Dvar Torah Haye Sarah — a Me-You relationship

In the fast-paced days of the 21st century, the phenomena that Andy Warhol labeled a generation ago as 15 minutes of fame, seems to have been reduced to 15 seconds. Being great is something that our society values over being good. Being noticed is more important than taking note of our responsibilities. Friends, which in a life before Facebook was a distinguishing adjective that differentiated people whom we counted upon and who counted upon us from mere acquaintances, is now a measure of our connections, rather than a reference to true relationships.

One hundred and one years ago, the great Jewish thinker Martin Buber, published his seminal work. It’s called “Ich un Du” in German; in English it is best known by its less than precise English translation, “I and Thou.” Buber’s primary premise is that an Ich un Du relationship, which I prefer to understand as Me–You rather than I–Thou, is substantially different from an I–It connection. In true relationships we see both the other and ourselves as we truly are. In an I–It connection, the other person is merely a necessary part of a transactional relationship.

Our parsha this week speaks to us about continuity and transition, and in the process it gives us a prototype of the biblical distinction between connection and relationship.

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The opening narrative, Genesis 23:1-20, describes the burial of Sarah, our first matriarch. It includes the first purchase of real estate by our ancestors in the land of Israel. Here, we find the grieving Abraham, involved in a transactional event with Ephron the Hittite over buying a burial plot for Sarah. Neither man seems to have any interest in understanding anything about the other, or in creating a relationship between their clans.

The concluding verses of our parsha, chapter 24:63-67 give us a glimpse of the romantic first glance between Isaac and Rebecca. In verses 63 and 64 we read a narrative that, I believe, fits Martin Buber’s definition of true relationship.

“And Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening and looking up he saw camels approaching. Raising her eyes Rebecca saw Isaac.” As the Isaac–Rebecca story unfolds in next week’s parsha, it is clear to me that the Torah sees a qualitative dimension of love in the Isaac- Rebecca relationship that meets Buber’s definition of an I-Thou relationship.

I suggest to you that the biblical narratives at the beginning and end of Parshat Chaye Sarah present us with the distinct distinguishing characteristics between the utilitarian connection of Ephron to Abraham that Buber labeled I-It juxtaposed to the I–Thou love relationship of Isaac and Rebecca.

Here in Chaye Sarah, with the chain of continuity established by this marriage, the potential is now present for the fulfillment of God’s promise, in Parshat Lech Lecha, to make Abraham’s progeny a great nation.

In between these two events, the burial of Sarah and the marriage of Isaac and Rebecca, the bulk of our Torah portion for this Shabbat presents us with an often repetitive account of the first Jewish shidach. Abraham, like every generation of Jews ever since, was concerned with the threat that interfaith marriage could pose to Jewish continuity. Genesis 24 describes for us the mission of a nameless loyal servant, who is the antithesis of his master Abraham in so many ways. This servant is pictured for us as a man who both prays for God’s guidance and takes responsibility for keeping his promise to his fellow man. In Genesis 24:12 we read: “And he” Abraham’s servant — “said ‘Adonai Elohai adoni Avraham’ — ‘Adonai, the God of my master Abraham, grant me good fortune this day and deal graciously with my master Abraham.’”

As Rabbi Gunther Plaut points out in the Reform movement’s Chumash, “The Torah: A Modern Commentary,” these words are the introduction to the first prayer for divine guidance recorded in the Torah. Rather than coming from the mouth of one of our heroic patriarchs, they were spoken by a nameless man who is described to us as a simple servant. He is neither rich nor famous. However, he is faithful, devoted, and loyal. Unlike his master Abraham, this servant never seems to hear the voice of God, yet he intuitively hears an answer to his prayer and then follows through on his promise to his master. Afterward, he expresses his gratitude to God. In fulfilling his role as the first Jewish matchmaker, this man secures the perpetuation of the covenant we have come to call Judaism.

This man, whom the Bible calls eved Avraham, is in fact an eved Adonai, a true servant of God. He combines a balance of humility, gratitude, and perseverance that allows him to find the reward for doing a mitzvah in the action itself. The rabbis in the midrash give this man a name. They call him Eliezer, which means “My God is my help.” When he succeeds in his mission of securing Rebecca as Isaac’s wife, this eved, this servant, gives credit to God for showing him the way, rather than taking a bow on the center stage of history.

The eved Adonai of Chaye Sara gives me a model for the radical theology of Martin Buber, who thought and taught of God as an Eternal You, with whom each of us can seek out and find a defining relationship that will guide each of us to catch a glimpse of both our true self and the image of God in each other. Perhaps this eved Avraham, whom the midrash named Eliezer, is not only the shadchan who brought Isaac and Rebecca together but also a mystical messenger of God, whose role is to teach Ich und Du — me and you — to value the precious few true relationships in our lives, over the multitude of our connections, whom we in the 21st century have been programmed to label “friends.”

One final thought. In Genesis Rabbah, the rabbis comment upon the opening verse of our parsha, where the text says that the years of Sarah’s life were 100 years, 20 years, and seven years, rather than simply saying that Sarah died at the age of 127. The midrash notes that the purpose of the language is to indicate to us that Sarah truly filled her life with meaning. Our patriarchs and matriarchs were, like you and me, imperfect people. The truth of their stories, whether these tales are fable or history, is that they sought to create relationships with God and with others. These Genesis stories continue to teach me the lesson of Torah that Martin Buber summarized so succinctly 101 years ago: While most of my life, and yours, is spent on the level of utilitarian connection, what truly gives meaning to life are the fleeting moments of true relationship that we can experience with each other and with the Eternal Other, whom we call God.