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![]() Click here to view the illustrated, printable PDF version Click here to hear the audio version Vayetse
It is one of the great visions of the Torah. Jacob, alone at night, fleeing from the wrath of Esau, lies down to rest, and sees not a nightmare of fear but an epiphany: He came to a certain place [vayifga bamakom] and stopped for the night because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones there, he put it under his head and lay down to sleep. He had a dream. He saw a ladder resting on the earth, with its top reaching heaven. G-d’s angels were going up and down on it. There above it stood G-d . . . On the basis of this passage the sages said that “Jacob instituted the evening prayer.” The inference is based on the word vayifga which can mean not only, “he came to, encountered, happened upon” but also “he prayed, entreated, pleaded” as in Jeremiah 7: 16, “Neither lift up cry nor prayer for them nor make intercession to Me [ve-al tifga bi].” The sages also understood the word bamakom, “the place” to mean “G-d” (the “place” of the universe). re is also an implication Thus Jacob completed the cycle of daily prayers. Abraham instituted shacharit, the morning prayer, Isaac minchah, the afternoon prayer, and Jacob arvit, the prayer of nighttimes. This is a striking idea. Though each of the weekday prayers is identical in wording, each bears the character of one of the patriarchs. Abraham represents morning. He is the initiator, the one who introduced a new religious consciousness to the world. With him a day begins. Isaac represents afternoon. There is nothing new about Isaac – no major transition from darkness to light or light to darkness. Many of the incidents in Isaac’s life recapitulate those of his father. Famine forces him, as it did Abraham, to go to the land of the Philistines. He re-digs his father’s wells. Isaac’s is the quiet heroism of continuity. He is a link in the chain of the covenant. He joins one generation to the next. He introduces nothing new into the life of faith, but his life has its own nobility. Isaac is steadfastness, loyalty, the determination to continue. Jacob represents night. He is the man of fear and flight, the man who wrestles with G-d, with others and with himself. Jacob is one who knows the darkness of this world. There is, however, a difficulty with the idea that Jacob introduced the evening prayer. In a famous episode in the Talmud, Rabbi Joshua takes the view that, unlike shacharit or minchah, the evening prayer is not obligatory (though, as the commentators note, it has become obligatory through the acceptance of generations of Jews). Why, if it was instituted by Jacob, was it not held to carry the same obligation as the prayers of Abraham and Isaac? Tradition offers three answers. The first is that the view that arvit is non-obligatory according to those who hold that our daily prayers are based, not on the patriarchs but on the sacrifices that were offered in the Temple. There was a morning and afternoon offering but no evening sacrifice. The two views differ precisely on this, that for those who trace prayer to sacrifice, the evening prayer is voluntary, whereas for those who base it on the patriarchs, it is obligatory. The second is that there is a law that those on a journey (and for three days thereafter) are exempt from prayer. In the days when journeys were hazardous – when travellers were in constant fear of attack by raiders – it was impossible to concentrate. Prayer requires concentration (kavanah). Therefore Jacob was exempt from prayer, and offered up his entreaty not as an obligation but as a voluntary act – and so it remained. The third is that there is a tradition that, as Jacob was travelling, “the sun set suddenly” – not at its normal time. Jacob had intended to say the afternoon prayer, but found, to his surprise, that night had fallen. Arvit did not become an obligation, since Jacob had not meant to say an evening prayer at all. There is, however, a more profound explanation. A different linguistic construction is used for each of the three occasions that the sages saw as the basis of prayer. Abraham “rose early in the morning to the place where he had stood before G-d” (19:27). Isaac “went out to meditate [lasuach] in the field towards evening” (24:63). Jacob “met, encountered, came across” G-d [vayifga bamakom]. These are different kinds of religious experience. Abraham initiated the quest for G-d. He was a creative religious personality – the father of all those who set out on a journey of the spirit to an unknown destination, armed only with the trust that those who seek, find. Abraham sought G-d before G-d sought him. Isaac’s prayer is described as a sichah, literally, a conversation or dialogue. There are two parties to a dialogue – one who speaks and one who listens, and having listened, responds. Isaac represents the religious experience as conversation between the word of G-d and the word of mankind. Jacob’s prayer is very different. He does not initiate it. His thoughts are elsewhere – on Esau from whom he is escaping, and on Laban to whom he is travelling. Into this troubled mind comes a vision of G-d and the angels and a stairway connecting earth and heaven. He has done nothing to prepare for it. It is unexpected. Jacob literally “encounters” G-d as we can sometimes encounter a familiar face among a crowd of strangers. This is a meeting brought about by G-d, not man. That is why Jacob’s prayer could not be made the basis of a regular obligation. None of us knows when the presence of G-d will suddenly intrude into our lives. There is an element of the religious life that is beyond conscious control. It comes out of nowhere, when we are least expecting it. If Abraham represents our journey towards G-d, and Isaac our dialogue with G-d, Jacob signifies G-d’s encounter with us – unplanned, unscheduled, unexpected; the vision, the voice, the call we can never know in advance but which leaves us transformed. As for Jacob so for us, it feels as if we are waking from a sleep and realising as if for the first time that “G-d was in this place and I did not know it.” The place has not changed, but we have. Such an experience can never be made the subject of an obligation. It is not something we do. It is something that happens to us. Vayfiga bamakom means that, thinking of other things, we find that we have walked into the presence of G-d. Such experiences take place, literally or metaphorically, at night. They happen when we are alone, afraid, vulnerable, close to despair. It is then that, when we least expect it, we can find our lives flooded by the radiance of the divine. Suddenly, with a certainty that is unmistakable, we know that we are not alone, that G-d is there and has been all along but that we were too preoccupied by our own concerns to notice Him. That is how Jacob found G-d – not by his own efforts, like Abraham; not through continuous dialogue, like Isaac; but in the midst of fear and isolation. Jacob, in flight, trips and falls – and finds he has fallen into the waiting arms of G-d. No one who has had this experience, ever forgets it. “Now I know that You were with me all the time but I was looking elsewhere.” That was Jacob’s prayer. There are times when we speak and times when we are spoken to. Prayer is not always predictable, a matter of fixed times and daily obligation. It is also an openness, a vulnerability. G-d can take us by surprise, waking us from our sleep, catching us as we fall. On Faith Lived
There are three great commands that epitomize Jewish faith. Maimonides famously set out thirteen principles of faith. But, as Rabbi Simeon ben Zemah Duran pointed out in the Middle Ages and Franz Rosenzweig did in modern times, they can be further summarized as three: creation, revelation and redemption. On Shabbat we live creation. Learning Torah we live revelation. Performing acts of hesed, covenantal love, we live redemption. We do not philosophize about these things, we enact them. Jewish faith is not primarily about creeds or theologies; it is not faith thought, but faith lived. No unified theory will ever finally settle the question of whether or not the universe was created by a personal G-d. No historical investigation will ever resolve the question of whether, at Sinai, the voice the Israelites heard was real or imagined. No political theory will ever determine whether or not a just and compassionate society is possible. That is not because these things are irrational. It is because they represent truths that can only be made real in life. I can believe that love exists, or I can believe that it is an illusion. Both views are consistent and coherent. I must choose, and that choice will shape my life, leading me to marry or to stay aloof, perhaps having “relationships” but not a total commitment of one life to another. Believing in love, I find it. Disbelieving it, my world is without it. Faith is neither rational nor irrational. It is the courage to make a commitment to an Other, human or divine. It is the determination to turn “ought” into “is”. It is the willingness to listen to a voice not my own, and through hearing, find the strength to heal a fractured world. It is truth made real by how I live. And it works. Throughout the ages, Jews were known for their strong families and communities, their passion for study and the life of the mind, their commitment to helping the poor, the needy and the oppressed. Somehow, in, oppression they kept their dignity, in persecution their hope. In some of the darkest moments known to man, they stayed human and free. In the Kovno ghetto in the early 1940’s, an extraordinary scene took pace in the makeshift synagogue. The worshippers already knew the fate in store for them. One morning the leader of prayers stopped in the middle of the service and said, “How can I thank G-d for my freedom when I am a prisoner facing death? Only a madman could say this prayer now.” The rabbi replied softly, “Heaven forbid that we should not say the blessing. Our enemies wish to make us slaves. But though they control our bodies, they do not own our souls. By making this blessing we show that even here we refuse to be defeated. We are free men, temporarily in captivity. That is how we shall live. That, if necessary, is how we shall die.” Judaism led ordinary people to lead extraordinary lives. I profoundly believe that there is nothing special about Jews. The difference, as Menachem Kellner has aptly put it, lies not in the hardware but the software, not in what Jews are but in what they are called on to be. Above all, because they never forget their ideals, even though they were often powerless to implement them, they were ready for great things when the moment came. Of these, the greatest in modern times was surely the creation of the state of Israel, one of the most unlikely achievements of all time. It could never have happened had we not, for almost two thousand years after the destruction of the second Temple, observed Passover and annually ended the seder by saying, “Next year in Jerusalem.” It was this, the world’s most ancient unbroken ritual, that moved Moses Hess to write, Theodor Herzl to act and the great masses of Jews in Eastern Europe to respond to his call. And it is this that constitutes one of the two great challenges of the future. I noted before that Jews often found it easier to live under the sovereignty of G-d when their rulers were gentiles than when they were Jews. The other irony is that though Judaism is an embodied faith – sanctifying the physical and finding G-d in delight – Jews found it easier to cope with poverty than with affluence, with persecution that civil equality and peace. The bad times brought out the best in them, the good times sometimes the worst. These facts, more than anything else, tell me that far from being over, the Jewish journey has reached its most exciting phase. Today, for the first time in two thousands years, we have a sovereign state in Israel and freedom and equality in the Diaspora. As almost never before, we have the chance to succeed where historically Jews failed – in creating a covenantal society in our own land, and a genuine dialogue with humanity elsewhere. I, for one, would not miss it for the world. ( from “Radical Then, Radical Now” – Continuum 2000; Pages 165-167) |
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