than ever. How is it that we can walk together when our situations seem most dire?

Many of us are eager to come together in person, to return to the “normal” that we embraced before. In our text, Abraham tells his servants, “V’nashuva aleichem”—“and we will return to you all. Does he mean the words he says if he intends to sacrifice his son? The rabbis are unclear—and so in today’s world of expectations are we. On this Rosh Hashanah, this awesome day of dread, there is a dread in the not knowing, a fear in the instability—it is a cycle that we go through each year at the holidays, singing “Hashiveinu Adonai eilecha v’nashuva. Chadesh yameinu k’kedem. Return us to you Adonai, and we will return. Renew our days as before!”  Like Abraham, we have become accustomed to hoping for a return to normalcy, for the comfort of what we knew, for the reassurance that all will be okay.

This return requires action on our part—it is not solely enough to wish for solace, to repent and request a renewal that will come as we wait passively—we will find ourselves struggling. The most difficult word that we and the rabbis grapple with when dealing with the Akedah is leha’alot, a word that connotates a “burnt offering,” or akin to another word we may recognize l’hakriv—to sacrifice. These words both hold another strong meaning—leha’alot can mean “to lift up, to elevate, to raise” and l’hakriv can mean to bring near, to draw someone close, to increase their presence. Perhaps our texts are hinting to us at something here: that in order for us to find a shared path during these awesome and frightening times, that we need to uplift our sacrifices—this is what can draw in our community closer.

For many of us, especially during COVID times these sacrifices are not new—we have become accustomed to being asked to give up time with loved ones, to break down walls while maintaining masked expressions, to miss out on events when feeling ill, to struggle with remaining present in challenging hybrid environments. Our sacrifices include finding ways to bridge gaps in understanding when we might not be able to hear or fully understand the answers that are being given to us during moments of confusion and disorder. In order to walk together, all of us, each of us needs to be able to give and take, acknowledging that we are building trust as a community in order to find ways to ensure our steps forward remain in sync. It is only when we are able to empathetically embrace these shared sacrifices that we are able to realign our paths, and walk together not only to teshuvah, but towards nashuva. We return b’yachad, together, renewed by the sacrifices that we have made, uplifted by the stories we share, to our days which might look slightly different in this new year than they did in days of old. May the sweetness of these days to come temper the sacrifices we needed to make in order for us to get there.

Shanah Tovah.