Parasha veyeitzei

or

there and back again

and the teraphim affair…

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There’s a lot to unpack in this parsha. Jacob, under orders from his parents, and to escape his brother Esav who has promised to kill him, trundles off to the home of his maternal grandfather to take a wife from one of the daughters of his uncle Lavan. At the start of his journey he has a vision. All night, he wrestles with the angel of God. When the dawn is immanent and the angel implores Jacob to release him, Jacob says, not until you bless me. He is told, no longer will you be called Jacob. Your name, from now until the end of time, is Israel.

Israel. God-Wrestler.

Jacob, or Israel, sojourns with Lavan for 20 years, during which time he is lied to, cheated, and taken advantage of. He also amasses two wives, 11 sons and a daughter, and tremendous wealth. At last he is able to extricate himself from the situation, assembles that which is his, and heads out to return to his own home.

Three days after he departs, Lavan notices that Jacob has split. He searches his home, takes an accounting of what’s missing, and then sets out to catch up with his son-in-law. When he overtakes him, Lavan, ever the charlatan, plays the victim card and cries about Jacob stealing his daughters and grandchildren and … then comes the kicker … his teraphim! Jacob, in total innocence, insists that no one in his party would or could or did steal Lavan’s “gods.” But unbeknownst to him, Rachel did take them. And when her father began to search their tents, Rachel placed the teraphim in a camel’s rucksack and sat on it. Lavan asked her to get up so that he might search, and Rachel explained that she couldn’t get up because “the way of women was upon her.” Embarrassed, he skirted her skirts, finished his search, and after exchanging unpleasantries, left empty-handed.

Commentators have had quite a time over the ages, trying to rectify the idea that the Righteous Rachel had stolen idols—false gods—and taken them with her when she left her childhood home forever. On the surface, it’s hard to make sense of it within the text. So, let’s not waste time with the surface. Let’s look beyond the text. Taking into account ancient history and the words we’re given, I ask you to indulge me and join me as I take a journey …

A Fantastical Journey of the (my) mind

There are so many stories in the midrash about Abraham in his youth, but none about Sarah. Who was she before she was Abraham’s wife?

Maybe…

Long long ago, before the age of science, when the world was filled with magic and the gods wielded power over the earth, the sky, and all living things, there was a man called Terah. He was both artisan and merchant, a crafter and purveyor of idols. Wealthy and powerful, he had personal and political ties to the sovereign of his region, King Nimrod.

Terah had two wives—one from his homeland of Urfa in Northern Mesopotamia, with whom he lived and raised his sons, and another, a princess and great priestess in the Southern Sumerian city of Ur. She was descended from Queen Enheduanna, which made her highly venerated among her people. Terah had met her on one of his many travels. While her ladies perused his wares under the guidance of his manservants, Terah and the High Priestess spoke. Sparks ignited and through the flames of their hearts, their souls were as helpless to resist as two magnets in space. Her love for Terah was so powerful that she gladly stepped down from her post to marry with him.

They had a daughter, and she named the girl Sarai, meaning “My Princess.” Determined that Sarai should grow to take her place as High Priestess, she trained the girl in the mysteries of the universe and kept her secluded away with the other young priestesses in the Gagu. And as she grew, Sarai’s wisdom and understanding surpassed even that of her mother. Now, in Terah’s world, children were identified through the patriarchal line, but in the city then known as Ur, the identity of a child was linked to the mother. Therefore, among Terah’s people Sarai would be thought of as a sister, or half-sister to his sons, but among her people they were considered to be unrelated.

Several times a year, Terah traveled to sell his idols in various markets, and to visit with his Priestess wife. Sometimes, he brought along his young son, Avram, so that he could begin teaching him the fine points of doing business. On these visits, while Terah and his wife made the most of the days they had together, Avram was left to wander and to spend time with Sarai. When they were small, Avram and Sarai played together within the cloistered walls. As they grew older they’d sit and talk for hours in the shade of the great terebinth. They shared their perceptions and perspectives on the meaning of life and the workings of the universe.

Avram always loved joining his father on his traveling adventures, but he made especially sure to accompany Terah on all his journeys south. He and Sarai both counted the days until they would see one another again. They inspired one another and each one grew in wisdom from the words of the other. Almost from infancy Avram had realized that his father’s gods were powerless, that there could only be one God. One God—formless and nameless, beyond space and time. Sarai’s people venerated the god, known as both El and Yah, and the goddess, known by the names Ishtar and Ashirah, as the divine couple. But Sarai, being initiated into the mysteries, understood that these were two expressions of the One, and so she and Avram were in accord—God is One.

But not all of their conversations were of a serious nature and, as they explored ideas, they would laugh about all sorts of things. That included the gods his father made, as though these objects—blind, deaf, and mute, created by man—could have any power. They amused themselves by devising pranks to play on Terah using the idols as props. A few of those pranks he reserved for when they were back at home.

Sarai loved Avram’s brilliant mind, and he was astounded by her extraordinary kindness and empathy for all creatures. He was also bedazzled by her rare beauty and regal bearing. As they reached maturity, they both emerged as powerful influencers among their people. And as the years passed, at their meetings under the terebinth, they grew closer in heart and also in body, as they shyly slid a closer to one another. Their marriage was inevitable in both of their minds and hearts.

Their union was strong. As Avram worked in the fields amongst the laborers he taught them about the One God. The women would gather in Sarai’s tent to hear her speak, to enjoy her hospitality, and to seek her advice. Sarah’s tent (for God had changed her name to Sarah, changing “My Princess” to “The Princess”) was known as a place of miracles, a reflection of the holiness of Sarah’s life. Sometimes a woman would have a particular need, and in those times Sarah would take some clay and sculpt a figurine. These objects were not idols, not gods, not meant to be worshipped. Like pitchers, they were vessels, except that instead of holding water or wine they were meant to hold energy. Sarai would hold the figure in her hands and focus on the woman before her, focus on her need, whether it be for childbirth or healing or something else. As she meditated, the universal God-energy flowed through her hands and into the figurine. Then she’d present it to the woman, who would take it and keep it near her, hoping to draw that energy into herself.

But it happens—often as they age, the minds of men become less elastic, less open to challenging what they think they know, and so a day came when Avraham, convinced that God was only male in nature, insisted that venerating Ashirah was idolatry. Harsh words passed between them, and Sarah returned to her tent fuming. She needed to calm herself, to find a place to put her anger, and so she took a piece of alabaster and carved an image of herself—one with deep, knowing eyes and no mouth, for she’d been silenced. And the rift that formed between husband and wife that day healed in time, but left a significant scar that remained ever after.

There’s a small statue that survives today at the University of Pennsylvania, in the Museum of Archeology, in the Mesopotamian collection. Only a head remains, one with deep, knowing eyes and no mouth. Of course there’s no way to know, but it raises goosebumps to think that this could be that very carving of Sarah’s.

Sarah’s sister-in-law, Milcah, asked Sarai to make her three teraphim, which she did. Milcah passed them on to her granddaughter, Rebekah. When Rebekah left home to marry Isaac she left them behind, out of concern that her husband’s righteous family would misinterpret their purpose—which they might well have done had the figures been discovered. Isaac and his family knew the wickedness of Rebekah’s father, Bethuel and her brother, Lavan, and they knew that these men worshipped idols. It’s no stretch to conclude that if she had such things her husband would believe them to be idols. But Rebekah was initiated into the Mysteries of Sarah, and she knew better.

Far and wide, Sarah’s tent was known to be a house of miracles, but when Sarah died, the magic disappeared. Then, when Rebekah entered Sara’s tent as Isaac’s wife, the miracles returned as a testament to her worthiness and the holy power that flowed throusgh her,

Rebecca had no daughters, and so she instructed her brother’s two daughters in the teachings, in the Wisdom of Sarah. Both girls were kind and good, but it was the younger one, Rachel, who had “the gift” of prophesy. She had the ability to see the future, while Leah’s inner sight was weak. And so Rebecca bequeathed the teraphim that had been made for Milcah by Sarah, to Rachel.

Lavan found the teraphim among his mother’s things after her death. Being totally unschooled in mystical teachings, he assumed them to be gods and placed them among the many other things of his household, his collection of tzatzhkes. In his mind, the house was his and everything in it—object, animal, and human being—belonged to him. In this, he was mistaken. Rachel stole nothing; she took what was hers.

menu coming soon!

shabbat shalom!

So, what shall we eat?

I’m leaning towards feminine foods. Pomegranates and Eggplants. The pomegranate is a feminine fruit, a womb filled with seeds, and tradition teaches that each fruit contains 613 seeds, the number of mitzvot in the Torah. So we could say, split open the pomegranate and it gives birth to Torah. It’s deep red juice, its blood, is the seat of feminine power. The eggplant also, is a womb filled with seeds. Koresht Fesenjan is a Persian dish of chicken braised in a sauce of pomegranate and ground walnuts. It can be made with a cut up whole chicken or with a favorite part, such as thighs. Its also very nice made with Cornish hens, cut in quarters, and that’s how I’m going to make it here tonight. Of course, there will also be a vegetarian version of Fesenjan, made with butternut squash.

I’ll start the meal with my favorite smokey recipe for baba ganoush. It will go beautifully with my freshly baked challah and a relish tray of pickles, olives, and radishes.