My First D'var Torah
Text of the D’var:
My sister Alyssa and I grew up together: we watched the same Disney movies, we spent our summers at Camp Harlam, we escaped to NFTY PAR retreats, we berated referees and Joe Buck, but for some reason, we never saw eye to eye on much. My parents have similar relationships with their siblings. Though our love for our siblings is unconditional, we fail to achieve that best friend, buddy-buddy sibling relationship that we so dearly covet.
In Toledot, we are introduced to Jacob and Esau, a sibling duo that also doesn’t see eye to eye on much. Over the years, the rabbis have colored a black and white contrast between them of good versus bad, us versus them, charmer versus brute. In chapter 25, verse 23, the Lord says to Rivka:
שְׁנֵ֤י גוֹיִם בְּבִטְנֵ֔ךְ וּשְׁנֵ֣י לְאֻמִּ֔ים מִמֵּעַ֖יִךְ יִפָּרֵ֑דוּ
“Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples shall be separated from you.”
Traditionally, we read this as divisive, as the birth of a yin and a yang, of an us Jews versus them, gentiles. In the Sforno commentary, we are taught that Rivka is carrying two peoples who have opposing ideas of nationalism. It distinguishes not only will they have different communities of faith, but also different political and national identities. In the commentary of Rabbi Moshe Alshich, we are taught that Jacob and Esau have diverging philosophies, leading to inevitable conflict, for the success of one is the fall of the other.
Along the same lines is the Hatam Sofer, a leading rabbinic voice in the early 19th century. He taught that there is a connection between the word Te’omim, which means twins and, Temimim, which means purely - totally - completely. He ascribed Esau as purely wicked and Jacob the opposite. But why don’t we flip this paradigm on its head? The only thing that Jacob and Esau are purely, totally, completely, is brothers. Though they may be fundamentally different, that difference does not create an irreparable polarization, void of love or respect. That difference presents an opportunity to grow, to learn, to broaden your horizons and inch closer to your own completeness.
The first time I visited Michael Levin’s grave at Har Herzl, a soldier in the IDF from suburban Philadelphia who fell in the 2006 Lebanon war, I was struck by the Philadelphia paraphernalia visitors left: mini footballs, hats, helmets, notes, shirts, pictures. Littered among a pile of Phillies hats, “Jacob hats”, lay a lone hat: a Cowboys hat, “an Esau hat”. What disrespectful fool had the audacity to leave this hat among the hats of Michael’s cherished Philadelphia teams? I was almost offended, until I brushed my childish rivalry away. The hat was placed there out of solidarity, to say this rivalry you and I have means nothing, our brotherhood reigns far above any differences of opinion we might have had in our life.
Perhaps then, this is not a story about divisiveness, about us versus them, about black versus white; this is a story about embrace. At the end of Jacob and Esau’s ordeal comes embrace. Not the fake handshake and smiles that Obama and Romney shared during the debates – but a genuine, emotional and physical embrace. It teaches us that though we may disagree, trivially or fundamentally, we all come from the same mother. Whether you are Republican or Democrat, whether you are Israeli or Palestinian, whether you are an Eagles fan or a Giants fan, whether you are a Jacob or an Esau, we all grow stronger and wiser from each other’s differences and deserve each other’s respect. My yin is nothing without your yang, and the piano is nothing without the black keys.
Please excuse the mistake when I say “we are introduced to Isaac and Esau”. I mean Jacob and Esau.