Vayetse. The force of vulnerability

It is winter in the Northern Hemisphere, and the nights are growing longer.

Because so much of the culture of Am Israel (the people of Israel) was built in harmony with the nature of the land where it emerged nearly six millennia ago, the month we entered a week ago, Kislev, is known as the month of sleep.

Now, as the Talmud reminds us, sleep is such a precious state to inhabit:

within this form of consciousness, which our tradition considers a small foretaste of what it is like to disappear — “a sixtieth of death” — there awaits a treasure: a sixtieth of prophecy.

What is prophecy?

It is not the ability to predict the future, or to speak for God, as is too commonly believed.

It is about receiving Life’s messages.

And all it takes in order to receive is to make ourselves available.

This, in fact, is the ultimate goal of Kabbalah (which means “receiving”) — the tradition of Jewish mysticism — and the inner work it invites us into.

And while Kabbalah was reserved for millennia to an elite of learned spiritual practitioners, since the Hasidic revolution of the nineteenth century and onward, our sages have encouraged us to see it as our birthright.

Much of the teaching of the Piaseczno Rebbe is grounded in this encouragement: to believe that we too can be prophets, so to speak; that we too can be so deeply connected to the Source of Life. That we can receive the messages we need, and allow ourselves to be guided in our everyday lives toward living in alignment with the Source of Life, exactly as our unique soul is meant to walk in this world.

And almost inevitably, it seems to require some form of leaving the known, some form of exile, some form of losing sight of the shore, in order for us to become available to such messages and such guidance.

Such is the story of Yaakov at the opening of our parasha.

Yaakov is in distress. He has had to flee his brother’s revenge — the brother from whom he took the birthright and then, deceitfully, their father’s blessing.

As he leaves everything he has ever known behind, somewhere between his father’s house and his uncle’s house, where he is headed, he finds himself alone as the sun sets, in an unidentified place — probably in the middle of the Negev desert, in the land of Israel — which the verse calls simply, “the place.”

“And he encountered the place and spent the night there, because the sun had set. And he took from the stones of the place and placed them at his head, and he lay down in that place.”— Bereshit (Genesis) 28:11

וַיִּפְגַּ֨ע בַּמָּק֜וֹם וַיָּ֤לֶן שָׁם֙ כִּי־בָ֣א הַשֶּׁ֔מֶשׁ 

וַיִּקַּח֙ מֵֽאַבְנֵ֣י הַמָּק֔וֹם וַיָּ֖שֶׂם מְרַֽאֲשֹׁתָ֑יו וַיִּשְׁכַּ֖ב בַּמָּק֥וֹם הַהֽוּא:

The place has no name.

Yaakov is in a no-man’s-land.

And perhaps this is how we may want to name those spaces we find ourselves in when we are “in between”:

between jobs or careers, between relationships, between what we knew and what we have left, not knowing what will come next.

Anonymous, unknown, unfamiliar, “the place” can feel frightening.

But what if it were the most beautiful gift we were given?

One of the most beautiful teachings of this parasha may be hinted at in a remez — a subtle allusion — within the very word “place.”

HaMakom is also one of the Names of the Source of Life.

And just as Yaakov lies down to sleep in “the place,” surrendering his consciousness to rest deeply right where he is, just as he is — not trying to be anywhere else, not trying to control his environment as he had earlier in his life, but truly surrendering to it — Yaakov receives prophecy in his dream.

He receives a message from God: a message that everything will be all right.

I have heard many testimonies from Talmidim throughout the years, who shared that sometimes, it was in the most unexpected moments — in moments of deepest loneliness and distress — that somehow, they received a message: that, somehow, everything would be all right.

Such messages were also received by some of the returned hostages who survived captivity in the tunnels of Gaza.

Or Levi, Elie Sharabi, Omer Shem Tov, and others, have recounted how somehow, they had heard a message. Just like Yaakov in his dream.

And for most of them, it was the first time — the very first time they had an encounter with the Divine. Just like Yaakov.

In the pit of darkness, of all places. Just like Yaakov.

I know I experienced it myself many years ago, when I was suffering from depression in my early twenties and could see no future.

A message came from nowhere.

And just like Yaakov, at that time “I did not know” (Lo yadati) God: I had no relationship at all with faith, prayer, Jewish life, or even an idea of God.

And perhaps this is one of the most profound teachings of our parasha, hidden in plain sight, in the very generic, impersonal name: the Place — HaMakom.

The midrash in Bereshit Rabbah reveals it to us:

It rereads the verse not as“and he encountered the place” (vayifga bamakom),but as “and he encountered God.”

“‘He encountered the Makom’ — Rav Huna said in the name of Rabbi Ami:Why do we call the Holy One, blessed be He, ‘the Place’?Because He is the place of the world, but the world is not His place.”

רַב הוּנָא בְּשֵׁם רַבִּי אַמֵּי אָמַר מִפְּנֵי מָה מְכַנִּין שְׁמוֹ שֶׁל הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא וְקוֹרְאִין אוֹתוֹ מָקוֹם, 

שֶׁהוּא מְקוֹמוֹ שֶׁל עוֹלָם וְאֵין עוֹלָמוֹ מְקוֹמוֹ, מִן מַה דִּכְתִיב (שמות לג, כא): 

הִנֵּה מָקוֹם אִתִּי,

A book by Mindfulness teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn has for a title: “Wherever you go, there you are.”

I like the simplicity and the profoundness of this reminder.

This week’s parasha reminds us that no matter where we are in the world, and no matter where we are in our lives, we are at home.

And perhaps, precisely when we are lost — when we have lost sight of everything familiar. Perhaps this is the true strength that lies at the heart of vulnerability, as the biblical narratives recount us again and again. Perhaps this is the true Strength of the Jewish People.

Not that it erases the vulnerability, the loneliness, or the hurt. We have experienced it throughout our collective History, and we are again right now. The vulnerability is vulnerable. But it can be fertile. Because somehow, it is in the moments where everything is stripped away that the sky becomes clearer and we can see the stars.

It is in these moments that the soul cen be seen, and that we can finally see that, truly, just like Yaakov, that we are “in the house of God.” That no matter where we are, we are at home in the world. And right now, where you are, is a good time to see it. Shabbat shalom,