Towers to the Heavens
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There is, of course, no single answer. Each interpretation contributes to our greater understanding. But as I stood the other day staring at 432 Park Avenue, it struck me that embedded in the tale is a lesson about humanity, our capacity for achievement, our boundless aspirational desires, and our need for limits on that very capacity and those desires. If the narrative pivots, as I believe it does, on God’s realization that if humanity is left to their own devices, nothing that they propose to do will be out of their reach, then its take-home message lies somewhere in that realization as well. From Mesopotamia to Midtown, the formidable physical structures prompt both awe and introspection – a reminder of our ability to reach for greatness and of the need to impose limits on that reach. Yes, the story is about the tower, but the edifice complex it speaks to is not merely about this tower or that one, but about the human condition itself. In other words, as we press against the envelope of our existence, as we marvel at the human capacity to leverage our individual and collective potential, is there a point when enough is enough, when more is actually less, when it is advisable, if not obligatory, to impose limits regarding what we seek to achieve?
If you read these first chapters of Genesis closely, you will sense a tension running through them, a tension at the core of every human being’s spiritual disposition. Two somewhat contradictory sets of marching orders: the first reflecting humanity’s ability to master, rule, and dictate the terms of its existence; the other reflecting a far more modest, humble, and restrained view of human ambition. For instance, in the second chapter of Genesis, we are told to till and tend the earth, to be stewards of God’s creation; in the words of the National Park Service: “to take only memories and leave only footprints.” In this formulation, humanity is subservient to creation, called on to protect and care for this world, but to leave it in as good, if not better, condition as we found it. On the other hand, in the very first chapter of Genesis, we are commanded to be fruitful and multiply, fill the earth and subdue it, rule over the fish in the sea, the birds in the sky, and every other living creature. Here, humanity is the pinnacle and purpose of creation, and we are called on to control, change, and impact the world in which we live. Which is it: the first or the second? Another example: on the one hand, we are created in God’s image, just a little lower than the angels, called on to be like God in all our attributes. On the other hand, at the very moment we approach God’s attributes, we are reprimanded, as we were banished from the Garden of Eden owing to God’s fear that upon eating the fruit of the Garden, we might become too Godlike. And following the flood itself came both laws establishing human mastery over the animal kingdom and a series of restrictions regarding the terms by which that mastery plays out. The list goes on, including, of course, this week’s tale of the tower: Humankind’s ability to build a tower reaching the heavens, and then the rejoinder that while it may indeed be in our grasp to do so, there are limits as to just how far we should reach.
If nothing else, these early stories of Genesis remind us that each and every one of us is a mortal, frail, and flawed human being. We look out at this world that we have been given, and it is only natural to seek greatness and attainment. Not only is it natural, but it is altogether admirable to want to leave a physical, spiritual, and intellectual footprint on this world. But there are also limits; though we may possess the spark of the divine, we are utterly mortal. We have our limitations: not every building needs to be tall; not every song must be sung; and not every sermon need be long. There are limits to what we can do and what we should do. As Ben Zoma taught: “Who is rich? The one who is content in his portion.” As Abraham Joshua Heschel taught, the most important structure a Jew builds is not a physical one, but a palace in time – the Sabbath – our weekly reminder to cease from the human need to achieve and just be content with where we are and what we have. Some ladders are reserved only for the angels. Sometimes, the most courageous thing a person can do is to live within his or her means, within the envelope of his or her humanity, and inside the confines of our mortality. In this world of constant aspiration, conspicuous consumption, and elusive satisfaction, maybe this Shabbat can teach us to think not about what we don’t have, but what we do have, to think about it, be satisfied with it, and most importantly, be grateful for the gifts of our precious lives.