Category: Excerpts

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.

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

What Place?

Context
In the course of his journey from Be’er Sheva to Charan, Yaakov arrives at a location where he is forced to bed down for the night. There he dreams his famous dream of a ladder stretching from the earth heavenward.

The phrase used in the Torah to describe Yaakov’s initial encounter with the location of his dream is: vayifga ba’makom, “and he encountered the place.”

Questions

The text seems to be referencing a specific location of importance, already known to us. And yet the site of Yaakov’s dream is later identified in the text as the town of Luz, a location that has not been mentioned previously in the Torah and which is of no inherent significance prior to Yaakov’s dream.

Why then does the text read ba’makom, “the place” as opposed to b’makom, “a place”?

Approaches

A

Two distinct and very different approaches are offered by the rabbis in answer to this question.

1. The Midrashic approach:

The location of Yaakov’s dream was actually Mount Moriah, later to become the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.

Two generations earlier, when Avraham arrives at Mount Moriah, the site of Akeidat Yitzchak, the Torah states: Va’ya’ar es hamakom mei’rachok, “and he saw the place from afar.”

By referring to both Mount Moriah and the location of Yaakov’s dream as “the place,” the Torah connects the two sites and indicates that they are one and the same.

The Midrashic approach encounters a serious geographical difficulty. At the time of his dream, Yaakov is actually at a location which he will identify as Beit E-l (literally “The House of God”) far to the north of Jerusalem.

The Talmud addresses this difficulty by suggesting, based on textual hints, that Yaakov actually completes his entire journey and reaches Charan. The patriarch, however, then suffers remorse at having passed by Mount Moriah, “the place where his fathers prayed,” without stopping for prayer. God miraculously transports Yaakov back to Mount Moriah where he dreams his dream.

Rashi, in his commentary on the Talmud, explains that, according to this interpretation, when the patriarch names the site of his dream “Beit E-l,” he is not referring to the location identified as Beit E-l today, but to Jerusalem, which he prophetically identifies as the “House of God.” In his commentary on Chumash, however, Rashi takes a different tack. He interprets the Talmudic position by maintaining that God performed the additional miracle of uprooting Mount Moriah and temporarily bringing it to Beit E-l.

The Midrash Rabba quotes Rebbe Elazar in the name of Rebbi Yossi Ben Zimri who suggests that the ladder of Yaakov’s dream was rooted in Be’er Sheva, stretched to Beit E-l and had its center at Jerusalem.

2. The approach of pashut pshat:

As night fell, Yaakov arrived at a location outside the town of Luz.

Some authorities suggest that this location was specifically set aside for wayfarers. While it was not a site of particular significance, the Torah nonetheless refers to it as hamakom, “the place,” because of the practical purpose that it served. Similar sites existed outside other towns at that time.

B

The debate concerning the site of Yaakov’s dream might, at first glance, seem to be of only passing interest. What exactly is driving this rabbinic discussion? What compels the Midrash to perform geographic calisthenics simply to allow the dream to occur on Mount Moriah? And is there any deeper meaning to the approach of pashut pshat and its claim that the dream occurred in a location of no special significance?

C

Yaakov’s reaction, upon abruptly awakening from this dream, lends significance in retrospect to the issue at hand. Suddenly the question of the dream’s location becomes very important, indeed, striking to the core of the concept of sanctity within Jewish thought.

Yaakov exclaims: “Behold the Lord is in this place and I did not know…. How awesome is this place! This is none other than the House of God and this is the gate to heaven!”

On the basis of this observation, Yaakov subsequently renames the location Beit E-l, “the House of God.”

The interpretation of Yaakov’s words is dependent upon which position one takes in the debate concerning the location of the patriarch’s dream.

Once again, two very different possibilities emerge:

1. According to the Midrashic approach Yaakov cries out: Oh my God, look at where I am! I am sleeping on Mount Moriah, the very gateway to heaven! How could I have been so blind to the inherent significance and sanctity of this location? How could I have failed to act with greater deference?

2. According to the approach of pashut pshat, on the other hand, Yaakov’s observation is very different: I had no idea… God is everywhere! If the Lord can appear to me in a vision of such grandeur at this unimportant spot, outside the city of Luz, then every place upon which I stand is potentially the house of God and any location on earth can be the gateway to heaven.

The power of this observation is multiplied a thousandfold when we recognize that, at this point, a patriarch is about to leave the land of Canaan for the first time in over a generation. Common religious belief in the patriarchal era dictated that specific gods were tied to specific lands. Yaakov could well have been concerned, therefore, at this frightening moment of his life, that his God might offer only limited or no protection outside the land of Canaan.

As we will note in the next study (see Vayeitzei 2, Approaches e–g) much of Yaakov’s dream is tailored to disabuse the patriarch of this notion and to remind him of the all-encompassing power of the One and only God.

D

Which of the two approaches is correct? Exactly where did Yaakov dream his dream? And what is the substance of the patriarch’s observation upon awakening?

As is always the case in such rabbinic disputes, both approaches are philosophically correct. Taken together, they create the balance that defines the idea of kedushat makom, “sanctity of place,” in Jewish tradition.

On the one hand, we certainly believe in the existence of locations of inherent, overarching sanctity. The Land of Israel, Jerusalem, the Temple Mount (Mount Moriah) – these are locations which draw us with singular power, sites where our connection to God is stronger than at any other. To the mind of the authors of the Midrash it had to be the holiest of these sites, Mount Moriah, upon which Yaakov experienced his lofty vision.

On the other hand, we believe that we are partners with God in the creation of holiness wherever we may be. God is everywhere, and our ability to reach Him is not limited to a specific time or place. Kedusha (sanctity) can surprise us, appearing when and where it is least expected – outside the town of Luz or anywhere else – in a kind word, a loving gesture, a heartfelt prayer.

Elements of these two types of kedusha (sanctity) are not mutually exclusive; in fact, they clearly overlap.

Locations of inherent holiness in Jewish tradition achieve their kedusha only through the efforts of man in partnership with God. The Land of Israel, for example, was first sanctified upon the entry of the Jewish nation, and that sanctity only became permanent, according to most authorities, centuries later, when our ancestors returned from Babylonian exile. Even the holy Temple became sacred through the participation of man.

On the other hand, while we are enjoined to create kedusha in partnership with God wherever we may be, there remains a fundamental distinction between sanctity created within and outside the Land of Israel. In the diaspora, we are enjoined to generate sanctity through our words and actions – through the way in which we live our lives – but we cannot bestow lasting kedusha upon a specific location. Outside the land, such sanctity remains temporal and fleeting; it dissipates once our efforts cease and our presence ends. Only in the Land of Israel does the possibility of permanent kedusha exist. Once sanctified properly, the Land of Israel retained its holiness even when our people were exiled beyond its borders. In this way, once established, our holiest sites remained a continuing beacon of inspiration to a far-flung people across a turbulent history.

A Personal Reminiscence

A number of years ago I traveled with members of my congregation to Eastern Europe prior to our annual mission to Israel. Among our experiences was a visit to the Theresienstadt concentration camp, a way station for countless of our brethren on the journey to their final destination.

At one particular location in the camp, our guide took us behind a bakery and down some steps to a hidden underground room. Suddenly we found ourselves, to our astonishment, in a small synagogue which had been built by a group of Danish Jews, secretly, under the very eyes of their Nazi tormentors. We were speechless, struck by the courage and devotion of these individuals who, at the risk of their lives, had continued to worship their Creator, even at a time when God’s very face was hidden from them.

As we walked around that small shul, we noticed that passages from the Torah and liturgy had been painted on the walls in a fashion common to European synagogues of that time. One such passage poignantly read, “And in spite of all, we have not forgotten, [Dear Lord] do not forget us.”

But, then, as I continued to read, I was suddenly struck completely dumb. For on the wall before me appeared the following passage, painted through who knows how many tears: “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the House of God and this is the gate to heaven!” I was astounded… Here in Theresienstadt, the “House of God”? In the depths of hell, the “gate to heaven”?

I gazed at the words spoken by the patriarch, Yaakov, in the darkness of the night outside the town of Luz, painstakingly painted centuries later on the walls of a secret synagogue in Theresienstadt…and I felt a fleeting sense of the sanctity which had existed in that room decades earlier. A sanctity created by a courageous group of nameless Jews who understood that even in the darkness of hell, even in the presence of their tormentors, even in the depths of pain and sorrow, holiness could somehow be achieved and God could somehow be found.

Their courage and devotion will remain with me forever.

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

In an episode strikingly similar to an earlier event in Avraham’s time, Yitzchak is approached by Avimelech, king of the Philistines, for the purpose of contracting a covenant of non-belligerence. After throwing a celebratory party, Yitzchak apparently agrees and the two camps part in peace.

Questions

How are we to explain Yitzchak’s strange behavior? Confronted with the request for a peace treaty with the Philistines, he abruptly ends the conversation and throws a party which lasts through the night.

Why are the rabbis openly critical of Avraham’s treaty with Avimelech (see Vayeira 4, Approaches c), yet strangely silent when it comes to Yitzchak’s agreement with the same king?

Is it possible that these two episodes, which seem so similar, actually differ in significant ways?

Approaches

A

As is often the case, a straightforward reading of the pashut pshat of the text before us is extremely revealing. Such a reading brings to light a subliminal dialogue between Yitzchak and Avimelech within this passage, a dialogue that explains the patriarch’s seemingly strange behavior and carries tremendous relevance for our own times.

B

As soon as Yitzchak sees Avimelech and his entourage approach, he raises the following objection: “Why have you come to me? [It is obvious that] you hate me, for you exiled me from among you.”

Avimelech responds by insisting that he has come to contract a covenant with the patriarch: “That you shall not do evil to us, just as we did not harm you, and as we did only good to you, for we sent you away in peace.”

It is important to note that there is no disagreement between Yitzchak and Avimelech about the facts. They both acknowledge that during their past interaction Yitzchak was exiled from the territory of the Philistines. What they disagree about is, in fact, a much deeper issue. They are arguing about the definition of “peace.”

To paraphrase the subliminal dialogue taking place between the patriarch and the king:

Yitzchak opens the conversation with the following objection: How can you possibly suggest that we enact a peace treaty? Your intentions until now have been anything but peaceful. Did you not revile me and exile me from your land?

Avimelech responds: How can you say that we hate you? If we hated you, we would have killed you. Our intentions were obviously peaceful because all we did was send you away.

The patriarch and the king are, in effect, living in two different worlds.

Avimelech defines “peace” as the absence of war and physical violence. As long as the two parties are not killing each other, in the king’s eyes, they are living in peace.

To Yitzchak, however, “peace” means much more. For true peace to exist there must be both an absence of hostility and an effort towards cooperation. Anything less might be defined as mutual coexistence but cannot be considered true peace.

C

At first glance what the patriarch does next seems abundantly strange. Instead of responding to Avimelech’s interpretation of past events, Yitzchak abruptly ends the conversation. Without another word, suddenly, Yitzchak “made for them a party, and they ate and they drank.”

Armed with our understanding of the verbal interchange until this point, however, we can begin to understand Yitzchak’s unfolding strategy in his continued dealings with Avimelech.

The patriarch recognizes that further conversation with Avimelech would be futile. You can negotiate with someone when you share the same reality and when the terms that you use are mutually understood. An unbridgeable chasm, however, separates Yitzchak from the Philistine king. When they each speak about “peace,” they are talking about two very different concepts. If you can’t agree upon the definition of peace, you certainly cannot contract a peace treaty.

Yitzchak, therefore, ends the conversation. As a smokescreen, he throws a celebratory party that lasts through the night.

Upon awakening the next morning, Yitzchak and Avimelech exchange promises with each other. The text, however, conspicuously fails to mention a brit, “covenant.” Unlike his father, Avraham, Yitzchak does not contract a full treaty with the Philistines. He recognizes that temporary agreements with Avimelech are possible, but a lasting covenant cannot be drawn.

D

Then, finally, Yitzchak executes the coup de grace. With brilliant irony, the text states: “He [Yitzchak] sent them away; and they went from him in peace.”

Yitzchak turns the tables on Avimelech. In effect he says: I will operate with you according to your definition of peace. Just as you sent me away “in peace,” I now send you away from me “in peace.”

The second patriarch learns from his father’s mistakes. Whereas Avraham was comfortable contracting a full covenant with Avimelech and continued to live in the territory of the Philistines “for many days,” Yitzchak understands the dangers of such an agreement and insists on physical separation. He recognizes that the Philistines can only be trusted in minimal fashion and, even then, only from afar. The rabbis are, therefore, silent concerning Yitzchak’s agreement with Avimelech although they had been critical of a similar agreement contracted by Avraham, a generation before (Vayeira 4, Approaches c). Their silence reflects acknowledgement of the lessons well learned by the second patriarch.

Points to Ponder

Once again, the Torah text speaks to us in eerily relevant fashion as we recognize that human experience has not changed much over the centuries. The definition of peace, which lay at the core of Yitzchak’s interchange with Avimelech, continues to be at issue today as the State of Israel struggles to live in harmony with its neighbors.

The failure of the “peace process” in the Middle East is directly traceable to the limited and hypocritical definition of “peace” in the Arab world. True peace cannot take root in countries where children are raised in hate and where the daily rhetoric lauds murderers and spews venom upon the Jewish nation.

Even those Arab countries that have treaties with Israel, such as Egypt and Jordan, fall frighteningly short in their definition of what those agreements should mean. Like Avimelech, they maintain that peace is defined by the current absence of war. Cooperation, support and mutual understanding remain far from their reality.

We pray for the day when the world will embrace Yitzchak’s vision of true peace.

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

This study is presented as an overview. Some of the sections that we have already examined will now be briefly reviewed as part of a cohesive textual flow. For greater detail on these sections please reference Vayeira 4, Chayei Sara 1 and Chayei Sara 2.

Context

A series of five seemingly unconnected events towards the end of Avraham’s life actually establish a pattern designed to teach the patriarch the parameters and boundaries of his involvement with an outside world:

1. Avraham prays on behalf of the Philistine king, Avimelech. The king had been punished with illness after abducting Sara (see Lech Lecha 2 for a discussion of a similar event).

2. Yitzchak is born.

3. Avraham and Avimelech contract a covenant.

4. The Akeida takes place.

5. Avraham defines himself as a ger v’toshav in his negotiations with the Hittites for the Cave of Machpeila. The patriarch then sends Eliezer to Aram Naharaim to find a wife for Yitzchak.

Approaches

A careful look at events 1–4 reveals an alternating pattern between connecting “external” and “internal” events in the patriarch’s life. One step forward, one step back, these events create a tension that helps Avraham arrive at a critical moment of self-definition.

A

Event 1 – External: Avraham prays on behalf of Avimelech after Sara is released from the king’s palace.

B

Event 2 – Internal: Yitzchak is born.

Avrahams’ prayers on behalf of Avimelech, according to the rabbis, affect not only the foreign king’s destiny but the patriarch’s own. The Talmud perceives a fundamental link between Avraham’s supplications and the subsequent birth of Yitzchak: “The Torah records the birth of Yitzchak immediately after Avraham’s prayers on behalf of Avimelech to teach us that if one asks for mercy for his friend and is himself in similar need, he is answered first.”

Avraham thus learns that his prayers on behalf of another allow his own dreams to be fulfilled. The intertwining of the patriarch’s personal fate with his global mission to the world is underscored.

Avraham and his family cannot live in a vacuum. Their personal success depends on their active involvement in the lives of those around them.

C

Event 3 – External: At Avimelech’s request, Avraham and the king of the Philistines contract a covenant.

This covenant is viewed within rabbinic thought as a dangerous error on Avraham’s part (see Vayeira 4, Approaches C).

Emboldened, perhaps, by the positive results of his previous encounter with Avimelech, Avraham oversteps his bounds in his desire to interface with the outside world. He fails to recognize the dangers of unfettered involvement with those around him.

D

Event 4 – Internal: The Akeida takes place.
We have already noted the approach of the Rashbam who views the Akeida as God’s direct response to Avraham’s covenant with Avimelech (see Vayeira 4, Approaches C).

In effect, God delivers a wakeup call to the patriarch concerning the preciousness of Avraham’s own family and the balance that must be struck in his dealings with an outside world. He must pull back. Involvement is certainly essential, but it must have its boundaries.

E

Event 5 – The Result: Ger v’toshav.

Armed with the knowledge conveyed by the events outlined above, Avraham is able to define himself as a ger v’toshav, “a stranger and a citizen” in his negotiations with the Hittites. This self-definition not only succinctly outlines Avraham’s place within society but the place that his descendents will occupy in the world community across the ages (see Chayei Sara 1, Approaches E).
Bitter experience has taught the patriarch the delicate balance that must be struck in his dealings with an outside world.

Proper study of the Torah text requires that we back up enough to view the flow of events. Nothing is ever random in the Torah and seemingly unrelated episodes often combine to create significant patterns.

In this case, God teaches Avraham through a series of seesawing episodes that his involvement with the outside world will have to be marked by the tension captured in the patriarch’s own words: ger v’toshav, “a stranger and a citizen.”