What’s the difference between a man of faith and a fanatic?

The fanatic gives his life for a tangible cause. The man of faith dedicates his life to a goal he knows he can never achieve and does whatever the hour demands.

The fanatic knows one path. The man of faith knows there are endless paths and is ready to take whichever one he must.

The fanatic has all the answers. The man of faith knows he knows nothing at all.

Abraham was a man of faith. That’s why, when G‑d asked him to take his son, his only son, the son he loves, Isaac, and raise him for an offering upon a mountain, G‑d said, “please.”

He said, “Please withstand this test for Me, so they will not say, ‘The other tests meant nothing.’”1

Hold onto that for a minute. The other tests included being thrown in a fiery furnace for not worshipping Nimrod. Not complaining when he had to leave the land promised him so as not to starve. Not flinching with fear when he ran to save his nephew from the powerful armies that had captured him. Not wavering from his faith when he had been promised many children and not a single one had been born.

Yet all this would be meaningless if he would fail this one test. Why?

Because all these tests only demonstrated that Abraham was a man with a cause.

A man with a cause identifies with his cause. He is obsessed with his cause. He could give his life for his cause. Because his identity and his self-worth are tied up with this cause and his dedication to it.

And if he dies for his cause? He will be a martyr. His cause will gain followers. They will write books about him and make statues of him. His cause will be his eternal glory.

Nothing to do with truth. Everything to do with ego.

What was Abraham? He himself did not know. Did he pass these other tests because it was his cause, or because it was truth?

A thousand years later, Rabbi Chanina ben Tradyon had the same quandary.

The Talmud tells:

When the Romans forbade the study of Torah, Rabbi Chanina ben Tradyon gathered Jews publicly and taught them Torah.

His teacher, Rabbi Yossi ben Kisma, warned him that the Romans would burn him and his Torah at the stake.

Rabbi Chanina asked, “My master, what will be with me in the next world?”

“Do you have any good deeds?” asked Rabbi Yossi ben Kisma.

“Yes,” he answered. "I collected money for the poor on Purim. I inadvertently mixed it with my own. So I gave it all to the poor.”

“If so,” his teacher answered, “may my share be with you in the next world.”2

Rabbi Chanina ben Tradyon was giving his life to teach Torah. Why wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t it also a good deed? What was Rabbi Yossi’s question? What did he mean by his response?

Quite simply, the discussion was not about deeds, but motives. Rabbi Chanina himself was in doubt: Perhaps his self-sacrifice was not driven by divine inner soul. Perhaps it was driven by his personal love of knowledge and ideas. Or perhaps he was just a rebel by nature, a fiery soul acting out of spite for the oppressor.

Giving, on the other hand, does not come easy to intellectuals, and neither is it the domain of fire and fury. So, when he recalled that he had given generously, Rabbi Chanina understood that he did what he did not by the dictate of his nature or disposition, but because it was the right thing to do.3

This, too, was Abraham’s challenge. The first Jew was an iconoclast and an obstinate, audacious nonconformist. He had a vision to shake down the status quo and change the world. It would take a few hundred years, but he had a son, he had G‑d’s promise, and he believed in that son and that promise.

Before him, there were many visionaries, and after him there would be many more. Abraham might have been just another man with a cause.

Until a challenge came that would not promote his cause, not affirm his identity, not contribute to his vision, or any vision at all. Something that could only burn down everything he had ever built.

But it was truth. The same G‑d who had made that promise and given him that child had also told him to do this. There was no way to make any sense of it. It contradicted everything he had ever done or taught. But if he believed one voice, he had to believe the other. Truth is truth—it doesn’t require the imprimatur of your understanding.

When Abraham fulfilled that impossible act, G‑d said, “Don’t do anything to the lad.4 Because now everyone will know that all you do is real.”

If you are fire, learn to flow like water.
If you are water, learn to burn like fire.
If you are kind, learn to be fierce.
If you are fierce, learn to be gentle.
If you are wise, learn to be simple.
If you are simple, learn to be complex.

Whatever you find yourself being, be the opposite as well.

Whatever truth demands of you, be that.

Likkutei Sichot, vol. 20, p. 73ff.