In Anat Hoffman’s commentary on this weeks Torah Portion in the wonderful book Dabri Torah, she surveys the textual and mental gymnastics performed by generations of commentators with one sentence from it: “And she went to inquire of YHWH" (Genesis 25:22). According to Hoffman, the bottom line is clear: the authors of the midrashim could not tolerate that our mother Rebecca should have such a prerogative in the Book of Genesis and in the stories of the patriarchs—how could a matriarch be the first to initiate a direct, unmediated encounter with God? Impossible.
In her effort to restore to Rebecca’s initiative the honor it deserves, to make it what it truly is—an act that is courageous, bold, and subversive, of a single woman demanding accountability from a single God—Hoffman also notes the two recurring verbs in this part of the story: הלך (to go), from which all of halakha, the Jewish codex, ultimately grows, and דרש (to Demand/Require), the demand placed on a person or a text to change and be changed.
In contrast to Rebecca—who goes and inquires—Jacob is “a quiet man, dwelling in tents” (Genesis 25:27). Nevertheless, Rebecca loves Jacob (Genesis 25:28), even though according to this description he is very different from her. The second matriarch is characterized as an active and energetic woman whose life story is full of action, decisions, and fateful changes—from her choice to go with Eliezer to her going out to seek God, to stealing the birthright for her beloved son through tricks and cunning. There is no excess innocence here, and it seems that even the tent-dwelling—a traditionally feminine role—is far removed from her.
And perhaps this is what confused commentators throughout the millennia, until the women commentators arrived and insisted that we tell a different story.
In a speech delivered by Dr. Sarah Bernstein, Director of the Rossing Center for Education and Dialogue, at an event held at the Vatican marking 60 years since Nostra Aetate—the declaration issued by the Catholic Church acknowledging the significance of other religions and seeking to confront generations of violence, alienation, and contempt—she reminds us of two things:
First, that in order to bring about change, we must grapple with our deepest beliefs about reality. And second—and more importantly—that in the face of cruelty and injustice, losing hope is a form of surrender. To give up would be to cooperate with the darkness. Hope is a moral imperative and a conscious decision, and we must continue to work to create change against all odds.
In his Thoughts on this parsha, published last year in this newsletter, Rabbi Amichai Lau-Lavi wrote this modern Midrash:
"You will be the mother of thousands,
The two in your womb shall be blessed, both together,
Like the stars of the heavens and the sand on the shores of the sea
Through them, all the nations of the earth shall be blessed,
From deep within the fertile earth and the dew of the heaven’s love above,
For life,
In peace".
A new story, a different story, one of life and of peace.
It is hard to write about life and peace with an arm still wounded from a Jewish terror attack—an attack whose perpetrators have not yet been caught.
It is hard to imagine a different future amid the dust of war and the smoke of fires, amid the endless images of pain and suffering that have been burned into our retinas over the past two years.
It is very hard not to let fear and despair paralyze us, faced with threats from within and from without.
It is hard to remember that hope is inner work, not an external event.
And yet. This is the call of the moment.
This difficult hour demands of us—denies us the privilege of being quiet people dwelling in tents—and insists: go, step out, and seek. Seek change, seek something different, seek life, seek peace.
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Rabbi Dana Sharon in the Head of the Rabbis Network for Rabbis for Human Rights. She was ordained by HUC-JIR in 2021. Recently, she was injured in a Jewish terror attack that occurred while she was present as a protective observer during the olive harvest in the area of Deir Istiya.
In her effort to restore to Rebecca’s initiative the honor it deserves, to make it what it truly is—an act that is courageous, bold, and subversive, of a single woman demanding accountability from a single God—Hoffman also notes the two recurring verbs in this part of the story: הלך (to go), from which all of halakha, the Jewish codex, ultimately grows, and דרש (to Demand/Require), the demand placed on a person or a text to change and be changed.
In contrast to Rebecca—who goes and inquires—Jacob is “a quiet man, dwelling in tents” (Genesis 25:27). Nevertheless, Rebecca loves Jacob (Genesis 25:28), even though according to this description he is very different from her. The second matriarch is characterized as an active and energetic woman whose life story is full of action, decisions, and fateful changes—from her choice to go with Eliezer to her going out to seek God, to stealing the birthright for her beloved son through tricks and cunning. There is no excess innocence here, and it seems that even the tent-dwelling—a traditionally feminine role—is far removed from her.
And perhaps this is what confused commentators throughout the millennia, until the women commentators arrived and insisted that we tell a different story.
In a speech delivered by Dr. Sarah Bernstein, Director of the Rossing Center for Education and Dialogue, at an event held at the Vatican marking 60 years since Nostra Aetate—the declaration issued by the Catholic Church acknowledging the significance of other religions and seeking to confront generations of violence, alienation, and contempt—she reminds us of two things:
First, that in order to bring about change, we must grapple with our deepest beliefs about reality. And second—and more importantly—that in the face of cruelty and injustice, losing hope is a form of surrender. To give up would be to cooperate with the darkness. Hope is a moral imperative and a conscious decision, and we must continue to work to create change against all odds.
In his Thoughts on this parsha, published last year in this newsletter, Rabbi Amichai Lau-Lavi wrote this modern Midrash:
"You will be the mother of thousands,
The two in your womb shall be blessed, both together,
Like the stars of the heavens and the sand on the shores of the sea
Through them, all the nations of the earth shall be blessed,
From deep within the fertile earth and the dew of the heaven’s love above,
For life,
In peace".
A new story, a different story, one of life and of peace.
It is hard to write about life and peace with an arm still wounded from a Jewish terror attack—an attack whose perpetrators have not yet been caught.
It is hard to imagine a different future amid the dust of war and the smoke of fires, amid the endless images of pain and suffering that have been burned into our retinas over the past two years.
It is very hard not to let fear and despair paralyze us, faced with threats from within and from without.
It is hard to remember that hope is inner work, not an external event.
And yet. This is the call of the moment.
This difficult hour demands of us—denies us the privilege of being quiet people dwelling in tents—and insists: go, step out, and seek. Seek change, seek something different, seek life, seek peace.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Dana Sharon in the Head of the Rabbis Network for Rabbis for Human Rights. She was ordained by HUC-JIR in 2021. Recently, she was injured in a Jewish terror attack that occurred while she was present as a protective observer during the olive harvest in the area of Deir Istiya.