I spend a lot of time with children—when I join my husband Charlie's class at school, and with the Temple youth group. I've recently observed a behavioral anomaly that many of your have probably endured as well. An example of this behavior, in this case, usually boys—begin to play a video game and they seem to enter a new planet. The world around them does not exist. They seem to be literally incapable of hearing anything else. You can have full conversations—thinking that they are listening—and the child is oblivious. You can all out—sometimes even three times—before your voice registers, and he'll look up at you, baffled at your annoyance.

This experience is an amusing example—but a pointed one—in our difficulty with hearing, and being heard.

It's not only about our children tuning out—it's about us, as well. We live in a world where we have to call out twice—or three times—to get people's attention. Rings interrupt our face-to-face conversations. Our lives are scattered—we are bombarded by so many stimuli—that sometimes we don't really hear any one thing fully. I know I've certainly been guilty of this: I hear what I want to hear—instead of what has really been said.

Hearing is central to Judaism. We accepted Torah on Sinai by saying, “All that we heard we will do”—we created this fundamental covenant orally. The Shema begins with the command: “Hear! O Israel”. In addition, our Torah scroll was not originally in written form—in order to learn it's traditions, we had to hear it read, much like we will/did this morning. Our tradition continues to offer insight and direction on hearing. Our Torah reading this morning, the famous binding of Isaac, is a case in point.

We all remember the profound story: God spoke to Abraham, calling, simply: “Abraham” and Abraham said, “Here I am”. Abraham easily heard God. And Abraham responded. There was no hesitation; God was his priority and he was ready and willing.

When he listened to God's instructions, handing him the excruciating mission of sacrificing his beloved son, could it be that Abraham wished he hadn't heard? And yet, he did hear—and he did not ignore it. He was profoundly connected with God; this connection led him to obedience—no matter how painful the mandate.

Abraham follows through with God's directive, climbing the mountain with his son. When Abraham reaches the peak he binds his son to the sheaves. His hand reaches out to pick up the knife to slay him. He raises his hand, poised to begin his terrible task.

And, suddenly, a messenger of God calls out to him from the heavens: “Abraham, Abraham”. Finally—after two calls—Abraham answered, “Here I am!” The messenger relieves Abraham from the sacrifice of his son, instead providing him with the Ram.

Why, when God called the first time was Abraham so willing and able to hear, but in the second communication, the messenger had to call twice?

In traditional Torah study, the repetition of a word is worth comment. No word can be extraneous in Torah. Our job, as Torah scholars, is to figure out what the word has come to teach us. According to the midrash, the messenger calls out twice as a way of showing the emotions of the moment. It rings true: in the climax of an anxious situation, our voices rise in pitch, and we repeat ourselves.

Yet, as we struggle with the timeless problem of hearing, can the messenger repeating himself provide insight into our own inability—or perhaps unwillingness—to hear?

What was Abraham thinking, as the knife was raised, and he looked into his son's eyes? When Abraham raised the knife, I imagine all he could see was his son.

I can't help thing that he wold be overcome with emotion, burdened entirely with what he must do. He would be entirely disconnected from the world; unable to discern any reality but the most terrible task before him.

Abraham was unable to hear: he was so focused that he could hear nothing else. The messenger was forced to call twice to shake Abraham out of his concentration.

Similar to Abraham, we all have been in a place where we did not hear so well, where we may have been deep in thought or concentration, or simply not paying attention.

One of my closest friends—and mentors—Gini, is a Presbyterian pastor. When she lived in San Antonio, we met for regular lunches. At lunch, we had a series of questions we would ask each other. One of them was: Where did you see/hear God this week?

Invariably, I dreaded this question. It turns out that Gini felt the same way. So we examined this problem: why was it so hard to hear God?

Gini and I realized that we find it hardest to hear God when we are too busy or too involved in a single task. And the same is true with our relationship not only with God, but with others, as well. When we are distracted, for example, we can't hear the people we care about. Gini and I discovered that we were literally unable of hearing each other, and God—when we were too focused, our lives too hectic.

As Abraham almost sacrificed his on—because he didn't hear—we, too, make painful sacrifices when we are unable to hear.

When we are so intent on finishing a chore that we miss hearing our child's first word—we have sacrificed, and missed out. When we are so busy that we miss hearing our spouse offer an unexpected “I Love You”—that moment is sacrificed. When we are so focused on answering our cell phones that we don't see the annoyance, the hurt of the person we are with—that moment is sacrificed.

This is not to say that we should stop fulfilling our responsibilities. Rather, we must remember that with too much focus—too much busy-ness—too much stress—we cease to hear.

The persons who attends a concert with their mind on business
Hears, but does not really hear.
The person who walks amidst the songs of birds
And thinks only of what they will have for dinner
Hears—but does not really hear.

As this poem illustrates, we miss so much beauty when we do not really hear. While we continue to work through busy and hectic days, we can re-focus. We can be more aware of what's going on around us; more able to stop and hear the cooing of a baby, the purring of a cat, the sleepy sigh of a puppy. It sounds simple—but believe me, I know it's not. However, consider the possibility that we have the ability to hear, we must begin to be more aware, to pay better attention.

The messenger called to Abraham: “Abraham, Abraham!” As the messenger called out twice, there are two ways to interpret hearing as well. Abraham's delayed response was due to unwillingness.

In order to understand how Abraham was unwilling to hear, let's try to gain perspective on Abraham's life. Abraham changed his religion, his entire existence—to follow God. The focus of Abraham's life was his profound connection with God. He heard from God many times—and always listened. He heard God when he was to leave everything he know to enter a new land; he heard when God told him he'd have a child late in life. Never before has he had to hear something twice.

The first verse of our text says: “And after these things, God tested Abraham”. Abraham had to prove to God that he was worthy of the test. Abraham was unwilling to hear because if he didn't finish the task, he would be a failure. In his efforts to prove himself to God, he became wrapped up in himself.

We, too, are often guilty of this. We are self-involved. We cut someone off in the middle of a sentence because we're in too much of a hurry. We don't hear when the HEB clerk offers a perky hello because we're so involved in our own thoughts. We nod a simple assent when a full, interested comment would have been more appropriate—because we don't want to be bothered. We are frustrated when a child—yours or someone else's—screams, interrupting our thoughts.

When we are unable to hear any other voice but our own—we lose the ability to connect. When we interrupt others—we show them we are unwilling to hear their ideas. When we neglect to pay attention to someone's question—we demonstrate that their desires are not significant.

We are so often unwilling and unable to hear. It is a continuous struggle. But as the messenger called twice, giving Abraham a second chance, so too do we have second chances. As Abraham heard the divine messenger, we must hear the piercing call of the shofar. Its haunting notes are our summons. Allow them to be our messenger, reminding us of the importance of hearing each other, ourselves, and God. The piercing notes are our calls to be awakened to our truest selves. The task is difficult, I know—but it is important.

A native American was visiting a friend in the City of Seattle—he was a man of the woods, while she a native urban dweller. While walking and laughing near Pike Place Market he stopped her and asked “Do you hear it?”

“What?” she replied.

“Listen.” He said.

All she could hear was the hustle and bustle of the city, the cars, the shouts, the horns, and buses—all the things she was attuned to. The Native American smiled, pulled out a coin from his pocket and whispered “watch”. He flipped the coin into the air…it landed on the sidewalk with the soft silver tinkle we all know. Everyone in the radius of 20 feet stopped to look. He then lifted up a nearby stone to reveal a single cricket chirping away—much louder than the coin. She had not heard it. No one else had either. The sound of the cricket was always present, but it took one who was open to such a sound to make others aware of it.

When we are able; we will hear the sound of the coin, and the cricket. We will hear the baby's cry and the voice of the distressed friend. When we are willing, we can hear each other and connect.

I pray that when someone asks: Can You Hear Me Now? That we are able to answer: Yes.

And so I close with the following anonymous poem:

As the New Year begins, O God,
Strengthen our Ability to Hear.
May we hear the music of the world;
and the infants cry, and the lover's sigh,
May we hear the call for the lonely soul,
and the sound of the breaking heart.
May we hear the words of our friends,
and also their unspoken pleas and dreams
May we hear within ourselves the yearnings that are struggling for expression
May we hear You O God.
And may we hear ourselves.

Amen

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