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Translated by Rabbi Émile Ackermann
In recent years, political and social discourse has become increasingly polarized around the world, and I have become polarized myself. Certain buzzwords trigger an angry response in me, to the point where I find it impossible to trust the goodwill or common interests of people who unquestioningly hold a different position than I do. The tragedy of Simchat Torah this year and the war in Israel that followed have only increased the number of questions that cause me to close myself off, exclude myself, and dismiss any position that challenges (or threatens) my own. This polarization of my personal discourse is neither positive nor even neutral. It is clear to me that it is a shortcoming that needs to be addressed. Yet I do not feel motivated to take steps to correct myself. I suspect that this conundrum may resonate with others.
The rabbis despise Esau. They despise him as a person and as a representative of their oppressors, the Roman army and government. An examination of the sixty-fifth chapter of Beresheet Rabba, which deals with parashat Toldot, reveals the following midrashim:
“After living a life of unbridled license, Esau marries at age 40, seeking to emulate his virtuous father (to a woman named Yehudit, no less). The rabbis compare this to a pig that, while wallowing in the dirt, spreads its cloven hooves, as if to say, ‘Look, I am kosher.’”
“God made Isaac blind so that he would not go out in public and hear people say, ‘This is the father of this Rasha.’”
“Isaac may refer to Esau as his “greatest son” (b’no hagadol), but God knows that Esau and the nations he fathered are nothing more than the “least of the peoples.”
Amidst this avalanche of criticism and disgust, a midrash appears which treats Esau differently (65:15):
Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel said: “I assisted my father all my life: I assisted my father all my life, and I did not assist him one hundredth of what Esau did for his father. When I assisted my father, I did so in dirty clothes, but when I went out on the road, I went out in clean clothes. But Esau, when he went to see his father, would only see him in royal clothes. He would say: ‘It is not in keeping with the honor of my father to assist him except in royal clothes.'”
The rabbis then immediately return to criticizing Esau’s wives.
What does it mean to discover that in the midst of our disagreements about our most fundamental values, we have something in common? Esau honored his father. The Romans honor their parents. We might trivialize this one redeeming quality: “Esau may have honored his father, but that does not change his essential character.” Yet the rabbis do not seem to have adopted this view. In the Talmudic discussion of parental honor (Kiddushin 31a), they tell the following story:
“How far must one go to fulfill the mitzvah of honoring one’s father and mother? Rav Ulla said to them: “Go and see what a Gentile did: Go and see what a Gentile did in Ashkelon, his name was Dama ben Netina. Once the Sages wanted to buy merchandise [perakmatya] from him for a profit of six hundred thousand gold dinars, but the key to the container in which the merchandise was kept was placed under the head of his father, who was sleeping at the time. Dama ben Netina did not want to disturb his father by waking him up, when he could have made a substantial profit.”
In fact, the rabbis take the Romans as models of best practices for honoring one’s parents.
Is this enough to end the polarization I feel whenever I meet people who disagree with me on key issues in American and Israeli politics? Is finding a common value enough to allow me to see beyond my fear and rage to the human being behind the opinion? This does not seem to have been enough for the rabbis. Their distrust and disgust for Esau and the Romans never went away, although they recognized the excellence of Roman parental honor.
I think, though, that might be enough for me. I feel less angry and less suspicious of Esau after seeing that, like me, he appreciates his father. I feel motivated to view his character in a different, more generous way. I don’t know how far this will carry my feelings toward the Romans. But perhaps the way forward is one of step by step. First, recognizing shared values with people with whom I disagree, even on the most fundamental things. Then, this recognition motivates me to open lines of communication. Once I find common ground, perhaps I can work on appreciating large groups as well. Perhaps that’s the answer.
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