Vayishlach. From Rachel to Rachel

As the attention in parashat vayishlach tends to focus on Yaakov’s foundational fight with the Angel- the one that gave him the name Israel, followed by his reconciliation with his brother Esav, we sometimes forget that another transition happens in this parasha.

His little brother Benyamin is born, and in the same movement, their mother dies.

“And Rachel died, and she was buried on the road leading to Efrat, which is Bethlehem.” (Bereshit 35.19)

וַתָּ֖מָת רָחֵ֑ל וַתִּקָּבֵר֙ בְּדֶ֣רֶךְ אֶפְרָ֔תָה הִ֖וא בֵּ֥ית לָֽחֶם

Writing these lines in a very Parisian cafe, just weeks before what westerners called ‘christmas’, it makes me smile, thinking how a few generations before the child whose birth my christian neighbors are about to celebrate, one of my own foremothers was buried right there, on the road to Bet-lechem.

Yesterday late at night, I saw on social networks the face of another Rachel.

The mother of Hersh Goldberg Polin. She was speaking at the Jewish Federation of New York.She was, as usual, deep, articulate, strong, clear.

She had so much clarity about her pain, and about her love.

One thing struck me, however.

There was not one word of resentment in her speech.

Not one word of hatred. Neither for the terrorists who killed her son, nor for the People who are attacking her country, nor for the crowds shouting for the River to the Sea. Nor for God.

Rachel had better to do than occupy herself with anger or resentment.

And this is just what the Mei Ha shiloach is teaching, when commenting on another form of deep relationship between a man and a woman - this time, husband and wife: he is talking about Yaakov’s reaction to his  wife's death.

The text doesn’t say anything about it. But the Mei Hashiloach infers it from a geographic indication in the pshat of the text

“And Yisrael journeyed, and spread his tent beyond the tower of Eider.”( Bereshit, 35:21)

ויסע ישראל ויט אהלה מהלאה למגדל עדר.

And as Israel resided in that region (35.22)

וַיְהִ֗י בִּשְׁכֹּ֤ן יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ בָּאָ֣רֶץ הַהִ֔וא

Nothing, in the biblical narrative, is superfluous.

In fact, often, the chassidic commentators, just like the Chinese painters, read geographical indications as metaphors for human mindset.

The Mei ha shiloach first calls on the midrash (Ruth Rabba, 2:7) to get to his point

“Even after all the tribulations and adventures of Yaakov Avinu, the death of Rachel was more difficult on him than all of them.”

The son, they suggest, deeply suffered from the untimely, unexpected death of his mother.

And to the mei ha shiloach, the geographical indication that he ‘dwelt’ means that instead of being restless, he stayed still, very still.

This is the notion of “yishuv hadaat’ - settling of the mind, in a Jewish ethical perspective: A settled mind is a mind with equanimity, a mind that is able to ‘stay put’, to stay still through suffering.

This denotes a form of consciousness that knows that stillness is the best response to pain: it is a way of letting the pain move through us, all the way. Until it is done.

“Dwelling”, says the Mei Hashiloach, ‘signifies acceptance, as he accepted it and did not at all question God’s attributes”

Dwelling in hebrew is lishkon.

From here comes the word shekhina, which is the feminine aspect of the divine, who makes its presence immanent, by coming and dwelling among us.And this time, seems to suggest the Mei Ha Shiloach, it is Yaakov who takes on the feminine attribute of the shekhina, as he stays still while the pain moves through him.

Accepting one the worst thing in the world: the untimely  death of a loved one, could make one murmur against God.

So easily.

We see this all too often in a time of war.

In the biblical story, the husband became very still when his loved one died.

In today’s Israel-Hamas excruciatingly long war, the mother keeps traveling the world since her son died.

Since he was taken captive, in fact.

I remember, just a few days after October 7 last year, seeing her for the first time, in a powerful speech at the UN.

“It is too easy to hate”, was the kernel of her message then.

These words were pronounced by a woman who had just seen, a few weeks before, her son, on arm blown away by a hand grenade, being thrown into a truck and beaten on his way to captivity.

“It is too easy to hate” she said then, embodying the heroic courage of the Shekhina, the grace of the divine presence among us.

Today, more than a year later, and after her son was shot in captivity, she keeps traveling the world. 

She keeps moving, but something in her remains very still: just like Yaakov, her soul keeps her deep equanimity. Her words don’t rise against God. They don’t rise against, they rise for.

She is no longer pleading for her son, but for the remaining hostages. 

And perhaps above all, for us to wake up.

In a couple of hours, I will be in a synagogue, calling the shekhina, as I sing Lecha Dodi. singing to her ‘hitoreri, hitoreri’ awaken, awaken.

From Rachel to Rachel, from love to love, we have so much to learn from them.

Now is the time to sit still. Now is the time to wake up.

Shabbat shalom