Being Israel: Vayishlach 2016

Being Israel

D’var Torah for Parshat Vayishlach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Dec. 15, 2016

Dedicated to the memory of my father, Ze’ev ben Aryeh v’Yona on the 100^th anniversary of his birth

One of the Torah’s most valuable lessons that it is vitally important to become a link in the golden chain of tradition, to receive tradition and then, in turn, to pass it on. 

In last week’s Torah portion, it was Isaac who learned this lesson.  This week, it is Jacob’s turn. 

Despite the Torah’s description of Jacob as a mild, simple man, he was anything but.  He was a wrestler, struggling from the womb on. First it was his twin brother, Esau; then his father-in-law, Laban.  In this week’s portion, Vayishlach (Gen. 32:4-36:43), Jacob confronts his guilty conscience, and he wrestles with a mysterious stranger who might represent his worst fears. 

Twenty years earlier, with little life experience and few possessions of his own, Jacob had to flee from his brother’s vengeful wrath, leaving forever the comfortable tents of his mother and father. Now an older, more mature and wealthy man, in charge of a large family and even larger flocks, Jacob is coming home. But first there’s the matter of Esau to settle.  And Esau, Jacob learns, is coming at him, armed and accompanied by four hundred horsemen. 

Jacob prepares for the confrontation the best way he can: he sends gifts to placate Esau; then he prays; and finally—just in case the first two aren’t effective—he prepares for war and for the tragic losses that are war’s inevitable consequence.

But the night before his fateful meeting with Esau, alone on a mountaintop, Jacob has an unexpected encounter:  He meets a mysterious stranger who engages Jacob in a wrestling match that lasts till dawn. Who this stranger might be is not made clear in the story. Some say it was Esau’s protecting angel, while others explain that it was the embodiment of Jacob’s own fears and doubts.  Jacob, in any case, believes this being to be an angel.

Jacob emerges victorious from this contest, but he is not unscathed.  At one point during the match, his thigh is injured, and the dawn sees him limping as he takes his first steps across the river and into the Promised Land.

It is only at this point that Jacob understands what his role in life must be. 

As a young boy, Jacob had learned of God’s promise; he must have first heard about it from his grandfather, Abraham, then in overheard conversations between Isaac and Rebecca.  At first, Jacob aspired to it.  He saw it as a crown, a pinnacle of fame and glory.  Tempted, he allowed himself to reach for it, to grasp it even at the price of deceiving his father and enraging his brother.  Now, however, he finally understands the full import of this blessing.  He realizes that being God’s chosen brings with it great responsibility, as well some very real dangers and perhaps even sacrifice and tragedy.

Now, humbled by this knowledge, hobbling under its weight and facing an uncertain future, Jacob is ready to take his rightful place in the line of tradition. He may be limping, an army is gathering and marching against him, but Jacob is buoyed by the blessing the angel had given him.  Just as the sun was rising, with his powers quickly fading, the angel changed Jacob’s name to Israel, saying, “You have striven with angels and peoples, and you have prevailed.”

Taking his first steps on the sacred soil of the Promised Land, Jacob senses something new:  He is no longer alone.  The full strength of his father’s blessing fortifies him. 

Jacob, now and forever more known as Israel, is finally ready to become a source of blessing himself. He has crossed over the river of eternity and become a link in an unending, golden chain of Tradition, bridging his and his family’s past into the future and into all eternity.  

He is now ready to face his brother and whatever the new day will bring.

He is Israel.

© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman

Tradition, Faith and Hope: Toldot 2016

Tradition, Faith and Hope: D’var Torah for Parashat Toldot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 2, 2016

Sally and I were fortunate this year to celebrate Thanksgiving with our children as well as with several members of our extended family.  Not everybody was there, but considering the hectic schedules, distances and other challenges associated with travel at this season, we were all counting our blessings to be together, to sit around the table and enjoy this wonderful holiday as one loving family.

As the younger generation concluded the sumptuous meal, they left the table, leaving us grownups to reminisce over the past and to shake our heads at the sad state of the world today.  We had promised in advance not to talk politics, so the conversation remained civil and cordial.  But that, of course, left little to talk about except the kids!

We, the adult members of the clan, have known each other for many years now, so we didn’t have to exaggerate.  We didn’t have to rhapsodize about how well our children have turned out, how successful and happy they are, and what a bright future still awaits them.  Instead, we shared some bits about their lives—those bits that they allow us to know and to share with others.  We talked about the past, when the kids were little; and we laughed at some of the escapades they were involved in as teenagers.

Our children are in a different phase of their lives today.  No longer little, no longer teens, they have embarked on their own independent paths, each only a few paces ahead or behind the others.

The common saying goes, “Little children, little problems; big children, big problems.”  It’s true.  When the kids were little, we were concerned with issues that in retrospect seem tiny and unimportant.  Today, we worry about the larger picture: How close are they to settling down? Where is the next stage of life going to take them? Who will be there for them when we are too old and weary?

As the Good Book says however, “There is nothing new under the sun.” I imagine these same discussions took place long before us, and will be repeated long after, too. 

I imagine that Abraham, too, worried in the same way about his son, Isaac.

Perhaps, lying awake late into the night, Abraham wondered if he had done right by Isaac when he almost sacrificed the boy to God.  There were few words exchanged between them as they climbed up the Mountain of God, and afterwards each went his own way, each lost in his own thoughts.  There weren’t many occasions to talk after that horrifying experience:  Isaac was often away from home, and when he came back, he tended to be silent and sullen.

Isaac preferred the wilderness and open fields to his father’s sheltering tent. Abraham, on the other hand, was worried by the lonely search for meaning that Isaac was on.

But Isaac, unlike his father, Abraham, actually enjoyed the solitude.  Also unlike Abraham, Isaac enjoyed keeping company with the Philistines, a Greek people who lived on the edge of the desert, along the Mediterranean coast.  To tell the truth, however, even when he was with them, Isaac always felt himself different.  He sensed their jealousy, their lack of understanding of his ways.  At times Isaac felt ostracized, perhaps even disliked by the Philistines.  Business projects he started with them were often scuttled at the last minute, so that he had to move away and start all over again.

In this week’s Torah portion, Toldot (Genesis 25:19—28:9) we learn how Isaac nevertheless succeeded in all his ventures—which made the Philistines dislike him even more.  Time after time he would dig wells to water his flocks, only to have the Philistine shepherds fill them with sand again. And yet, despite the setbacks, he only grew richer and stronger.

But Abraham still worried, even after Isaac married Rebecca.  Their twin boys—Jacob and Esau—were as different as could be from one another, both in character and appearance. With each parent clearly preferring one or the other of the two, there was little peace in the household.

Yet Abraham did not lose hope.

First of all, he had God’s promise that Isaac would be blessed by God just as he was.  Abraham had faith in this promise.

Additionally, Abraham had faith in his son, Isaac. Despite Isaac’s sorrows, he was a good man.  He also had Rebecca, an able keeper of the tents and household.

Abraham knew he had done everything he could to bring his son, Isaac, up right.  He may have made mistakes, but he always tried to atone for them.  He taught Isaac about God and about what God wanted of us—to pursue justice, to seek righteousness, to show compassion to all living things.

Though many years had passed since Abraham left his family and moved to Canaan, he held on to many of his family’s traditions, and he passed these on to Isaac.

Tradition, faith and hope sustained Abraham throughout his life, and now he hoped they would be there for Isaac as well.

In our own day, we too often find ourselves stressing over similar worries and concerns.  We worry about the future; we worry about our children.  We worry about our faith and our people.  We see our children straying from familiar paths, and we worry that they might lose their way and consequently be lost to us and to our people.  A mere 71 years after the Shoah, the Holocaust, we worry about the Promised Land and about the future of our people.  We see the assimilation and the loss of pride in our Jewish identity.  And we also see the ongoing hatred—today we have a word for it: anti-Semitism—and we worry about its tenacity, its viciousness, and its ferocity.  

Yet the very truths that sustained Abraham still hold true for us today:  We have God’s promise, which, 3600 years later, has withstood all tests, including the test of time.  Furthermore, we know our children and grandchildren to be good people.  We have done our best to educate them, to set them on the right path, to teach them our traditions and give them the spiritual nourishment we know will keep and sustain them in the future.  They, in return, have shown us time and again that they have lost nothing of what we’ve taught them.  No matter how far they seem to wander, they will return, just as Isaac returned, just as we ourselves have returned.  This is the faith Abraham held on to, the faith that guided all our ancestors.  And this is the faith that will also sustain us, our families, our Land and our people for as long as humankind exists.

May the glow of these Shabbat candles remind us that even the darkest and longest night is but a bridge toward the light. May our faith and traditions keep us safe and warm along all our journeys.  And may hope always be at our side to ward off all anxiety, fear and apprehension.

© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman