Issues of Entitlement
The Baal Shem Tov taught that whatever we see is meant for us to learn from. Rav Volbe in his sefer Alay Shor explicated that thought in the context of the teachings of chazal. He pointed out that the Talmud asked why is the portion dealing with laws of the nazirite juxtaposed to the laws of the sota, the woman suspected of adultery and the rites of discernment of her guilt or innocence? It answers that any person who will see the sota in her disgrace should immediately take on the vow of the nazir and take steps to withdraw from the pursuit of pleasure by refraining from drinking wine.
Rav Volbe noted that the message the sages were teaching is that its of no purpose to see another's debasement and simply say "oh what a bad person s/he must be". On the contrary if one sees another's debasement it means that one was meant to...that there was something in the other's shame that s/he was meant to take for him/herself, otherwise s/he would not be in the predicament to witness it. The Sages were teaching us through the example of the sota and the nazir that each of us needs to know that what we witness is about us even as it is about the other...and if, for example, a man sees a woman compromised by her pursuit of pleasure the message for him is that he best well curb his own appetite.
It is in that spirit that I want to explore the character of Esav. Sure we can say Esav was a rasha. But of what use is it to us to simply vilify Esav. If the story of the sota and the nazir are meant to teach us to use the stories of those we witness to consider our own chesronot ( shortcomings) then we should ask ourselves as well about the characters we encounter in the Torah year in and year out. How am I like Esav? What need his 'disgrace' teach me about who I am and where I need to improve.
With that in mind I thought about the Esav in me. What is Esav's signature shortcoming? Yes our sages say he was guilty of the most severe crimes. But none of that are we given explicitly to witness in the Torah text each year. What the Torah does show us is that Esav had a inappropriate and unjustified sense of entitlement. He sold his birthright to Yaakov, his own choice. And yet he complains bitterly that Yaakov took the blessings that go with the birthright from him unfairly.
Moreover he sold the birthright because, as the Torah tells us, he was so hungry he felt he would die unless he ate. As he said " behold I will die so what need have I for the birthright".
Yet even though Esav felt the birthright was not important enough for him to give his own life to maintain he was willing to take Yaakov's life in order to get it back as we see at the story's end where Esav is plotting to kill Yaakov to get the blessing back.How can we understand that Esav felt the birthright was not something for which he must make the ultimate sacrifice and yet it is something someone else should pay for with his life to have it returned to him.
Lastly when Esav sees that his father disdains the Canaanite women, sending Yaakov away to find himself a wife, Esav does not divorce his Canaanite wives, he simply adds another wife to his collection by marrying from the daughters of Yishamael.
Esav's whole life bespeaks a sense of false entitlement. He feels he is entitled to the birthright even though he sold it. He feels he is entitled to the blessings that accompany the birthright and therefore he does not have to pay for it in the same way someone else should pay to restore it to him. He feels he is entitled to choose his wives and even if his parents are displeased that's no reason to do more than make a gift to them by choosing another wife, not make the sacrifice of surrendering the wives he feels entitled to.
In witnessing this story I think about my own sense of entitlement and how it often times blinds me to the truth of relationship. How often do I see something happen to someone else that causes them shame or hurt and I say "that's too bad" and do nothing. Yet if the same shame or hurt were heaped on me I would yell out with outrage. How often do I expect others to do things for me that I would not necessarily do for them and become disappointed when they don't do it?
How often do I speak to other in harsh terms that I would hate spoken in a similar way to me ?
These and many other circumstances reflect an imbalance between the way I view myself and and the way I perceive others...all because of a false sense of entitlement that makes me feel I deserve more.
Yes my Uncle Esav needs to be my teacher. And I need to learn from him lessons for my life.
One of those lessons that reading/witnessing this portion of Toldot teaches me is to curb my sense of entitlement or at least accept that others are entitled just as much as I am. And I need to hear that lesson often because sometimes giving up my sense of entitlement is much easier said than done.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
My Father Yitzchak - Stories within Stories
I have always wondered about Yitzchak. His story seems so pale in contrast to the colorful sagas of his father Avraham and his son Yaakov... Yes, of course there is the Akeida - but that is told more in terms of what was done to him than in terms of a story of his own authorship. In the story of his mating and marriage, and even in the story of the blessings to his son(s), he is hardly the lead character. And so much of what happens - happens to and for him, and not by him.
And yet my sense is that if we scratch the surface a bit deeper we may find some compelling personal stories here, especially if we understand Yitzchak in the context of his humanity as a person with profound feelings.
Lets explore a passage that struck me as I read the Parsha of Chayai Sarah. When Eliezer is bringing Rivka back with him from Haran to be the bride of Yitzchak, the Torah tells us something that we seemingly have no need to know. The verse reads “and Yitzchak was coming from Beer L’chai Ro’eey and he dwelt in the land of the Negev.” Now the next verse tells us that Yitzchak was out in the field, which our sages interpret to mean he was involved in afternoon prayer, when Rivka encounters him. But why do we need the previous verse about where he lived and where he was coming from.
Well, let’s remember. Where do we find mention of Beer L’chai Ro’eey, and what was Yitzchak doing there? You may recall that Beer L’chai Ro’eey was the place where Haggar saw the angel when she fled, pregnant, from Sarah. In fact, she named the place Beer L’chai Ro’ee. Yitzchak had some business there. What might it have been?
We need to think back to the story of Yitzchak and his early life. It’s clear that he had a brother, Yishmael, who at one time was an important player in his life - so much so that Sarah demands that he and his mother be expelled from the home. What must it have been like for Yitzchak to lose his only sibling and, as the text appears to us, he likely was given no explanation and no chance to say goodbye.
I once knew a man in his late sixties who came to the United States from India.
He was a schoolboy when India and Pakistan were made into two countries, separating the Muslims from the Hindus. He told me that one day a great siren went off and many of his Muslim friends were pulled out of school in the middle of the day (as the families had to cross the new borders) and he never got to say goodbye. They just disappeared, vanished, gone from his life, never to return.
He told me that ever since then, and that was some fifty years earlier, whenever he saw a group of Sikhs talking, no matter where he was, he would walk over to them and say “Maybe you know my friend so and so who I have not seen in so long. Can you tell me about him” - all the while knowing that there are a billion Muslims in the world and the real chance of these people knowing his friends was non-existent.
When we do not get a chance to say goodbye to important people in our lives who are taken away from us, we often, one way or another, spend our whole lives looking for them. Yitzchak was looking for Yishmael at the site his mother named and in the Negev where he lived. He needed to make closure on that relationship as an adult even if he could not as a child.
Have you ever wondered why Yitzchak had such an affinity for Esav the son who was more the outdoorsman and the one who was the hunter? Could it be that Esav reminded Yitzchak of his brother Yishmael, the one he lost contact with and missed growing up, the one he may likely never got to say goodbye to?
It is amazing how, when people don’t get to say goodbye and make closure on a relationship, it remains unfinished and can affect the rest of their lives. Sometimes we like to protect ourselves from the pain of goodbye. And sometimes we think we do our children a favor by protecting them from the goodbyes to dying grandparents or even parents when, tragically, they die young. But closure is important, even when it hurts.
And saying goodbye is a precious gift. Yitzchak taught me that. He taught me to face the ends when they come and to help my children do similarly. In saying goodbye I become free to move on. In avoiding it, the price I may pay is to remain stuck and searching.
And yet my sense is that if we scratch the surface a bit deeper we may find some compelling personal stories here, especially if we understand Yitzchak in the context of his humanity as a person with profound feelings.
Lets explore a passage that struck me as I read the Parsha of Chayai Sarah. When Eliezer is bringing Rivka back with him from Haran to be the bride of Yitzchak, the Torah tells us something that we seemingly have no need to know. The verse reads “and Yitzchak was coming from Beer L’chai Ro’eey and he dwelt in the land of the Negev.” Now the next verse tells us that Yitzchak was out in the field, which our sages interpret to mean he was involved in afternoon prayer, when Rivka encounters him. But why do we need the previous verse about where he lived and where he was coming from.
Well, let’s remember. Where do we find mention of Beer L’chai Ro’eey, and what was Yitzchak doing there? You may recall that Beer L’chai Ro’eey was the place where Haggar saw the angel when she fled, pregnant, from Sarah. In fact, she named the place Beer L’chai Ro’ee. Yitzchak had some business there. What might it have been?
We need to think back to the story of Yitzchak and his early life. It’s clear that he had a brother, Yishmael, who at one time was an important player in his life - so much so that Sarah demands that he and his mother be expelled from the home. What must it have been like for Yitzchak to lose his only sibling and, as the text appears to us, he likely was given no explanation and no chance to say goodbye.
I once knew a man in his late sixties who came to the United States from India.
He was a schoolboy when India and Pakistan were made into two countries, separating the Muslims from the Hindus. He told me that one day a great siren went off and many of his Muslim friends were pulled out of school in the middle of the day (as the families had to cross the new borders) and he never got to say goodbye. They just disappeared, vanished, gone from his life, never to return.
He told me that ever since then, and that was some fifty years earlier, whenever he saw a group of Sikhs talking, no matter where he was, he would walk over to them and say “Maybe you know my friend so and so who I have not seen in so long. Can you tell me about him” - all the while knowing that there are a billion Muslims in the world and the real chance of these people knowing his friends was non-existent.
When we do not get a chance to say goodbye to important people in our lives who are taken away from us, we often, one way or another, spend our whole lives looking for them. Yitzchak was looking for Yishmael at the site his mother named and in the Negev where he lived. He needed to make closure on that relationship as an adult even if he could not as a child.
Have you ever wondered why Yitzchak had such an affinity for Esav the son who was more the outdoorsman and the one who was the hunter? Could it be that Esav reminded Yitzchak of his brother Yishmael, the one he lost contact with and missed growing up, the one he may likely never got to say goodbye to?
It is amazing how, when people don’t get to say goodbye and make closure on a relationship, it remains unfinished and can affect the rest of their lives. Sometimes we like to protect ourselves from the pain of goodbye. And sometimes we think we do our children a favor by protecting them from the goodbyes to dying grandparents or even parents when, tragically, they die young. But closure is important, even when it hurts.
And saying goodbye is a precious gift. Yitzchak taught me that. He taught me to face the ends when they come and to help my children do similarly. In saying goodbye I become free to move on. In avoiding it, the price I may pay is to remain stuck and searching.
I have always wondered about Yitzchak. His story seems so pale in contrast to the colorful sagas of his father Avraham and his son Yaakov... Yes, of course there is the Akeida - but that is told more in terms of what was done to him than in terms of a story of his own authorship. In the story of his mating and marriage, and even in the story of the blessings to his son(s), he is hardly the lead character. And so much of what happens - happens to and for him, and not by him.
And yet my sense is that if we scratch the surface a bit deeper we may find some compelling personal stories here, especially if we understand Yitzchak in the context of his humanity as a person with profound feelings.
Lets explore a passage that struck me as I read the Parsha of Chayai Sarah. When Eliezer is bringing Rivka back with him from Haran to be the bride of Yitzchak, the Torah tells us something that we seemingly have no need to know. The verse reads “and Yitzchak was coming from Beer L’chai Ro’eey and he dwelt in the land of the Negev.” Now the next verse tells us that Yitzchak was out in the field, which our sages interpret to mean he was involved in afternoon prayer, when Rivka encounters him. But why do we need the previous verse about where he lived and where he was coming from.
Well, let’s remember. Where do we find mention of Beer L’chai Ro’eey, and what was Yitzchak doing there? You may recall that Beer L’chai Ro’eey was the place where Haggar saw the angel when she fled, pregnant, from Sarah. In fact, she named the place Beer L’chai Ro’ee. Yitzchak had some business there. What might it have been?
We need to think back to the story of Yitzchak and his early life. It’s clear that he had a brother, Yishmael, who at one time was an important player in his life - so much so that Sarah demands that he and his mother be expelled from the home. What must it have been like for Yitzchak to lose his only sibling and, as the text appears to us, he likely was given no explanation and no chance to say goodbye.
I once knew a man in his late sixties who came to the United States from India.
He was a schoolboy when India and Pakistan were made into two countries, separating the Muslims from the Hindus. He told me that one day a great siren went off and many of his Muslim friends were pulled out of school in the middle of the day (as the families had to cross the new borders) and he never got to say goodbye. They just disappeared, vanished, gone from his life, never to return.
He told me that ever since then, and that was some fifty years earlier, whenever he saw a group of Sikhs talking, no matter where he was, he would walk over to them and say “Maybe you know my friend so and so who I have not seen in so long. Can you tell me about him” - all the while knowing that there are a billion Muslims in the world and the real chance of these people knowing his friends was non-existent.
When we do not get a chance to say goodbye to important people in our lives who are taken away from us, we often, one way or another, spend our whole lives looking for them. Yitzchak was looking for Yishmael at the site his mother named and in the Negev where he lived. He needed to make closure on that relationship as an adult even if he could not as a child.
Have you ever wondered why Yitzchak had such an affinity for Esav the son who was more the outdoorsman and the one who was the hunter? Could it be that Esav reminded Yitzchak of his brother Yishmael, the one he lost contact with and missed growing up, the one he may likely never got to say goodbye to?
It is amazing how, when people don’t get to say goodbye and make closure on a relationship, it remains unfinished and can affect the rest of their lives. Sometimes we like to protect ourselves from the pain of goodbye. And sometimes we think we do our children a favor by protecting them from the goodbyes to dying grandparents or even parents when, tragically, they die young. But closure is important, even when it hurts.
And saying goodbye is a precious gift. Yitzchak taught me that. He taught me to face the ends when they come and to help my children do similarly. In saying goodbye I become free to move on. In avoiding it, the price I may pay is to remain stuck and searching.
And yet my sense is that if we scratch the surface a bit deeper we may find some compelling personal stories here, especially if we understand Yitzchak in the context of his humanity as a person with profound feelings.
Lets explore a passage that struck me as I read the Parsha of Chayai Sarah. When Eliezer is bringing Rivka back with him from Haran to be the bride of Yitzchak, the Torah tells us something that we seemingly have no need to know. The verse reads “and Yitzchak was coming from Beer L’chai Ro’eey and he dwelt in the land of the Negev.” Now the next verse tells us that Yitzchak was out in the field, which our sages interpret to mean he was involved in afternoon prayer, when Rivka encounters him. But why do we need the previous verse about where he lived and where he was coming from.
Well, let’s remember. Where do we find mention of Beer L’chai Ro’eey, and what was Yitzchak doing there? You may recall that Beer L’chai Ro’eey was the place where Haggar saw the angel when she fled, pregnant, from Sarah. In fact, she named the place Beer L’chai Ro’ee. Yitzchak had some business there. What might it have been?
We need to think back to the story of Yitzchak and his early life. It’s clear that he had a brother, Yishmael, who at one time was an important player in his life - so much so that Sarah demands that he and his mother be expelled from the home. What must it have been like for Yitzchak to lose his only sibling and, as the text appears to us, he likely was given no explanation and no chance to say goodbye.
I once knew a man in his late sixties who came to the United States from India.
He was a schoolboy when India and Pakistan were made into two countries, separating the Muslims from the Hindus. He told me that one day a great siren went off and many of his Muslim friends were pulled out of school in the middle of the day (as the families had to cross the new borders) and he never got to say goodbye. They just disappeared, vanished, gone from his life, never to return.
He told me that ever since then, and that was some fifty years earlier, whenever he saw a group of Sikhs talking, no matter where he was, he would walk over to them and say “Maybe you know my friend so and so who I have not seen in so long. Can you tell me about him” - all the while knowing that there are a billion Muslims in the world and the real chance of these people knowing his friends was non-existent.
When we do not get a chance to say goodbye to important people in our lives who are taken away from us, we often, one way or another, spend our whole lives looking for them. Yitzchak was looking for Yishmael at the site his mother named and in the Negev where he lived. He needed to make closure on that relationship as an adult even if he could not as a child.
Have you ever wondered why Yitzchak had such an affinity for Esav the son who was more the outdoorsman and the one who was the hunter? Could it be that Esav reminded Yitzchak of his brother Yishmael, the one he lost contact with and missed growing up, the one he may likely never got to say goodbye to?
It is amazing how, when people don’t get to say goodbye and make closure on a relationship, it remains unfinished and can affect the rest of their lives. Sometimes we like to protect ourselves from the pain of goodbye. And sometimes we think we do our children a favor by protecting them from the goodbyes to dying grandparents or even parents when, tragically, they die young. But closure is important, even when it hurts.
And saying goodbye is a precious gift. Yitzchak taught me that. He taught me to face the ends when they come and to help my children do similarly. In saying goodbye I become free to move on. In avoiding it, the price I may pay is to remain stuck and searching.
The Torah and the Self - A Blog on Understanding the Self through Torah
The purpose of this blog is to explore the Torah text both in its stories and laws so as to better understand who we are and how we need to grow...
Our sages taught that the Torah can be interpreted in seventy ways - each equally true and relevant. This blog will explore Torah passages without straying too much from the p’shat, or simple text translation, so as to see what the Torah has to say to us to better cope with our complex existence. We will begin our first blog with where we are in our weekly parsha and continue to move through the readings each week. The questions we need to ask ourselves are “Where am I in this reading? How am I like the character I am reading about? How are his issues similar to mine? What can I learn about myself from his experience?”
For many years I visited the sick and suffering in hospital and homes. So often they felt a hidden sense of shame about their circumstances that exacerbated their suffering. They felt their illness story was something to get over so they could get on with real life. Being sick was for them the junk of life and as long as they were sick they were not really living. They often found it comforting when we might discover an analogy to their situation found in the life of a biblical character. It meant for them that their suffering was worthy and not just the ‘junk’ of life. After all, if the Torah told a similar story and it is the holiest thing in the world it must be significant. Through that process, their suffering gained meaning and became more bearable. We have long been taught that the stories of B’reishit are given to us in part because ‘maasay avot siman l’banim’ – that “what happened to our fathers is a sign for us.” Some may interpret that ‘sign’ as referring to a predictor of historical events of the future. In our exploration we are understanding the term ‘siman’ or ‘sign’ as referring to our personal lives and our personal struggles that can be enlightened when we realize our Fathers and Mothers went through similar challenges.
To do this work we will need to humanize our great Torah heroes. We will need to see how much we are like them. In doing that we are not minimizing how much greater our ancestors were than we are. We acknowledge that at the outset. And yet, if we do not bring them down to our own level how can we learn from them. If we do not see them as like us, only more so, then they are too distant to be the teachers whose lives set an example for us.
The Torah and the Self will hopefully teach us to use the Torah to provide a mirror of ourselves so that we will honor the ‘junk’ of our own lives and work through it on our journey to “shlaimut” - completion.
Our sages taught that the Torah can be interpreted in seventy ways - each equally true and relevant. This blog will explore Torah passages without straying too much from the p’shat, or simple text translation, so as to see what the Torah has to say to us to better cope with our complex existence. We will begin our first blog with where we are in our weekly parsha and continue to move through the readings each week. The questions we need to ask ourselves are “Where am I in this reading? How am I like the character I am reading about? How are his issues similar to mine? What can I learn about myself from his experience?”
For many years I visited the sick and suffering in hospital and homes. So often they felt a hidden sense of shame about their circumstances that exacerbated their suffering. They felt their illness story was something to get over so they could get on with real life. Being sick was for them the junk of life and as long as they were sick they were not really living. They often found it comforting when we might discover an analogy to their situation found in the life of a biblical character. It meant for them that their suffering was worthy and not just the ‘junk’ of life. After all, if the Torah told a similar story and it is the holiest thing in the world it must be significant. Through that process, their suffering gained meaning and became more bearable. We have long been taught that the stories of B’reishit are given to us in part because ‘maasay avot siman l’banim’ – that “what happened to our fathers is a sign for us.” Some may interpret that ‘sign’ as referring to a predictor of historical events of the future. In our exploration we are understanding the term ‘siman’ or ‘sign’ as referring to our personal lives and our personal struggles that can be enlightened when we realize our Fathers and Mothers went through similar challenges.
To do this work we will need to humanize our great Torah heroes. We will need to see how much we are like them. In doing that we are not minimizing how much greater our ancestors were than we are. We acknowledge that at the outset. And yet, if we do not bring them down to our own level how can we learn from them. If we do not see them as like us, only more so, then they are too distant to be the teachers whose lives set an example for us.
The Torah and the Self will hopefully teach us to use the Torah to provide a mirror of ourselves so that we will honor the ‘junk’ of our own lives and work through it on our journey to “shlaimut” - completion.
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