Senior Sermon: Parashat Toldot
“Once upon a time” are words that draw us into a story, into a sense of comfort. From a place of security and distance, we are able to observe, identify with, laugh at, and question characters who comfort, challenge, confuse, and captivate us. For each of us, the interpretation is different, speaking to our individual experiences, especially when we face critical decisions that greatly impact our lives. Perhaps this is why our favorite characters always seem to speak directly to us— we know them: the desires that drive them, their challenges and conflicts, and the questions that keep us engaged in their stories. And, for each of us, in times of spiritual or professional difficulty, we may just find what we need in the stories that we hear or read—the stories that we love.
This same love holds true for the stories of Genesis. The deaths of Sarah and Abraham create a need for a new story with compelling characters, but the meet-cute and marriage occur in parashat Chayei Sarah. In a Disneyesque “happily ever after”, we would see the historically idealized familial archetype: a strong father and a fertile mother, producing scores of bouncing babies, each differentiated only by contrasting colored hats. But that’s not necessarily the way life works…and that’s not what we get in Toldot.
Instead Toldot begins grimly for the future generations of Isaac: Rebekah appears unable to conceive, and Isaac, usually passive, proactively prays on her behalf. When Rebekah finally does conceive, she suffers through an extraordinarily painful pregnancy, with no “happily ever after” in sight. Contrary to the common stereotype that she should be an amenable maternal figure quietly enduring this laborious ordeal, Rebekah instead asks Im kein, lamah zeh anochi? “If this is so, why is this for me?” and then “Vateilech lidrosh et Adonai”--she goes off to demand answers from God.
Rebekah’s question confounds patriarchal expectations: shouldn’t she be satisfied to be a patient, gracious, and subservient wife and mother? But as Jewish historian and commentator Maurice Samuel writes, “This is not the submissive and servile female of popular tradition.” Rebekah has never been a woman to sit meekly by. Even the Torah’s editors understood that she was no ordinary woman, which is perhaps why she appears (more than once) on an otherwise generic genealogical list.
She is a wonder-woman with gumption, who has a history of showing up to do the unexpected, serving up buckets of water to strangers, running back and forth to care for ten camels, claiming confidently “Eileich”—“I will go” to join Eliezer on a journey to a new land, falling—or, perhaps, leaping—off her own camel when spotting Isaac wandering in the field, and finally donning her own veil of betrothal, independently choosing Isaac as soon as she sees him. Preferring to pair words with action, Rebekah not only questions God and God’s decisions in parashat Toldot, but also walks off with determination, demanding answers and ultimately making a decision that has powerfully impacted upon Jewish destiny. As Samuel describes Rebekah, “she was born for it, she prepared for it, and she alone could have carried it off.”
"Im kein, lamah zeh anochi?”—interpreting Rebekah’s question is by no means an easy feat. Our ancient commentators understand this as a fragment and use it as an opportunity to fill an important gap. Both Rashi and Ibn Ezra claim that this sentence fragment reflects Rebekah’s emotional outcry during an unusually painful pregnancy. The Radak adds texture to this theory: after Rebekah consulted with other women who did not endure such pain, she asks “If no one else has experienced this, then why should such a difficult pregnancy be reserved for me?”
The Ramban, by contrast, suggests that this question goes beyond Rebekah’s unique physical suffering. It is existential: im kein “If it shall be so with me, lamah zeh anochi, why do I even exist in this world? I tend to blend the Radak with the Ramban, believing that Rebekah’s demand for answers—Im kein, lamah zeh anochi?— If so, why is this for me?!?—shows us that Rebekah doesn’t just accept her fate; she asks and then acts. Her question focuses not only on her prescribed maternal role, but on exploring a greater understanding of her life and its purpose. Absorbed in her own thoughts, Rebekah’s fragmented question might be interpreted as: “Who am I really?” “Who do I want to be?” “How do I want to be seen?”
What might happen if Rebekah’s entire family asked themselves “Im kein, lamah zeh anochi?” during their greatest challenge in Toldot—when they reach the crux of the Jacob-Esau sibling rivalry—that being Isaac’s deathbed debacle? Rebekah’s existential question might just give us a glimpse into the inner characters of Isaac, Jacob, Esau, and Rebekah (for this is a perpetual exercise)— each one of them asking, “Im kein, lamah zeh anochi”—in their own way, exceeding or avoiding our expectations about who they should be and how they should behave.
Im kein, lamah zeh anochi? we can imagine Isaac’s horror when he realizes that he did not actually bless his firstborn son—“If so, why is it me?” Isaac, who should be the master of the house, is blind and enfeebled, his death imminent, his immediate surroundings unsecure. Scarred with lifelong trauma and feelings of victimization after the events of the Akedah, Isaac’s dogged challenge of Jacob’s identity (“Mi atah b’ni?” “Who are you my son?”) shows an unusual strength in the face of his uncertainty. But then, when Esau enters, Isaac is at a loss: he has no blessing for Esau, only blame for Jacob. Throughout adulthood, this patriarchal model has been deceived by those he trusted and loved most: his desire to do right by his own sons weakened by his inability to truly see them for who they are.
Im kein, lamah zeh anochi? we can hear the kol of Yaakov—Jacob asking himself, “But why?!? Is it me?” Picture for a moment, feeling like Jacob, that you need to hide or change your identity in order to feel accepted, to feel loved, to feel blessed. Picture someone repeatedly questioning whether you’re sure about who you are (as Isaac does four times within this scene)—and the danger that lies in responding truthfully. Picture acting out of respect, out of duty, out of fear, and when asked “Mi atah b’ni?”—“Who are you, my son?”—you just don’t know how to answer. Picture, if you can, that in the moment when you are finally blessed, it happens in a way where you remain unseen. Jacob, the youngest and weakest son, both finds and loses himself in a deathbed game of deception: by hook or by crook, by birthright or by blessing, Jacob is going to take what he believes he deserves. This is Jacob’s conflict in our story: can he ever truly get what he wants while being steadfast to who he is?
Im kein, lamah zeh anochi? we can envision Esau, our strongman, our hunter, crying out “Are you kidding? Why?!? This is me!” Esau, heralded as the strongest and eldest brother certainly seems to fit his assumed archetype: he is sent off to hunt in order to get his father’s blessing. But it doesn’t turn out that way. Be it bargaining for food, or breaking down emotionally and repeatedly begging for blessings, Esau challenges the storyline with his crying. In a storm of emotion, Esau screams bitterly “Vayitzak tz’akah”— “Barcheini gam-ani Avi!”, “Bless me too Father!” There is no laughter here for Yitzchak. Isaac is heartbroken and at a loss (and so I imagine are we all), when Esau asks “Ha-b’racha achat hi l’cha avi?” “Have you only one blessing my father?” Esau, assuming that the storyline would work out in his favor, is crushed, and our tough male archetype breaks us with a touch of his tenderness when “Vayevkh”—when he wept.
Im kein, lamah zeh anochi? Rebekah, meant to be a caring maternal figure and devoted bride has eavesdropped and planned a coup against her eldest son, directing her youngest son in a strategy that not only highlights her parental favoritism, but also challenges what was once a loving and supportive relationship with her husband. And yet, even with her family imploding around her, we realize that perhaps Rebekah is revisiting her original question “If all of this is happening, why is this for me?” Her actions may reflect God’s revelation that eventually the world would see the elder serving the younger. If this is so—im kein, then we should not let Rebekah’s seemingly treacherous actions portray her as the story’s villain (as she is often seen), but rather as someone who understood that her purpose was undoubtedly a painful one: to ensure that God’s original storyboard was acted out appropriately, the world seeing that the younger had indeed secured the birthright and the blessing, the elder the second-servings and the servitude. As Samuel writes poignantly, Rebekah “exits as she entered, in brilliant action.”
It can be difficult to revisit old stories through new lenses (though, of course Wicked seems to have done all right for itself), but through the lens of “Im kein, lamah zeh anochi?”, I hope that we—perhaps unlike Isaac and Jacob, but particularly like Esau, Rebekah—and Elphaba—might be able to assess our own archetypes, challenge our own assumptions, and assert our own authentic selves. I have no doubt that this is easier said than done. When facing questions like im kein—“Why is this happening to us?”, “What is this for?”, “Where are we going?”, “What happens next?”—we sometimes feel shaken, unseen, and unsure. Will we be able to live up to the hype—that we are invincible, that we know all the answers, that we are able to find the inner strength to deal with our conflicts, controversies, and concerns? What if instead—like Rebekah—we were able to pause, and ask the same question of ourselves as aspiring clergy members? What if by asking ourselves “Im kein, lamah zeh anochi?” we were able to break down the archetypal expectations of us and, instead, bring our full selves to the table?
I invite you to take a moment, close your eyes, and let an image come to your mind. Invent the ideal clergy person—what characteristics do you ascribe to that person? Are they kind? Patient? Are they a good listener? Do they often come through with good solutions? Do they somehow always magically create time, making you feel like the center of the universe while also never being late for an appointment? Do the same exercise with the ideal professional, professor, or parent. How close are you to your ideal? But, then again, how realistic is it for us to assume that we would all fit into one stereotype? We get so caught up in the assumptions of who we think others want us to be, that often we cannot see ourselves for who we truly are. Are we really serving our God, our communities, or ourselves if we are only acting out a clergy archetype?
Martin Buber, in his thought-provoking work The Way of Man tells a tale of Rabbi Baer of Radoshitz who asked his teacher, the Seer of Lublin: “Show me the customary way to the service of God!” Rabbi Baer is asking: “What is the one way to serve?” The Seer of Lublin responds that this is the wrong question: there is no ONE way to serve. Buber writes “With every person, something new is placed into the world, something that has never existed before, something that is original and unique.”
In our own stories, today, we constantly need to remind ourselves to let go of comparisons and to focus, perhaps, on the anochi—the “I” that we are bringing to our relationships, to our encounters with the outside world. While there are those who presume to know us, there is the possibility that they too are looking at us through the lens of their own stories, assigning us to archetypes that they expect us to meet. We need to believe—to know—that we can release ourselves from those constraints. Incorporating our own reflections into who we are and the work that we hope to do, we narrate our own story when we face situations of injustice or when we aim to bring wisdom to encourage those whose own stories have hit a dead-end or an unmanageable cliffhanger.
“Im kein, lamah zeh anochi? Vateilech lidrosh et Adonai.” Rebekah understood the assignment: she paused, processed, asked, and then acted. –“If so, why is this for me?”—may very well be the first question that compels us to rise and take action, especially when the world around us seems so daunting. Questions like “Why is this happening?” result in necessary reflection which promotes necessary action and change. When we are able to start by asking ourselves “Why is this for me?” we defeat the stereotypes that others have projected onto us and instead, take ownership of our own stories by embracing our full identities. Once we have done that,we put ourselves in a position to influence those around us, not by attempting to meet their expectations, but by focusing our sights on our own full selves. Only then can we stand proudly, assert our individual identities, and claim our “anochi”—the “I-ness” that truly defines our characters and enables us to draft our own narratives.