Over a lifetime of Torah reading, different portions have spoken to me at various phases of my life, each revealing new layers of meaning as I’ve grown and changed. This evolution in understanding mirrors our own spiritual journeys as we wrestle with ancient texts that remain perpetually relevant to our modern lives.
In my younger years, I was drawn to The Akedah—the binding of Isaac, where Abraham prepares to sacrifice his son at God’s command. The story both fascinated and repelled me. I found something deeply outrageous about God’s command and was troubled by Abraham’s seeming passivity in the face of such a monstrous instruction. The Akedah became my prooftext of why the God of the Torah could not be the God I would worship. My conception of God centered on compassion and care, fundamentally incompatible with a deity who would demand the destruction of an innocent life as a test of faith.
As my anger toward God softened with age (a journey worthy of its own essay), I found myself drawn to a different passage in Exodus. In this profound moment, God and Moses recognize their unique bond of trust, leading to an intimate yet limited revelation: “There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand, and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen” (Exodus 33:21-23).
This text captures the essential dilemma of all divine and human relationships. Whether with friends, family, or romantic partners, we face the same truth: no matter how close we become, how many years we share, or how much we reveal to each other, some part of another person’s inner experience remains forever inaccessible. We can see their “back”—their actions, words, and what they choose to share—but never fully their “face,” their complete inner world. This reality explains our occasional shock when someone we thought we knew well does something unexpected, whether gloriously good or terribly bad.
This is the great puzzlement about others. How often do we read stories or personally experience a moment when we exclaim, “I never imagined they were capable of doing that awful, or for that matter, glorious deed.” And it’s the mystery of God. So close, like Tevye’s God who seems to be as close to the Holy One as the buttons on his coat, and yet so unknowable, so inscrutable.
We juggle this infinitely complex truth about the people in our lives and how much we can ever know them. A corollary to this is a deeper mystery with which we struggle: we ask ourselves the question, who am I? What do I want and need? What is the yearning of my soul? Where do I belong? To enter into such reflection is in the deep waters of consciousness. But to avoid those central questions is to ignore the path to purposefulness and peace. As Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
In this week’s portion, Vayishlach, we encounter Jacob wrestling with an unknown assailant at night. The ambiguity of his opponent’s identity—God? An angel? His brother Esau? A nightmare?—mirrors our struggles with meaning and identity. Through this fierce encounter, Jacob is transformed, receiving the name Israel—”One who has struggled with man and God and is triumphant.”
Yet triumph comes at a cost. Jacob limps away from the encounter, forever marked by his vulnerability. This physical reminder speaks to our own human condition: We are mortal, fallible, and prone to regret. But we are also gloriously alive, capable of experiencing life’s simple pleasures—the warmth of sunlight, the taste of cold water, the whisper of wind through trees. We can enter into our deepest places and celebrate our goodness even as we limp on our failings.
Vayishlach offers an unparalleled platform for deep reflection. It reminds us that perfection is illusory and that self-knowledge, though sometimes a terrible struggle, is essential to understanding our purpose. For these reasons and more, this Torah portion will always remain in my top ten.
Before Shabbat 