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Dear TBZ Community,
In this week’s Torah portion, Toldot, we begin the story of Jacob and Esau. Sons of Rebecca (Rivkah), rivals even before their birth, two brothers born into a relationship of conflict:
וַיִּתְרֹצֲצוּ הַבָּנִים בְּקִרְבָּהּ
The children struggled in her womb (Genesis 25:22).
The word וַיִּתְרֹצֲצוּ (vayitrotzatzú, “struggled”) also carries a sense of running or moving quickly. According to the midrash (rabbinic commentary), whenever the pregnant Rivkah passed by the doors of a house of Torah study, Jacob moved convulsively in his efforts to come to birth. But whenever Rivkah passed by the gate of a pagan temple, Esau moved convulsively in his efforts to come to birth (Genesis Rabbah 63:6).
Already before they are born, these two brothers are imagined as opposites, each drawn toward a different world. Rivkah feels the pain of her two sons fighting inside her, struggling against one another, and wonders about her own existence:
וַתֹּאמֶר אִם־כֵּן לָמָּה זֶּה אָנֹכִי וַתֵּלֶךְ לִדְרֹשׁ אֶת־ה׳
“Why is this happening to me?” she asks. And she went to inquire of God (Genesis 25:22).
I have always grappled with our rabbinic tradition’s interpretations of Jacob and Esau. Even before their birth, the Torah imagines them struggling with one another in utero, and the midrash clearly establishes one as good and the other as wicked.
Me’am Lo’ez, an eighteenth-century Judeo-Spanish commentary on the Torah, quotes a midrash in which Abraham speaks to his daughter-in-law Rebecca about her sons (even though, according to the chronological order of the biblical story, Abraham had already died by the time Rebecca became pregnant).
Abraham gives her the following message in the name of God:
“You have two children in your womb. Each one will give rise to a separate kingdom and nation. While they are still in your womb, I will divide them; one will be good and one will be wicked. The two will never be equal. When one empire expands, the other will be subjugated” (Yalkut Me’am Lo’ez on Genesis 25:23, p. 455, English edition).
This narrative of defining two brothers in opposition to one another is complicated and, often, problematic. We collectively carry baggage resulting from this classification of people and from the ways in which we learn to see those who are different from us: those who have a different story, those who we feel threatened by, those who we are afraid of, those who have a different perspective. The juxtaposition between good and evil, between us and them, can become so deeply ingrained that it shapes the way we relate to others and the stories we tell about them.
This week, I have been following with great interest the visit of Pope Leo XIV to South America, particularly his visit to Argentina. Perhaps part of my interest comes from vividly remembering another papal visit back when I was 13 years old, that of Pope John Paul II to Chile in April 1987, during the Pinochet dictatorship. I remember the emotion of a predominantly Catholic country receiving the Pope, and the extraordinary significance this visit held for so many people. It also carried a very particular meaning for my family: My father, Rabbi Ángel Kreiman, met with the Pope as one of the representatives of the Jewish community in Chile. He presented him with a menorah (candelabrum) made of copper and lapis lazuli. Perhaps this personal connection is also why I have been so moved by the images from Pope Leo XIV’s visit this week.
Yesterday, the Pope visited the Federal Penitentiary Complex in Villa Devoto, Buenos Aires, where he met with people who are incarcerated and listened to their testimonies.
Three men, Cristian, Maximiliano, and Reinaldo, shared their stories. They spoke about their struggles with addiction, the distance this created between them and their families, their desire to ask forgiveness from those they had hurt, and the ways in which they had rediscovered faith and begun to imagine a different path. I was particularly moved by hearing about these encounters and seeing the videos from the prison. There was something powerful about listening to a person speak about the mistakes and circumstances that brought them to prison, but also about their faith, their hopes, and their desire to live a more meaningful life. Their story was not a denial of what had happened or of the harm they had caused. It was a recognition that their story did not have to end there.
In his address, Pope Leo XIV said:
“I hope that all of us, myself included, can carry in our hearts this message that a new life is possible. It is the hope we need.”
He went on to speak about how prison can also become a place of profound change, conversion, growth, and learning. He acknowledged the pain and the consequences of the harm people may have caused, while reminding those present that even in the midst of failure, there remains the possibility of a different path.
I was moved by the encounter itself: by the opportunity these men were given to tell their stories, to speak not only about their past but also about their hopes, their faith, and the future they imagine for themselves. There is something deeply powerful about a religious leader who is willing to enter such a space, to make himself present, and to recognize the humanity and dignity of the people he meets. Regardless of one’s religious tradition, I find that kind of leadership inspiring.
And you may be wondering how this connects to Jacob and Esau. I think these stories speak to something important about the ways we see one another, and how difficult it can sometimes be to imagine that the story we know is not the whole story.
The story of Jacob and Esau is tragic. It is filled with competition, deception, fear, anger, and separation. Jacob takes his brother’s birthright and blessing, and eventually has to flee. Years pass before they have another opportunity to meet. When they finally do, Jacob is afraid. He remembers what happened, and he has every reason to believe that Esau may still be (understandably!) angry with him. He prepares himself and his family for the worst.
But something unexpected happens:
וַיָּרָץ עֵשָׂו לִקְרָאתוֹ וַיְחַבְּקֵהוּ וַיִּפֹּל עַל־צַוָּארָו וַיִּשָּׁקֵהוּ וַיִּבְכּוּ
Esau ran to meet him, embraced him, fell on his neck and kissed him; and they wept (Genesis 33:4).
This encounter does not take place in Toldot. We will have to wait two more weeks, until Parshat Vayishlach, to read about the reunion of these two brothers. The same brothers who were struggling against each other before they were born now run toward one another. The running that once represented their separation becomes the beginning of an embrace.
The Torah does not tell us that everything that happened between them has been forgotten, or that all the pain and hurt have disappeared. Their relationship remains complicated. But in this moment, they encounter one another differently. They are no longer only the two brothers defined by their rivalry, their past, or the stories they have told about one another. Something becomes possible that neither of them, and certainly not Jacob, may have imagined.
I think about the stories we tell about people, and how easily we can come to believe that someone is only the sum of their past, their mistakes, or the circumstances that brought them to where they are today. Our Jewish tradition offers us the concept of teshuvah (“returning” or “turning back,” the focus of repentance each High Holiday season), rooted in the belief that human beings are not fixed, that we are capable of recognizing our mistakes, taking responsibility for our actions, and changing the direction of our lives. We are not asked to deny the past, but neither are we meant to be imprisoned by it forever. And we are not only who others decide we are.
Perhaps this is also an invitation to reconsider the stories we tell about one another, and to remember that there is always more to a person than what we know, what we have heard, or what we have experienced with them. Sometimes, the possibility of a different future begins with being willing to see one another differently.
May we leave room for the possibility of change, in ourselves and in others, and may we learn to encounter one another with the openness to discover what we could not have imagined.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia