An idol’s mind is the devil’s workshop

By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF

A midrash, you know, is a story, a parable – maybe told by an identifiable rabbi –  maybe only an anonymous tale gray with age.  Of all the great and inspirational midrashim told by our rabbis, the one
I like least is that story of Avram and his father, Terah.

There’s no question that the profession of Terah, father to the inventor of monotheism, was an embarrassment. He was in the idol business.

You remember. (“So, Avram,” asked his Hebrew school pals. “What’s your papa do?”
“Oh, he’s got a Hobby Lobby franchise over on the highway. Pottery, carving, ya know.”)
Long, long ago when most of us were in Sunday School Kindergarten we heard this midrash about Terah. We’re talking circa 2000 BC – pre Sinai, pre Torah. This was a time when the dictionary of professions was limited to five categories: merchant, shepherd, farmer, soldier, and cadaver due to starvation.

According to this bizarre midrash, Terah was a merchant and his goods, his inventory, was idols. What a
strange line of merchandise for the father of He who founded monotheism. It’s as though Henry Ford’s pop was a dealer in horses.

Or Alexander Graham Bell’s father had an exclusive line of megaphones.

The midrash tells us that Terah leaves Avram in charge of the store and the young man, in a fit of righteousness, smashes the idols. His explanation when Pop returns? “Oh, the clay figures we call idols had a heckuva fight- and only this big guy is left!”  If you’re an idol worshiper you gotta believe the story, right?

But it reflects badly on Father Terah and it fails to explain his son’s sudden insight. Since I, too, am the father of a righteous son, I prefer the following version.

OK, Terah has this glitzy store in downtown Haran and one day leaves young Avram in charge.  Sorta scary, thinks the child. It’s dark and rainy outside and the gloom of the store is packed with dozens of dusty shapes who, according to their clientele, can bring life or death, riches or poverty. Often Avram was in charge. Like a good son, he helped his father.

How often had the boy heard his pop’s sales pitch?  “Avram, bring me that special mantelpiece carving of Gulak. So powerful it requires minimal sacrifice.  Notice, too, his pleasing shade of blue goes with almost any interior.”  And never did Terah consider the damage to this dutiful son’s soul.

So, today Terah appoints his son temporary manager of Idol Mart.

“Watch the store,” says Terah as he goes out the door. What’s to watch, thinks the young seller of idols.  I’m alone in here. So, he cracks open a long papyrus scroll – it’s a best seller, “When Schmuel Met Rachel”. Appropriately, he has hidden it behind an idol of Astarte the Goddess of Love.
But no sooner has he unrolled it to line 387 – that’s where Schmuel tells Rachel that he likes her better than honey cake – when an idol speaks up. I said an IDOL! Who one month ago was soggy earth beside the riverbank!

The molder of the universe has decided to take the pulpit in the education of Avram.
Says the clay figure: “Why am I priced at only two handfuls of copper coins when shimshak over there by the door has a price tag of ten pieces of silver?”  He was followed by a chorus of idol voice – all loudly complaining. This one too cheap – this one overpriced. And a lot of complaints about shelf space and location. Everybody wants center aisle, front door.

Young Avram, the only human in this room full of angry pottery was also the only one with a zipped lip. He is awed by the garrulousness of his father’s clay and wood products.  “Papa wouldn’t believe this,” he muttered to himself. “You’re only merchandise to dress up a pagan living room or decorate an otherwise drab and desolate bedroom. You have no powers to bring rain, make the sheep fertile, grow the lush ears of corn, or push the river over its banks.

Something else does that. Who or what, I know not, but I strongly suspect it’s not a clay figurine on a shelf. But how is it that I hear you talking? And such silly fiddle faddle as your price and location, and…”

Just then the door opened and in walked Terah, back from  his errand.

His son rushed into his arms.  “Father, Father, the idols were talking like you and me.  I was frightened. They talked like humans.  Just now, the store was full of their voices.”

Terah looked deeply into the face of his only son whom he loved.  This idol business was a good living, but not good enough to justify the corruption of this promising, but naive child who listened too closely to his old man’s sales pitches.Dramatic maybe, even skillful.

But harmless. Or so he thought. He was a marketer, not a worshiper of idols.

Meanwhile, his son continued to rant about these products of the village potter and their complaints. “Yes, Papa, they all wanted to stand by the door.”
“Well, let’s help them,” said the father of Avram.  “Baal! (He was the biggest of the clay figures and priced accordingly.)

Go stand immediately to the right of the entrance to the shop.” If Baal could have heard, he would have said “yes sir” and occupied the premier position.  But since molded clay figures are deaf, dumb, immobile, he took not a step.

“How disobedient,” said Terah. “Let’s give him a push.” So he did and all six feet of Baal fell flat on the floor and broke into three dozen pieces. “Maybe he was sick,” said Terah; father and teacher.

So, next he picked Delmonte, god of corn, beans, and vegetables. “Here, let me help,” he said.  Another push – another job for the lady who swept out the store.  On and on until the floor was ankle deep in pottery shards.

“Avram, they are only clay figures. Idols are for selling, not worshiping;” which to skip four millennia and several dimensions of realty, reminded me of my old boss, who owned a liquor store. I, while attending college, was the night clerk.

“Teddy,” he said, “whiskey’s for selling, not drinking.”