It doesn’t really seem fair. “No Ammonite or Moabite shall be admitted into the congregation of the Lord… even in the tenth generation… [But] you shall not abhor the Edomite… your kinsman, [nor] the Egyptian, for you were a stranger in his land.” (Deut. 23:4-7). Was I not a kinsman? Abraham was my uncle. I joined him on his great adventure, when he set forth from Haran to Canaan. Indeed, to maintain family peace, I even agreed to separate my flocks and household from his. And he clearly took our kinship seriously, twice taking on great risk for my sake: liberating me from Chedorlaomer’s captivity (Gen. 14), and then confronting God over the plan to destroy my hometown.
I know, of course, that my relationship with my daughters makes people uncomfortable. But what could I do? There I was, the wicked Sodomites rioting at my door, threatening disaster for the whole family – and for the guests whom it was my sacred obligation to protect. There was no way out; I had no choice. Thank God (!) they were saved at the last minute; but the burden of my choice was never lifted from my shoulders – or theirs. Their revenge was bitter and ironic, tricking me into committing incest – and fathering Moab and Ammon.
Yes, I know: you’re thinking, “What was he doing in Sodom in the first place?” Maybe there’s the rub. Seeking distance from Uncle Abraham (who, I might add, was not so easy to live with), the well-watered plain of the Jordan was a perfect location. True, the inhabitants of Sodom were “very wicked sinners against the Lord,” (Gen. 13:13) but I am not a prophet, nor a prophet’s son (only a nephew); I didn’t feel responsible – or able - to reform Sodom. Of course I know that the rabbis will some day declare, “Whoever can reprove his household and doesn’t – is guilty of their sins; and likewise for his city, and for the whole world!” (TB Shabbat 54b).
But I know that they will also say, “As it is a mitzvah to reprove when it will be heeded, so it is a mitzvah not to reprove when it will not be heeded.” (TB Yebamot 65b)
We kept to ourselves and put up with their shtick, rolled our eyes and kept our mouths shut, and we prospered. Maybe we didn’t exactly fit in, but in time we developed friendships, and despite our misgivings about the moral culture of the place, we came to love it, its beauty, its comfort. We never considered leaving. It was home.
I suppose I should have seen the handwriting on the wall – but who ever does? And when that horrible day came, out of the blue, the vicious behavior didn’t really surprise us, I suppose. The shock was, “The fellow… came here as an alien and now he acts the ruler!” (Gen. 19:9). It turned out we had lulled ourselves into complacency, believing we were home, safe. It seems we had always been outsiders, living peacefully by keeping out of sight – but when I reached my breaking point, the limit to my ability to “look the other way,” I discovered we had never really been safe, never belonged. And yet, and yet, even so, leaving was painful. It was hard not to look back, in nostalgia for what we had, over against the fear of what lay ahead.
It may have been a bad place, but it had been (we thought) our place. Until that moment, we ourselves had never been the victims of the evil. And so “when they came for me” I wasn’t prepared, and felt helpless, with no good options. And it was too late to undo all the decisions we had drifted through in the preceding years leading up to this point.
Does my guilt lie in the choice to settle in Sodom in the first place?
Is complacency the same as complicity?
Could I have changed the culture, prevented the destruction?
Did my choices justify my exclusion from the family unto the tenth generation?
Go ahead, judge me. What would you have done?
And what will you do now?
Is it too late to undo all the decisions we have drifted through?
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Rabbi Marc Rosenstein lives in Moshav Shorashim, in the Galilee, where, for 20 years, he directed the Galilee Foundation for Value Education. He also served as head of the Israel Rabbinical Program at HUC in Jerusalem.
I know, of course, that my relationship with my daughters makes people uncomfortable. But what could I do? There I was, the wicked Sodomites rioting at my door, threatening disaster for the whole family – and for the guests whom it was my sacred obligation to protect. There was no way out; I had no choice. Thank God (!) they were saved at the last minute; but the burden of my choice was never lifted from my shoulders – or theirs. Their revenge was bitter and ironic, tricking me into committing incest – and fathering Moab and Ammon.
Yes, I know: you’re thinking, “What was he doing in Sodom in the first place?” Maybe there’s the rub. Seeking distance from Uncle Abraham (who, I might add, was not so easy to live with), the well-watered plain of the Jordan was a perfect location. True, the inhabitants of Sodom were “very wicked sinners against the Lord,” (Gen. 13:13) but I am not a prophet, nor a prophet’s son (only a nephew); I didn’t feel responsible – or able - to reform Sodom. Of course I know that the rabbis will some day declare, “Whoever can reprove his household and doesn’t – is guilty of their sins; and likewise for his city, and for the whole world!” (TB Shabbat 54b).
But I know that they will also say, “As it is a mitzvah to reprove when it will be heeded, so it is a mitzvah not to reprove when it will not be heeded.” (TB Yebamot 65b)
We kept to ourselves and put up with their shtick, rolled our eyes and kept our mouths shut, and we prospered. Maybe we didn’t exactly fit in, but in time we developed friendships, and despite our misgivings about the moral culture of the place, we came to love it, its beauty, its comfort. We never considered leaving. It was home.
I suppose I should have seen the handwriting on the wall – but who ever does? And when that horrible day came, out of the blue, the vicious behavior didn’t really surprise us, I suppose. The shock was, “The fellow… came here as an alien and now he acts the ruler!” (Gen. 19:9). It turned out we had lulled ourselves into complacency, believing we were home, safe. It seems we had always been outsiders, living peacefully by keeping out of sight – but when I reached my breaking point, the limit to my ability to “look the other way,” I discovered we had never really been safe, never belonged. And yet, and yet, even so, leaving was painful. It was hard not to look back, in nostalgia for what we had, over against the fear of what lay ahead.
It may have been a bad place, but it had been (we thought) our place. Until that moment, we ourselves had never been the victims of the evil. And so “when they came for me” I wasn’t prepared, and felt helpless, with no good options. And it was too late to undo all the decisions we had drifted through in the preceding years leading up to this point.
Does my guilt lie in the choice to settle in Sodom in the first place?
Is complacency the same as complicity?
Could I have changed the culture, prevented the destruction?
Did my choices justify my exclusion from the family unto the tenth generation?
Go ahead, judge me. What would you have done?
And what will you do now?
Is it too late to undo all the decisions we have drifted through?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Marc Rosenstein lives in Moshav Shorashim, in the Galilee, where, for 20 years, he directed the Galilee Foundation for Value Education. He also served as head of the Israel Rabbinical Program at HUC in Jerusalem.