Author: Rivki

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shmot’ — co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

A Healthy Distance, Revisited

Context

As the dramatic moment of Revelation approaches, thunder and lightning break forth, a thick cloud envelops Mount Sinai, and a powerful, rising shofar blast is heard.

Against this backdrop, God summons Moshe to the summit of Mount Sinai, where the following dialogue takes place:

God: “Descend, warn the people, lest they break through to God to see, and many of them will fall…”

Moshe: “The people cannot ascend Mount Sinai, for You have testified to us, ‘Create a boundary around the mountain and sanctify it.’ ”

God: “Go, descend! And then you shall ascend – you and Aharon with you. But the priests and the people shall not break through to ascend to God, lest He burst forth against them.”

No sooner does Moshe descend the mountain and deliver God’s message, than Revelation begins.

Questions

How are we to understand the puzzling dialogue that unfolds between Moshe and God, on the summit of Mount Sinai, in the direct shadow of Matan Torah?

Why does God summon Moshe to the summit of Mount Sinai, only to immediately command him to again go down and issue to the Israelites a warning which they have already received?

Why is the reiteration of this warning of hagbala necessary in the first place? If it is necessary, why doesn’t God direct Moshe to transmit it to the people without – seemingly needlessly – ascending and descending the mountain?

When Moshe objects that the people have already been warned, why doesn’t God answer substantively? He simply seems to offer the frustrating response (which children so often hear with chagrin from their parents):

Do it because I told you so!

God promises that Moshe will ascend the mountain again, together with Aharon, apparently to experience Revelation. Yet, no sooner does Moshe go down and deliver God’s message to the nation, than God, seemingly without warning, launches into the Ten Declarations and begins the process of Revelation. In our mind’s eye, we can almost picture Moshe running towards the mountain, frantically waving and shouting: Wait! Don’t start without me! I’m supposed to be up there!
Some authorities maintain, in spite of the textual evidence to the contrary, that Moshe does ascend Mount Sinai again before Revelation commences. Other scholars, however, accept the pshat of the text placing this great leader at the foot of the mountain as God begins to speak to the people. For these commentaries, the question remains: why does God orchestrate Moshe’s movements preparatory to Revelation in such a strange way?

Approaches

 

A

A number of interesting interpretive twists are proposed by the commentaries as they struggle to explain the interchange between God and Moshe on the summit of Mount Sinai.

The Ohr Hachaim, for example, suggests that God reiterates the warning of hagbala because He is concerned over the nation’s potential for religious zeal. Perhaps the people will arrive at the erroneous conclusion that the heightened religious experience of a close encounter with the divine is worth the cost of their lives. They will, therefore, deliberately cross the forbidden perimeter around Sinai in search of spiritual ecstasy. To forestall this possibility, God instructs Moshe to clearly inform the Israelites that such “religious escapism” is not what God wants. The people’s role is, instead, to live in and sanctify the physical world.

The Rashbam, wrestling as always with the pshat of the text, suggests that Moshe does not object when God commands him to reiterate the warning to the people. It is, after all, natural to issue multiple warnings as a critical moment approaches.

Moshe, instead, questions whether the rules have now changed:

Originally, Lord, You commanded the people not to ascend the mountain. Now, however, You instruct me to tell the nation not to “break through and see.”
Am I to tell them that even viewing from afar is forbidden?

God assures Moshe that the rules have not changed. The people are only prohibited from “ascending to God.”

While the Ibn Ezra agrees with the approach of the Rashbam, he also records a fascinating quote in the name of Rav Saadia Gaon. The Gaon maintains that for years he pondered and yet never understood Moshe’s rejoinder to God: “The people cannot ascend Mount Sinai, for You have testified to us…” Is Moshe, wondered the Gaon, really objecting to a direct order from God?

Then, however, the Gaon happened upon an edict recorded in the book of traditions of the Persian kings. This rule states that a king’s messenger is not permitted to say “I have done your bidding” to the king, until the messenger is commanded to another task. Now that God has told Moshe to speak again to the people, Moshe can safely respond: Lord, I obeyed Your first instructions and the people have been properly warned, as You commanded.

Moshe’s rejoinder to God is, thus, not an objection but a report.

How telling that Saadia Gaon considers Persian etiquette an acceptable source for the illumination of a biblical passage!

B

None of the above approaches, however, addresses why God would command Moshe to ascend and descend the mountain, seemingly without reason. Nor do these scholars explain why God suddenly commences Revelation once Moshe has come down the mountain, without allowing him the opportunity to ascend Mount Sinai again.

A surprising answer to these questions is offered in the Midrash Rabba.

With striking candor, the Midrash entertains the notion that God’s instructions to Moshe at this critical juncture might actually be “busy work” motivated by an external concern. God is concerned that if Moshe is present at the summit of Mount Sinai at the time of the transmission of the Ten Declarations, the Israelites will be uncertain as to whether the law actually emanates from God or from Moshe, from a divine or a human source. God therefore directs Moshe to descend Mount Sinai and once again warn the people, even though (as this great leader himself maintains) that warning is unnecessary. In this way, God ensures that Moshe is at the foot of the mountain as Revelation commences, and that the divine origin of the law is clear.

C

A final, entirely different approach can be suggested to the strange sequence of events before us.

God wants Moshe himself to learn a critical lesson that will speak to the underpinnings of leadership throughout Jewish history: At the onset of revelation, Moshe, your place is with the people at the base of Mount Sinai. There will be a time when you will again ascend the mountain, a time when your leadership role will raise you above the nation. Now, however, your place is with them, learning the very lessons of hagbala that they are learning.

Remember always that true leadership is marked by connection to the people. You must rise to leadership from their midst.

As with other important lessons in Moshe’s life, however, God does not convey the message directly; He wants Moshe to learn the lesson on his own

God’s methods thus become clear in retrospect: When I told you to go down the mountain, Moshe; when I commanded you to reiterate the warning to remain at the mountain base; when I refused to explain Myself; when I manipulated your presence at the base of Mount Sinai during the onset of Revelation – it was because this time, Moshe, I was speaking to you!

I wanted you to come to realize on your own that, at the most critical moment of your nation’s history, your place is with your people; that the rules which apply to them apply to you; that you must always be connected to those
who are entrusted to your care.

Learn these lessons well, Moshe, and your leadership will endure.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shmot’ co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

No sooner do the Israelites depart Egypt than they are confronted by a divinely ordained detour.

“And it was when Pharaoh sent out the people, and God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, ki karov hu (as it was near), for God said: ‘Lest the people reconsider upon seeing war, and return to Egypt.’ ”

Questions

Two sets of questions emerge as we consider this strange passage.

Textually, the sentence does not seem to flow. What does the phrase “ki karov hu (as it was near)” mean? Proximity would seem to recommend rather than discourage the choice of a path. Should the text not have said that God bypassed the way of the Philistines although it was near?

Conceptually, why is this detour necessary? God, after all, has just decimated the Egyptian empire on behalf of the Israelites. Can He not do the same to the Philistines or, at the very least, protect the Israelites from the effects of an outbreak of hostilities?

Approaches

 

A

The textual difficulty presented by this passage centers around the Hebrew word ki in the phrase “ki karov hu (as it was near).” The word ki, according to the Talmud, translates variably in the Torah, dependent upon the context: “Reish Lakish said: ‘Ki serves four possible meanings – if, perhaps, however, because.’ ”

Of these four translations, only “because” fits our passage. That interpretation, however, leaves us with the basic question, why would God avoid a specific path “because it was near”?

B

Numerous commentaries, including Rashi and the Ibn Ezra, offer a straightforward pshat approach to this sentence which preserves the translation of ki as “because.” God avoids taking the Israelites through Philistine territory because the proximity of this path to Egypt would have encouraged and facilitated the Israelites’ retreat from battle. At the first hint of hostilities, the nation would have returned to Egypt. The “nearness” of this path was thus not a potential benefit, as we might have assumed, but a drawback.

Raising issues of syntax, both the Ramban and Rabbi Moshe Hakohen (quoted by the Ibn Ezra) refuse to accept the straightforward solution proffered by Rashi and the Ibn Ezra. The Ramban maintains that the phrase ki karov hu is to be translated as “which was near,” while Rabbi Moshe understands it to mean “although it was near.” The objection can be raised, however, that neither of these approaches translates the word ki in a fashion consistent with the list suggested by Reish Lakish. The Rashbam, for his part, explains that God’s concern for the Israelites transcended the possibility of war with the Philistines alone. The path through Philistine territory was “near” – the most direct route to the land of Canaan. The Israelites, however, were not prepared for all the battles that would face them in the conquest of the land. God, therefore, diverts them from the shortest route to Canaan and leads them on a circuitous path in order to prevent a disheartened retreat to Egypt.

C

In stark contrast to the above suggestions, which reflect struggle with the pshat of the text, are a series of creative Midrashic alternatives. Two such explanations are quoted by the Da’at Zekeinim Miba’alei Hatosafot :

1. The phrase ki karov hu is not to be translated “because it was near” but, rather, “because He was near.” The Torah refers to the fact that God was “near” to the Israelites. Because of their preciousness to Him, God refuses to endanger the departing slaves by taking them along a path that could lead to war.

2. The phrase refers to the Philistines themselves, not to their territory. The Philistines were “near” to the Egyptians in that they shared common ancestry. God does not want the Israelites, upon their departure from Egypt, to encounter the Philistines because he knows that the Philistines will attack in order to uphold the honor of their relatives, the Egyptians. Numerous other approaches, including a tradition chronicling an earlier failed attempt by the tribe of Ephraim to escape Egypt through Philistine territory, can be found in Midrashic literature.

D

While the textual problems surrounding this passage are certainly intriguing, of greater concern are the conceptual issues. Why does God feel compelled to lead the Israelites on a circuitous route upon their departure from Egypt? Could He not have fought the battle for them or, at least, miraculously protected them from the ravages of warfare? Two possible approaches can be suggested; each carrying overarching eternal lessons:

1. God does not punish nations undeservedly.

As noted previously (see Bereishit: Noach 4, Approaches A), God includes a striking message to the patriarch Avraham in the Covenant between the Pieces. After predicting that Avraham’s descendents will be strangers in a land not their own, where they will be made to work and suffer for four hundred years, God states: “And the fourth generation will return here [to the land of Canaan] for the iniquity of the Emorites will not be complete until then.”

Do not assume, Avraham, because you and your descendents are chosen, that I relate to you alone. The legitimate rights of all nations continue to be My concern. Your fate will, therefore, be determined not only by your own merit but by the rights of others. You will not return to this land until its inhabitants have become so corrupt that they deserve to be expelled.

The very same principle may well be driving God’s decisions during the days immediately following the Exodus. God punished the Egyptians because their acts warranted such penalty. The Philistines, however, have done nothing to this point to earn divine retribution. God, therefore, will not act against them even to protect His “chosen people.” He instead leads the Israelites on a circuitous route in order to avoid the confrontation.

2. The Israelites have to learn to fight their own battles.

With the Exodus, the rules begin to change. Until now, before His people set out upon their journey towards freedom, God fought on their behalf. Now, the transition to independence requires that the Israelites must learn to fend for themselves. Even later, when the last act of the Exodus unfolds and God does intervene to complete the destruction of Egyptian might in the waters of the Reed Sea, God does not act until the Israelites take their destiny into their own hands and begin to move into the sea.

Had God waged a divine battle against the Philistines, had He even miraculously protected the Israelites from attack, the wrong message would have been transmitted. The time has come for the Israelites to begin fighting their own battles. They are ill prepared for such challenge, however, at this moment. God, therefore, moves to avoid the confrontation.

E

A final lesson can be gleaned if we view this episode in a larger context. The endpoints of Parshat Beshalach chronicle a striking transformation. While the parsha opens with God shielding the Israelites from the mere possibility of conflict, it closes, ironically, with the Israelites victorious in battle. The final scene of Beshalach describes the unprovoked attack upon the Israelites by the nation of Amalek and the ensuing battle from which the erstwhile slaves emerge triumphant.

The band of Israelite slaves, ready to retreat at the first hint of hostilities, has evolved, by the end of Beshalach, into a successful fighting force.

The march towards nationhood has begun in earnest.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shemot’ Click here to buy the book 30% OFF LIMITED TIME ONLY!

Context

As the intensity of the afflictions increases over the course of the plagues, Pharaoh offers three compromise positions to Moshe and the Israelites: worship your God in Egypt, depart Egypt temporarily with some of the people while others remain, depart Egypt temporarily with the entire nation but leave your cattle behind.

Moshe emphatically rejects each compromise in turn.

The second of these potential compromises appears towards the beginning of Parshat Bo, in the following puzzling conversation between Moshe and Pharaoh:

Pharaoh: “Go and worship your Lord! Who are they that shall go?”

Moshe: “With our young and with our old we will go! With our sons and with our daughters! With our sheep and with our cattle! For it is a festival of the Lord for us!”

Questions

How can Pharaoh ask, after all that has taken place, “Who are they that shall go?” Hasn’t God made it abundantly clear that He demands the release of the entire people?

Why, in addition, does Moshe answer Pharaoh in such confrontational fashion? He could simply have said, We all must go. Why risk further antagonizing the king with the unnecessarily detailed proclamation “With our young and with our old we will go…”?

Approaches

A

Much more is taking place in this conversation than initially meets the eye. The negotiation between Moshe and Pharaoh overlays a monumental confrontation between two towering civilizations, as Pharaoh and his court begin to face, with growing understanding, the true nature of the new culture destined to cause Egypt’s downfall.

B

Pharaoh is, in reality, being neither deliberately obtuse nor intentionally confrontational when he raises the question “Who are they that shall go?” His response to Moshe is, in fact, abundantly reasonable in light of Moshe’s original request of the king.

As we have already noted, God did not instruct Moshe to demand complete freedom for the Israelites. From the very outset, the appeal to the king was, instead, to be, “Let us go for a three-day journey into the wilderness that we may bring offerings to the Lord our God.” (See Shmot 4.)

In response to that request Pharaoh now argues: All right, I give in! You have my permission to take a three-day holiday for the purpose of worshipping your Lord. Let us, however, speak honestly. Moshe, you and I both know that religious worship in any community remains the responsibility and the right of a select few. Priests, elders, sorcerers – they are the ones in whose hands the ritual responsibility of the whole people are placed.

Therefore I ask you, “Who are they that shall go?” Who from among you will represent the people in the performance of this desert ritual? Let me know, provide me with the list and they will have my permission to leave.

C

Moshe’s emphatic response is now understandable, as well: You still don’t get it, Pharaoh. There is a new world a-borning and we will no longer be bound by the old rules. No longer will religious worship remain the purview of a few chosen elect. A nation is coming into existence that will teach the world that religious participation is open to all.

“With our young and with our old we will go, with our sons and with our daughters….” No one and nothing is to be left behind; our “festival of the Lord” will only be complete if all are present and involved.

D

Moshe’s ringing proclamation reminds us that the Exodus narrative chronicles not only a people’s bid for freedom, but the beginning of a new chapter in the relationship between God and man. Step by step, a nation is forged that will be based upon personal observance, study and spiritual quest – a nation that will teach the world of every human being’s right and responsibility to actively relate to his Creator.

With the Exodus and the subsequent Revelation at Sinai, the rules will change forever. The birth of Judaism will open religious worship and practice to all.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shemot’ Click here to buy the book 30% OFF LIMITED TIME ONLY!

Context

When Moshe’s birth was chronicled in Parshat Shmot, the text deliberately omitted any description of his lineage, choosing instead to preface his birth with the mysterious sentence “And a man went from the House of Levi and he took a daughter of Levi.”

This omission of Moshe’s bona fides is now addressed in Parshat Va’eira.

God commands Moshe to return to Pharaoh and again demand the release of the Israelite slaves. When Moshe objects, citing his speech impediment, God repeats the directive, this time to both Moshe and Aharon.

The Torah then abruptly digresses to present a genealogical table listing the descendents of Yaakov’s oldest sons, Reuven, Shimon and Levi. The listing concludes with a detailed description of the lineage of Moshe and Aharon’s family within the tribe of Levi.

Upon completion of this genealogical record, the Torah returns to the narrative of the Exodus with the words “This was Aharon and Moshe…. They were the ones who spoke to Pharaoh…. This was Moshe and Aharon.”

Questions

Once again we are confronted with a strange and abrupt digression within the Torah text.

Why does the Torah specifically choose this dramatic moment to detail the lineage of Moshe and Aharon? Why interrupt the historical narrative midstream? This genealogical table would clearly have been more appropriate at the beginning of the story, when Moshe is first introduced.

Amram and Yocheved, the parents of Aharon and Moshe, are mentioned here for the first time by name. Given the reasons for the omission of their identities when Moshe is born (see Shmot 2, Approaches B, C), why does the Torah see fit to reveal those identities now?

Approaches

A

Most of the classical commentaries are strangely silent concerning the most perplexing aspects of this passage, choosing to comment only briefly.

Rashi, for example, states that because the Torah mentions Aharon and Moshe at this time, the text feels compelled to tell us more fully of their birth and lineage. He fails to explain, however, why this information was not given in conjunction with the earlier appearances of Moshe and Aharon in the text.

The Sforno and Abravanel both maintain that the genealogical table is presented to show that the choice of Aharon and Moshe was not arbitrary. God begins His search for worthy leadership with the descendents of Yaakov’s first- and second-born, Reuven and Shimon. Only when He proceeds to Levi, the third tribe, does God find the quality He is searching for in Moshe and Aharon.

Once again, however, neither of these scholars explains why this information
must be shared with us abruptly, at this point in the text.

The Malbim, in contrast, does offer a solution concerning the placement of the genealogical record. He explains that the passage in Va’eira marks the first time that Moshe and Aharon are clearly appointed by God as full partners concerning all aspects of the Exodus. Only once this partnership of brothers is firmly established does the Torah digress to chronicle their familial credentials.

Rashi finally notes that, as the Torah closes the genealogical table and returns to the historical narrative, the text identifies Moshe and Aharon twice and reverses the order of their names: “This was Aharon and Moshe…. They were the ones who spoke to Pharaoh…. This was Moshe and Aharon.”

Quoting the Mechilta, Rashi explains that, throughout the text, the Torah will variably list each brother first in order to demonstrate that Aharon and Moshe were equivalent to each other in greatness.

The premier halachic authority of the nineteenth century, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein (known throughout the Jewish world simply as Reb Moshe), objects, however, to the Mechilta’s explanation: “Moshe was the greatest of the prophets, the teacher of the world, and the Torah was given by his hand. How can it be claimed that Aharon was his equal?”

Reb Moshe answers that at this juncture in the text, even as the public leadership of Moshe and Aharon is firmly established, the Torah conveys an essential truth concerning the worth of every human life. Moshe and Aharon each fulfilled his personal role to the greatest extent possible. They are, therefore, in the eyes of God, considered equal. God judges each of us against ourselves and not against anyone else. Someone of lesser ability, who reaches his full life potential, towers over someone of greater talent who does not – even if, on an objective scale, the latter’s accomplishments seem grander.
How telling that one of the most brilliant, accomplished leaders in recent Jewish memory views this text as conveying the value inherent in each individual – skilled or unskilled, public or private!

B

The most extensive treatment of the genealogical passage at the beginning of Parshat Va’eira, however, is offered by Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. Hirsch insists that the placement of this section specifically conveys a critical lesson concerning the nature of leadership throughout the Torah.

At this moment in the text, says Hirsch, we confront a major turning point in the careers of Moshe and Aharon. Until now, their efforts have been marked by frustration and failure. From this point onward, however, their triumphal mission – marked by powerful miracles and supernatural events – begins. The Torah, therefore, feels compelled at this juncture to make one fact abundantly clear for all time. Moshe and Aharon are of “absolutely human origin and the absolute ordinary human nature of their beings should be firmly established.” So important is this message that the Torah abruptly interrupts the historical narrative midstream to clearly delineate the ancestry of Moshe and Aharon.

As we have noted before (see Bereishit: Lech Lecha 2, Approaches), whereas pagans deified their heroes, and Christians returned to such deification, Judaism insists upon seeing its heroes as human beings. When your heroes are gods you can worship them, but you cannot emulate them. As long as we see the characters of our Torah as human beings, their greatness may be beyond our reach, but we can, nonetheless, aspire to that greatness.

On the other hand, Hirsch continues, a critical balance is struck in the passage before us. While the genealogical record clearly establishes the mortal origins of Moshe and Aharon, it also serves to counter the notion that every human being is suitable to prophecy. God’s choices are far from arbitrary. Aharon and Moshe were men, but they were “picked, chosen men.” God could have chosen from any tribe and any family. His specific selection of Aharon and Moshe serves to underscore that one who serves in a divinely ordained leadership role merits the appointment because of his own innate character.

The text thus captures the exquisite tension between the mortal origins of our biblical heroes and their overarching character and accomplishments.

C

Finally, the passage before us, with its extensive genealogical information, clearly serves as a contrasting companion piece to the earlier section in Parshat Shmot which chronicled the birth of Moshe. There, as noted in an earlier study (Shmot 2), the narrative is singular in its lack of information. Even the names of Moshe’s parents are deliberately omitted.

This omission is now apparently addressed and rectified in Parshat Va’eira.

Why, however, when all is said and done, are these two sections necessary? If the Torah eventually reveals the genealogy of Aharon and Moshe, why not do so immediately as soon as Moshe is first introduced in the text?

An approach can be suggested if we view these two passages as delineating a balance that shapes the life of every human being.

On the one hand, the glaring omission of Moshe’s ancestry in Parshat Shmot serves to remind us that the most important aspects of our lives are self-determined. While God decides to whom we are born, when and where we are born, our genetic makeup, etc., we determine, through our own free will, who we will become (see Bereishit: Bereishit 4, Approaches A). Moshe ascends to leadership because of the choices he makes. The Torah, therefore, omits his parentage at the moment of his birth. Yichus (pedigree) does not determine the quality of Moshe’s life.

On the other hand, while pedigree is neither the sole nor the most important determinant of a person’s character, an individual’s family background certainly contributes to the formation of that character. Our ancestry creates the backdrop against which we weave the tapestry of our lives. Moshe’s story would have been incomplete if his family had not been mentioned. The genealogical table presented at the beginning of Parshat Va’eira is provided to fill in the gaps.

The omission of the names of Moshe’s parents and relatives on the occasion of his birth reminds us that Moshe achieves greatness on his own. The inclusion of those names in Parshat Va’eira reminds us of the role his family background plays in enabling him to succeed in his quest.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shemot’ co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Speaking from the burning bush, God commands Moshe to return to Egypt and deliver the following message to Pharaoh: “The Lord, the God of the Hebrews, has encountered us. And now please let us go on a three-day journey in the wilderness and we will bring offerings to the Lord, our God.”

Questions

God’s instructions to Moshe at the burning bush threaten to undermine our understanding of the entire Exodus narrative.

Where is the ringing, powerful demand for freedom, Let my people go? Why do we find in its place the seemingly tepid request, Please let my people go on a three-day journey to the desert to worship God? What could be more central to the Exodus story than the demand for complete freedom?

And…if Pharaoh had agreed to Moshe’s request, would the Israelites have returned after three days? If so, what would have been accomplished by their brief departure? If they would never have returned, if a three-day journey was not a truly viable option, why would God instruct Moshe to lie to the Egyptian king? Is the Jewish nation to be born through deceit? As the Abravanel exclaims: “How could the Almighty have commanded Moshe to lie in His name? It would have been better to clearly demand, ‘Release my nation from under the burdens of Egypt.’ ”

Finally, in the aftermath of the Exodus, after Pharaoh has released the Israelites from bondage, the text relates: “And it was told to the king of Egypt that the [Israelite] nation had fled.”

How are we to understand this bewildering statement? Clearly Pharaoh knows that the Israelites have left Egypt. The king himself, broken by the last of the ten plagues, ordered the slaves out of his country! Why must he now be told that the Israelites have fled? Can it be that Pharaoh, even after the devastation of the plagues, still believes he has released the Israelites only for a three-day religious holiday? Is that why the Egyptian king leads his army in pursuit of the Israelites three days after the Exodus, when the king concludes that the slaves are not returning? Has the entire Exodus been divinely structured, through the three-day request, to lead Pharaoh and his army inexorably to their deaths in the Sea of Reeds?

Approaches

 

A

The classical commentaries are divided in their approach to the limited request for a three-day journey from Egypt.

Some scholars, including Abravanel and the Akeidat Yitzchak, view the request as an exercise meant to test and expose the limits of Pharaoh’s obstinacy. As the Abravanel puts it, “The Almighty proffered this request in order to demonstrate to the world the extent of Pharaoh’s stubbornness and to justify the divine judgment and punishment about to be brought upon Pharaoh and Egypt.”

This position implies that the request for a three-day journey was offered as a serious option. Had the Egyptian king shown flexibility by agreeing to this first request presented to him, the Israelites would indeed have returned and the Exodus might well have unfolded in a different, less painful, fashion.

Once Pharaoh refuses to accede even to this reasonable appeal, however, the three-day option is removed from the table and replaced with the demand for total freedom.

B

Other commentaries maintain that the limited journey was never really presented as a viable option at all. God certainly had no intention of allowing His people to return to Egypt after three days of freedom.

What, then, can possibly justify the request? Why would God order Moshe to deliberately deceive the Egyptian king?

On this point, two contrasting schools of thought emerge:

1. Some authorities simply refuse to accept the possibility that God – and upon His orders Moshe as well – could be deceitful.

Rabbi Yaakov Mecklenberg, for example, maintains that, notwithstanding the implied commitment to return to Egypt, Moshe never clearly verbalizes a pledge to come back. He was therefore not guilty of an outright falsehood.

The Chizkuni goes one step further and claims that the request for a three-day journey was factually truthful. He points to the fact that on the second day after the Exodus the Israelites encamp at Eitam in the “edge of the wilderness,” effectively halting their flight from Egypt.

2. The Midrash, on the other hand, embraces, without apology or excuse, God’s deliberate deception of Pharaoh and the Egyptians.

Commenting on the puzzling phrase “and it was told to the king of Egypt that the nation had fled,” Rashi, quoting a Mechilta, relates that Pharaoh sends spies with the departing Israelite slaves. When the third day after the Exodus arrives, the day on which the Israelites had promised to return, the spies see that no such return is imminent. These agents therefore report to Pharaoh, “The Israelites have fled.”

The idea of a three-day journey, according to the Midrash, was never truly abandoned by Pharaoh. Even after the devastation wrought upon his land, the Egyptian king fully expects the Israelites to return. When he realizes that he has been deceived, he immediately takes off in pursuit of the “fleeing” slaves. Numerous other commentaries mirror this Midrashic approach.

From this point of view, the three-day request emerges as an integral part of God’s planning from the outset. The Exodus is designed, from its earliest stages, to ultimately lead Pharaoh and his army to the banks of the Reed Sea. The Israelites will never truly be free of their taskmasters unless they witness the total destruction of Egyptian power in the roiling waters of that sea.

Concerning the moral issues raised by this divinely ordained deceit, Shmuel David Luzzatto (Shadal) argues: “[The deception] was justified by the fact that Pharaoh would certainly have enslaved Israelites upon their return to Egypt. We should not be surprised, therefore, that God commanded the Israelites to give Pharaoh a taste of his own medicine.”

As Rabbi Yehuda Nachshoni essentially argues in his discussion of an earlier moral quandary raised by the Torah narrative (see Bereishit: Toldot 4, Approaches C), “All is fair in love and war.” If we are obligated to kill on the battlefield in order to defeat evil, it stands to reason that we are obligated to use subterfuge, when necessary, to accomplish the same goal.

C

One final approach to the three-day request is offered by Rabbeinu Bachya, who views God’s instructions from the perspective of the Israelite slaves. Abrupt, total change in the human condition is impossible. Consequently, the Israelites would have been unable to even conceive of an immediate transition from slavery to freedom. God, therefore, proceeds slowly. He approaches the Israelites with a proposal that they can accept. In this way, God orchestrates the entry of the Israelites into the realm of responsibility through measured steps.

Points to Ponder

What if…?

What if, as some of the sources quoted above maintain, the three-day request of Pharaoh was not a ruse at all, but a serious offer? And, what if Pharaoh had agreed to the request? Upon the return of the Israelites, how might the path of the Exodus have been altered?

While it is impossible to answer this question with any degree of certainty, we can suggest the one variable that would have changed: the Israelites themselves.

Granted a taste of freedom after decades of carefully orchestrated slavery and degradation, the Israelites would have returned to Egypt, in some measure, a changed people. Pharaoh knew this. He knew that he could not allow even a glimmer of hope to illuminate the lives of his slaves. Only through unremitting subjugation could he maintain their physical and spiritual servitude. A holiday from slavery, no matter how brief, could simply not have been countenanced. As the Exodus unfolds, a fundamental truth is mirrored in the depth of a demagogue’s fear – a truth that will be proven over and over again across the span of Jewish history. Even the most powerful subjugation and degradation cannot totally destroy the spark of human spirit burning deep in the hearts of the oppressed. Let the smallest glimmer of hope enter, and that spark will be quickly fanned into a rising flame.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers 

Upon hearing that Yaakov has fallen ill, Yosef gathers his sons, Menashe and Ephraim, and rushes to his father’s bedside.

During the ensuing conversation Yaakov takes two dramatic steps that carry powerful practical implications for the future.

1. Yaakov proclaims that Menashe and Ephraim will be considered on par with his own children in the determination of his legacy. Through this statement, Yaakov creates the tribes of Ephraim and Menashe in place of the single tribe of Yosef.

2. The patriarch blesses his grandchildren as follows: “Through you will Israel bless, by saying: ‘May God make you like Ephraim and like Menashe…’” To this day, Jewish parents bless their sons with the formula “May God make you like Ephraim and like Menashe,” while daughters are blessed with the prayer “May God make you like Sara, Rivka, Rachel and Leah.”

Questions

Why are Ephraim and Menashe counted among the tribes of Israel? No other grandchild of Yaakov is accorded this singular honor.

Why are Ephraim and Menashe chosen as the paradigms for our sons to emulate rather than the patriarchs, Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov? Do the oldest sons of Yosef possess specific character traits that we wish upon our own children or are we arbitrarily fulfilling Yaakov’s prophetic prediction: “Through you [Ephraim and Menashe] will Israel bless…”?

Approaches

 

Ephraim and Menashe’s central place in both the legacy and blessing of Yaakov reflects a number of critical ideas. The selection of Yosef ’s children to this position, in fact, brings closure to a series of interlocking themes that have coursed through the Yosef story, and, in some cases, the entire book of Bereishit.

A

The tribal legacy: Yosef ’s reward.

We will see that Reuven, Yaakov’s eldest son, loses the firstborn’s leadership role as a result of his personal failings. In his place, Yehuda earns and assumes those responsibilities of leadership (see Vayechi 3).

There are two other privileges of the birthright, however, which Reuven loses, as well. The honor of religious stewardship is reassigned to Levi while the double inheritance normally accorded to the firstborn is transferred to Yosef.

The creation of the tribes of Ephraim and Menashe can thus be attributed to Yosef ’s merit. As a reward for his righteousness and in acknowledgment of his achievements, Yosef receives his “double portion” as the progenitor of these two tribes.

B

Emphasizing Yosef ’s aloneness.

While the creation of two tribes bearing the names of Yosef ’s sons can certainly be seen as a reward for Yosef ’s righteousness, this same phenomenon, in ironic fashion, underscores a tragic dimension of his life. Yosef ’s name does not appear in the list of tribes along with his brothers. Yosef ’s lonely position as the ultimate outsider is thus cemented and preserved for posterity.

Yosef never succeeds in becoming part of any society in which he finds himself. Although wildly successful in Egypt, he never earns the full trust of the Egyptians (see Vayigash 1, Approaches c). Even more significantly, he is never fully accepted into the company of his brothers, who do not have confidence in his intentions right through the end.

A delicate balance, mirroring Yosef ’s complex life, is thus struck in the tribal system. Yosef ’s material success will be reflected in the double portion he receives through his sons. His isolation, however, is also mirrored in Yosef ’s own conspicuous and now eternal absence from the company of his brothers.

C

Reaching across the generations.

Yaakov is the first personality in the Torah and the only patriarch to openly relate not only to his children, but to his grandchildren, as well.

The last patriarch, however, goes a major step further. He concretizes his relationship with Ephraim and Menashe through the creation of tribes bearing their names, thereby ensuring that the tribal system of Israel will span the generations. With great foresight, he consciously weaves the concepts of the extended family and of intergenerational relationships into the very fabric of our national structure. (Note that building upon this phenomenon, Yaakov’s son Yosef is the first individual in the Torah to interact with his great grandchildren.) These relationships will remain indispensable to the transmission and development of Jewish tradition across the ages.

D

The blessing: sibling harmony.

Ephraim and Menashe succeed in reversing a tragic trend which characterizes sibling relationships from the time of Kayin and Hevel through the patriarchal period. They are the first major set of brothers, recorded in the Torah, whose relationship is not marked by jealousy, rivalry and strife. The love between Ephraim and Menashe apparently endures even when Ephraim is given precedence by Yaakov over his older brother, Menashe.

When we pray that God will make our sons “like Ephraim and like Menashe,” we pray that our progeny succeed in maintaining the harmony that marked the relationship of Yosef ’s sons.

E

A world apart.

Yaakov reacts with wonder when he reflects upon meeting his grandchildren towards the end of his life. This reaction mirrors the unexpected nature of Ephraim and Menashe’s success. These two children grew up in exile, separated from their extended family since birth, yet remained identifying members of their family.

The patriarch, therefore, selects his two grandchildren as the paradigm for blessings across the ages. Their selection sends a powerful message across the turbulent history of our often scattered people.

“May God make you like Ephraim and Menashe,” we bless our sons.
May you always be spiritually connected to your family and people, no matter
where you live, no matter how physically distant you may be.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit,’ co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishing

Context

After orchestrating his family’s descent to Egypt, Yosef brings his father before the Egyptian king. The patriarch blesses Pharaoh and the king asks, “How many are the days of the years of your life?”

Yaakov responds, “The days of the years of my sojourning are one hundred thirty years. Few and difficult were the days of the years of my life and they did not reach the days of the years of the lives of my fathers, in the days of their sojourning.”

Yaakov blesses Pharaoh again, and the encounter ends.

Questions

The conversation between Yaakov and Pharaoh can only be described as deeply disappointing. The setting, after all, is momentous. This is not only an encounter between two great world leaders, but a confrontation between two vastly different, powerful cultures. Meeting for the first and only recorded time are the monarch of the world’s greatest empire and the last patriarch, the progenitor of an eternal nation which will outlast countless empires beyond Egypt.

We wait with bated breath as two worlds collide, only to finally ask in frustration: Is this all these great leaders had to say to each other?

Why is Pharaoh so concerned with Yaakov’s age?

What is the real meaning of Yaakov’s elliptical response to the king?

Why the diplomatic doublespeak? Why not answer simply and directly?

Above all, if the conversation between Yaakov and Pharaoh was so banal, why does the Torah bother to record it at all?

Approaches

 

A

Clearly there is much more to this brief encounter than meets the eye. Carefully read, the dialogue actually reflects a vast philosophical divide between the participants. This rift becomes clear when Yaakov, responding to Pharaoh’s inquiry, distinguishes between two concepts: chaim (life) and megurim (sojourning).

Once this distinction is noted, the conversation unfolds with evident subtext. Pharaoh, king of an empire preoccupied with life, death and life beyond death, turns to the patriarch and, seeing a man apparently older than any he has met before, exclaims:

“How many are the days of the years of your life?” My God, how old are you? How have you managed to attain the longevity we all seek? What is your secret?

Yaakov replies:

“The days of the years of my sojourning are one hundred thirty years.” Do not be impressed with my chronological age. Living long is, in and of itself, no accomplishment at all. There is a vast difference between life and sojourning, between living and existing. I have existed, but not lived, for one hundred thirty years.

“Few and difficult were the days of the years of my life and they did not reach the days of the years of the lives of my fathers in the days of their sojourning.” Do not envy me. My days of true life, of peace, comfort and ease, have been few and far between. Do not aspire to simple sojourning, to longevity alone. Be impressed, instead, by life – years of meaning. Chronological age is of little value when your days and years have been as difficult as mine.

In subtle yet emphatic fashion, Yaakov reprimands Pharaoh for his preoccupation with prolonged existence. The patriarch has learned a difficult lesson through his years of struggle with external foes and internal family strife. What counts, says Yaakov, are years of chaim – life – meaningful years of peace, comfort and ease.

B

One final, powerful twist to the substance of this conversation, however, emerges from a lesson possibly learned by the patriarch later in his life.

The last parsha in Sefer Bereishit, Parshat Vayechi, opens with the statement “Vayechi Yaakov b’eretz Mitzraim shva esrei shana (And Yaakov lived in the land of Egypt for seventeen years).”

The Torah rarely records the exact length of periods in the lives of its heroes. Computations concerning the passage of time are usually made by the rabbis, based upon hints within the text. Why, then, does the Torah go out of its way to specify the length of time that Yaakov lived in Egypt?

Because, some commentaries explain, these were the only years that Yaakov truly lived (aside, perhaps, from the years between Yosef ’s birth and his sale into servitude). Finally, after a lifetime of struggle, reunited with his beloved Yosef, surrounded by a harmonious family, Yaakov earns the peace of mind and spirit which has eluded him for so long. He ultimately experiences years of chaim – seventeen years of life.

The truth, however, is more complicated than it seems.

While Yaakov’s last years may very well have been his only years of peace and quiet, they were also the only years of Yaakov’s life that we know nothing about. In stark contrast to the rest of his existence, Yaakov’s years in Egypt produced no great contribution.

As Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch notes, “The troubled years of his life, in which the test had to be gone through…were those in which Yaakov won his everlasting national importance.”

Perhaps Yaakov learns, in his final days, that Pharaoh was not the only one mistaken in his apprehension of life’s goals. For while the quality of life cannot be measured by longevity alone, neither can it be measured by the attainment of comfort or ease. The very struggle of living, with all its pain and challenge, creates the cauldron from which growth and contribution can emerge.

Points to Ponder

How is the quality of our lives ultimately to be judged? Is our purpose the pursuit of happiness, comfort, peace, tranquility? Is success to be measured by the attainment of those goals?

One of the most creative scholars of our day, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz, bemoans the fact that “peace of mind” has become in our time “a spiritual ideal and significant life goal, the final achievement to which various schools of thought and meditation aspire.”

“Peace with no content,” continues Steinsaltz, “meaningless tranquility, rest without sanctity – all are empty vessels…. There are goals that cannot be attained except through struggle waged within the soul.”

For his part, Rabbi Yosef Soloveitchik, considered by many the foremost teacher of our era, proclaims that religion does not provide a solution to life’s problems but, instead, “deepens the problem.”

“The beauty of religion with its grandiose vistas,” maintains Rabbi Soloveitchik, “reveals itself to man not in solutions, but in problems, not in harmony, but in the constant conflict of diversified forces and trends.”

In a society where so many have achieved a level of physical comfort and ease undreamt of in previous years, we ironically witness an extraordinary measure of existential sadness and spiritual disquiet. The more “happiness” is pursued as a goal, the more elusive it becomes. Man is built to struggle with himself, his surroundings, his fate, even with his Creator – to never be satisfied with the world as it is, but to strive to make it better. The more we try to retreat from this struggle of life, the emptier our lives become.

Significance will be found not in the futile search for “peace of mind” but in the embrace of what Steinsaltz calls the “strife of the spirit.” From the battlefield of that effort, value, purpose, accomplishment and true happiness emerge.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’ Click here to buy the book

Context

After dreaming of seven lean cows consuming seven healthy cows and of seven thin ears of grain consuming seven robust ears, Pharaoh awakens deeply troubled. He commands “all of the sorcerers of Egypt and all of its wise men” to interpret his visions but receives no satisfactory response.

The butler recalls Yosef’s ability to interpret dreams and mentions him to the king. Pharaoh orders Yosef released from prison and brought to the palace. Pharaoh then repeats the content of his dreams to Yosef.

Questions

Why is Pharaoh so deeply troubled by his dreams?

Does the text offer any hint as to the source of Pharaoh’s fears?

Approaches

A

The narrative before us is strangely repetitive. First the text describes Pharaoh’s dreams in detail as they occur. Then the dreams are described, again in detail, when the king recounts them for Yosef. The Torah could simply have stated, “And Pharaoh told the content of his dreams to Yosef.” Why the redundancy?

The Torah, as noted before (see Bereishit 3 and Chayei Sara 3), never repeats a conversation or an event without reason. In this case, the repetition within the text provides a glimpse into Pharaoh’s mind. When Pharaoh speaks to Yosef, he conveys not only his dreams but his perception of those dreams.

Specifically, two addenda appended by Pharaoh to his first vision may provide the key to the fears of this mighty king.

1. The king dreams: “And behold out of the river emerged seven cows, of beautiful appearance and healthy flesh…. And behold seven other cows emerged out of the river after them, poor of appearance and gaunt of flesh…”

The king recounts: “And behold out of the river emerged seven cows, of healthy flesh and beautiful form…. And behold seven other cows emerged after them, scrawny, and of very poor form and emaciated flesh.

Never have I seen such in all the land of Egypt for badness.”

Pharaoh is clearly disturbed by the possibility that “scrawny, emaciated cows” could even appear in Egypt at all. Like so many monarchs before and after him, Pharaoh prefers to live in a fantasy world of absolute power and success. There is no place in the king’s lush, rich empire for “weak cows.” Pharaoh, therefore, emphatically declares that no such cows have ever before appeared in his land, as he desperately attempts to avoid the ramifications of his vision.

2. The king dreams: “And the seven cows of poor appearance and gaunt flesh consumed the seven cows of beautiful appearance and good health, and Pharaoh awoke.”

The king recounts: “And the emaciated, inferior cows consumed the first seven healthy cows. And they came inside them and it was not apparent that they came inside them – for their appearance was as inferior as before; and I awoke.”

The world in which Pharaoh lives is governed by clear rules. In this world nations conquer other nations with regularity. Through subterfuge and cunning, the seemingly weak can even defeat the seemingly strong. The king can therefore accept the possibility of lean cows eating healthy cows.

What Pharaoh cannot accept, however, is the possibility that the victor in a battle should remain unchanged. In the king’s world, conquest invariably bestows upon the victor increased physical power and strength. This rule is the basis of Pharaoh’s own supremacy. When, in his vision, the lean cows remain visibly unaffected after consuming the healthy cows, Pharaoh’s world is threatened and he awakens abruptly, sorely troubled and distraught.

B

Yosef sets the king’s mind at ease by explaining both the existence of the lean cows and their unchanged status in symbolic terms. Pharaoh’s visions, he asserts, represent natural challenges which can be overcome through proper planning.

Little does Pharaoh know, however, that his fears are actually wellfounded. There is, unbeknownst to Pharaoh and perhaps even to Yosef, a hidden subtext to these visions. Pharaoh is about to be threatened in ways he could scarcely begin to imagine.

The king’s dreams set in motion a series of events which eventually give rise to the birth of a unique nation within his very realm. This eternal Jewish nation will not be bound by the rules governing Pharaoh’s world. Spiritual fortitude will overcome physical strength as this seemingly weak people outlasts the most powerful empires in the history of mankind. Pharaoh’s kingdom will be only the first to fall in the face of the Jews’ march across the face of history.

The victorious Jewish nation, however, will not change overtly for generations. We will measure our success, not in terms of increased physical strength, but in the unbroken maintenance and development of our enduring spiritual heritage.

“Lean cows” will consume “robust cows.” The seemingly weak will overcome the strong, yet remain unchanged.

Pharaoh’s world is about to crumble; he has good reason to be troubled by his dreams.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’

Context

Yosef ’s wrenching descent into Egyptian bondage begins innocuously as his father, Yaakov, sends him to inquire after the welfare of his brothers in Shechem: “And he (Yaakov) sent him (Yosef) from the valley of Hevron and he arrived at Shechem…”

Strangely enough, at this critical turning point, Rashi focuses on a seemingly minor, ancillary problem in the text: “Was not Hevron on a mountain?”

The answer that Rashi proposes, however, moves far beyond geography and touches upon a powerful issue, central to the story of Yosef and his brothers.

Rashi cites a Talmudic passage which explains that by referring to the “Valley of Hevron,” the Torah allegorically alludes to the “deep plan” which had been revealed, decades earlier, to Yosef ’s great-grandfather, Avraham, who is buried in Hevron.

During the Covenant between the Pieces, God told Avraham:
“Know full well…your children will be strangers in a land not their own, where they will be enslaved and persecuted for four hundred years.” (See Lech Lecha 4.)

Avraham’s prophetic vision is now about to unfold, generations later. The sale of Yosef is the mechanism which will set the initial events of the prophecy in motion. The Torah, therefore, introduces the story of Yosef ’s sale with a reference to the “Valley of Hevron” – the deep plan rooted in Hevron.

With his short, seemingly technical observation, therefore, Rashi alerts us to a fundamental truth concerning the story that we are about to read. The tale of Yosef and his brothers overlays deeper currents. This is not only the painful, personal story of a family in crisis. Yosef ’s first steps towards Shechem are also the first steps in another
journey, which will ultimately transform the patriarchal family into an eternal people.

We are about to experience the divinely guided transition from the patriarchal era to the national era of Jewish history.

Questions

While God’s providence is forever present in our lives, rarely is his silent guidance as evident as in the story of Yosef and his brothers. As Yosef himself maintains, their personal saga serves the higher purpose of effectuating God’s overall plans.

God’s “behind the scenes” involvement, however, raises serious questions about the personal free will of the players in the story.

Considering that the descent of the Jewish nation into Egypt was preordained generations earlier, how much choice did Yosef and his brothers really have in the unfolding events? Were they simply acting out a predetermined script or can they be justifiably held accountable for their actions?

How does this narrative reflect upon the delicate balance between prescience (God’s foreknowledge of events), free will and predestination; a balance which normally defines our lives? (See Bereishit 4, Approaches a).

Approaches

 

While a full discussion of these complex issues remains beyond the scope of this study, viewing the story of Yosef as a microcosm of a larger, more familiar paradigm may prove instructive.

The Jewish view of history, on a global level, mirrors the issues found in the story of Yosef and his brothers.

A

On the one hand, Jews certainly believe in a measure of preordination on a national level. A belief in such preordination is, in fact, critical to our worldview. The best known of the Rambam’s Thirteen Principles of Faith emphatically states: “I believe with complete faith in the coming of the Mashiach (Messiah), and even though he may delay, nevertheless I anticipate every day that he will come.”

To believe in a Messiah is to believe in a predetermined, inevitable end point to history. Rabbi Yosef Soloveitchik, in fact, maintains that our introduction of the idea of Mashiach signaled a major revolution in the way man thought about his historical journey. We brought to the world the concept of a destiny-driven history. Where others saw history governed only by causality, with each era simply the product of what came before, we saw a march towards a specific destination. Where others saw civilization only propelled by the past, we claimed to be pulled, as well, by the future.

Suddenly, the world stage contained a nation which believed that there was rhyme, reason and goal to the currents of history; a nation which saw itself traveling towards a predetermined, inevitable end point: the messianic era.

On the other hand, our belief in the inevitability of the messianic era does not diminish our acceptance of the role and responsibility that individuals and communities bear in any given generation. While our nation’s destination may be clear, the parameters of the journey towards that destination are not. Within the broad brushstrokes of national preordination we each freely choose the role we will play in our people’s unfolding story.

B

The rabbis, however, go even further. In order to preserve the all-important concept of free will within our national journey, they presume flexibility even concerning the preordained elements of our history.

That the Mashiach will arrive, they agree, is clear. When he will arrive, however, how he will arrive, and, most importantly, who among us or among our children will be there to greet him upon his arrival – all these variables are in our hands.

Much of our people’s story remains unwritten. We are the authors of that portion of the story.

C

We can now begin to understand the interplay between free will and predestination as it unfolds in the Yosef story. For while the descent of Avraham’s progeny into a foreign land was predicted by God decades before it occurred, the prophecy granted to the patriarch was general in scope. Egypt was never mentioned as the place of exile. The mode by which Avraham’s descendants would be exiled was never detailed nor was the exact quality of the servitude they would experience.

Even the minimal details that were clearly preordained were also potentially flexible. God predicted to Avraham, for example, that the period of servitude would last for four hundred years. Our ancestors were actually slaves in Egypt, however, for only two hundred ten years. The rabbis explain the discrepancy by maintaining that the period mentioned in Avraham’s prophetic vision began with the birth of Yitzchak (who was, in a sense, an exile, never fully comfortable in his own land). By beginning the count with Yitzchak’s birth, God, in his mercy, diminished the pain that his people would endure.

We must accept that, one way the other, our ancestors were destined to spend a period of time as strangers persecuted in a strange land. The story, however, did not have to play out exactly as it did. If sibling hatred and jealousy had not been the catalysts for our exile, perhaps the exile itself would have been less painful.

Far from acting out a predetermined script, Yosef and his brothers wrote their own story, of their own free will, within the context of a larger tale. The story they wrote then reverberated across the years, affecting the lives of all the generations that followed. So too, we, in each era, write our own stories, as we freely determine the roles we will play in the unfolding journey of our nation. The stories we author shape the quality of our days and affect the lives of countless generations to come.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’ co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers 

Context

As the apparently harmonious reunion of Yaakov and Esav draws to a close (a reunion which, according to the rabbis, is actually more discordant than appears on the surface), the Torah recounts the following conversation between the brothers:

Esav: Let us travel…and I will proceed alongside you.

Yaakov: My lord knows that the children are tender and that the sheep and cattle are a burden upon me. If they are driven hard for a single day, then all the sheep will die. Let my lord travel ahead of his servant and I will make my way according to the pace dictated by the cattle…and by the children; until I come to my master at Seir.

Esav: Allow me to assign to you some of the people who are with me.

Yaakov: For what purpose? Simply allow me to find favor in my lord’s eyes.

After the conversation concludes, Esav returns to his home in Seir while Yaakov travels to Succot.

Questions

Why does the Torah record this dialogue? Are the brothers’ travel arrangements so significant that they need to be detailed for posterity?

How does this seemingly innocuous conversation serve as an appropriate epilogue to the dramatic reunion between Yaakov and Esav and to the powerful events that preceded it?

Why does Yaakov tell Esav that he will join him at Seir, and then travel to a totally different destination?

Approaches

 

A

As usual, the pashut pshat of the Torah text conveys volumes. What seems, at first, to be an innocuous conversation is actually, upon examination, a critical negotiation. Years of separation and the dramatic reunion have all led to this one moment. The patriarch must now carefully delineate his ongoing relationship with his brother as he cautiously treads along the path between open hostility and “too much” harmony.

We find ourselves, again, at one of those quiet moments within the patriarchal era when a misstep on the part of one man can inexorably and permanently alter the course of our nation’s history.

Against the backdrop of the preceding events and with the undercurrents beneath the diplomatic language revealed, the conversation between Yaakov and Esav might well read as follows:

Esav’s opening gambit: “Let us travel…and I will proceed alongside you…” I am not going to let my brother out of my sight again. I will, therefore, suggest that we travel together towards a shared destination. If we move together through life, it will only be a matter of time before he and his family are overwhelmed by the strength of my presence and lose their uniqueness. Our camps will then coalesce and become one entity under my control.

Yaakov’s rejoinder: “My lord knows that the children are tender and that the sheep and cattle are a burden upon me. If they are driven hard for a single day, then all the sheep will die. Let my lord travel ahead of his servant and I will make my way according to the pace dictated by the cattle…and by the children; until I come to my master at Seir.” Dear God, what a dangerous moment! At all costs, I cannot allow our camps to travel together. Our lives and our priorities are totally different. I must find a way to negotiate a severance from my brother. And yet, how can I do so diplomatically, without arousing his anger? Perhaps if I remind him that I will have to travel slowly and if I let him think that I will join him in Seir, he will go on alone, ahead of me.

Esav’s second attempt: “Allow me to assign to you some of the people who are with me.” Yaakov’s trying to slip away! Not so fast! All I have to do is place some of my agents in his camp and, eventually, I will still be able to control him.

Yaakov’s rejoinder: “For what purpose? Simply allow me to find favor in my lord’s eyes.” Oh, no, that’s all I need – a fifth column within my own camp! I will just have to politely refuse and again insist that all I want is good relations. Hopefully, my brother will then go on his way to Seir and I will go somewhere else entirely. By the time we reach our respective destinations, he’ll get the message that I want to keep my distance. Hopefully he will come to accept that reality or, at least, he won’t find it worth the effort to come back and find me.

B

In the light of day, we witness that Yaakov has learned well the lessons that were conveyed to him, dramatically and perilously, in the darkness of the night.

In our previous study (see Vayishlach 2, Approaches c) we noted that, on the eve of Yaakov’s reunion with his brother, God caused the patriarch to struggle in mortal combat with a mysterious stranger, identified by the Midrash as an angel, the spiritual representative of Esav. Clearly, on one level, this conflict was meant to warn Yaakov to see beyond appearances at the meeting with Esav the next day. In the most effective way possible, God teaches the patriarch the hard and bitter truth that, although things might seem harmonious on the surface, philosophical and even at times physical confrontation will define the relationship between the brothers until the end of days. In order to survive, Yaakov will be forced to build the relationship with his brother within clearly defined philosophical boundaries.

Now Yaakov meets his moment of truth. When all is said and done, Yaakov cautiously negotiates a severance from his brother. His successful completion of this delicate negotiation helps define the parameters for our nation’s long journey across the ages.