Angels are everywhere - The Jewish Standard

I ran into an angel the other day but didn’t catch his name.

It was a brutally cold winter morning, winds whipping down Sixth Avenue like frozen arrows and my face comfortably numb. The angel was helping a deliveryman pick up packages that had fallen off a cart. As I approached the scene, the angel retrieved the last of the items, and the deliveryman was profusely thanking him for his selfless act. It was a sacred moment that injected some warmth into an otherwise icy stretch of concrete and steel. And it naturally made me think of Parashat Vayera.

In Parashat Vayera, Abraham and Sarah are visited by three angels. The Torah teaches that they informed Sarah she would become pregnant and finally have a child, despite her and Abraham’s advanced age. Sarah famously laughs (another complicated story for another day). Shortly after this incident, only two angels appear at Sodom to warn of the impending doom. Why only two angels, and not three? Our sages teach that one of the three angels had completed its task and returned to Hashem. Rashi adds that one of the angels brought the news of Isaac’s birth, one’s mission was to destroy Sodom, and the other was sent to heal Abraham post-circumcision.

Angels are a mysterious, difficult concept in religious philosophy. Malach (angel) translates into “messenger,” emphasizing the singular purpose behind each angel’s mission. But are angels intended to be manifestations of God on Earth? Is each angel a messenger carrying a specific task, or can angels multitask? Do they have free will? These questions have caused Talmudic scholars to ponder the notion of angels. And they are admittedly awkward to discuss in today’s modern age — although I believe it reveals something that young children often have an intensely pure curiosity about angels when they first encounter the concept.

While our tradition teaches that humans are more complex than pseudo-preprogrammed angels, I believe there is something to be gleaned from ascribing angelic qualities to each of us — i.e., I humbly submit that angels are everywhere. Hopefully this is not blasphemy to posit, but perhaps each of us are angels (or at least possess innately angelic traits). We do not know the precise purpose of our presence here on Earth; it’s not as though Hashem sends us an email with specific instructions. But if we continue to do mitzvot, big and small, with God’s help we will accomplish our respective missions.

As we learn in Shemot (Exodus), none of us can see Hashem face-to-face; even Moses could only see G-d’s “back” when Hashem passed behind the cleft of the rock. This seminal incident teaches that we often do not see the divine until after the sacred moment has passed. If that is indeed the case, how does this teaching impact our understanding of angels? Some people accomplish obviously amazing things during their lifetimes, whether discovering the cure for a disease, heroically saving people from a burning building, or writing a pivotal piece of literature. Others live seemingly anonymous lives, their angelic qualities hidden from plain sight — revealed only after the sacred moment (and divine presence) has passed by the cleft of the rock.

Mothers often refer to their babies as “my little angel.” Presumably, the moniker is intended to connote purity — and, not coincidentally, I cannot recall any parent of a teenager as invoking the same angelic description. The point being that, as babies come into our world, we view them as “little angels.” Perhaps we are projecting our hopes that their unadulterated state will plant the seeds for our collective redemption. While that’s a lot of pressure to put on our little munchkins, the Torah teaches us that every person has inherent value (i.e., we each are created in God’s image) and therefore a divine purpose.

Let’s dwell on that thought for a minute. Each of us was once our mother’s “little angel.” Why should that expectation cease once we grow into fully fledged, inherently flawed human beings? Perhaps we are not intended to know precisely what each of our tasks is intended to be during our lifetimes. After the divine moment has passed, maybe, one day, the answer will be revealed.

For discussion’s sake, let’s assume that that premise is accurate — that each of us is intended to complete a particular task during our time on Earth. How do we know what the task is? Do we immediately exit stage left after completing the task? If we assume we will never know, then the logical takeaway is to keep doing mitzvot until the whistle blows — i.e., don’t ever stop running toward mitzvot and creating conditions for our redemption. Whether it is mundane or sublime, it doesn’t matter. In fact, our tradition teaches that the most sublime impact may arise from the most mundane act. A kind word, sharing food with a hungry person, including someone who feels excluded from a group activity. These are all nice things to do in the abstract, but each takes on inherent holiness when viewed through the divine prism.

October 7 has tested this lofty premise. While we naturally seek to posthumously glorify the deaths of the victims of the Hamas attack, wrapping them in the cloak of angels is, in many ways, too simple an explanation. That is not to say that each of the victims are anything less than angels, and sacred in so many ways, but I have a hard time accepting that each of these beautiful angels was put on Earth for purposes of being murdered by Hamas. I recently returned from Israel, where I witnessed the gaping wound continue to fester, including the nation’s worried anticipation regarding the fate of the Bibas children and their mother — whose tragic demise has since been confirmed. What were their angelic missions? Were the Bibas boys placed here for precious little time to shock us into appreciating the evil nature of our enemies? Was Shiri here to reveal the true depths of a mother’s protective instincts? Or were they here to inspire each of us to do better, to reach higher, and to do some serious teshuvah for failing the Bibas family, along with so many of our other brothers and sisters?

I do not know the answers. After all, we are named the Children of Israel — not the Children of Jacob. Israel means fighting or grappling with God. The death of the Bibas boys (and Shiri) has caused me to wrestle anew with divine intention. Thus far, this wrestling match has been unsatisfying, but I remain confident that Hashem will reveal the answer in due course. Until then, I will dust myself off the mat, get back on my feet, and thank God for another day walking among the angels.

Ari M. Berman lives in West Caldwell and is a member of that town’s Congregation Agudath Israel. He is an attorney.

Opinion

comments