Parashat Vayetze: When the Path Opens with Dreams and Tears

Vayetze is a parashah of departure, but not an easy flight. Yaakov leaves his home with fear, guilt, and a heart in turmoil. He departs broken. And perhaps that is precisely why, in that moment—when nothing seems stable—he dreams. A ladder connects heaven and earth. Not to erase what has happened, but to tell him: your path is not disconnected. Angels ascend and descend. Movement. No promise of stillness, but a promise of presence. Yaakov sleeps on a stone, and yet, the heavens draw near. 

He dreams when he has lost control, when everything has slipped from his hands, and he needs exactly a ladder to reconnect him—not only with the earth but also with the sky. Not only with heaven and his spirituality but with the earth and everyday life. That dream does not justify or diminish his deception, but it allows him to regain meaning; it points him toward a path.

וַֽיַּחֲלֹ֗ם וְהִנֵּ֤ה סֻלָּם֙ מֻצָּ֣ב אַ֔רְצָה וְרֹאשׁ֖וֹ מַגִּ֣יעַ הַשָּׁמָ֑יְמָה וְהִנֵּה֙ מַלְאֲכֵ֣י אֱלֹהִ֔ים עֹלִ֥ים וְיֹרְדִ֖ים בּֽוֹ׃

“He had a dream: a ladder was set on the ground, and its top reached the heavens, and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.” (Genesis 28:12)

He, who struggled to reach the highest heights in what he thought mattered—the birthright, his father’s blessing—now dreams of something that forces him to reconsider what true ascent really means: a ladder whose feet rest on the earth and whose top reaches heaven.

Yaakov awakens deeply moved. The Torah tells us:

וַיִּירָא֙ וַיֹּאמַ֔ר מַה־נּוֹרָ֖א הַמָּק֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה אֵ֣ין זֶ֗ה כִּ֚י אִם־בֵּ֣ית אֱלֹהִ֔ים וְזֶ֖ה שַׁ֥עַר הַשָּׁמָֽיִם׃

“Awestruck, he said, ‘How awesome is this place! It is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’” (Genesis 28:17)

The house of God—Bet El—and the gate of heaven—shaar hashamaim. What does this mean?

In the story of the Tower of Babel, humanity attempts to build a structure connecting earth to heaven:

וַיֹּאמְר֞וּ הָ֣בָה ׀ נִבְנֶה־לָּ֣נוּ עִ֗יר וּמִגְדָּל֙ וְרֹאשׁ֣וֹ בַשָּׁמַ֔יִם

“And they said, ‘Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower whose top reaches heaven…’” (Genesis 11:4)

An ambitious project that ends in failure. They sought a “name,” power, ultimate authority. And as always, when one person’s success is built on crushing others, all that remains is dispersion and ruin.

So where is “shaar hashamaim,” the gate of heaven? In the word itself: Babel. Beyond the biblical wordplay with balal (“confuse”), etymological dictionaries—like Klein—show that Bavel comes from Bab (gate) and ilu (god). Two gates of heaven: one fails, the other opens a new life and a people.

Yaakov, through his dream and understanding, redeems in some way the story of Babel. There is no gate of heaven, no positive power, if one reaches it through cruel means. No privilege gained through force or deceit lasts. Nothing good comes—or will come—from gates claimed in the name of “some god” through ill-gotten ways.

Later, the text says something unusual: “Vayisá Yaakov raglav”—Yaakov lifted his feet—as if walking lightly. The Midrash notes that it is his heart that propels him. A heart that has been through an intense spiritual experience… yet still stained by the deception of his father and brother. A heart tested twice in a few short hours.

Here emerges the lesson of onaat devarim, verbal or emotional harm. In the story of Yaakov and Laban, the Torah reminds us that hurt is not always measured by blows or theft; sometimes it hides in what is left unsaid or in disguised intentions. This is the heart of onaat devarim: harm arising from calculated silences, manipulative gestures, or words that conceal the truth. The subtle, the unspoken, can wound as deeply as overt deceit.

And even more: pretending good intentions while hiding bad ones is the gravest form of verbal harm. The Torah calls us to see not just visible actions but the intention behind them, for there lies the true wound, invisible to others, yet felt by God. Rachel, on the other hand, teaches us that words and silence can be instruments of compassion and selflessness; acting with a transparent, generous heart—even sacrificing one’s own place—repairs and elevates rather than destroys.

And then comes the encounter with Rachel. Around a well—like in other foundational stories—Yaakov rolls the stone, kisses it… and cries. He cries unabashedly. Our commentators ask: why does he cry? Repentance? Sudden love? No explanation fully satisfies. But the essential point is this: the first love described in the Torah arises without speeches, calculations, or masks. It is born with a kiss and a tear. A man exposing himself. Nothing more disruptive for a patriarch. He has just dreamed of God… and now he loves with equal intensity. As if the dream and the love spring from the same deep place.

Yet this love will not remain untouched. Yaakov’s story will be marked by deception, now from the other side. Laban deceives him on the wedding night, when faces are swapped. What happens in darkness leaves long, generational traces. The Torah insists: deceit is never contained.

Amid light and shadow, Rachel appears—not just as an object of love, but as a moral agent. The Midrash imagines her capable of a radical act: relinquishing her place on the wedding night to spare her sister public humiliation. Rachel protects, contains, steps aside. And by that gesture—say the Sages—she will one day intercede before God on behalf of her exiled children.

This idea arises from a powerful passage in the prophet Jeremiah (31:14–16):

“A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel weeps for her children; she refuses to be comforted, for they are no more.”

The Sages, in Eicha Rabba and Bereshit Rabba, imagine the patriarchs pleading for Israel. God does not listen… until Rachel appears. She reminds Him of her act of selfless devotion: the secret signs given to Leah to spare her shame. And God responds:

“Because of you, Rachel, for your tears and compassion, the children shall return to their land.”

Rachel does not deny her jealousy; she transcends it. There lies the tikun: repair born not of power, but of compassion.

Perhaps Vayetze is telling us precisely this: there is no path without stumbles, no love without determination, no spirituality without ethical responsibility. Dreaming, singing, and crying do not absolve us from action—but they humanize us. Hearts—even wounded ones—can learn.

Let this be a Shabbat of deep listening. Of dreams that guide. Of songs that liberate. Of tears that transform. And of hearts that, even stained and scarred, choose to walk and find the path toward peace.

And above all, let this be a Shabbat where we expose ourselves, even with the liberating tears that open us to others. Not with towers meant to elevate us to places we do not need, but with hearts that lift us higher, closer to the Eternal.

Shabbat Shalom Umevorach.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier