Toldot 5787

Why did Rivka resort to tricking Yitzchak into giving Yaakov the blessing intended for the firstborn? Surely, it would have been more seemly for this pious matriarch simply to explain to her husband that, although Esav was the elder twin, Yaakov was better suited to receive the blessing.

However, given the history of their relationship, the fact that Rivka felt compelled to resort to deception is hardly surprising. Not a single conversation between Yitzchak and Rivka is recorded in the Torah. In other words, it would appear that they simply did not know how to communicate with one another.

The problem is apparent from the very beginning of their relationship. When Rivka was first brought to meet her future husband, Yitzchak was described as la-su’ach basadeh (Genesis 24:63), commonly translated as “meditating in the field” as evening approached.

However, the expression la-su’ach basadeh can also be understood not as “meditating,” but as “conversing.” Since there was no other person present with whom Yitzchak could converse, the Talmud (Berakhot 26b) understands that the patriarch was speaking to God. Because this encounter took place in the late afternoon, Yitzchak’s conversation with God is understood as the origin of the afternoon prayer, Mincha.

Yet, when Rivka approached Yitzchak, he seemed barely to have noticed her. As she drew near, he looked up and saw not Rivka herself, but the camel upon which she was riding. Yitzchak was certainly no Casanova! Although he knew how to speak to God, he seemingly had little idea how to speak to his future wife.

The Netziv explains that Rivka veiled herself upon seeing the man she was about to marry because she felt unworthy of him. Undoubtedly, Yitzchak’s failure to acknowledge Rivka or engage her in conversation could only have reinforced her feelings of inadequacy, eventually leading her to feel invisible to her own husband. 

Rivka, too, knew how to speak to God but apparently not to her husband. When the twins she was carrying struggled within her womb, she turned to God to understand the cause of the turmoil. Yet, despite receiving the prophecy that “the elder would serve the younger,” Rivka never approached Yitzchak to share what God had revealed to her. Perhaps her own feelings of inadequacy prevented her from initiating that conversation.

In light of the couple’s seemingly pathological inability to communicate with one another, it is hardly surprising that Rivka concluded that trying to convince Yitzchak to give Yaakov, the younger son, the blessing intended for the firstborn would be an exercise in futility. Rather than attempt a conversation she believed would go nowhere, she resorted to deception.

It is easy to gloss over such dysfunctional behavior as simply part of a divinely ordained narrative designed to bring B’nei Yisrael (the Children of Israel) into being. But doing so would be a mistake. Unlike many ancient texts, the Torah does not whitewash the shortcomings of our ancestors. Instead, it presents their mistakes so that we can learn from them.

The Torah does not conceal the devastating consequences of this failure to communicate: Esav suffered the pain of being deceived, while Yaakov was forced to spend years in a turbulent exile. Ultimately, upon returning home, Yaakov would seek to make amends for having stolen the blessing by offering to return it to Esav, beseeching him, “Please take my blessing”—a reference to the very blessing he had taken from his brother years earlier.

So powerful is the ability to speak that the world itself was created through words: “Let there be…” The Targum, the Aramaic translation of the Torah, renders the phrase “and man became a living being” as “and man became a speaking being.” In other words, what distinguishes humanity from other forms of life is our ability to speak.

In fact, according to the Talmud (Eruvin 18a), God originally created the first human as a two-sided being, with male and female joined together, but subsequently separated them so that they could face one another. The image is particularly powerful: human beings were created to face one another, to communicate, and to build relationships. Like God, we have been endowed with the extraordinary power of speech, and like God, we should endeavor to use it for good.

Rivka and Yitzchak failed to use this extraordinary gift in their relationship. Their inability to communicate ultimately contributed to a family tragedy marked by deception, pain, and years of resentment. When we fail to speak to one another, we risk repeating their mistakes.

But there is another danger. Words themselves can be wielded as vicious weapons. Midrash Shocher Tov (Midrash Tehillim 39:2 and 52:2) views the tongue as such a dangerous instrument that it must be guarded by two gates: the teeth and the lips.

When we speak Lashon Hara (negative or harmful speech) and use language as a tool to hurt others, we diminish the Godliness with which our Creator has endowed us.

As we join in prayer, we must remember that it is not sufficient to converse only with God. Unlike Rivka and Yitzchak, we must also learn to speak to one another in a productive and constructive manner. When we use our words to bridge differences and disagree agreeably, we strengthen our relationships with our creator’s other children and make Him proud by following in his footsteps.