Do We Need to be Seen?

I’ve never liked Yitzchak.

Parshat Toldot describes the events of Yitzchak’s life after the Akeidah, and there is nothing particularly noteworthy. He maintained the wells his father had dug years before, and dug them again when they were vandalized. He even made the same decisions his father made, claiming Rebecca was his sister in the same way Abraham pretended he was Sarah’s sister, both fearful of being murdered by the authorities.

Traditionally, Yitzchak is praised for his life of preservation. He maintained his father’s legacy and the things he built, but he irritates me.

I’m not someone who is satisfied with redigging old wells. I want to innovate. In the Talmud, Rabbi Yehoshua said, “There is no house of study without Chiddush (novelty),” (Chagigah 3a). In my time as a rabbinic intern, I was never interested in teaching classic commentaries or rehashing old ideas — I wanted to present new ones — and I was never more taken aback than when a teacher told me, “If nobody ever said the idea you came up with, that might mean it isn’t true.”

I’ve only ever seen value in novelty and excitement, always looking for the next big idea or breakthrough, but maybe I’m looking at life — and Yitzchak — the wrong way.

A few chapters earlier, we encounter Yitzchak standing in the field, and the Torah describes him as being “LaSuach” in the field. (Genesis 24:63) Interpretations of this word vary. Rashi suggested the word implied he was praying in the field, while Rabbi Avraham ben HaRambam thought he was taking a meditative stroll to clear his mind. Ramban thought more simply that he was conversing with friends in the field. But I prefer Ibn Ezra’s position that he was simply taking a walk among the greenery. Maybe he was taking a relaxing walk, not for the sake of anything other than enjoying the life he was living, the beauty of the place he was in, and the life he almost lost.

Yitzchak never dug wells of his own, but he had the peace of mind to live a quiet, successful, happy life on his own terms. He took time to smell the flowers, be with his family, and love his wife. He led a life of contentment.

My disdain for Yitzchak may be less about my disappointment with his lack of innovation than it is about projections of my own fears of insignificance. For as long as I can remember, all I’ve wanted was to be seen, and I’m not alone. So many of us are afraid of being nobodies, and we endlessly perform and promote ourselves online and in person in pursuit of that goal. As I watch my peers become somebodies, I read Yitzchak’s life content with repetitiveness, with aversion.

But as I’ve become a father, I’ve realized his contentment is a quality I should aspire to, not run away from. While I miss those Sundays and evenings without children, writing, creating, building, I’ve grown a new appreciation for the days I’ve made my daughters laugh, putting them to sleep knowing I gave them a good day. On those days, when I get to slow down and nurture the life that I have, I get a glimpse of the contentment Yitzchak might have lived with. Those moments might even be the most significant ones there are.