Men Who Wrestle and Do Not Let Go

Angels in Heaven, Angels on the Ground

Earlier this week in our Tanach study, we came across an oddity in that the word “Malachim” (מלאכים -spelled with an aleph-was translated by all the different translations we could find as “Kings”, whereas we know it means “Angels”.)

The Hebrew word for “Kings” is of course Melachim (מלכים without an Aleph).

This got me thinking and I realized that Parashat Vayishlach contains one of the Torah’s strangest and most profound ambiguities: Who is an angel, and who is a man?

The Torah famously tells us very little about angels at their point of origin. They are not mentioned explicitly in the creation narrative, yet suddenly they populate the biblical landscape, appearing to Abraham, rescuing Lot, guiding Israel through the wilderness, speaking in the name of God. Chazal, sensitive to this textual oddity, suggest that angels were created on the second day, alongside the division between higher and lower waters, already placing them in a liminal space between heaven and earth.

But it is in Parashat Vayishlach that this boundary truly collapses.

At the opening of the parasha, Yaakov sends malachim to his brother Esav: “Vayishlach Yaakov malachim lefanav el Esav achiv.” On its simplest level, the word malach means a messenger. These were human emissaries, servants sent to assess danger, negotiate peace, and prepare the ground. And yet Rashi, quoting Midrash, famously suggests that these were actual angels. Why? What pushes us to read the word here in its supernatural sense?

Then, later in the parasha, we encounter an even greater inversion. Yaakov is left alone at night, vulnerable, wounded by fear and memory, and suddenly: “Vaye’avek ish imo ad alot hashachar”, “A man wrestled with him until dawn.” Not an angel. Not a malach. Just an ish – a man. Only after the struggle do we learn that this “man” was a divine emissary, even a confrontation with God Himself, “Ki ra’iti Elokim panim el panim.”- Because I have see G-d face to face.

Why are angels described as men, and men described as angels?

The answer hit me like a hammer- it’s obvious!!

Angels are not defined by wings or holiness, but by mission.

The Hebrew word malach does not mean a celestial being, it means a faithful messenger, one who carries out a task with total self-transcendence .

In that sense, angels exist not only in heaven, but everywhere human beings rise beyond themselves.

This is not poetry. It is reality.

An angel, in Jewish thought, has no inner conflict. As Rambam explains, an angel does not struggle morally, it is its mission. It does not hesitate, it does not weigh cost, it does not choose comfort. Precisely for that reason, angels cannot grow.

Man, however, grows precisely through struggle.

And that is why when Yaakov fights the angel, the angel is portrayed as an ish. Because the most divine moment in human existence is when a person wrestles, limps forward, refuses to let go, “Lo ashalechacha ki im beirachtani.” – I will not send you away until you bless me.

Blessing is born from struggle, not obedience.

Seen this way, Vayishlach offers a radical redefinition of greatness. Heaven is not where angels are more impressive than human beings, sometimes it is the other way around.

This idea takes on unbearable resonance in our own time.

Over the past 2 years and more, Israeli society has been filled with angels who look like ordinary men.

Miluimnikim who left careers, families, and personal safety, not because they were fearless, but because they felt summoned. Soldiers who discovered that their strength was not only in combat, but in resilience, brotherhood, and moral restraint under fire.

Young lads carrying wounded friends through chaos. Commanders making impossible decisions at terrible cost. Medical teams working without rest. Volunteers harvesting fields near the Gaza envelope under rocket fire so that farmers would not be broken twice, once by terror, and once by abandonment.

Were these people superheroes? No but Yes.

That is precisely the point.

They were afraid. They were human. They hesitated. They doubted. And yet, they went anyway.

That is the Torah’s definition of an angel.

Celestial angels do not bleed. They do not bury friends. They do not return home haunted.

But human angels do, and still stand up again.

That is why Chazal say that the righteous are greater than angels. Not because they shine brighter, but because they struggle longer.

And there is another layer.

Yaakov does not fight the angel in daylight. He fights him alone, at night, the space of fear, memory, and unresolved guilt.

The angel is the embodiment of Esav, of trauma, of destiny, of everything Yaakov has avoided.

It is only by facing him directly, by refusing to run, that Yaakov earns a new name: Yisrael, one who struggles with God and prevails.

Israel today is full of such night-wrestlers.

Mental health volunteers answering phones at 3 a.m.
Bereaved parents turning loss into education.
Teachers holding classes in bomb shelters.
Civilians opening homes to displaced families without cameras or applause.

None of them would call themselves angels. And that too is essential.

Angels know what they are. Humans do not.

Perhaps that is why the Torah blurs the categories.

To remind us that we are not meant to search for angels in heaven, but to become them on earth .

We do not need to perform miracles. We need only to exceed ourselves.

When a person acts not out of obligation alone, but out of identification with another’s pain, when empathy overrides self-interest, something more than human happens. Not in spite of struggle, but because of it.

Vayishlach is not about defeating Esav. It is about refusing to define oneself by fear.

It is about learning that the divine encounter does not come in flight, but in fight, and that angels sometimes arrive wearing dusty boots, carrying stretchers, holding trembling hands.

We must strive to recognize them.

And more than that, we must have the courage, when called upon, to become them.