Towers to the Heavens

It is not without some irony that 432 Park Avenue, the tallest residential building in Manhattan – and, for that matter, the entire western hemisphere – reached its peak just in time for the story of Tower of Babel. Towering over the Empire State Building, this 93-foot by 93-foot concrete megalith is reported to provide views from inside that surpass those of any other skyscraper, and has from without forever changed the New York skyline. In my mind, however, it is not the view from within or without that is the most interesting view to consider, but given the coincidence of our Torah reading, the view from the heavens above. Looking at the building as I walked home every day this week, I wondered what the good Lord has been thinking these past months watching it rise up to the clouds. I wonder what God felt this past week as it topped out at 1400 feet. God must have thought, I thought, that this isn’t the first time humans have built a tower into the heavens. I wonder if there is such thing as divine déjà vu.

This morning I want to take a look at the nine short verses that comprise one of the most enigmatic tales of the biblical tradition, the story of the Tower of Babel:

All the earth spoke the same language … and they came upon a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there. One said to the other, “Come, let us build a city, and a tower with its top to the sky, to make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered all over the world. The Lord looked down at the city and the tower which had been built and said “If, as one people with one language, this is how they have begun to act, then nothing they propose to do will be out of their reach. Come, let us then, go down and confound their speech.” Thus the Lord scattered them over the face of the earth; and they stopped building the city. That is why it was called Babel, because there the Lord confounded the speech of the whole earth, and from there the Lord scattered them over the face of the earth.” (Genesis 11:1-9)
 

Despite the brevity of the tale, the curiosity and commentary it has elicited – as the tower itself must have – has been without limit. Never is it stated, nor is it ever clear, what exactly humanity did or said that prompted God’s displeasure. Why exactly would or should God care if humanity leveraged its capabilities towards such a building project? Why wouldn’t God take pride in a united and industrious humankind? Maybe the sin is not the tower itself, but as many have suggested, humanity’s desire to make a name for itself? Or, as some biblical commentators have suggested, maybe the story is not about any sin whatsoever; maybe it is just a tale by which the ancients explained the diversity of human language, in much the same way as the Garden of Eden story explains why snakes have no legs and women experience pain in childbirth. For some, the story serves as a polemic regarding urbanization, whether humanity should be concentrated or dispersed; for others the sky-high tower was the platform from which a rebellious humanity sought to storm the heavens. Or, maybe, like the Greek myth of Icarus, it is a story about hubris, of the dangers of flying too close to the sun. At its most basic level the story begins with a concentrated, unified people, a monolingual population, and ends with a dispersed, diverse, and multilingual humanity. To those who believe the tower to be the root cause of the problem, how curious it should be that at the end of the story the tower remains standing, just as it did at the beginning.

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.