A small Hebrew phrase opens a question: can an outward journey also be a journey towards yourself?
Soul4you · Georgina Kovacs · The Birth of Choice, Part 1
In the previous reflection, we followed the thread of remembering our way home. We considered whether pain, shame and longing might sometimes be heard not simply as signs that something is wrong with us, but as invitations to notice what we have lost touch with. Here, I turn towards the moment when that invitation begins to receive an answer.
Perhaps you recognise the feeling. You are sitting in your kitchen, a cup of coffee in your hands. Everything is where it usually is. Nothing dramatic has happened, yet something in the familiar arrangement no longer feels quite right.
You cannot give it a clear name. You only sense that you cannot go on relating to your life in exactly the same way. Before there is a plan, there is the possibility of a quiet yes.
This is the movement I explore through Abraham’s departure. I read the story through the inward, metaphysical perspective of this series, alongside its biblical setting and selected Jewish commentaries. This is an additional reading, not a claim that the story’s religious or historical meanings should be replaced.
The scene we think we know
Genesis begins the account with a call:
“The LORD said to Abram: Go forth from your land, your relatives, and from your father’s house to a land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12:1, NABRE)
The call is accompanied by a promise of blessing, and Abram sets out at the age of seventy-five, with Lot accompanying him. The narrative describes a departure into a new land, not merely a change of mind. (Genesis 12:2–4)
At first, the movement seems simple: someone is called, and he goes. Yet between hearing and leaving there is a threshold. That is where I want to pause.
What makes a call different from another thought passing through us? And what changes when we begin to answer?
A small phrase that opens an inward reading
The Hebrew phrase is lech lecha. English translations can render the command as “go forth”; Rashi interprets its wording as a departure for Abram’s own benefit and good. His comment adds an interpretive emphasis to the command rather than cancelling its ordinary sense of leaving. (Genesis 12:1; Rashi on Genesis 12:1)
The expression “go to yourself” belongs to an inward reading of these words. Malbim reads the physical departure together with a departure in thought: Abram is to separate himself from the influences of his country, birthplace and father’s house, going towards himself rather than remaining defined by them. This is a commentary on the command, not its only possible dictionary translation. (Malbim on Genesis 12:1)
An inward reading can draw us closer without displacing other readings. I can hear something intimate in the phrase while keeping its outward direction in view.
In this reading, the journey asks a question: what belongs to you deeply, and what have you simply learned to carry? Leaving can then mean more than moving away. It can also mean coming into a more truthful relationship with yourself.
I hear an invitation here: come home to yourself. Not by denying where you come from, but by discovering how consciously you wish to live from it.
An outward journey with an inward dimension
Abram is asked to leave his land, his relatives and his father’s house. The outward direction of the biblical command is clear, even when we also explore an inward meaning. (Genesis 12:1)
Ramban offers a different reason for reading the patriarchal stories as more than isolated episodes. In his commentary on Genesis 12:6, he explains that what happens to the ancestors is a sign for their descendants. The principle is often expressed as ma’aseh avot siman la-banim: the deeds of the ancestors are a sign for the descendants. (Ramban on Genesis 12:6)
Ramban is speaking within the history and interpretation of Israel, rather than offering a model of individual self-discovery. (Ramban on Genesis 12:6) The connection I make from there is mine: a story can carry meaning beyond the immediate moment in which it is told.
That possibility allows me to ask what Abraham’s departure might illuminate in an ordinary life today. Not because every person is Abraham, and not because every inherited way of life must be abandoned, but because the question of conscious choice remains close to us.
When did you last notice yourself looking through an inherited lens? What might happen if you held that lens in your hand for a moment, rather than assuming it was your own sight?
Land, relatives and the father’s house
I read the three elements of the call as three layers of familiarity. The following inward map is my application of the passage, not a literal translation or a claim that all rabbinic commentators explain it this way.
The land is the familiar ground beneath our feet. In this reading, it is the routine, the setting, the arrangement of life that feels given. It may hold comfort and genuine belonging. It may also be so familiar that we have stopped noticing whether it still supports us.
The relatives are the relationships around us. Here, I am interested in the roles through which we become recognisable to other people: the reliable one, the accommodating one, the person who never needs anything. A relationship need not end for a role within it to change.
The father’s house is the inheritance we carry within. I use this image for ideas absorbed so early that we may mistake them for unquestionable facts: what makes someone worthy, what failure means, what love requires, how God is to be understood.
Some of that inheritance may be life-giving. Some may need to be reconsidered. The invitation is not to despise our parents, our community or our faith, but to recognise what we have received and decide how to carry it.
The land is beneath us. Our relationships surround us. An inherited way of thinking may speak from within us before we have even noticed it is there.
That is why an inward departure can be difficult. There may be no suitcase to pack, only a sentence to question: is this what I believe, or is it something I have never allowed myself to examine?
The destination he cannot yet see
The destination is described as a land God will show Abram. The call does not begin with a complete itinerary. (Genesis 12:1)
The New Testament looks back on that departure in these words:
“By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; he went out, not knowing where he was to go.” (Hebrews 11:8, NABRE)
For this reflection, faith is not only agreement with a proposition. It also involves entrusting oneself. The Hebrew root aman has a range of meanings connected with firmness, support, faithfulness, trust and belief; it can help illuminate that association, although it is not the original word behind this Greek passage in Hebrews. (Brown–Driver–Briggs and Strong’s H539)
I find something tender in the difference between certainty about a route and trust in the one who calls. A map would tell me where every road leads. A compass offers an orientation while leaving much of the journey unknown.
That does not make preparation unnecessary. Trust need not mean giving up practical judgement. It can mean allowing uncertainty to be present without letting it make every decision for us.
What happens when someone says yes?
The narrative gives the response very simply: Abram goes as the Lord directs him. It does not offer a transcript of his inner deliberations. (Genesis 12:4)
In the inward reading of this series, two movements meet at this threshold. One is discernment: noticing what is asking for our attention. The other is trust: becoming willing to respond without demanding control of the whole future.
Earlier in this series, I introduced Adam’s sleep as the starting point of a single inward journey: the dreaming mind moving towards awakening. The Hebrew tardemah denotes a deep sleep. (Brown–Driver–Briggs and Strong’s H8639) Reading the biblical sequence as movements within that one mind is the metaphysical framework of this series, rather than a conclusion established by the Hebrew word alone.
Within that framework, the mind contains many competing impulses. Fear may sound like caution. The wish to please may sound like duty. A familiar pressure may sound so much like our own voice that we do not question it.
By the Inner Voice, I mean the guidance I seek through prayer, reflection and honest attention. I do not mean that every inward impression is a divine instruction, or that feeling calm makes a decision automatically wise.
The question is not simply, “How strong is this feeling?” It is also, “Can I bring it into the light, consider its consequences and remain open to correction?”
For me, trust begins there. Not with abandoning responsibility, but with no longer confusing responsibility with having to know everything in advance.
A Course in Miracles: the birth of choice
A Course in Miracles offers the spiritual framework through which I explore this movement. Lesson 132 presents a metaphysical relationship between mind and world: it challenges the idea of a world wholly separate from thought and teaches that a change of mind changes what is perceived. This is a summary of the lesson’s teaching, not an empirical claim about the causes of events. (A Course in Miracles, Workbook Lesson 132, especially paragraphs 4–6)
I do not want to reduce that teaching to positive thinking. Its claim is more radical than the suggestion that a cheerful attitude improves a difficult day. Yet applying it to daily life requires care.
For me, responsibility for how I meet a situation is not the same as blame for everything that has happened to me. Someone else’s harmful action does not become my fault because I am exploring my perception of it. Nor must I pretend that circumstances have no practical consequences.
The freedom I am interested in begins with a smaller question: is there another way to see and respond? Sometimes that question opens a space where there seemed to be only an automatic reaction.
In “Rules for Decision,” the Course also asks us to reconsider the conviction that we must decide in isolation. Its practice involves becoming willing to question our initial judgement and receive guidance, rather than making up our minds first and asking only for confirmation afterwards. (A Course in Miracles, Text 30.I)
This is how I bring the teaching into conversation with Abraham’s departure. The two texts retain their different settings and purposes, while meeting within my own reflection.
Perhaps the burden is not only the decision itself. Perhaps it is also the belief that I must get everything right, alone, before I am allowed to take a step.
Where this meets an ordinary life
Imagine someone whose life appears settled. There is work, a relationship, a familiar rhythm. Yet a question keeps returning: am I living this life consciously, or only continuing it?
Imagine someone recovering from a long illness and reassessing how they wish to spend their time. That reassessment need not imply that the illness was sent to teach a lesson, or that suffering was necessary. It may simply be a question arising now.
Or imagine a person who has done the same work for years and begins to recognise that a change is needed. There is no dramatic announcement. There is only a growing honesty about what can no longer be ignored.
These are the kinds of moments I call Abraham moments. They need not lead to leaving a job, a relationship or a religious community. Sometimes the departure is from silence, from a rigid role or from the habit of saying yes when the answer is no.
You do not have to act on every restless feeling. You can listen, wait, ask for support and discover whether the invitation remains.
Three small practices
These exercises are invitations, not tests of faith. Choose whichever feels useful, and leave the others for another time.
- Notice the three layers. On a sheet of paper, write three headings: familiar ground, expectations around me, beliefs within me. Under each, name one thing that supports you and one thing you would like to examine. Nothing needs to be abandoned today; the first task is simply to see.
- Make room for discernment. When you feel drawn towards a change, ask: does this direction allow honesty, practical care and consideration for other people? Is there room to ask questions, or am I being pushed by shame or fear? Calmness and urgency are not reliable tests on their own, and reflection should never delay necessary action for someone’s safety.
- Choose one proportionate step. Make a call, gather information, write down what you want to say, or practise a boundary in a manageable situation. Choose a step that respects your circumstances and responsibilities. Afterwards, notice what became clearer rather than demanding an immediate sign that you chose perfectly.
The path continues
Here, the journey begins with a call and a departure. Later, Genesis brings Abraham to another demanding scene, this time involving Isaac and the land of Moriah. That passage contains the language of a burnt offering as well as the command not to harm the boy, and it deserves to be approached without smoothing away its difficulty. (Genesis 22:2, 12)
In the next reflection, I turn towards that tension: what does trust mean when what we love most is involved? The question is not an invitation to harm ourselves or anyone else. It is an invitation to examine the difference between love, possession and surrender.
Your own journey
Was there a time when something quietly called for your attention before you could explain where it might lead? What changed when you allowed yourself to listen?
Which part of your inheritance feels like a living source of strength? Which part might need to become a conscious choice rather than an unquestioned rule?
And if there is a small, honest step available now, what would make it possible to take that step with care?
This is what I hear in the inward reading of lech lecha: go towards the life you can inhabit truthfully. You may not know the whole road, but you can begin to recognise the ground beneath your next step.
Texts and reading notes
Biblical quotations follow the New American Bible, Revised Edition (NABRE), with passages linked where they are used. The discussions of Rashi, Ramban and Malbim are attributed summaries of their commentaries; the inward applications are my own.
References to A Course in Miracles are summaries of the English Workbook and Text, not quotations translated back from Hungarian. The spiritual connections between these works are my interpretive choices, not claims that their traditions are interchangeable.
The earth beneath my feet, the sky above my head, my heart in its rightful place.
With love,
Georgina
Soul4you