jacob | Sharing Jewish Tradition

At the end of the book of Genesis, Joseph reassures his brothers that their evil action–selling him down to Egypt–was all part of God’s plan (See 45:5 and 50:20); they need not worry that he’ll take revenge.

I like to think that Genesis teaches us how to read the rest of the Torah. God becomes more remote at the stories unfold. At first, God is part of people’s social life, talking to Adam and Eve; then God appears in dreams, to Abraham and others; then God sends messengers (some say angels) to Hagar and others. God sends dreams to Joseph that predict the future. But Joseph understands something new, that God appears in history, too. If you understand your own story, you can see divine guidance in your life–even in the suffering you endure.

This prepares us to see God’s intervention in national history in Exodus and the remaining books of the Torah.

But how does Joseph know that God is behind his story? It’s hard to tell if something that happens is the divine hand pushing the buttons. However, I may have seen it happening on Tuesday, though I didn’t realize it at first.

We were in La Guardia airport, waiting for our 4:45 p.m. flight back to Detroit. Across from us sat a young man with a bright red yarmulkah, purple jacket, purple check shirt, and a grey wool coat and the usual frummster fedora hat. He looked like a nice young man and not too frumm for conversation. He said he was going back to Miami, to Lubavitch yeshivah, ready for smichah, not so that he could become a congregational or community rabbi, but so that he’d have the deep knowledge of Shabbat and Kashrut you’d need in any household.

He was on standby and had already missed a couple of flights.

He’d arrived at four in the morning. Oy! And he had missed his original flight because his driver got lost.

Lost on the way to the airport? Impossible.

Unless … unless … it’s gotta be more than a coincidence. Yup, it’s the Hand of God. If only we open the eyes of our soul (not that a soul has eyes, nor that we have one, nor that such a thing exists) we’ll see that the Red Yarmulkah Man is about to undergo a life-changing experience.

I wish I’d told him to keep an eye out for his besherrt, his destined bride (I’m a yenta, so whenever I see a young person I think about weddings). Lickety-split, he’ll be married, driving his wife to distraction by constantly interfering in the kitchen with kashrut questions (“My dear, do you know what power magnifying glass do we need in order to check the asparagus for bugs?”). Otherwise, they’ll be happy as can be and blessed with eight children, and he’ll have an actual job with an income. May they be happy as clams. Oops, happy as something kosher … happy as potatoes or carrots.

Watch out, reader. Maybe God is sending you a message right now! I hope it portends happiness.

When Isaac gave a blessing to Jacob, why did he think there was nothing left for the other twin brother, Esau? The blessing he gave was pretty vague. He didn’t make a will with two flocks of sheep and a dozen camels; instead he promised unspecified amounts of stuff like dew and crops, which are there for the taking. He didn’t give a patch of land, he didn’t give away his favorite stick or special rock. So why did both he and Esau think there was nothing left for Esau?

Sometimes we assume that the world’s bounty is finite. We like to assign a numerical value to everything: the destruction wrought by a hurricane, the size of a country’s economy, the degree of happiness in Bhutan. Everybody knows the important things can’t be quantified–even students in business school, I suppose–but in our society it’s hard in our society to resist the temptation to think in quantities.

A brief exchange between Antony and Cleopatra in Shakespeare’s play exemplifies the point. Magnanimous Antony is oh, so different from the rest of those pettifogging Romans, as Cleopatra teases him with being just like his countrymen:

Cleo: If it be love indeed, tell me how much.
Ant: There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d.
Cleo: I’ll set a bourn (limit) how far to be beloved.
Ant: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

No, love has no limit; like dew, it represents infinite bounty. A parent’s love for one child need not diminish love for another.

I once heard a sermon on Cain and Abel: Cain’s failing, said the Rabbi, was in thinking that God’s love must be limited. If God took Abel’s offering, God could not possibly accept Cain’s with equal delight. Likewise, once Isaac had wished for dew for Jacob, Esau thought there must be less for him. (If the brothers spent a night in the open air, wouldn’t they both wake up soaked with dew?)

Does happiness among the Bhutanese diminish my happiness?

Surely not, surely not. There’s happiness enough for everyone who wants it, and no limit to love and hugs and the joy of family and friends. Still, on dark and miserable days, this lesson is hard to remember, and Esau is one of the first who needed to learn it.

(And I suppose I have to add that hatred, resentment and misery are infinite, too.)

Does God Interfere in Your Life?

No Limit to Love