At the beginning of my rabbinical career, I often officiated at funerals for members of “the greatest generation.” The eulogies told the dramatic story of immigrants and survivors who arrived in North America and started over again, of young men who fought courageously in World War II, of dedicated volunteers who fought for Israel’s independence, Soviet Jewry, and more.
After one funeral, a younger member of my synagogue approached me. He thanked me for the eulogy, which was the inspiring story of a Holocaust survivor; then he paused, and asked, “Rabbi, what will they say at my funeral?”
It’s an excellent question. Ordinary times yield ordinary biographies. Hegel observed that “happiness is written on the blank pages of history”; and the same is true of biographies. Those of us blessed to live in uneventful times will receive very different eulogies at our funerals. And this reality is true of the characters in the Tanakh as well.
Isaac is the invisible patriarch. Both his father and son overshadow him. When the prophet Micah declares, “You will give truth to Jacob and mercy to Abraham,” he somehow omits Isaac. In Psalms, the leader calls out to the “offspring of Abraham, His servant, the descendants of Jacob, His chosen ones.” Isaac is simply skipped over.
During the most dramatic moments of his life, Isaac is little more than a supporting character. The Akedah casts his father Abraham as the hero. In the story of the blessings, he is a mere object in the tug of war between his sons.
Very little else is mentioned about Isaac. In his lifetime, there are no wars, migrations, or major revelations; he lives in the same country with the same wife.
It is easy to overlook Isaac.
Some see hidden virtue in Isaac’s unassuming demeanor. One verse is seen as defining his life’s work: “And Isaac dug again the wells of water which they had dug in the days of Abraham his father, for the Philistines had stopped them up after the death of Abraham. He called them by the names which his father had called them.” Jonathan Sacks explains that:
“Isaac is the least original of the three patriarchs. His life lacks the drama of Abraham or the struggles of Jacob. We see in this passage that Isaac himself did not strive to be original. … He was content to be a link in the chain of generations, faithful to what his father had started. Isaac represents the faith of persistence, the courage of continuity.”
Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz takes this idea a step further:
“The saying goes that all beginnings are difficult. As true as this may be, it is not nearly as difficult to begin as it is to continue … What is truly difficult is to continue after the enthusiasm of the beginning has passed. … The ability to persist, to continue, is what distinguishes one person from another and, on a larger scale, between one people and another.”
Isaac is a greater hero than Abraham because it is more difficult to continue than to create.
Isaac is a greater hero than Abraham because it is more difficult to continue than to create.
Sacks’ and Steinsaltz’ perspective is undoubtedly correct, but they neglect to mention how complex continuity is, both on a psychological and religious level. Psychologists discuss issues such as identity foreclosure and identity diffusion, where the child wonders, “Who am I apart from my parent’s accomplishments?” Religious thinkers worry when religious practice is irrelevant, when traditions are performed for tradition’s sake. It is too easy to become a hollow copy of previous generations, performing “commandments of men learned by rote.” Continuity cannot be sustained by imitation; and figuring out the riddle of continuity is Isaac’s challenge.
As a child, Isaac was virtually identical to Abraham. The Radak offers this comment about the redundant words “Abraham begot Isaac”:
“The Rabbis of the Talmud said that the facial features of Isaac resembled Abraham’s, so that everyone would say, ‘Abraham begot Isaac,’ … And it may further be explained: he was upright and faithful, and walked on the proper path, and loved people just like his father did; so much so that everyone would say, ‘Abraham begot Isaac.’”
From day one, Isaac was a mini-Abraham.
What is fascinating is that the Torah makes it clear that Isaac must find his own path. When there is a famine, just like the one in Abraham’s time, Isaac gets ready to follow in his father’s footsteps and go to Egypt. However, this is not Isaac’s destiny.
God tells Isaac not to go to Egypt. He is not to repeat Abraham’s trip there.
After this, Isaac tells the local people that Rebecca is his sister. Abraham had done this with his wife Sarah on two different occasions; he was worried that the local people would take his wife and murder him. In Abraham’s case, that almost happens; the local kings abduct Sarah, and God has to intervene to return her home.
But in Isaac’s case, the story becomes a farce. Nothing happens. Eventually, the local king discovers they are married, and rebukes Isaac for lying. Isaac just imitated his father, even though he didn’t need to do so.
In his pursuit of imitation, Isaac fails to recognize his own unique abilities.
Rashi explains God told Isaac not to go to Egypt because “you are a pure sacrifice without blemish, and being outside the Holy Land is not befitting for you.” At the Akedah, Isaac is consecrated to God, much like a sacrifice. Because of this, Isaac is too holy to leave the holy land.
This description of Isaac as “a pure sacrifice” fits in multiple ways. God names Isaac. Rebecca, Isaac’s wife, is chosen for him by a divine sign. Isaac is an exemplary husband; he loves Rebecca, prays for her, and is the only patriarch to remain monogamous. His business dealings are beyond reproach. Isaac, the holy one, achieves an ideal his father could only aspire to.
Carl Jung wrote that “the greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of its parents.” Every generation leaves behind unfinished business for the next generation to pursue. The Talmud challenges all of us to go a step beyond what our ancestors previously did; it tells us that, “Our ancestors left us room wherein we can achieve our own greatness.” And that requires an appreciation of our own unique perspective.
Imitation fails because it is static. True continuity builds upon the work of previous generations.
Isaac eventually recognizes this. He fights to hold on to his father’s wells and digs multiple new wells of his own. Abraham remained a shepherd; Isaac is the one who finally fulfills the biblical dream of farming the land. And unlike Abraham, Isaac works actively to transmit his legacy by blessing his son, Esau. Yes, in Isaac’s case the plan fails; but later Jacob, inspired by his father’s example, will introduce blessings that we continue to repeat every Friday night.
Isaac, who looks just like his father, carries Abraham’s legacy wherever he goes. But he isn’t Abraham. He finds greatness by blending continuity and individuality, legacy and authenticity.
It is told that when the Hasidic master Reb Zusha of Anipoli was on his deathbed, he trembled with fright. One student asked him, “Why are you afraid of the day of judgment? You were a truly righteous man, almost as wise as Moses and as kind as Abraham.” Reb Zusha explained. “I am not afraid of being asked why I was not Moses or Abraham. After all, God already has an Abraham and a Moses. I am afraid, however, of being asked, ‘Zusha, why weren’t you Zusha?’”
This was precisely Isaac’s challenge; how could he be Abraham’s son without being a mere copy of Abraham? How could he find his own inner “Zusha”?
In the end, Isaac met this challenge and found his own path.
Then, Isaac was invisible no more.
Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.
