S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT VAYESHEV

By Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei

            Rashi, commenting to the opening verse of Parashat Vayeshev, famously cites a passage from Bereishit Rabba (84:3):

Yaakov sought to dwell in tranquility, but then the anguish of Yosef immediately pounced on him.  The righteous seek to dwell in tranquility, but the Almighty says: “Is it not enough for the righteous that which is prepared for them in the next world, that they seek to live in tranquility even in this world?”

Many scholars and writers have raised the question of why the Midrash felt that Yaakov, and other righteous people, were wrong for seeking tranquility, and how we are to understand the Midrash’s response.

            We might suggest that Chazal here do not intend to criticize Yaakov – or the tzadikim – for the natural quest for serenity, but rather seek to convey the basic lesson that these aspirations are seldom fully met in this world.  “Is it not enough for the righteous that which is prepared for them in the next world, that they seek to live in tranquility even in this world?”  Meaning, “tranquility” – in the truest sense of the word – is something that belongs in the next world, and not in our world.  Of course, we all seek and yearn for peaceful, tranquil, pleasant lives, and we are certainly entitled to harbor such hopes and pursue this goal.  But Chazal alert us to the reality that complete shalva (“tranquility”) is rarely experienced in this world.  All people, at virtually every stage of life, endure some forms of hardship, pressures or disappointments.  Even the righteous among us, whom we would naturally consider deserving of a bump-free road along the journey of life, are, like the rest of us, beset by personal travails of one type or another.  We come into this world as employees, not vacationers; we are given problems to solve and responsibilities to tend to, and cannot expect to be left alone to relax in unbridled comfort and ease.

            The Sages chose this context, the introduction to the story of Yosef, as the most suitable framework within which to present us with this reminder about life.  Already an aged man, Yaakov had finally “settled down.”  He had spent his entire life working toward this point – to settle in his homeland, Canaan, with his family.  Many years earlier, Yaakov left Canaan and went to Charan to build a family and a fortune.  He then returned to Canaan, and endured numerous travails as he made his way southward to Chevron, where he wished to settle.  Now, he finally arrived at his final destination, at the stage he had wished for, the time when life would, once and for all, be normal and “tranquil.”

            The unfolding story of Yosef thus exemplifies the message the Midrash seeks to convey.  Yaakov finally arrived at the stage he anticipated, and suddenly his family was torn asunder by strife and even an apparent fratricide.

            The Midrash’s warning is not intended to present us with a grim, disheartening view of life.  To the contrary, it serves as a source of encouragement, reminding us that our pressures and struggles are simply par for the course.  If we expect a perfectly smooth ride, we will meet with frustration and disappointment; but if we expect hurdles along the road, then when we confront them, we will have the resolve and confidence we need to successfully surmount them.

Sunday

            The Torah in Parashat Vayeshev describes the pit into which Yosef was cast by his brothers: “the pit was empty; it had no water” (37:24).  Rashi cites the Gemara’s famous comments to this verse: “It had no water, but it had snakes and scorpions” (Shabbat 22a).

            The Gemara makes this comment to answer the question of why the Torah bothered to specify, “it had no water” after it had already informed us that the pit was empty.  It explains that the pit was, in truth, not entirely empty, as it contained dangerous reptiles.

The question arises as to why this information is significant.  Why does it matter that the pit had snakes and scorpions?  How does this detail add to the story?

One the simplest level, the fact that the pit was inhabited by dangerous creatures reveals the miraculous nature of Yosef’s survival.  A person trapped in a pit with poisonous snakes does not ordinarily survive for too long, but Yosef miraculously lived until he was lifted and sold as a slave.

It is likely, however, that the Gemara here also makes this point for the purpose of criticizing Reuven, who had proposed throwing Yosef into the pit instead of murdering him.  His intention, as the Torah clearly tells (37:22), was to later return and rescue Yosef.  Reuven told his brothers that it would be preferable to kill Yosef passively – by throwing him into a pit where he would die of starvation – rather than kill him directly.  His true intention, however, was to come back and lift Yosef from the pit to save him.

The Gemara’s comment should perhaps be read as a subtle, yet scathing, criticism of Reuven’s plan.  The Sages here note the absurdity of the situation: the brothers ensured that there was no water in the pit, so Yosef wouldn’t drown, but didn’t they realize that there other dangers lurking?  Did Reuven seriously think that Yosef would survive for even several hours?  Didn’t he anticipate the presence of dangerous animals?

Ultimately, thanks to God’s supernatural protection of Yosef, Reuven is credited with saving his younger brother’s life.  However, the Gemara perhaps notes Reuven’s failure in properly following through on his noble intentions.  He admirably intervened to save Yosef, but he did not plan his strategy in a sound, detailed manner.

Many writers have attempted to find a point of connection between this statement of the Gemara and the immediately preceding comment, disqualifying Chanukah lights that were kindled at a height of twenty amot or higher.  The only clear point of connection is that both statements were taught by Rabbi Natan bar Minyumi in the name of Rabbi Tanchum.  But darshanim throughout the ages have searched for a deeper connection between the disqualification of high Chanukah lights and the snakes in Yosef’s pit.  We might suggest (al derekh ha-derush) that kindling the Chanukah lights at a height where they cannot be easily seen symbolically represents a failure to follow through on noble, idealistic intentions.  We kindle the Chanukah lights out of a desire to glorify God’s Name and publicize the great miracle of the Hasmonean victory.  If a person sets out to achieve this noble goal but places the candles in a place where they will not be seen, he acts irresponsibly.  He has the right idea, but does not pursue it in a careful, calculated, responsible manner.  Like Reuven, who laudably stepped in to save his brother but failed to take critical details into account, this individual admirably seeks to shine the light of Torah, but his execution of that goal is reckless and shoddy.

It’s not enough to have the right goals – they need to be pursued the right way.  Good ideas must be followed up by good planning and good execution, for otherwise they will remain only as ideas.

Monday

            Interrupting the saga of Yosef’s sale into slavery and his experiences in Egypt, the Torah (Bereishit, chapter 38) tells the story of Tamar, the woman who married Yehuda’s eldest son and then, upon being widowed, the younger son.  After the second husband also died, Yehuda refused to allow Tamar to marry his third son, leaving her childless and, apparently, unable to remarry, as it was accepted for a childless widow to marry only the late husband’s blood relative.  Tamar dressed as a prostitute and stood along Yehuda’s travel route, and, not recognizing her, he solicited her services.  She conceived, and upon hearing of her pregnancy Yehuda determined that she was to be executed.  As she was being brought for execution, she produced Yehuda’s personal items that she had taken at the time they were together, and announced that she conceived from the owner of those items.  Yehuda acknowledged that he had impregnated her, and Tamar’s life was spared.

            The Gemara (Bava Metzia 59a) famously points to this incident as the source for the rabbinic adage, “It is preferable for a person to throw himself into a fiery furnace rather than publicly humiliate his fellow.”  Tamar was prepared to allow herself to be killed by fire rather than informing the officials that she had conceived from Yehuda, a relative of her deceased husband, and she had thus engaged in a permissible relationship.  She disclosed this information only to Yehuda – by producing the personal items – and left it for him to decide whether to embarrass himself by admitting that he had engaged in relations with her.  The Gemara thus deduces that one should be prepared to surrender his life rather than publicly humiliate another person.

            Tosefot, in a famous passage (Sota 10b), raise the question of why this prohibition of causing others humiliation is not included in the list of prohibitions which one must surrender his life to avoid (Pesachim 25a and elsewhere).  Tosefot suggest a technical answer, noting that the Gemara’s list of these prohibitions includes only prohibitions which appear explicitly in the Torah, whereas the law forbidding causing someone embarrassment is not explicated in the Torah.  (The Rambam, however, in Hilkhot Dei’ot 6:8, claims that the Torah indeed presents an explicit prohibition against embarrassing one’s fellow, in Vayikra 19:17 – “ve-lo tisa alav cheit.”)  Implicit in Tosefot’s comments is the assumption that the Gemara’s comment is to be taken literally, and one must actually do anything – including surrendering one’s life – to avoid causing somebody embarrassment.

            This is also the view taken by Rabbenu Yona, in his Sha’arei Teshuva (3:139), where he proposes a different answer for Tosefot’s question.  He claims that the prohibition of public humiliation is included under the prohibition of murder.  Based on other comments of Chazal, Rabbenu Yona claims that the changes that occur in a person’s face in response to humiliation are a mild form of “death.”  Hence, just as one must surrender his life to avoid taking the life of another person (with the obvious exception allowing one to kill somebody who tries to kill him), similarly, one must surrender his life to avoid causing somebody public humiliation.  According to Rabbenu Yona, this is why embarrassing others is not included in the list of sins that one must avoid even at the expense of his life – as it is subsumed under the prohibition of murder, which indeed appears on this list.

            A much different view is taken by the Meiri (Berakhot 43b), who described the Talmud’s comment with the term “derekh tzachut” (“rhetorical”).  He clearly indicates that the Gemara did not make this comment as an actual halakhic ruling, but rather as an exaggerated expression of the gravity of this prohibition.  It should be taken to mean that one must go to great lengths to avoid causing others embarrassment, but not that one must actually surrender his life for this purpose.

            Returning to Rabbenu Yona’s approach, classifying humiliation as a kind of “murder,” this theory may yield interesting ramifications regarding the precise parameters of this prohibition.  Namely, it would seem to restrict this law to instances where the victim indeed experiences emotional suffering.  Consider, for example, the case of a person who embarrasses a newborn infant, such as by ridiculing the baby for a physical defect in front of a large crowd of people.  Obviously, the infant does not suffer any emotional harm as a result of this experience, and it would thus seem, according to Rabbenu Yona, that the person who poked fun at the child is not in violation of this law.  Since the infant does not experience the “death” of embarrassment, no technical violation has been committed.  This is, indeed, the ruling of the Binyan Tziyon (172).  However, as the Binyan Tziyon cites, the Peri Megadim (in his work Teivat Gomeh) ruled that one violates this prohibition even by “embarrassing” a newborn infant (as he inferred from the Rambam’s comments in Hilkhot Dei’ot – “bein katan bein gadol”).

            Likewise, we might ask whether one violates this prohibition by embarrassing somebody who does not mind public humiliation, such as if he has grown accustomed to public humiliation, has low self-esteem and permits people to embarrass him, or out of extreme piety simply pays no attention to his public image.  According to Rabbenu Yona, perhaps, if the victim indeed did not suffer emotional harm, then the person who tried to humiliate him has likely not transgressed this prohibition.

            The Penei Yehoshua (in Bava Metzia) appears to follow a different approach in understanding the nature of this law, claiming that embarrassing a person disgraces the tzelem Elokim (divine image) within all people, and for this reason the Sages treated it so severely.  It would seem that from this perspective, the prohibition of causing humiliation does not depend on the emotional experience of embarrassment.  Rather, one violates this prohibition by disregarding a person’s honor and dignity – regardless of whether that person knows or cares.  Accordingly, it would seem, one violates this prohibition by publicly ridiculing a newborn infant, or a person who does not mind being humiliated.  Indeed, Rav Elchanan Wasserman (Kovetz Shiurim, Bava Batra, #49) held that one may not humiliate a person who grants expressed permission to embarrass him.  Rav Elchanan drew proof from the fact that halakha requires preserving the dignity of a deceased person, despite the fact that he obviously cannot experience humiliation after death.  This proves the fact that avoiding humiliating people is required not merely to spare them the painful experience of shame, but also in order to show respect for the divine image within all people.  Therefore, one may not denigrate another person, regardless of whether that person will experience humiliation as a result.

Tuesday

            Most of Parashat Vayeshev is devoted to the story of Yosef’s sale into slavery and his experiences in Egypt.  After digressing to tell the story of Yehuda and Tamar (in chapter 38), the Torah returns to the story of Yosef with the words, “Ve-Yosef hurad Mitzrayema” (“And Yosef was brought down to Egypt” – 39:1).

            Chazal, in a number of sources, suggest reading the word “hurad” (“was brought down”) in this verse as “horid” (“brought down”).  In Masekhet Sota (13a), the Gemara cites Rabbi Elazar as commenting, “Don’t read [this word as] hurad, but rather as horid – he brought down the astrologers of Egypt from their stature of importance.”  According to the Gemara, the Torah alludes here to Yosef’s accurate interpretation of Pharaoh’s dream, which had eluded the king’s trusted astrologers.  The Midrash Tanchuma writes, “He brought down his father and the tribes to Egypt,” referring to the fact that Yosef was the cause of his family’s relocation in Egypt.  And according to the Midrash Ha-gadol, the word “hurad,” which should be read as “horid,” indicates that “he brought the Divine Presence down to Egypt.”

            The basic and obvious difference between these two words – “hurad” and “horid” – is the difference between activity and passivity.  By suggesting that we read “hurad” and “horid,” Chazal express their admiration for Yosef’s ability to transform himself from an object to a subject.

            The Torah here describes the scene of Yosef being carried to Egypt in shackles, where he would be sold as a slave.  At this stage, Yosef is a helplessly passive object, unable to control his destiny, living at the complete mercy of the people and forces around him.   Or at least this is how it appears.  A captured teenager, betrayed by his own family and now brought to the slave market in a foreign country, appears to exert no control at all over his life, and is in a state of absolute dependence and passivity.

            However, lo and behold, Yosef succeeded in changing “hurad” to “horid.”  Even as it appeared that he was controlled, in the end, it was he who controlled the sequence of events.  While it seemed that he would be a victim of circumstance, he created his own opportunities and dictated how circumstances unfolded.  He was brought down to Egypt, but it was ultimately he who brought others down – in all the ways mentioned in the various sources.

            The message that Chazal seek to convey, perhaps, is that we are never entirely the victims of the circumstances unfolding around us.  Yosef changed his condition from “hurad” to “horid” through a combination of faith, strict obedience to God’s laws even under the most trying conditions, hard work and firm resolve.  The Sages call upon us to follow Yosef’s example and believe that we can control our destiny regardless of the circumstances.

Wednesday

            In the midst of the story of Yosef’s sale as a slave, the Torah interjects the story of Tamar, who married, successively, Yehuda’s two older sons, both of whom died young without leaving children.  Yehuda refused to allow Tamar to marry his third son, and she eventually disguised herself as a prostitute and positioned herself along his travel route, so he would solicit her services.

Rashi (39:1), citing the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 85:2), makes a surprising comment in attempting to identify a point of connection between the story of Tamar and the story of Yosef.  He writes that the juxtaposition between the two incidents alludes to a parallel of sorts between Tamar’s seduction of Yehuda and Potifar’s wife’s unsuccessful attempts to seduce Yosef.  Just as Tamar acted “le-shem Shamayim,” with pure and sincere motives, similarly, Potifar’s wife was driven by altruistic motives.  Tamar, as Rashi writes earlier (38:26), acted appropriately, as she was bound by the levirate laws to marry a relative of her deceased husband.  Potifar’s wife, too, acted with sincere motives, as she saw through astrology that she would bear children from Yosef.  She erred, however, as this would occur through her daughter, who later married Yosef.

This comparison drawn by the Midrash between Tamar and Potifar’s wife is startling.  Tamar is generally viewed by our tradition as a righteous woman, who was very far from sexual impropriety (see Rashi to 38:15), and acted purely for the sake of the mitzva of bearing children with her late husband’s relative to perpetuate his memory.  Potifar’s wife, however, is often referred to by the Sages as a wicked, immoral and lustful woman.  How are we to understand this peculiar comparison?

It seems likely that the Sages of the Midrash drew this comparison for the sake of underscoring the differences between these two women and between these two incidents.  Both women found themselves in a compromised situation, where a lofty goal required questionable, unconventional measures to be achieved.  However, in Tamar’s case, these means were within the bounds of permissible conduct.  Since she was required to marry a blood relative of her deceased husband, it was acceptable for her to act as she did (according to the accepted protocols of that time).  In Potifar’s wife’s case, however, there was no justification whatsoever for her conduct.  As a married woman, she was forbidden from engaging in relations with another man, regardless of any sincere and pure motives that she may have had.  Even if she pursued lofty goals, she was wrong for employing forbidden means to achieve the desired end.

Extraordinary circumstances warrant extraordinary measures – but only to a point.  Tamar’s act was unconventional, unusual, and far from the ideal levirate union, but was justified under the circumstances.  Potifar’s wife, by contrast, had no justification despite the unusual circumstances of a “prophecy” that she sought to bring to realization.   Before “bending the rules” and allowing ourselves special dispensations in light of special circumstances, we must proceed cautiously, and carefully consider whether the altruistic ends truly justify the questionable means.  Lofty goals, even if they are pursued with pure sincerity, do not always authorize us to suspend normal protocols of conduct.  The story of Potifar’s wife, as understood by the Sages, thus alerts us of the potential dangers of altruism, which could oftentimes lead one to unjustifiable extreme and illicit conduct.

Wednesday

            In the midst of the story of Yosef’s sale as a slave, the Torah interjects the story of Tamar, who married, successively, Yehuda’s two older sons, both of whom died young without leaving children.  Yehuda refused to allow Tamar to marry his third son, and she eventually disguised herself as a prostitute and positioned herself along his travel route, so he would solicit her services.

Rashi (39:1), citing the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 85:2), makes a surprising comment in attempting to identify a point of connection between the story of Tamar and the story of Yosef.  He writes that the juxtaposition between the two incidents alludes to a parallel of sorts between Tamar’s seduction of Yehuda and Potifar’s wife’s unsuccessful attempts to seduce Yosef.  Just as Tamar acted “le-shem Shamayim,” with pure and sincere motives, similarly, Potifar’s wife was driven by altruistic motives.  Tamar, as Rashi writes earlier (38:26), acted appropriately, as she was bound by the levirate laws to marry a relative of her deceased husband.  Potifar’s wife, too, acted with sincere motives, as she saw through astrology that she would bear children from Yosef.  She erred, however, as this would occur through her daughter, who later married Yosef.

This comparison drawn by the Midrash between Tamar and Potifar’s wife is startling.  Tamar is generally viewed by our tradition as a righteous woman, who was very far from sexual impropriety (see Rashi to 38:15), and acted purely for the sake of the mitzva of bearing children with her late husband’s relative to perpetuate his memory.  Potifar’s wife, however, is often referred to by the Sages as a wicked, immoral and lustful woman.  How are we to understand this peculiar comparison?

It seems likely that the Sages of the Midrash drew this comparison for the sake of underscoring the differences between these two women and between these two incidents.  Both women found themselves in a compromised situation, where a lofty goal required questionable, unconventional measures to be achieved.  However, in Tamar’s case, these means were within the bounds of permissible conduct.  Since she was required to marry a blood relative of her deceased husband, it was acceptable for her to act as she did (according to the accepted protocols of that time).  In Potifar’s wife’s case, however, there was no justification whatsoever for her conduct.  As a married woman, she was forbidden from engaging in relations with another man, regardless of any sincere and pure motives that she may have had.  Even if she pursued lofty goals, she was wrong for employing forbidden means to achieve the desired end.

Extraordinary circumstances warrant extraordinary measures – but only to a point.  Tamar’s act was unconventional, unusual, and far from the ideal levirate union, but was justified under the circumstances.  Potifar’s wife, by contrast, had no justification despite the unusual circumstances of a “prophecy” that she sought to bring to realization.   Before “bending the rules” and allowing ourselves special dispensations in light of special circumstances, we must proceed cautiously, and carefully consider whether the altruistic ends truly justify the questionable means.  Lofty goals, even if they are pursued with pure sincerity, do not always authorize us to suspend normal protocols of conduct.  The story of Potifar’s wife, as understood by the Sages, thus alerts us of the potential dangers of altruism, which could oftentimes lead one to unjustifiable extreme and illicit conduct.

Thursday

            The final verses of Parashat Vayeshev tell of the feast that Pharaoh made for his servants to celebrate his birthday.  Interestingly enough, this account is the only reference in Tanakh to a birthday celebration.  It presents us with the opportunity to address the question of how our Torah tradition views birthday celebrations, and whether these are events that should be encouraged, discouraged, or neither.

            Rav Aryeh Lebowitz of North Woodmere, NY devotes a comprehensive article to this topic, which is available at his congregation’s website (http://www.bknw.org/pafiledb/uploads/Birthdays.pdf).  We present here just some of the many fascinating sources cited by Rav Lebowitz in his essay.

            Firstly, there are several indications that at least according to Kabbalistic teaching, the occasion of a birthday has significance and affects a person’s mazal (potential for success, or good fortune).  The Talmud Yerushalmi (Rosh Hashanah 3:8) tells that when Benei Yisrael came under attack by the nation of Amalek and were forced to wage war, they positioned in the front lines those soldiers whose birthday occurred on that day.  The Korban Ha-eida commentary explained that these soldiers enjoyed a special degree of mazal and were therefore the ones most likely to succeed in battle.  The Chid”a (Rav Chayim Yosef David Azulai, 1724-1806), in his work Chomat Anakh (Iyov, 3), writes that this notion is rooted in Kabbalistic sources.  Accordingly, Rav Chayim Palagi of Izmir (Turkey, 1788-1869), in his work Tzedaka Le-chayim, encourages giving charity on one’s birthday, as his enhanced mazal will increase the effects of the merit earned through the charitable donation.

            Turning our attention to the issue of conducting birthday celebrations, we must address the counterintuitive question of whether the anniversary of one’s birth is indeed a cause for celebration – a question that the Gemara raises in Masekhet Eruvin (13b).  The Gemara notes a debate between the schools of Hillel and Shammai as to whether or not it would have been preferable for a person to never have been born.  Astonishingly enough, the Gemara concludes that indeed, we would have been better off not having coming into the world.  Needless to say, the Gemara’s entire discussion – let alone its conclusion – requires explanation, and, in any event, it is questionable whether any practical halakhic conclusions can be reached on the basis of this essentially aggadic passage.  But leaving these questions aside, does the Gemara’s comment indicate that it is inappropriate to celebrate the occasion of a birthday – given that, however one chooses to understand this, one’s birth is an event that we would have preferred to have occurred?

            Rav Lebowitz cites Tosafot’s comment to this Talmudic passage, limiting the Gemara’s startling conclusion to “ordinary people.”  When it comes to a “tzadik,” however, it is certainly preferable for such an individual to enter this world.  Rav Herschel Schachter (as Rav Lebowitz quotes) explained Tosafot’s use of the word “tzadik” in this context as referring to any religiously observant individual.  Hence, the anniversary of an observant Jew’s birth would certainly be an occasion worthy of celebration.

            Practically speaking, we find no sources in the Talmud or in the writings of the Rishonim advocating the celebration of a birthday, but this custom is mentioned by the Ben Ish Chai (Rav Yosef Chayim of Baghdad, 1833-1909), in Parashat Re’ei (17).  He writes that it is worthwhile to hold some kind of celebration on one’s birthday, noting that this was the practice in his illustrious family.  Likewise, Rav Ovadya Yosef (Yabi’a Omer O.C. 6:29) rules that it is appropriate on one’s birthday to eat a special meal accompanied by words of Torah.  Interestingly enough, the son of the Ketav Sofer, in his essay Ohel Leah printed as an introduction to the Ketav Sofer Torah commentary, records his father’s practice to conduct thorough introspection on his birthday.  In fact, one year on his birthday, the son found the sage weeping, and he explained that he felt he had fallen far from his potential in Torah and mitzvot considering his age.

            Thus, there are sources indicating the value of a birthday celebration, as well as using the occasion of a birthday as a time for introspection and taking stock of one’s life.

Friday

            Earlier this week, we cited Rashi’s famous but puzzling comments regarding the opening verse of Parashat Vayeshev, taken from the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 84:3):

Yaakov sought to dwell in tranquility, but then the anguish of Yosef immediately pounced on him.  The righteous seek to dwell in tranquility, but the Almighty says: “Is it not enough for the righteous that which is prepared for them in the next world, that they seek to live in tranquility even in this world?”

Many writers have addressed the question of why it is improper to seek to live in “tranquility,” and why Yaakov was denied this right.

            Rav Yehuda Amital zt”l suggested a novel interpretation of the Midrash’s comments.  Yaakov endured many hardships throughout his life, and they began when he deceived his father by disguising as Esav to receive his blessing, whereupon Esav threatened to kill him and he was forced to flee.  Moreover, virtually all his subsequent troubles bear a clear parallel or resemblance to this act of deception.  Lavan brought him his older daughter, Leah, when he expected to marry the younger sister, Rachel, and Lavan explained that it is improper for a younger sister to marry before the older sister (29:26).  This certainly brings to mind Yaakov’s efforts to seize that which was intended for his older brother.  Later, Lavan repeatedly deceived Yaakov when he worked as his shepherd (31:7-8,41), just as he deceived Yitzchak.  And Yaakov’s sons’ surreptitious plot against Shekhem, circumventing his authority, brings to mind his scheme to subvert his blind, aged father’s plan to bless Esav.

            When Yaakov settled in Chevron and reached old age, he hoped to “dwell in tranquility,” that he had already endured the full consequences of his scheme.  But this was not to be.  He was once again deceived – this time, by his sons – and continued to suffer the effects of his complicated marriage, as the sons of Leah resented the preferred status accorded to their younger brother, Yosef, the older son of Rachel.  The consequences of the Leah/Rachel substitution were still unfolding, and Yaakov would still be punished for his own “substitution” for his brother.

            Needless to say, it is not for us to understand why Yaakov was punished so severely for a scheme that was forced upon him by his mother, and which could easily be justified on several levels, as we find in many Midrashim and commentaries.  (Most notably, Yitzchak overlooked Esav’s unworthiness for the blessing, and Rivka had received a prophecy that the younger son was destined for supremacy.)  But the Midrash’s comment, as understood by Rav Amital, teaches that we must be prepared to accept the consequences of our mistakes.  As human beings, we will make many mistakes – some more severe than others – over the course of our lives, and we cannot expect to always be able to simply erase them from our record.  Understandably so, we all want to “dwell in tranquility,” to live at ease without having to worry about the mistakes we make.  But the Midrash teaches that such hopes are unrealistic.  We must be prepared to own up to our mistakes and work to correct them, and should never delude ourselves into believing that we can simply escape the consequences.