Toldot (Midrash)

It’s All in the Family

Two consecutive midrashim in this week’s parsha comment on the nature of the family connections in the lives of the patriarchs. First, Genesis Rabbah 63.2:

“The crown of the elderly are their grandchildren, and the glory of sons is their fathers.” [Prov 17:6] Fathers are a crown to their children, and children are a crown to their fathers. Fathers are a crown to their children, as is said, “and the glory of sons is their fathers”; and children are a crown to their fathers, as is written, “The crown of the elderly are their grandchildren.”

Thus far a conventional folk proverb, in which families are a setting for mutual pride and admiration—and justly so, according to the verse from Proverbs. (This same verse is no doubt familiar to many from Pirkei Avot 6.8.) But then it takes an unusual twist:

R. Shmuel bar Rav Yitzhak said: Abraham was only saved from the fiery furnace by virtue of Jacob. This may be compared to one who was placed on trial before the ruler, and was sentenced to be burned. That same ruler saw in his astrology that that man [i.e., the one convicted] was to sire a daughter who would be married to the king. He said to himself: He is deserving to be saved by virtue of the daughter who is to be born to him and who shall be married to the king. Similarly, Abraham was sentenced by Nimrod to be burnt, and the Holy One blessed be He saw that Jacob would be born from him. He said: Abraham is worthy to be saved by virtue of Jacob.

The comparison is strange: in the parable, the ruler who passes the death sentence is the one who decides to stay execution because of his (or the king’s) interest in the daughter who is to be born. But God, who saved Abraham, and Nimrod are clearly on opposing sides: Abraham was thrown into the fiery furnace because of his discovery of monotheism and his efforts to spread knowledge of the One God! (See HY III: Lekh Lekha on this midrash) Surely, that same God had every reason to spare him in his own right! One must conclude that the analogy was meant to be only partial, and was introduced to teach the idea of merit being accrued back and forth across the generations, of future, past and present commingling in the Divine economy.

The idea conveyed here is a kind of counterpart or inversion of the concept of zekhut avot. According to this idea, the children and even later generations enjoy a certain Divine favor by virtue of the merit of their righteous fathers and ancestors; the idea is a familiar one, invoked particularly in the liturgy of the Days of Awe and in other petitionary prayers. The opposite issue—to what extent fathers and children are held accountable for one another’s sins—is a problematic one in Jewish theology, and the subject of an implied debate within the Bible. See, e.g., Exodus 20:5-6 and 34:7, in which God visits the iniquity of the fathers to the sons unto the third and fourth generations (but remembers kindness to the thousandth generation) and, on the other hand, Ezekiel 18, which states categorically that “each soul shall die in its own sin” (e.g., vv. 4, 20; but see the entire chapter). Here, the idea is inverted: an ancestor may enjoy the merit of his future descendants, thanks to the anticipatory mercy of an omniscient God. The comparison to astrology, which is here presumed to effectively see the future, is of course problematic.

This idea is first cousin to the idea of yihus—“pedigree” or ancestral pride. Jewish families are known to preserve knowledge of their distinguished Rabbinic ancestors for numerous generations (note the title of this series, which alludes to my own forebear and namesake eight generations back). In Hasidic circles in particular there is an almost mystical sense that ones character and dynasty are profoundly shaped by ones ancestors, leading more than once to leadership by mediocre grandsons of great men. This mood differs profoundly from the modern sensibility, which is an highly individualistic ethos—some would say, carried to ridiculous and unhealthy extremes in the other direction. The midrashic exposition continues:

For it is written: “Therefore, thus says the Lord to the house of Jacob, who redeemed Abraham” [Isa 29:22]. Another thing: “The crown of the elderly are their grandchildren, and the glory of sons is their fathers” [Prov 17:6]—“These are the generations of Isaac son of Abraham, Abraham begat Isaac” [Gen 25:19]

The verse from Isaiah serves as a proof text to show that Abraham was saved by virtue of Jacob. The homily is reminiscent of the Hasidic derush (homily) in its use of a clever linguistic twist to give a new and striking meaning to the words, unintended by their author. The verse in question, due to its unusual syntax, easily lends itself to this; to be understand properly (i.e., that the Lord who redeemed Abraham is now addressing the house of Jacob, not that Jacob redeemed Abraham) one needs to rearrange the order of the words—what the medieval commentator Nahmanides called sarsehu vedarshehu, “cut it up and expound it.” The final line returns full circle, connecting the verse that was the original subject of our midrash to the opening verse of the Torah portion.

Let us now turn to the next paragraph, Genesis Rabbah 63.3, which takes these same ideas further. Beginning with well-known changes of name among the patriarchs, it goes on to suggest other dual nomenclature:

These are the generations of Isaac. Abram is called Abraham, as is said: “Abram is Abraham” [1 Chron 1:27]. Isaac is called Abraham, as is said, “These are the generations of Isaac son of Abraham; Abraham…” [Gen 25:19].

Here, we have a “proof” for the strange thesis that Isaac was also called Abraham, by means of word play: cutting the verse short in mid-phrase so as to make it read as if Abraham were the offspring of Isaac, or perhaps another name for Isaac himself.

Jacob is called Israel, as is written: “No longer shall your name be called Jacob, but rather your name shall be Israel” [Gen 32:29]. Isaac is called Israel, as is written, “And these are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt, Jacob and his sons” [Gen 46:8].

Again, a clever homily, based on an overly literal interpretation of the verse. If Jacob is included among the “sons of Israel” (rather than heading that group), then his own father, i.e., Isaac, is obviously the one called Israel.

Abraham is called Israel. R. Nathan said: These are deep words. “And the time that the children of Israel dwelt in Egypt” [Exod 12:40] and in the land of Canaan and in the land of Goshen “was four hundred and thirty years.”

Traditional Rabbinic exegesis holds that the four hundred years of enslavement in Egypt prophesied to Abraham in the Covenant Between the Pieces (Gen 15:13) in fact began immediately at that time, and hence included the life-spans of Isaac and Jacob (see Rashi there for the calculation); the actual enslavement only lasted 210 years. Hence, the “children of Israel” referred to in this verse begin with Isaac, who was only born some time after that prophecy; therefore, Abraham=Israel, QED. What is going on here? Is this merely clever word-play, stretching syntax in an imaginative way? It seems to me that it goes beyond that. The previous midrash stretches the boundaries of time, seeing present events rooted in the future, conflating together past, present and future in one seamless amalgam. In this midrash, the very names of the different patriarchs (symbolizing identity) is seen as open and flexible; identity itself is not fixed and immutable, but fluid and shared. It is as if there were a single entity, “the patriarchs,” who draw upon one another’s qualities as needed. We find ourselves here in a realm of sacred, typological history, in which time, space and personal identity are flowing, open-ended, running together; it is perhaps suggestive of the hyper-dimensions of some modern theoretical physics, in which the laws of time and space as we know them do not hold sway.

In Praise of Age, Suffering, and Illness

The following midrash turns all of our usual assumptions about life on their head. In a society that praises youthfulness, creature comfort, and health, Genesis Rabbah 65.9 is a thought-provoking little gem:

[1] “When Isaac grew old his eyes became dim so that he could not see” [Gen 27:1]. R. Judah b. Simon said: Abraham sought old age. He said to Him [i.e., God]: Master of the Universe, when a man and his son enter a certain place, no one knows to which one to show honor. Once you crown him [the father] with old age, a person knows whom to honor. The Holy One blessed be He said to him: By your life, you have sought a good thing, and with you it shall begin. From the start of the book until here, “old age” is not written; once Abraham came he was given old age: “And Abraham was old, advanced in years” [Gen 24:1].

There is an interesting implication here: the idea that younger people should show respect to their elders is seen as axiomatic, even before such a thing as old age existed! Beyond that, the visible signs of old age are somehow seen as a source of reverence: the proverbial old man with the long white beard as a symbol of wisdom.

[2] Isaac sought suffering. He said to Him: Master of the Universe, if a person dies without suffering, the Attribute of Judgment is drawn taut against him; but if you bring upon him suffering, the Attribute of Judgment is not drawn taut against him. The Holy One blessed be He said to him: By your life, you have asked a good thing, and with you it shall begin. From the start of the book until here suffering is not recorded. Once Isaac came he was given suffering: “And when Isaac was old, his eyes were dimmed from seeing” [Gen 27:1].

The suffering referred to here is specifically physical suffering: in this case, blindness; we may certainly imagine other earlier incidents causing emotional suffering. The argument itself is interesting. Suffering is seen as a kind of lightning rod, absorbing or neutralizing the accusations of the Attribute of Judgment that would be directed against a person when brought before the Heavenly Court for judgment after his death; Middath ha-Din is depicted like an arrow, drawn back in a tightly drawn bow. As every person commits some wrong during his lifetime, and is hence deserving of some punishment, it is to his advantage that these be expiated during the course of his lifetime through suffering rather than after death. Indeed, suffering is listed among the factors affecting atonement for a person’s sins, alongside, and more potent than, both repentance and Yom Kippur (see b. Yoma 86a; Rambam, Teshuva 1.4; Berakhot 5a; etc.)

[3] Jacob sought illness. He said to Him: Master of the Universe, if a person dies without illness, he cannot make peace among his sons. Once he is sick for two or three days, he reconciles his sons. The Holy One blessed be He said to him: By your life, you have asked a good thing, and with you it shall begin: “And Joseph was told, behold, your father is ill” [Gen 48:1].

Here the function of illness is a curious one: as a kind of warning period before death, enabling people to put their affairs in order. Most important to the author of the midrash is that the dying parent use his influence to make peace among his children: to obviate bickering over their inheritance, etc. The conception seems to be that, before illness was introduced into the world, people died when their time came, in advanced old age, without any particular illness preceding death. The two or three days duration of illness is a stereotypic in the Bible; see Hosea 6:2, ”he will revive us after two days, on the third day He shall raise us up and we shall live.”

[4] R. Levi said: Abraham introduced old age, Isaac introduced suffering, Jacob introduced illness, and Hezekiah introduced illness from which one recovers. He [Hezekiah] said to Him: You have made him aware of the day of his death, but through a person being ill and recovering, being ill and recovering, he repents. The Holy One blessed be He said to him: By your life, you have asked a good thing, and with you it shall begin. Of this it is written: “A letter to Hezekiah king of Judah when he was ill and recovered from his illness” [Isa 38:9]. Said R. Samuel b. Nahman: From here we infer that between one illness and the other there was [a third] illness graver than the other two.

Following the three patriarchs, the midrash turns to Hezekiah, King of Judah at the time of the Assyrian incursion of 721 BCE: a figure renowned for his righteousness, if not a messianic figure, who underwent a particularly dramatic illness during which he prayed to God and lived for fifteen more years. The essential idea, both here and in section [2], is that those experiences in which a person is confronted with his vulnerability and mortality make him more humble, and thereby work a refining effect on his personality—and thus also effect atonement on the part of God.

On the whole, the different sections of this midrash illustrate the positive value to be derived from experiences usually thought of as negative and to be avoided. The world of the Rabbis, in which spiritual and ethical growth are the central goals in life, is able to look on these with equanimity and even in a positive light; the gap between their world and our own may be seen in our own culture’s vastly different response to these phenomena.

On Field and Well

The two locii of field and well play a central role in this portion, and in those that immediately precede it and follow. The word sadeh, “field,” is repeated numerous times in the sale of the cave of Makhpelah in Genesis 23; in 24:63 Isaac goes out to meditate in the field, where he meets Rivkah for the first time. Esau is called “a man of the field” (ish sadeh) in 25:27, in contrast to Jacob, who is ish tam yoshev ohalim—“a simple man, who dwells in tents.” Eliezer meets Rivkah at the “well” or “spring” (be’er / ‘ayin; compare 24:11 and 42), where he tests the generosity of her nature to see whether she will make a fit wife for Yitzhak; Isaac has a series of conflicts with the Canaanites concerning the wells that had been dug in the days of Abraham, which they stopped up (26:15-22). In Vayetse, Jacob meets his bride, Rachel, at the well (29:2-10); in this case, as soon as he sees her he performs an act of masculine strength (counterpart to Rivkah’s act of feminine grace and kindness, probably at the selfsame well?), rolling the stone (echos of the stone at Beth-el, 28:11, 22?) off the well so that she may water her flock.

What do these places symbolize? The spring or well is often seen as a symbol of Torah, of that which is drawn up from a deep, hidden place. That same symbolism may also suggest deep emotion, such as that involved in the meeting and ultimate union of man and woman (Moses, too, met his future bride at the well in Midian; see Exod 2:15-22). A field, by contrast, is a place of openness, of expectancy and potentiality, a place where things grow, a place perhaps midway between the wildness of uncultivated desert or forest, and the domesticity of hearth and home. This being so, what are we to make of the association of “field” with both Yitzhak and Esau?

An interesting aggadic passage from the Talmud (Pesahim 88a) speaks of the three patriarchs associating God with different kinds of locii: “’Let us go up to the house of God…’ [Isa 2:3]. Not like Abraham, who called it a mountain…; and not like Isaac, who called it a field…; but like Jacob, who called it a house….” When I expounded this passage a few years ago (HY I: Vayetse), I suggested that “mountain,” “field” and “house” may be read as appellations for different kinds of meetings between Man and God. Mountain suggests transcendence: a high, lofty, mysterious place, midway between heaven and earth, which man ascends to encounter the “Wholly Other” God. The “house” associated with Jacob suggests the establishment of fixed religious institutions: a Temple or synagogue, four walls built to contain and define the holy: neither the awesome, numinous quality of the mountain, nor the total openness of the field, but something in between—humble and homely, with clear limits and boundaries; a vessel for spirituality for all people, and not only for extraordinary individuals.

The field suggests God’s omnipresence: Isaac, the meditative mystic, sees God everywhere, in very flower and every blade of grass, but especially in open, natural settings far from the noise of human society. One is reminded of the Baal Shem Tov, or of the Zohar’s “Melekh basadeh”—the “King in the Field”—as a symbol for total accessibility of the Divine.

Therein lies the crux of the difference between Esau and Isaac. A field is open, infinite, seemingly ordinary. It can be a site for awakening profound mystical awareness—or a place you cross over without much thought to get from one place to another, or even a place to shoot and kill wild animals. Nature mysticism, or world unitive mysticism—the insight that God is everywhere—can be a very profound level of consciousness, or may seem meaningless or trivial, beyond the ken of those who are not so attuned. The strange affinity between Yitzhak and Esau related to their both being connected to the field. “See the fragrance of my son, like the fragrance of the field which God has blessed” (Gen 27:27). But Isaac was ultimately misled by Esau, in thinking that he had the same kind of consciousness as himself.