Why Itzchak and not Ishmael? Why Yaacov and not Esav?
The emotional climax of this week's Torah portion, Parashat Toldot, is recorded in chapter 27. It unfolds when Jacob is no longer with Itzchak, having deceived him by impersonating Esav. At that moment, Esav enters, and father and son slowly realize what has occurred. The text recounts:
"Itzchak trembled violently and said, 'Then who was it that hunted game and brought it to me? I ate it just before you came, and I blessed him, and indeed he will be blessed!' When Esav heard his father’s words, he burst out with a loud and bitter cry and said to his father, 'Bless me, me too, my father!'" (Genesis 27:33–34).
This is one of the most poignant descriptions in the entire Torah, and its result is the opposite of what we might expect. We might assume the Torah aligns our sympathies with the chosen figures: Itzchak and Yaacov. Instead, it almost compels us to empathize with the excluded: Hagar, Ishmael, and Esav. We feel their pain and sense of loss.
So why Itzchak and not Ishmael? Why Yaacov and not Esav?
There are two types of answers to this question. The first comes from the midrash. In this interpretation, Itzchak and Yaacov are the righteous ones, while Ishmael and Esav are not.
Ishmael worshiped idols, violated married women, and tried to kill Isaac with a bow and arrow under the guise of an accident. Esav, according to the midrash, was drawn to idol worship even in the womb. He deceived not only animals but also his father, Itzchak, by pretending to be pious when he was not. God shortened Abraham's life by five years so he would not witness his grandson violating a married woman, committing murder, denying God, rejecting the resurrection of the dead, and despising his birthright.
This is the way of the midrash: it helps us see Itzchak and Yaacov as entirely good and Ishmael and Esav as dangerous and wicked. This perspective is an essential part of our tradition.
But it is not what the Torah itself states, at least not if we consider what Rashbam called the omek peshuto shel mikra, the "deep and straightforward meaning of the Scriptures."
The Torah does not depict Ishmael and Esav as evil. The worst it says of Ishmael is that Sarah saw him metzachek (Genesis 21:9), a word with multiple meanings, most of them neutral. Literally, it means "he was laughing." Abraham and Sarah also laughed, as did Itzchak himself—whose name, chosen by God, means "he will laugh." There is nothing inherently inappropriate in the word.
Regarding Esav, the Torah tells us: “The boys grew up, and Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the open country, while Jacob was content to stay at home among the tents” (Genesis 25:27).
Rabbinic interpretations, often motivated by context external to the text itself, establish the opposition between these brothers from the outset. "The boys grew up" expresses no value judgment, yet their growth has been described as fundamentally opposing: one flourishing and noble, the other thorny and harmful; one devoted to his father’s faith, the other idolatrous.
The midrash compares them to a myrtle and a thornbush growing side by side:
"This is analogous to a myrtle and a thornbush that grew adjacent to each other. When they matured and blossomed, one gave off a fragrance, and the other produced thorns. For thirteen years, they both went to school and returned together. After thirteen years, one went to the houses of study, and the other to houses of idol worship..." (Bereshit Rabbah 63:10).
Ibn Ezra adds: "Esau was a cunning hunter who constantly practiced deception, for most animals are caught through trickery. Jacob was his antithesis: a man of integrity."
The Torah itself only speaks of Esav’s hunting skills. Yet in this interpretation, being a hunter becomes synonymous with developing negative traits of deceit and cunning, whereas it could just as easily depict a hero or champion in other contexts. This contrast is amplified by commentators who juxtapose Esav’s cunning with Jacob’s integrity.
Here lies the crux of the matter. To understand the Torah, we must remember that ancient religions revered nature. People found their gods in the moon, the sun, the stars, the storms, the rain that nourished the earth and provided sustenance.
From this, the sages inferred that Esav’s attachment to nature rendered him inherently suspect, almost pagan from birth. This narrative, shaped by historical contexts and the commentators' personal motivations, cemented itself over generations as certainty—a belief in the inherent wickedness of one of our patriarchs’ sons, equally a son as Jacob.
In a crucial moment for relations with our neighbors in Israel, it is time to change the narrative.
Isaac and Jacob were not men of the field, of nature, of the gladiator game of hunter and prey. They were not Ishmael and Esav, who could survive by their strength and skill. They were men who relied on the spirit of God for survival.
In the Torah these brothers reunite and embrace. That moment arose from a bitter and profound cry, the cry of a distance that robbed them of hope. We must avoid a greater cry by understanding that within the peoples who face us, there are those who also long for hope, for reconciliation, and for a chance to embrace without tears of separation.
Israel is the people that, through its existence, testifies to something beyond itself. The Jewish people have consistently demonstrated that it is possible for a small nation to make an outsized contribution to humanity and to survive empires seeking its destruction. They have shown that a nation is strong when it cares for the weak and rich when it cares for the poor.
We are as great as our ideals. If we truly believe in something greater than ourselves, we can transcend our limitations. But this must include respecting those with different inclinations and preferences without disparagement or disdain.
The Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges offers a reflection on the first fratricide in history—the first of countless brothers who continue to kill each other to this day:
"Abel and Cain met again after Abel’s death. They were walking through the desert and recognized each other from afar, for both were very tall. They sat on the ground, made a fire, and ate. They kept silent, as tired people do when the day ends. In the sky, a star appeared, still unnamed. By the firelight, Cain saw the mark of the stone on Abel’s forehead and dropped the bread he was about to eat. He asked for forgiveness for his crime. Abel replied:
‘Have you killed me, or have I killed you? I no longer remember; here we are together, as before.’”
Today, again "Here we are together, as before."
This Shabbat, the first after 60 weeks of conflict in northern Medinat Yisrael, we finally see a ceasefire.
This Shabbat, too, we bless the arrival of the month of Kislev, the month of light, in which the element of fire occupies a positive place.
May the coming month bring “days of grace and forgiveness” , as Lea Goldberg’s poem suggests. for our brothers and sisters in Medinat Yisrael the State of Israel and for all of us in the diaspora.
May we witness moments like the embrace between Jacob and Esav and walk safely through the fields in peace.
May all hostages be returned immediately to their homes and families.
May peace reign over the land of our ancestors.
Shabbat Shalom veChodesh Urim Tov, Have a good and light-filled month.
Rabbi Gustavo Geier