Our father is old,
and there is no man in the land to come in to us as befits the way of all the earth!
Come, let us have our father drink wine and lie with him
so that we may keep seed alive by our father.
So they had their father drink wine that night,
then the firstborn went in and lay with her father—
but he knew nothing of her lying down or her rising up.
It was on the morrow that the firstborn said to the younger:
Here, yesternight I lay with Father.
Let us have him drink wine tonight as well,
then you go in and lie with him,
so that we may keep seed alive by our father.
They had their father drink wine that night as well,
then the younger arose and lay with him,
but he knew nothing of her lying down or her rising up.
And Lot’s two daughters became pregnant by their father.
GENESIS 19:4-36
After agreeing with Abraham that he would not destroy Sodom if he could find ten righteous people, God sends two messengers (or angels in disguise) to the city. They encounter Lot, who invites them to his home, which the men of the city then surround, demanding that Lot give his guests to them for their sexual pleasure. Lot responds in a remarkable manner: He offers his two virgin daughters to the crowd in place of his guests. But the crowd rejects Lot’s substitution and presses against the door in quest of the men. Lot’s guests protect their host and warn him to remove his family from the city, which is about to be destroyed. Lot, his wife, and his two daughters are told not to look back at the devastation, but his wife disobeys: She is turned into a pillar of salt. Then, after escaping the fire and brimstone, Lot is made drunk by his daughters and seduced by each of them so that they may become pregnant and keep their seed alive.
The story of Lot is really the story of the three women in his life—none of whom is named—and tells much about the Bible’s attitude toward the female sex.
Lot is saved because God “remembered Abraham.” 1 This suggests that he remembered Abraham’s argument about not sweeping away the righteous with the unrighteous, and Lot was more righteous than the other Sodomites. But was he really a righteous man? By offering his daughters to the crowd, did he demonstrate righteousness? By the standards of his time and place, the answer is yes. After all, the patriarch Abraham, who is regarded as a paragon of virtue, twice offered up his own wife for the sexual pleasure of those who might threaten him, in order to protect himself. The first instance took place when Abram and Sarai (their names were later changed to incorporate God’s presence) journeyed to Egypt. Abram had his wife pose as his sister—subjecting her to sexual conquest but saving his own life. She was eventually returned to her husband after God afflicted Pharaoh with plagues. 2 The second instance took place after the destruction of Sodom, when Abraham and Sarah were journeying to the south and encountered Abimelech, the king of Gerar. Again Abraham subjected his wife to possible adultery, saying she was his sister. 3 Again she was saved, this time after God came to Abimelech in a dream and threatened him with death. Abimelech, who had not yet touched Sarah, made a brilliant argument to God in his own defense: “Will you slay even a righteous nation?” These words are reminiscent of Abraham’s own plea to God on behalf of the possibly innocent people of Sodom. It also introduces the legal principle that an honest and reasonable mistake of fact, which negates culpability, will generally be defense to a criminal act. By thus invoking Abraham’s own argument in the Sodom case, Abimelech persuaded God to spare him. God replied that if Abimelech returned Sarah, then Abraham would pray for him, and since Abraham is a prophet, his prayers would be answered. Nachmanides boldly states that Abraham “sinned a great sin” by exposing Sarah in the way he did, but he inexplicably characterizes the sin as “unwitting.” 4 It was anything but, since Abraham calculated the risks to his wife’s virtue and weighed them against the risks to his own life. This sort of cost-benefit thinking seems to run in the family: Isaac later did the same thing to his wife. It has been argued in defense of Abraham and Isaac that since they had prophetic powers, perhaps they knew that God would rescue their wives from the would-be seducers. Although Lot lacked such powers, maybe he realized that the sexual preferences of those demanding his male guests would cause them to turn down his daughters. His offer was simply a ruse to gain time. Even if these ploys could somehow be justified, they still used women as sexual commodities. It is fair to conclude, therefore, that righteousness was not measured in the Bible by how a man treated his women—wives, daughters, sisters—even if he bartered them to others for their sexual satisfaction. There is another, less sexist and more universal interpretation, which is suggested by the bizarre episode that ends the Lot story. His daughters, believing that the entire world (at least the entire world to which they had access) had been destroyed, feel it necessary to seduce their father in order to bear children. They are not punished for their incest. Perhaps the message is that the perpetuation of life is more important than the rules of sexual propriety. In the case of Lot’s daughters, they may have believed that the continuation of humanity depended on their breaking the taboo against incest and even rape. After all, the act of getting a sexual target drunk and then having sex with him when he’s unconscious is rape. Thus the first example of “acquainance rape”—really intrafamilial sexual abuse—in the Bible is by women against a man. Why am I not surprised!
At a more general level, the message may be to favor a kind of situational ethic—at least when sex is involved—over a more categorical imperative. Some rules of conduct are relative, while life is absolute. Jewish law eventually adopts this approach for most rules, permitting them to be broken in order to save life (pikuach nefesh). Deuteronomy mandates us to “choose life.” During the Holocaust many women had to choose between their sexual virtue or their life. Those who chose life were not condemned by rabbinic authorities. 5 They had followed the examples of Abraham’s wife and Lot’s daughters.
In the case of Abraham, the patriarch placed his own life above the sexual virtue of his wife and acted without her consent. In Lot’s case, the women acted without the consent of the man. (Lot also acted without the consent of his daughters in offering them as substitutes for his guests.) In these instances, life was perpetuated. 6
It is interesting to contrast the actions of Lot’s daughters with those of Noah’s sons. Noah—also a virtuous man in his generation—became drunk and “uncovered” himself within his tent. His son Ham saw his father’s nakedness and told his other two brothers, who, “walking backward” so as to avoid seeing their father’s nakedness, covered him. When Noah awoke from his drunken stupor and learned what Ham had done, he cursed his progeny, the Canaanites. 7 Commentators interpret Ham’s actions as more than mere voyeurism. An imaginative midrash says that Ham attempted to “perform an operation upon his father designed to prevent procreation.” 8 Rashi suggests that Ham “indulged a perverted lust upon him.” But whatever Ham did, it was not for a procreational or lifesaving purpose; thus Ham’s descendants were cursed and Lot’s daughters forgiven. The children born to Lot’s daughters became the leaders of the Moabites and the Ammonites. Sforno observed: “Because the intention of Lot’s daughters had been good, their descendants inherited the land.” 9
What about Lot’s wife, whose only crime was to look back after an angel dressed as a man told her not to? Does her entirely understandable need to glance backward at the family she left behind warrant so severe a punishment? Even the midrash acknowledges that “her mother love made her look behind to see if her married daughters were following.” Is that a crime? What does her death tell us about the value placed on the life of a woman? Commentators have struggled mightily to justify the death of Lot’s wife. Rashi speculates that her real sin had been to refuse “salt”—that is, hospitality—to Lot’s angelic guests. Well, I guess that deserves death instead of a rebuke from Emily Post! Others come up with equa
lly implausible justifications. The pillar of salt was a visible symbol of the wages of turning your back on God. Augustine says that Lot’s wife “serves as a solemn and sacred warning that no one who starts out on the path of salvation should ever yearn for the things that he has left behind.” 10 But if “the things” left behind are family members, such a command defies human nature. During the Inquisition many Jews who converted to Christianity looked back in distress as their own flesh and blood were murdered. Josephus, the Jewish historian who abandoned Judaism but repeatedly turned back to write about the Jews, wrote that Lot’s wife was “overly curious” about Sodom and was changed into a pillar of salt. Ironically, Josephus was accused by some of his Roman contemporaries of being “overly curious” about his own heritage. 11 Josephus demonstrated his own ambivalence about his rejection of Judaism by testifying: “I have seen this pillar, which remains to this day.” Contemporary Israeli tour guides also point to a salt pillar near the Dead Sea—a natural part of the Niegev landscape—claiming that it bears a resemblance to a woman looking over her shoulder.
The narrative of Lot and his wife and daughters continues the theme of woman as seducer, entrapper, disobeyer, sinner, sexual commodity, and—ultimately—procreator. She may be bad, but she is never as bad as the worst of men. For example, when Lot’s house is surrounded by sexual predators, they are all men. But she is rarely as good as the best of men. A midrash does praise Sarah as ranking “higher than her husband” in prophecy. “She was sometimes called Iscah ‘the seer’ on that account,” but this is an exception. 12 Biblical woman may be more crafty and conniving than her male counterpart, but she is not generally as morally elevated (though there are exceptions). God does not usually speak to her directly, but He punishes her for disobeying the commands issued to men. This subordinate yet blameworthy role of women in the Book of Genesis will recur in several subsequent stories. Indeed, in the very next story—the binding of Isaac—the silence of Sarah is deafening, as her only child is led by his father to the slaughter.
1. Several commentators interpret this verse as saying that Lot was saved on account of Abraham, because he was the patriarch’s nephew or because he moved to Sodom at Abraham’s behest. Yet another early example of virtue-by-status.
2. Genesis 12:10-20.
3. Genesis 20:1-18.
4. Quoted in Riskin at p. 11.
5. See at Oshry, Efroim, Responsae from the Holocaust, pp. 183-94.
6. Ginzberg at p. 255.
7. 9:21-25.
8. Ginzberg at p. 165.
9. Soncino at p. 99. Some commentators criticize Lot’s older daughter for naming her child Moab, which identifies the child as her own father’s. The younger child, whose name did not explicitly identify its father, was rewarded by being a fore-bearer of David and the Messiah.
10. Kugel at p. 192.
11. Jewish tradition forbids criticizing non-Jews in the presence of converts, recognizing that the convert will retain a natural affinity for his non-Jewish heritage and family.
12. Ginzberg at p. 203.
CHAPTER 6
Abraham Commits Attempted Murder—and Is Praised
Now after these events it was
that God tested Avraham
and said to him:
Avraham!
He said:
Here I am.
He said:
Pray take your son,
your only-one
whom you love,
Yitzhak [Isaac in English],
and go-you-forth to the land of Moriyya/Seeing,
and offer him up there as an offering-up
upon one of the mountains
that I will tell you of.
Avraham started-early in the morning,
he saddled his donkey,
he took his two serving-lads with him and Yitzhak his son,
he split wood for the offering-up
and arose and went to the place that God had told him of.
On the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes
and saw the place from afar.
Avraham said to his lads:
You stay here with the donkey,
and I and the lad will go yonder,
we will bow down and then return to you.
Avraham took the wood for the offering-up,
he placed them upon Yitzhak his son,
in his hand he took the fire and the knife.
Thus the two of them went together.
Yitzhak said to Avraham his father, he said:
Father!
He said:
Here I am, my son.
He said:
Here are the fire and the wood,
but where is the lamb for the offering-up?
Avraham said:
God will see for himself to the lamb for the offering-up,
my son.
Thus the two of them went together.
They came to the place that God had told him of;
there Avraham built the slaughter-site
and arranged the wood
and bound Yitzhak his son
and placed him on the slaughter-site atop the wood.
And Avraham stretched out his hand,
he took the knife to slay his son.
But YHWH’s messenger called to him from heaven
and said:
Avraham! Avraham!
He said:
Here I am.
He said:
Do not stretch out your hand against the lad,
do not do anything to him!
For now I know
that you are in awe of God—
you have not withheld your son, your only-one, from me.
GENESIS 22:1-12
No biblical narrative is more dramatic, more poignant, and more confusing than God’s command to Abraham that he sacrifice his son Isaac. What kind of a God would ask such a thing of a father? What kind of a father would accede to such a request, even from a God? Why did Abraham, the man who argued so effectively with God over the fate of strangers, suddenly become silent in the face of so great an injustice toward his own beloved son? Why did God praise Abraham for his willingness to engage in an act of ritual murder? And what are we to learn from a patriarch who follows, without question, immoral superior orders to murder an innocent child?
These, and other questions, have been debated by Jews, Christians, and Muslims for generations. Again, there are the trivial answers, designed to justify everything God and Abraham did. Some of the defense lawyer commentators argue that Abraham knew that God was merely testing him and that He would never let him actually kill his son. A variation on this interpretation comes from the fact that God never explicitly commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, but rather to “offer” him. These commentators argue that Abraham realized God would not accept his offer and would stay his hand, pointing to Abraham’s assurance to his servants that both he and Isaac will return: “You stay here with the donkey, and I and the lad will go yonder, we will bow down and then return to you.” 1 As one midrash put it: “God informed Abraham by making him unintentionally prophesy”—a divinely inspired slip of the tongue. 2
The problem with this “defense” is that if Abraham knew the outcome, then it wasn’t really a test—or at least a fair test. One who knows the answer to a test in advance is a cheat. Moreover, based on God’s past behavior, why would Abraham trust that his son would survive? After all, this is the same God who destroyed the world in the flood and was prepared to sweep away the innocent along with the guilty in Sodom. Why would such a God not also expect one of His followers to kill a single child?
On the face of it, it seems that Abraham believed that God wanted him to kill his son and that the patriarch was willing to do just that. Why would the man who argued with God over strangers be prepared to murder his own son without protest?
There is, of course, the possibility that Abraham went along with God’s command for entirely self-serving reasons: He believed that if he disobeyed God’s
direct order, God would kill him as he killed Lot’s wife. By killing his own son, Abraham would be saving himself. Remember that this is the same Abraham who twice sacrificed Sarah’s virtue to save his own neck. Remember too that God invited Abraham to argue with Him over the condemned of Sodom, but he commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. Failure to comply with a direct command from God carried a divine punishment. To suggest a slightly less selfish motive, perhaps Abraham decided that if he refused God’s command, both he and Isaac would be killed by God, but if he complied, God might spare at least one of them. We do not know, of course, what was going through Abraham’s mind as he lifted the knife to slay his son, but in light of his prior history—especially with Sarah—a self-serving motive cannot be entirely excluded. A midrash suggests a different spin on Abraham’s self-interest.
It shows that out forefathers presupposed the existence of another world beyond this one. If not for Avraham’s belief in olam haba [the world to come], he certainly would not have agreed to sacrifice his only son and continue living a life without hope and without a future. He was ready to listen to God’s commandment, knowing that for his sacrifice in this world, God would repay him well in olam haba. 3
This turns Abraham’s great test into a simple cost-benefit decision. Indeed, the very word “repay” connotes a crass balancing of benefits. Neat as the equation may seem, there is no textual support that the patriarch believed in a world to come. Absent any guarantee of eternal reward for following God’s command, Abraham’s decision to kill Isaac is especially dramatic precisely because it would have left him with “a life without hope and without a future.” He was willing to accept such a life for one reason alone: because God commanded it.
Maimonides refuses to attribute Abraham’s compliance to simple fear of consequences: “For Abraham did not hasten to kill Isaac out of fear that God would slay him or make him poor, but solely because it is man’s duty to love and to fear God, even without hope of reward or fear of punishment.” 4 But why then is Judaism (as well as other religions) so premised on reward and punishment, both in this world and in the world to come? I believe that true morality can best be judged in the absence of threats or promises. 5 The atheist who throws himself in front of a car to save a child is performing a truly moral act, because he expects no divine reward. The religious person who strongly believes that he will be rewarded for his moral acts and punished for his immoral ones in the hereafter may simply be making a long-term cost-benefit analysis. Blaise Pascal, a seventeenth-century French philosopher and mathematician, argued that faith is a worthwhile gamble, since we lose nothing if we believe and God does not exist, but we risk spending eternity in hell if we do not believe and God turns out to be real. The fallacy is that God may despise those who engage in such self-serving wagers and prefer those who honestly doubt or even disbelieve. Maimonides argued strongly against the midrashic variation of “Pascal’s wager”:
The Genesis of Justice Page 10