- Text of the passage in Nawat
In ch. 24, a generation (though only three chapters!) ago, Abraham told his servant (and thereby also us, the listeners or readers, via the narrator) that he was so against his son marrying a local woman (there, a Canaanite) that he preferred to send his son away to his relatives in Paddan-Aram, and so it was that Rebecca was brought to Canaan to marry Isaac. Now the same idea is repeated in essence, but Rebecca herself is the one who expresses the same concern: her son Jacob is not to be allowed to marry a local (in this case, "Hittite") woman, so he too is to be sent to Paddan-Aram, to the house of her brother Laban, from where she herself had come. However, if we take every part of the present narrative at face value, while Rebecca may have thought in this way she was actually using this argument with Isaac as a pretext to justify sending Jacob away, while her real main reason was another: to get him away from Esau, who was thinking of murdering Jacob once their father Isaac passed away. Also connected with this, though only by rather strong implication, is the fact that Esau had already married two Hittite women, much to Isaac and Rebecca's consternation (26:34-5). That ties in with the present events, despite what we said about v. 15.
27:56 lámma li xayyim
Perhaps: 'What's the point of my life?' Cf. 25:22 and note on lámma ze anókhi.
28:1 wayvárekh oto
Although this says that Isaac blessed Jacob, Speiser believes that in the present context this does not refer to a formal blessing (however, in EH 's interpretation "by this act, Isaac confirms Jacob's title to the birthright"), but only to a conventional greeting (perhaps as in MH barukh haba is used for 'welcome', etc.). In v. 3, on the other hand, Isaac gives him a real blessing, and as usual in such cases, Genesis presents this verbatim.
28:3 el shadday
See my post on the names of God.
END OF SECTION 6
So ends the sixth parasha of Genesis and the only one of the twelve which can in any way be said to be, nominally at least, centred around the figure of the middle patriarch, Isaac, since the fifth is still very much concerned with Abraham, while the seventh follows the fortunes of Abe's grandson Jacob once he has flown from the maternal nest, from which he is expelled rather abruptly on account of the final episode in the process which absorbs most of our attention in the section, and which may therefore be called central: the artifice whereby Jacob, egged on by Rebecca, successfully wrests the blessing linked to the birthright from Esau, the firstborn twin.
If we are really honest with ourselves, there are a number of oddities and unexplained conundrums in the whole birthright business that has been central to this stage of the book which leave us feeling a bit uneasy. The problem seems to be complex, made up of a mixture of ethical enigmas and historical (cultural, legal) obscurities. Ethically, can a "right" (here, the birthright) be morally legitimate if it has been acquired by clearly illegitimate (immoral) means? And in the cultural and historical context that is applicable to this series of anecdotes, were the concepts of birthright and father's blessing really separable? So what would it have meant in this case if Jacob had kept the birthright but Esau had received the blessing? If the young Esau really did give up the birthright and that was binding, did not that in itself (within the logic of the events) entitle Jacob to the blessing which merely seems to ratify that birthright? If so, then perhaps the difficulty was that although the birthright was already legally Jacob's, Isaac had not been told, and rather than confront him with the truth of the matter, Rebecca decides (because she is clearly the one in charge) to resort to a deception to produce the consummation of the deal, apparently using the end to justify the means. But even so, it must be admitted that it was a rash plan, for what did she expect to happen once Isaac (and Esau) found out, as they obviously would as soon as Esau returned from the hunt? How was this going to end, other than as it does or something worse? What was Rebecca thinking?
I would dare to say that these questions pass through everyone's mind when we reflect on this story, but the odd thing in all this is that the authors of the narrative of Genesis show hardly any signs of the kind of uneasiness or remorse about the course taken by its events here which we readers feel. That is not to say they were not aware of the tensions inherent in this part of the plot; if we were in doubt about that, the highly dramatic (and beautifully portrayed) dialogues would be enough to settle the matter. The narrators know very well that we are all on the edges of our seats when Jacob lies to Isaac (27:19, NBIE): ani ‛esaw b'khorékha ‛asíti ka'asher dibbárta elay qum na sh'va w'okhla mittzedi ba‛avur t'var'kháni nafshékha,
I am Esaw your first.They must also have known that Esau's unusually dramatic (for Genesis) expressions of consternation would leave no listener unmoved (27:38): hav'rakha axat hi l'kha avi bar'khéni gam áni avi,
I've done as you told me.
Now sit and eat my game
and bless me.
Maybe you only have
just one blessing, father?
Bless me too!
Father!
The strong emotional charge of these exhanges escapes no one and makes this story unforgettable. Whatever else this passage is, nobody can deny it is a good story, and the authors don't miss the opportunity to play it up a bit through the dialogues, but in contrast, the actions of the protagonists are told with a stark matter-of-factness, and certainly with no hint whatsoever of any value judgment. It is as though there are no good guys and bad guys in this story, just a tragic clash of personalities and purposes. Perhaps it is a tragedy (in the Greek sense) compressed into a handful of verses. Certainly it may be argued that everybody "loses", for even Rebecca and Jacob, the executors of the ruse, must pay for their success by being separated almost immediately, and forever.
There are several other stories of sibling rivalry and conflict in Genesis, but maybe the one we are most obviously reminded of is the precursor of all fights between brothers: Cain and Abel. Of course there are lots of differences: among other things, Cain (the older sibling who also seems initially to get a raw deal) consummates his fury by murdering the unsuspecting Abel, whereas Jacob manages to get away with his life; consequently, Abel's story is cut short, whereas we can follow the subsequent vagaries of Jacob's eventful life. Cain receives punishment from God for his act of violence in the form of expulsion, and Esau also, disowned from the inheritance of Canaan, moves to Edom and founds his own nation, which is at once Israel's "brother" and its rival. But I feel we will agree that all in all, despite the horror of the taking of human life, the Esau-Jacob dispute and the way it is resolved is the more troubling of the two, and I suspect that I know why: it is because we the readers are Jacob's descendants. This is something that we did. The morality of the actions is therefore of more direct concern to us in the bigger picture. Cain was wrong to kill Abel but Cain was Cain, and as for Abel, he is gone. Jacob is still here... I think that is a fair description of what might be at the bottom of a modern reading of this story, and there are interesting psychological ramifications which I should probably refrain from the temptation to explore in the present context, but rather leave to my readers to think about if they so wish.
But I think it would be prudent to draw a line between what reflections inform the modern reading and what might have been in the minds of the original composers of the narrative, lest we risk jumping to too many conclusions. There is a great story here about two brothers, twins in fact, who each think they have a legitimate claim to inherit the father's birthright: Esau, because he was born first; Jacob, because he obtained Esau's promise to cede him the birthright years earlier; an ageing and ailing father who cannot see and is easily manipulated; and a mother who seems to wield de facto authority in the house and is determined to use her power as she sees fit; the ingredients for a drama are there, and they are played out in the story to great literary and dramatic effect. So far, it looks like just that: a great story; moral issues do not seem to be at the centre of this story. It was probably such a good story that it was preserved for ages and retold in every generation long before it got put into writing. What puts it into a more worrying light is the fact that Jacob became Israel; the listener or reader is Israel, is Jacob; now we feel the weight of moral responsibility for Jacob's place in the scheme of things as depicted through this story, and that feels a little less comfortable. But none of that seems to have made the Genesis narrator flinch when telling the story: was that on account of absolute loyalty to the text as it came down, or perhaps because that connection had not yet been made at the time when the text was fixed?
One thing seems clear: once it has happened (or the story has been told), we move on, and in what follows, Jacob's story is told with no more allusions to the "Esau problem" except at the later stage in the story when Jacob returns to Canaan after twenty long years of exile. At that point there will be a resolution, of sorts, to this loose end... and then we will move on once more, never again to look back or remember this shadowy tale, which is certainly not allowed to plague Jacob or his descendants in the long term, for this is Jacob's story, and Jacob is Israel, and Israel is telling the story. Is Israel's own legitimacy thereby to be questioned? Well, what is legitimacy anyway? What's a birthright?
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