Vayishlach: Seeing the Face of the Other in Times of Reunion and Reconstruction

There are moments in life when the past comes knocking on our door—not with violence, not necessarily with pain, but with the quiet insistence of what remains unresolved. This is how our parashah Vaishlaj begins. Yaakov, after years away from home, returns to face Esav, the brother he had deceived, the brother he had fled from, the brother who once swore to kill him.

It is no coincidence that the Torah begins the story with the verb “vaishlaj”—“and he sent.” Yaakov sends messengers, but he also sends himself into the encounter with his own truth. The parashah is a mirror: it confronts us with our own unresolved wounds, our old conflicts, those things we avoid because they seem too complicated, too painful, or too late.

Before facing Esav, Yaakov spends the night alone. The Torah says: “Vayivater Yaakov levado”—“And Yaakov was left alone.” In that solitude, the strangest and most powerful struggle of his life takes place: a man—or an angel—or perhaps his own fear—wrestles with him until dawn.

Sforno teaches that Yaakov wrestles with the shadow of his past. Netziv explains that he fights against the spiritual forces fueling Esav’s hostility. The Midrash goes even further, saying that Yaakov wrestles with his own divided identity: the Yaakov who flees, and the Israel about to be born—the one who stands firm and fights for what truly matters to him.

Whatever the interpretation, the lesson is clear: no one can truly face the other without first confronting themselves.

It is in this struggle that Yaakov receives a new name: Israel, “the one who struggles with God and men and prevails.” Yet Israel is not an invulnerable hero. He limps. The text reminds us that true strength is not perfection, but the ability to keep walking, even when marked by our scars.

At dawn, Yaakov sees Esav approaching with four hundred men. Everything seems to point toward an inevitable conflict. Yet something unexpected happens: when the brothers finally meet, Esav runs to Yaakov, embraces him, kisses him, and they weep together.

It is striking that in the Masoretic text—the oldest known Torah scroll—the scribe added a dot over each letter of the word “vaishakehu”—“and he kissed him.” What do these dots signify?

There are many interpretations. Radak (Rabbi David Kimchi, 12th–13th century) presents two versions:

“Vaishakehu (and he kissed him), וישקהו—the word has a dot over each letter. In Bereshit Rabá 78:9, Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says that where the dots do not cover each letter, we give preference to the plain meaning of the text. When there are more dots than letters, we give emphasis to the dots. In this case, there are as many dots as letters in the word וישקהו—Vaishakehu, so we understand that Esav kissed Yaakov sincerely with all his heart. Rabbi Yannai replied, asking, if this is really so, why bother adding the dots at all? Therefore, we must interpret that originally Esav intended to bite Yaakov’s neck under the guise of an embrace. God softened the teeth of the “bad” one and hardened the neck of the “good” one.”

Some say the dots confirm the kiss’s sincerity. Others argue that if the word already had its intended meaning, the dots were unnecessary, implying the kiss might have been false—Esav intended to bite, but God softened his teeth and strengthened Yaakov’s neck. And if I asked you what you remember about Yaakov and Esav’s relationship, most would probably speak of Esav’s rivalry and malice toward our patriarch, Yaakov, right?

Rashi (11th century) also presents both possibilities:

“AND HE KISSED HIM—Dots are placed over the letters of this word. In the Baraita of Sifré (B’ha’alotcha), a difference of opinion is expressed regarding what these dots signify. Some explain that the dots mean he did not kiss him wholeheartedly. Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai said: ‘Is it not well known that Esav hated Yaakov? But at that moment, compassion arose, and he kissed him with all his heart.’”

Notice how they cannot just say outright that he kissed him. No—he hated him… but compassion arose, and he kissed him with all his heart. Others insist that hatred was eternal, and nothing could sway him from his antagonistic stance.

Ibn Ezra (12th century) is more straightforward:

“[AND HE KISSED HIM.] It is obvious from the plain meaning of the text that Esav had no intention of harming Yaakov, as evidenced by the fact that they wept together, like Joseph with his brothers.”

Is it really so hard to believe in a moment of reconciliation, of brotherhood, of choosing to turn the page and, carrying all the pain, rewrite history?

The most moving line of this reunion appears when Yaakov tells his brother:

“Seeing your face is like seeing the face of God” (Bereshit 33:10).

What is he really saying? Not that Esav is God, but that the face of the other—the one we feared, the one we hurt, the one who hurt us—has the power to reveal something deeply divine: the possibility of forgiveness, shared humanity, and blessing even in the most fractured relationships.

Jewish tradition teaches that God reveals Himself in encounter, not in isolation. The divine presence becomes visible when two human beings see beyond conflict, beyond roles, beyond the past.

Esav suggests they continue together. Yaakov, still cautious, responds that he must go slower, tending to his children and livestock—perhaps also tending to his own heart.

Encounter and reconciliation does not always mean picking up the journey as if nothing happened. Sometimes the embrace is a beginning, not an end. Sometimes forgiveness allows proximity, but not cohabitation. And that is valid. What matters is no longer living in hatred or flight.

Ultimately, Yaakov and Esav go separate ways, but not from resentment—they separate from a place of recovered humanity.

If there is a central message in our parashah, it is this: the future cannot be built without confronting the past. Yaakov tried for years to escape his conflicts, but life—as the Torah—always brings us back to unresolved points. When he finally faced them, he discovered that fear had been bigger than reality.

How many times do we avoid necessary conversations?How many times do we leave relationships frozen out of pride?How many times do we carry guilt that could become learning, if only we had the courage to face it?

In these days, when the Jewish people face moments of pain, uncertainty, external threats, and internal tensions, Vaishlaj is especially relevant. We live struggles—collective and personal—that wear us down. Struggles that seem endless. Struggles in which we ask ourselves what name we carry: are we Yaakov, the one who flees, or Israel, the one who perseveres?

The text reminds us that even when we limp, even when we feel vulnerable, even when we do not have all the answers, our name remains Israel. And that means we are a people who face, who do not break, who do not give up hope.

It also reminds us that just as Yaakov had to find his brother’s face, we must find the face of the other within our own community: with respect, with listening, with the certainty that internal diversity is not a threat, but a source of blessing.

Perhaps that is why Yaakov concludes by telling Esav:

“Accept my gift, for God has been gracious to me, and I have everything.”

He does not say “I have much,” he says “I have everything” (yesh li kol). Everything does not mean material wealth. Everything means having reclaimed his brother, having found his own name, having opened the door to a more whole future.

May we, like Yaakov, be able to say with sincerity:

“I have seen your face, and in it I have seen a reflection of the face of God.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Gustavo Geier