This Wound Was Created For Me

The Price of Tradition Is Personal Confrontation

Every person should say: “The whole world was created for me.” (Likkutei Moharan 5:1)

When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him…That is why the children of Israel to this day do not eat the thigh muscle that is on the socket of the hip, since Jacob’s hip socket was wrenched at the thigh muscle (gid hanashe). (Genesis 32:26-33)

If my father touches me, I shall appear to him as a trickster and bring upon myself a curse, not a blessing.” (Genesis 27:12)

Isaac said to Jacob, “Come closer (gisha na) that I may feel you, my son—whether you are really my son Esau or not.” (Genesis 27:21)

Jacob is a clever and multi-faceted man. First, he comes out holding his brother’s heel (for which he is so named). Then, he tricks his brother and father into letting him assume his brother’s place. Finally, in this week’s parasha, Vayishlach, he becomes himself, confronting his brother directly, wrestling with an angel, and receiving a new name. Jacob is no longer to be named “the guy who holds onto his brother” (Yakov) but instead “the guy who holds onto God” (Yisrael).

The story of Jacob’s transformation is one of the most powerful in the Torah. It is the story of wit humanized, of head heartened, of deceit made transparent to itself. Many commentators emphasize Esav’s objective fearsomeness, but the story points us to a different emphasis—Jacob is responsible for his own being regardless of the game theory of how his brother behaves. Jacob cannot be defined by Esau, his twin. His wrestling match which bestows him a new name, and which takes place when Jacob is l’vado, alone, suggests that winning a battle against Esav is itself a losing battle. “Competition itself is for losers.”

The text offers us a sonic clue. Isaac tells Jacob “gisha na” — come close — precisely when Jacob is pretending to be his brother. When Jacob is alone, by contrast, the angel wounds him in his gid ha nashe. As if to say that Jacob draws even closer, and truer, when he allows himself to be felt in his vulnerability. The fake drawing close to Isaac is contrasted with the genuine closeness of Jacob’s embrace of the angel. Why this parallel at all?

My hypothesis is drawn from the simple claim espoused by Nassim Taleb: People take more care when they have “skin in the game.” When Jacob pretends to be someone else he is less invested in the blessing he receives, and the covenant he inherits, because it doesn’t feel like his. To become its proper custodian he must make it his. He can only do this by accepting the blessing as his and not someone else’s. He can only do this by taking a new name, one that is defined in the positive rather than the negative, one that is defined by mutuality rather than inferiority. The dislocated hip socket is the sign of Israel’s skin in the game.

Julius Caesar is purported to have said, “If you want it to happen, go, if you don’t want it to happen, send.” Executives demonstrate their priorities by deciding what work not to delegate. Jacob begins the parasha with sending—he sends people and gifts ahead of himself to Esav. The word vayishlach means “he sent” and recurs with emphasis in the opening of the parasha. The irony is that the messengers Jacob sends are mediators. Yet the same word messenger (malach) can also mean angel. When Jacob wrestles with the angel he no longer mediates by sending; instead he confronts himself as both the messenger and the message. He goes himself. The malach transforms from decoy to alter ego, from source of distraction to site of recognition.

Why does Moses shatter the first set of stone tablets? Is it because he was angry? Is it because he felt the need to discipline the people for their idolatrous transgression? These common answers address the local problem, but there’s a macro-point to be made, too: Moses is less attached to the tablets that God has inscribed. The second time, Moses is the one to write the tablets. The second time, Moses has skin in the game. It is easy to lose someone else’s book, much harder to lose your own. Will we treasure a Torah that is only God’s? Or only a Torah belonging to a different generation? Or a particular school of thought? No. We will treasure it only when it is ours. Moses humanizes the Torah, further, a second time, making it palatable for life on earth. The first tablets, as it were, correspond to the blessing that is not ours. The second to the blessing that can become ours only if and when we become ourselves.

Jacob becomes Israel, suggesting a jump from the personal to the collective. But Jacob also teaches us that the collective known as Israel will only flourish when its members undergo their own personal journeys to claim their inheritance rather than default into it. In the end, the birthright doesn’t pass from Esau to Jacob, nor the blessing from Isaac to Jacob, until the name passes from the angel to Jacob. Cultural inheritance is not enough. We need to go to the mat, often engaging in intense turmoil, before it can become ours. Transmission isn’t merely a question for Isaac (which son merits the blessing?) but for Jacob (how do I make it mine?).

Kol haolam lo nivra ela bishvili— “The entire world was created for my sake.” Far from self-aggrandizing, this teaching means to say that the covenant of Abraham isn’t real until it is also my covenant, the blessing of Isaac isn’t real until it is my blessing, the name change of Jacob isn’t complete until it is my own name change. When we treat tradition as already decided, as a done deal, as an objective, static thing, we still treat it like the blessing of Esau. The tradition isn’t something that can be sold or bought for a bowl of lentils. It’s not something that can be traded for a dish of game. Tradition is a part of us. It is the wound we are awarded when we persevere.

Shabbat Shalom,

Zohar Atkins

Etz Hasadeh

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