You can picture Jacob and Laban going at it: arms flailing, chests heaving, spit flying out of their mouths in their urgency to release feelings and resentments that had been percolating beneath the surface for years.

But somehow amidst the venting, they realized two things: they are family, forever connected whether they like it or not; and, at its core, their conflict was founded on secrets and trickery, on the ways they hid the truth from each other about themselves and their plans, hopes, and goals. In this moment, after finally listening to each other’s pain, they realized their common humanity and the ways we all hide parts of ourselves from each other.

So they took a deep breath and agreed to a pact, ceremonially marking the occasion by building a monument of stones and eating a meal together. (vv. 43-46) Perhaps in the act of building together and eating together, they were even more able to access their new understanding of one another, their shared embodiment and enactment allowing them to tap into wells of empathy that ran even deeper than listening and sharing.

Even after coming to a truce, the two men could not agree on a name for the monument, but the biblical narrator tells us that the place is called Mitzpah meaning, “May God keep watch between you and me since people are hidden from one another.” ()

There are so many things that keep us hidden and block us from being in relationship with each other. Sometimes we are obstructed by conflicts that run for decades and feel insurmountable. Sometimes we might be trying to reach the same goal, but we just can’t understand one another—because we are speaking different languages or operating under false assumptions. Sometimes we block ourselves from being in relationship because we are afraid of vulnerability and because being in relationship with someone else—actually revealing ourselves to another person—is hard and scary.

Master educator Parker Palmer wrote, “The more you know about another person’s story, the less possible it is to see that person as your enemy. . . . When we share the sources of our pain with each other instead of hurling our convictions like rocks at ‘enemies,’ we have a chance to open our hearts and connect across some of our greatest divides.” (Healing the Heart of Democracy: The Courage to Create a Politics Worthy of the Human Spirit, 5-6) Although the multi-day chase and culminating shouting match between Laban and Jacob may not be the best model of what this looks like, they achieve what Palmer describes. Once they paused their fighting, they took the time to hear each other’s stories, to learn about what brought pain within their relationship, and they crossed the divide that had pushed them apart. They were finally able to stop seeing one another as enemies, and instead opened their hearts enough to form a pact and to share food.

These kinds of conflicts can be as transformative as they are difficult.

In a midrash about this moment, Rabbi Yohanan describes the mound that Laban and Jacob constructed to commemorate their amnesty, saying the pile of rocks they created was “as large as the peak of Tiberias.” () It is unlikely that these two men were able to construct anything on the scale of a mountain. Perhaps Rabbi Yohanan is suggesting that it felt monumental—this moment of them witnessing each other, of revealing parts of themselves that had been hidden for so long, was so significant that even the smallest stack of pebbles felt like reaching the summit of a mountain for this family.

In our daily morning liturgy we recite,

וּתְנֵנוּ הַיּום וּבְכָל יום לְחֵן וּלְחֶסֶד וּלְרַחֲמִים בְּעֵינֶיךָ וּבְעֵינֵי כָל רואֵינוּ

“Today and every day, grant us grace and love and compassion in Your eyes [God] and in the eyes of everyone who looks upon us.”

Every day is a new opportunity for connection. The next time you meet someone new, gather with loved ones, or encounter someone who challenges you, I hope you are blessed with the understanding that Jacob and Laban experience when they finally came together over a meal at Mitzpah, the mountain of pebbles that witnessed these relatives truly meeting one another for the first time. I hope you have the opportunity to feel what it is like to be truly seen with grace and to compassionately uncover what is hidden in the person sitting across from you.

Originally published in 2019.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Vayetzei

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Take, for example, the words that introduce the covenant ceremony on Mount Sinai that binds the people of Israel to one another and to God (Exod. 19:3): “Thus shall you say to the house of Jacob and declare to the children of Israel.” I have always read that verse as a classic example of Biblical parallelism and nothing more. “Say” is another word for “declare.” “The house of Jacob” is synonymous with “the Children of Israel.” Rashi, of course, found significance in each element of the two pairings, but I did not—until now. As I read the passage in the light of this week’s Torah portion and in the shadow of the events that have shaken our world since the morning of October 7 these words take on new meaning.

In what ways do the Jewish people, the descendants of Jacob, still reside in his “house”? How can we, who bear the name by which Jacob will be called in next week’s Torah portion, become the Israel whom Jacob henceforth struggles to become? I’d like to suggest, using the indispensable categories for Jewish self-understanding contributed by Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, that Jacob is party to the “covenant of fate,” while Israel signifies the “covenant of destiny.” The “covenant of fate” is imposed on Jews by history and circumstance, while the “covenant of destiny” is one that Jews are called on to embrace in partnership with God.

Many American Jews, shocked and alarmed at the outbreak of anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism that swiftly followed the Hamas attack, have realized for the first time, or with greater clarity than before, that they are part of the Jewish people: a target of attacks upon it, regardless of their personal affiliations or opinions; caught up in its history; subject to its fate; forever linked in the eyes of Christians and Muslims to its God, Who is also their God. Such Jews may be wondering anew this year what the Torah has to teach about the house in which descendants of Jacob still live—and about the destiny to which children of Israel are called.

The first lesson is perhaps the fact of our connection to this ancestor and his story. We identify with Jacob from the start because he responds to the momentous events that overtake him in a manner that we recognize as what we too might have done. He dreams, as we all do, and his dream, like many of ours, is what Freud would call “wish-fulfillment.” What Jacob most wants and needs, as he flees for his life from his brother’s wrath and heads for an unimaginable future, is assurance that he will get home safely. That is what he receives in the dream from YHWH—not a distant Creator God but the personal deity Who “stands beside him.” When Jacob declares upon awakening that “the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it” (Gen. 28:16), he celebrates above all the promise of Divine protection. This is the knowing he gains from this intimate encounter. He knew beforehand that there was a God in the world, perhaps many gods. Now Jacob knows for himself that God is with him, near at hand.

In response Jacob does exactly what many people would do and have done: he builds an altar to God as a sign of gratitude and then tries to strike a deal. If God does X, Y, and Z for him, YHWH will be his God. Jacob will dedicate the stone on which his head had rested as a pillar of worship—and he will give God back ten percent of what God has granted him! We smile at this all-too-human maneuver:the man owes God everything, owns absolutely nothing, and yet he thinks he can trade favors with the Lord! But how many of us have given even that much back, let alone more?

The instrument of Jacob’s next life-lesson is Laban: a trickster and deceiver worthy of Jacob himself, in whose house Jacob finds neither rest nor safety. He does find love there and he acquires wives and children, but overwhelmingly his days are filled with toil, trouble, and challenge. The Torah details all this at length, until Jacob, with God’s blessing, flees this home as he fled the last. “Had not the God of my father Abraham and the Fear of Isaac been with me, you would have sent me away empty-handed (31:42).”  Jacob has learned that having God “with him” does not mean immunity from hardship. Nor can he expect Laban to read the results of their interactions as Divine judgment. These aspects of the covenant of fate have endured for Jews. Jacob separates from Laban, as he will soon meet up with—and then separate from—Esau. He moves on, goes out, as Jews have done forever after.    

At the conclusion of Vayetzei, as Jacob heads home, he meets up with angels and takes this as a sign that his camp is somehow connected to God’s camp. We, who have read this story before, know that Jacob, as a consequence, will soon be Israel: a wrestler “with beings Divine and human” (32:28). He will hold his own in those struggles (v. 29) but never get to stop struggling, inside or outside the Land promised him in his dreams. That seems inherent in the covenant of fate to which our ancestor Jacob/Israel and his descendants ever after are bound. It continues to be part of the experience of the Children of Israel as we soberly, joyfully, and determinedly try to find our way to the covenant of destiny.   

Arnold Eisen is Professor of Jewish Thought and Chancellor Emeritus at 91�첥. He is the author, most recently, of Seeking the Hiding God: A Personal Theological Essay.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Vayetzei

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A crucial aspect of reconciliation and healing is the willingness to listen and, through the process of listening, to make space for the uniqueness of the other person. Jonathan Shay, MD, a clinical psychiatrist who has worked extensively with veterans, writes that “healing from trauma depends upon communalization of the trauma—being able safely to tell the story to someone who is listening and who can be trusted to retell it truthfully to others in the community.”[1] Listening is a crucial component of the necessary trust-building; he continues, “so before analyzing, before classifying, before thinking, before trying to do anything—we should listen.” Often, we listen to respond instead of to understand. Shay writes that often our “listening deteriorates into intellectual sorting” and this breaks trust. What can Yaakov teach us about listening that paves the way toward peace?

The parashah begins with Yaakov fleeing from his brother Esav, from whom he had stolen the blessing. Following his mother’s instruction, Yaakov seeks refuge in his uncle Lavan’s home. Now years after his deception, Yaakov has his own humbling experience of being tricked. Lavan repeatedly changes the terms of agreement for both Yaakov’s marriage and his employment, manipulating Yaakov into greater service to him.

Eventually Yaakov makes a unilateral decision to flee with his household from Lavan. When an incensed Lavan, pursues him, Yaakov is forced to stop and engage his adversary. This encounter could have taken many different forms including physical violence. Instead, the story culminates with a pact leading to peace between Yaakov and Lavan. Embedded in the story of Yaakov and Lavan is a process of interpersonal trust-building, negotiation, assertion, and accommodation.

Lavan speaks first and has much to say. He begins with an accusation: “What did you mean by keeping me in the dark and carrying off my daughters like captives of the sword[ . . . ]? Why did you flee in secrecy and mislead me and not tell me? . . . ” (Gen. 31: 26-27). He fashions himself as the hero who would have sent Yaakov off with a festive meal, music, and kisses goodbye (a self-portrayal inconsistent with the fourteen years of deception and manipulation during which he prevented Yaakov from leaving).

How does Yaakov respond? What do we do when faced with someone who makes assertions we think are absurd and self-serving? First, Yaakov listens. This must have been a difficult process. He surely would have objected to Lavan’s portrayal of the events. Yaakov hears Lavan’s grievances and surely does not agree with much of the content of what he says, but his listening builds enough trust that they are able to resolve their differences civilly.

Israeli peace activist Rav Hanan Schlessinger identifies listening as an essential component in reconciliation:

We have to be able to reach across the divides and listen. We even have to listen when it looks like the other side doesn’t want to listen. [ . . . ] You should have the strength of character to enter into a dialogue in which at the first meeting or two they only yell at you. [ . . . ] Because very often, not always, after they yell and they see that you listen, you’re willing to acknowledge some of their grievances, sometimes they calm down and they’re willing to listen to you.[2]  

What was significant in Yaakov’s participation was not his arguments, but that he gave Lavan the opportunity to speak his mind and be heard. When he did respond, it was with what is sometimes referred to as an “I” statement: “I was afraid because I thought you would take your daughters from me by force” (Gen. 31:31). The two men go back and forth and, as Rav Schlessinger describes often happens the experience of listening draws them closer together and maximizes their ability to make a pact. After exhausting his need to speak his mind, Lavan shifts his posture and says to Yaakov, “Come, then, let us make a pact, you and I, that there may be a witness between you and me” (Gen. 31:44).

The process of peacebuilding becomes formalized through language and ritual. Following Lavan’s proposal, Yaakov and his household create a pillar of stones, after which the Torah tells us:

וַיִּקְרָא־ל֣וֹ לָבָ֔ן יְגַ֖ר שָׂהֲדוּתָ֑א וְיַֽעֲקֹ֔ב קָ֥רָא ל֖וֹ גַּלְעֵֽד׃

Laban named it Yegar-sahadutha, and Yaakov named it Gal-ed.

Gen. 31:47

Traditional commentators are fascinated by the different names given for this pillar by Lavan and Yaakov. As Rashi explains, these phrases are, respectively, the Aramaic and Hebrew words for “Mound of Witness.” “Yegar-sahadutha” is also the first appearance of Aramaic in the Torah. We see a process of translation and interpretation among the two men as they navigate the use of two languages and ultimately two cultures and worldviews. Yaakov translates Lavan’s Aramaic term, Yegar-sahaduta, into Hebrew. Lavan then offers in Hebrew—in Yaakov’s language—an explanation of the meaning of the name based on its literal meaning: “This mound is a witness between you and me this day” (Gen. 31:48). Each of them is navigating the process of reconciliation through their native tongue and translation to the other’s language.

The challenge of making space for and tolerating both men’s worldviews is intensified by their inclusion of the religious language of prayer. When Lavan offers his interpretation of the pillar’s symbolism, he concludes with prayer:

אֱלֹהֵ֨י אַבְרָהָ֜ם וֵֽאלֹהֵ֤י נָחוֹר֙ יִשְׁפְּט֣וּ בֵינֵ֔ינוּ אֱלֹהֵ֖י אֲבִיהֶ֑ם וַיִּשָּׁבַ֣ע יַעֲקֹ֔ב בְּפַ֖חַד אָבִ֥יו יִצְחָֽק׃

 “May the God of Abraham’s [house] and the god of Nahor’s [house] judge between us.”

The biblical author adds that these refer to Yaakov and Lavan’s ancestral deities. Interestingly, Lavan references Yaakov’s grandfather, but he goes one generation farther back in invoking his ancestry, to Terach, who was a common ancestor to both of them. As Sforno explains, “He had chosen Nachor to underline that Nachor’s god was also the god of Terach, who was the father of both Avraham and Nachor.” Lavan likely anticipated that Yaakov would be uncomfortable with invoking the deity of an idolator, and so he chooses their common ancestor as a way of establishing common ground. Yaakov does indeed seem uncomfortable: the Torah tells us that “Yaakov [then] swore by the Fear of his father Yitzhak’s [house]” (31:53). As Sforno explains, Yaakov chose someone who was not the son of Terach to make certain it was understood that his oath was only to the God of Yitzhak.

Yet while prayer can be an area of divisiveness, it can also create a meeting ground for people from diverse backgrounds with contentious relationships. Chaplains frequently pray with people from religious backgrounds different from their own. Without being syncretistic, they work with the recipients of their care to find either common language, or they make space for the other to pray while being present and bearing witness to the other at prayer. Community clergy and religious leaders also often come together at times of mutual interest—such as Thanksgiving services—or to stand with one another during difficulties. In the presence of one another, they often offer prayers or reflections that can vary greatly in language, beliefs, and form. These programs are often not fully comfortable, just as listening is not always comfortable. But both experiences can create the kinds of relationships that build trust, a most basic component of reconciliation.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

[1] Jonathan Shay, Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character. NY: Simon and Schuster, 1995.

[2] “Peacemakers in a Time of War” Forum at Temple Beth-El, Richmond Virginia. November 12, 2023. https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=285370747828581

שֶׁפַּרְעֹה לֹא גָזַר אֶלָּא עַל הַזְּכָרִים, וְלָבָן בִּקֵּשׁ לַעֲקֹר אֶת־הַכֹּל
“For Pharaoh only decreed against the male babies—but Laban sought to uproot it all.”

According to the Passover Haggadah, Laban, Jacob’s father-in-law, is the archvillain of Jewish history, even more dangerous than the Pharaoh who enslaved the people of Israel and launched a campaign of male infanticide. Yet, after this provocative comparison, the Haggadah leaves the rest as an exercise for the reader. Laban “sought to uproot it all,” but how? What makes Laban so dangerous?

Laban, like Pharaoh, was a slave master. According to some traditional views, Jacob himself was his slave. Rabbi Yehuda ben Eliezer, a 12th–13th century Tosafist, wrote a commentary in which he cites the opinion of Rabbi Jacob of Orleans (12th century) that Jacob was equivalent to the Hebrew slave of the Covenant Code in Parashat Mishpatim (Exod. 21:2–6). For these Tosafists, this legal template helps explain why Laban, after 20 years of Jacob’s labor, sees himself as entitled to his family and all his work: “The daughters are my daughters, the sons are my sons, the flocks are my flocks—all that you see is mine” (Gen. 31:43). This might seem like an outrageous tantrum, but according to these Tosafists, Laban was using the power of the law to his advantage: “If [the Hebrew slave] came by himself, he shall go out by himself . . . If his master should give him a wife and she bears him sons or daughters, the wife and her children shall be her master’s, and he shall go out by himself” (Exod. 21:3–4).

This perspective on Laban and Jacob’s relationship is possible because of the wide lexical range of the root עבד in Biblical Hebrew, which can mean slavery as well as remunerated labor. Thus, at the beginning of Jacob’s stay in Aram, when he says “I will serve (e’evadekhah) seven years for Rachel your younger daughter” (Gen. 29:18), his proposal could entail any number of possible arrangements of power and ownership. If Laban was a slave master, he had a total right of ownership over Jacob’s life and family.

Whether or not we accept the Tosafist tradition of Jacob’s slavery, Laban is certainly guilty of mistreating his own daughters. Even in a patriarchal society, where he was entitled to strong rights of ownership over his daughters’ sexuality, Laban abused his power. As Rachel and Leah complain to Jacob: “Why, we have been counted by him as strangers, for he has sold us, and he has wholly consumed our money” (Gen. 31:15). They clearly feel used by their own father. As the scholar and translator Robert Alter explains in his commentary on the verse, a bride-price in those times would customarily have been shared by a father with his daughter, thus improving her position and the position of her new family. Laban, in contrast, “has evidently pocketed all the fruits of Jacob’s fourteen years of labor. His daughters thus see themselves reduced to chattel by their father, not married off but rather sold for profit, as though they were not his flesh and blood.”[1]  For Laban, the efforts of his daughters and their maidservants to bear and raise a family of their own are all on his behalf and for his benefit. When they seek their independence, he chases them down. If it weren’t for divine intervention, Laban may indeed have uprooted it all.

Ultimately, Laban was more dangerous than Pharaoh because his power and abuse was born of familial relations. He combined a slave master’s ruthlessness with a patriarch’s sense of aggrieved entitlement. Indeed, sometimes the greatest villains are those closest to you, who see your growth in terms of their own advantage, and your independence as a threat.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

[1] Robert Alter, The Hebrew Bible: A Translation with Commentary. (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2018)

It may come as a surprise that biblical vows almost always involve give and take as well. Hannah vows that if God grants her a son, she will dedicate him to God (I Samuel 1:11). The people of Israel promise to donate the spoils of war to God’s service if they prevail against the king of Arad and his army (Numbers 21:2). In this week’s parashah, Jacob makes a conditional vow upon awakening from his dream at Beth El:

Jacob then made a vow, saying, “If God remains with me, if God protects me on this journey that I am making, and gives me bread to eat and clothing to wear and, if I return safe to my father’s house—the Lord shall be my God. And this stone, which I have set up as a pillar, shall be God’s abode; and of all that you give me I will set aside a tithe for you” (Genesis 28:20–22).

Several of the classical commentators are disturbed by the apparently transactional character of these vows. Some cite the teaching in Tractate Avot, “Do not conduct yourselves like those who serve their masters in the expectation of [literally: conditioned upon] receiving reward” (Mishnah Avot 1.3). Is Jacob declaring that his fealty to God has a price tag attached?

I think that biblical vows are best understood in light of the teachings of the late Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler. Rabbi Dessler was a psychologically astute exponent of mussar, a system of religious character formation based on study, self-reflection, and behavioral conditioning. He posited that each of us is called upon to make a fateful decision: Will I be a giver or a taker?

One might object that we are all both givers and takers. What could it mean to choose to be one or the other? For Rav Dessler the answer lies in the manner of our giving and taking. The giver receives rather than takes, and always as little as possible. She expresses gratitude for what is received and uses it to enable further giving. The taker relinquishes rather than gives, letting go of no more than is necessary and always with the goal of taking more than is given.

Keeping this insight in mind, let us look more carefully at the vows made by Jacob and his fellow votaries. They share a striking feature: the votary’s promise can only be fulfilled if his request is granted. Jacob can only build an abode for God if he survives his sojourn in Aram. Hannah needs a child if she is to dedicate one to God. The people of Israel can offer to dedicate the spoils of war to God only if they prevail.

In other words, these votaries are not withholding some expression or act of religious devotion so as to use it as a bargaining chip. Rather, they promise God that if their prayers are answered, they will not forget who it was that answered them. In each case the promised action is a manifestation of gratitude, a larger acknowledgement that God is the ultimate source of blessing, and a commitment to use God’s gifts in the spirit of generosity. These vows are about giving, not taking.

Later in the biblical narrative we are introduced to a taker: Laban. Laban bamboozles and exploits Jacob at every turn while portraying himself as a loving uncle who wants only what is best for Jacob. When Laban catches up with Jacob when the latter flees his father-in-law’s home, Jacob releases the pent-up anger and resentment that has accumulated over the twenty years he has spent in Laban’s employ.

“These twenty years I have spent in your service, your ewes and she-goats never miscarried, nor did I feast on rams from your flock. That which was torn by beasts I never brought to you; I myself made good the loss; you exacted it of me, whether snatched by day or snatched by night. Often,scorching heat ravaged me by day and frost by night; and sleep fled from my eyes. Of the twenty years that I spent in your household, I served you fourteen years for your two daughters, and six years for your flocks; and you changed my wages time and again.Had not the God of my father, the God of Abraham and the Fear of Isaac, been with me, you would have sent me away empty-handed. But God took notice of my plight and the toil of my hands, and He gave judgment last night” (Genesis 31:38–42).

What is Laban’s response? “The daughters are my daughters, the children are my children, and the flocks are my flocks; all that you see is mine” (31:43). Laban is willfully blind to the part that Jacob has played in tending and increasing his flocks. He is oblivious to Jacob’s devotion, to his willingness to go beyond what is required in serving his employer. Jacob is nothing but a tool to be discarded after his services are no longer needed.  

If we look again at Jacob’s tirade against Laban, we will also see that the gratitude Jacob promised on his way to Haran has begun to manifest itself even before his return to the site of his dream and his vow. Jacob has worked hard for Laban; he has been tricked by him and has had to manipulate Laban in return in order to provide for his family. Yet Jacob acknowledges that his success is not solely the product of his own efforts; it is only through God’s grace that he, Jacob, has managed to survive and even flourish.

It is easy to take for granted the generosity of others, whether out of a sense of entitlement, self-centeredness, or an unwillingness to acknowledge the role of others in bringing about our successes and achievements. We are particularly prone to be oblivious to the daily divine gift of existence itself. We need not wait for a heavenly dream to realize that God and God’s angels, whether heavenly or terrestrial, are always present in our lives, guiding and supporting us in good times and bad. It remains for us to acknowledge what we have received and to use those gifts in the spirit of the love and care with which they have been given.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

Why would a word that denotes a location in space have been used in Rabbinic Hebrew to mean God? That question was raised in the rabbinic period itself [Genesis Rabbah 68]:

Rav Huna said this in the name of Rabbi Ami: What is the reason that we give the Blessed Holy One the name “Makom”? It is because God is the place of God’s world. Rabbi Yitzhak said: . . . We cannot decide . . . whether the Blessed Holy One is the place of the world, or whether the world is the Blessed Holy One’s place. However, when Moses said [Psalm 90:1]: “Adonai, You have been a place of refuge for us throughout the generations,” we were taught that the Blessed Holy One is the place of the world, and not vice versa.

What may sound like an arcane issue of little practical import, is in fact a theologically audacious and far-reaching statement. Let me explain:

We ordinarily specify the location of things in a coordinate system (for example, by latitude and longitude, or by referencing a city’s street grid). Thus, each such ordinary object has its unique place. Now, it is axiomatic in sophisticated theologies that God cannot be located in one particular place. That is, after all, the basis of the rather simplistic but sweet children’s song that begins with the words “Hashem is here, Hashem is there, Hashem is truly everywhere.” But that basic axiom is not what the text in Genesis Rabbah is conveying. Instead, it is making the bold claim that God cannot have any coordinates at all—not finite ones nor even infinite ones (as in: “Hashem is truly everywhere”). And that is because God is the coordinate system!

A charming, but deep, articulation of this comes at the end of Act I of Thornton Wilder’s beloved play Our Town. The passage consists of a brief bedtime dialogue between Rebecca Gibbs and her older brother George:

Rebecca: I never told you about that letter Jane Crofut got from her minister when she was sick. He wrote Jane a letter and on the envelope the address was like this: It said, “Jane Crofut; The Crofut Farm; Grover’s Corners; Sutton County; New Hampshire; United States of America.”

George: What’s funny about that?

Rebecca: But listen, it’s not finished: “The United States of America; Continent of North America; Western Hemisphere; the Earth; the Solar System; the Universe; the Mind of God”—that’s what it said on the envelope . . . . And the postman brought it just the same.

George: What do you know!

Ask yourself: Is God’s place necessarily beyond us, with God above the fray, as it were, or is God the place in which we, and all we know, reside?

The more broadly accepted orthodoxy in Jewish theology—certainly in pre-modern times—was that of divine transcendence. God was beyond the world, separate from it, and unreachable (the actual meaning of “transcendent”), and yet, in unfathomable ways, able to interact at will with the world. So the idea that God is the Place, that all is in God, is a view that one does not expect to find in an ancient Rabbinic text. And yet, there it is.

When God is pictured in such a way, not as having created the universe from outside of it, but instead as comprising, being the address of, the universe, accusations of heresy often follow. Whether it is “pantheism” (in which God and the universe are identified), or “panentheism” (in which God does indeed encompass all other parts of Creation, but is more than that), such departures from the dualism of “heaven and earth” have called forth condemnation. Whatever was the ultimate cause of Spinoza’s excommunication, he has been, and no doubt always will be, remembered as a theological deviant because of this. Which makes it all the more surprising to read, in the introduction to Arthur Green’s anthology and translation of the teachings of the Sefat Emet (Yehudah Aryeh Leib of Ger, 19th–20th century), this letter that the Hasidic master wrote to his children and grandchildren:

The proclamation of oneness that we declare each day in saying Shema Yisra’el . . . needs to be understood as it truly is. That which is entirely clear to me . . . based on the holy writings of great Kabbalists, I am obligated to reveal to you . . . .The meaning of “Y‑H‑W‑H is one” is not that Y‑H‑W‑H is the only true God, negating other gods (though that too is true!). But the meaning is deeper than that: there is no being other than God, even though it seems otherwise to most people . . . .Everything that exists in the world, spiritual and physical, is God Himself . . . . These things are true without a doubt.

What a breathtaking teaching.

Clearly, we cannot simply dismiss as beyond the pale what Mary-Jane Rubenstein, in a recent book, calls “pantheologies” (the book’s title). But, we may ask, what advantage can such departures from transcendent orthodoxy provide? For one thing, they can vitiate much, if not all, of the force of the problem of human suffering, since God can no longer be portrayed as a powerful but callous bystander, allowing evil to run amok. On the contrary, a pantheological view such as this must be behind the Rabbinic idea that God suffers with humans, and even goes into exile with Israel. Heschel identified this depiction of God’s identification with human suffering as a source of great comfort and divine-human love. And, in addition, there may be an ethical advantage as well, and I will let Rubenstein’s own words on the subject make the point:

This is not at all to say that suffering, extinction, oppression, and violence are not pantheological concerns; to the contrary, the abandonment of an extra-cosmic problem-solver is motivated in part by the need to take responsibility for the messes we make . . . . “Evil” . . . is therefore not a mystery to be explained but rather a concrete reality to negotiate and try to overcome.

Jewish theology has always been an intricate tapestry woven of many threads (or perhaps better: a quilt with many squares). My purpose here has not been to endorse pantheologies, but rather simply to argue against ruling them out of bounds. There are significant figures in our array of sages on whom we can rely for that. And whatever Jacob actually did at Bet-El, the way in which our forebears read that mysterious chapter—with its nocturnal dream of a ladder forming a tight connection to Heaven—is at the root of the complex, and never-to-be-resolved, history of how the people Israel has understood its God.

In the morning, Jacob wakes up from his dream and says “Y‑H‑W‑H was in this Makom, and I did not know.” Perhaps, from then on, he knew.