Messengers of God

A True Story of Angelic Presence and the Return to

Elie Wiesel

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781476737676
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Jewish Theology

Elie Wiesel's classic look at Job and seven other Biblical characters as they grapple with their relationship with God and the question of his justice. "Wiesel has never allowed himself to be diverted from the role of witness for the martyred Jews and survivors of the Holocaust, and by extension for all those who through the centuries have asked Job's question: 'What is God doing and where is His justice?' Here in a masterful series of mythic portraits, drawing upon Bible tales and the Midrashim (a body of commentary), Wiesel explores 'the distant and haunting figures that molded him' Adam, Cain and Abel, Abraham and Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, and Job. With the dramatic invention of a Father Mapple and the exquisite care of a Talmudic scholar, Wiesel interprets the wellsprings of Jewish religious tradition as the many faces of man's greatness facing the inexplicable. In an intimate relationship with God it is possible to complain, to demand. Adam and Eve in sinning "cried out" against the injustice of their entrapment; Cain assaulted God rather than his brother; and Abraham's agreement to sacrifice his son placed the burden of guilt on Him who demanded it. As for Job, Wiesel concludes that he abdicated his defiance as did the confessing Communists of Stalin's time to 'underline the implausibility' of his trial, and thus become the accuser. Wiesel's concern with the imponderables of fate seems to move from strength to strength" ( Kirkus Reviews ).

AND JACOB FOUGHT
THE ANGEL

A MAN, A DREAM, A STORY.

We know the place. We know the story. We know some of the characters, not all. As we try to gain deeper understanding, to grasp them in their human, albeit sometimes unreal, truth, we realize that one of them eludes us; we do not even know his name.

At first glance, what we seem to be dealing with here are solitude and prayer, struggle and survival, victory and defeat. But as we take a closer look we see that the story, with its part of mystery, is dominated by shadow.

• • •

A solitary man, an incandescent dream, a conflict. Two brothers, two destinies. Linked and separated by night.

The place: somewhere in this distant land which today we call Jordan. Jacob called it Mahanaim, the site where he divided his people into two groups so that if one were to perish, the other might survive.

A man facing death, a man imagining his future.

• • •

In the distance, muffled sounds from some caravan settling down to rest after the fatigue and strains of the journey. This had not been an easy journey but rather like a flight without end or beginning. Along the way the enemy had changed from the cheated father-in-law determined to recover his property, to the irate enemy brother drunk with vengeance. And, strangely, the man—Jacob—chose to run to meet him, rather than run away.

It was dark. Anxious, ominous silence hung over the plain. No sound except the rustling of the Jabbok stream, eager to throw itself into the sea and tell the shadows met here and there the incredible story of this man determined to remain behind alone, for the last time alone in the night and alone in the plain, as though he were waiting for someone, a mysterious nameless and faceless fugitive as solitary as he.

Night. The last familiar noises from the Mahananaim camps had abated. Nothing was moving on the other side of the stream, whose glittering waves were the only remaining signs that the world was world and still alive.

And the man, what was he doing? Was he on the lookout, scrutinizing the darkness out of which, at any moment, the event would spring? Jacob, son of Isaac, son of Abraham, was pondering, reviewing his situation. That was why he had chosen to leave the others and stay alone on this shore. He knew that his life was about to change. But not in what way. At this moment everything was still possible. One word, one move would suffice for Jacob to remain Jacob—and Israel a frightened old man’s dream.

A self-examination that implies a questioning of his past. Early childhood memories, early quarrels with his older brother, early triumphs followed by remorse, early loves, early and late disappointments; so many events led up to the encounter he had just had with his uncle Laban and the one he would have tomorrow with his brother Esau.

Jacob was worried. Understandably so. Tomorrow he might die. His brother, whom he hadn’t seen in twenty years, would not come to the appointment alone; he would be accompanied by at least four hundred armed men. What would tomorrow be made of? Jacob was afraid. He had been fortunate all his life; it could not go on indefinitely, not beyond this night. Tomorrow it would all be over. The debt would be paid. For every moment of happiness, for every gift of love received or given. Tomorrow Jacob would submit to Esau, his brother, his nemesis.

Tomorrow—but the night had just begun. Jacob should try to find a solution; there had to be a way out. What if he were to begin praying? What if he armed himself for the fight? Or then again, what if he offered his brother a new gift, even more beautiful than the others before? Nobody is insensitive to gifts . . .

In fact, had he the slightest understanding of practical matters, Jacob would have tried to rest. He should have tried to unwind, sleep, take advantage of the few hours that were left. Tomorrow he would need all his energy, all his faculties. He should have taken care of himself. He did not. He could not, for this night would mark the beginning of a new adventure, the most important of all.

A strange adventure, mysterious from beginning to end, breathtakingly beautiful, intense to the point of making one doubt one’s senses. Who has not been fascinated by it? Philosophers and poets, rabbis and storytellers, all have yearned to shed light on the enigmatic event that took place that night, a few steps from the river Jabbok. An episode told by the Bible with customary majestic sobriety. Do you remember?

• • •

. . . Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn. It was a silent struggle, silent and absurd. What did the stranger want? Nobody knew, not even Jacob. They wrestled until dawn, neither uttering a word. Only then did the assailant speak: Day is breaking, let me go. And a suddenly belligerent Jacob refused, setting conditions: I will not let you go, unless you bless me. The other demurred; they clutched each other once more. Theirs was an awesome fight, yet in the end they had to give up, neither being able to claim victory. Both were wounded: Jacob at the hip, the angel in his vanity. Yet they parted friends, or was it accomplices? Jacob accepted his aggressor’s departure willingly; the latter, as if to thank him, made him a gift: a new name which in generations to come would symbolize eternal struggle and endurance, in more than one land, during more than one night.

• • •

This unknown, oddly behaved aggressor, who was he? Who had sent him? And for what purpose? Was he even a human being? The Biblical text uses the word ish, man. The Midrash and the commentators elevate him to the rank of angel. As for Jacob—who should have known—he situated him higher yet: I have seen God face to face, yet my life has been preserved. The aggressor readily confirmed this appraisal: Ki sarita im El—Your name shall be Israel, for you fought God and you defeated Him.

A confused and confusing episode in which the protagonists bear more than one name; in which words have more than one meaning and every question brings forth another. One constantly gets the feeling of being shut out, of watching an event through an almost opaque screen. What was it all about? Was the encounter accidental or deliberate? And this change of name—what exactly is a name? Is a man’s self limited to a single name? And why did Jacob accept this new name? Did he not find his old one suitable?

We stumble on a secret even more impenetrable than that of the averted sacrifice of Isaac. There at least one felt that one understood, however superficially, why the characters acted as they did and what motivated them. Here we are left in total darkness. We understand neither the aggressor nor the victim, nor even the circumstances of their meeting. They seem to have spoken without communicating. The questions did not correspond to the answers. The words, the blows, the compliments—all seem irrational. The whole incident appears almost parenthetical, though clearly not without meaning.

To better comprehend the aggressor, let us examine his victim, Jacob. He is, after all, well known, more so than his parents and grandparents. From the moment of his birth, and even earlier, his every deed—and misdeed—was officially recorded. His reluctance to come into this world, clinging as he did to his twin brother’s ankle. His extreme shyness. His education, his adolescence, his differences with his blind old father, who favored his older brother. His flight to Laban, his romantic adventures. We know that his mother protected him, perhaps a little too overtly. And that his children caused him concern: they hated their own brother Joseph, forcing him to become an expatriate in order to build himself a career.

Two events marked Jacob’s life; three left an imprint on his legend: a dream about a ladder he did not climb, a gift he received without having solicited it, a secret he desperately tried to reveal without success.

The gift, as we saw earlier, was that of a name.

• • •

Let us reread the passage in the Bible: . . . Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket. He said: Let me go, for dawn is breaking. — Jacob answered: I will not let you go unless you bless me. — And he said: What is your name? — Jacob answered: Jacob. — Whereupon the other said: Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with God and have prevailed. — Jacob then asked: Pray tell me your name. — And he answered: Why do you wish to know? And he blessed him. — Jacob named the site Peniel: For I have seen God face to face, yet my life has been preserved.

It is almost like a mystical poem, barely coherent, barely intelligible, not only to the reader but even to the protagonists. Why did the nocturnal visitor attack poor Jacob whose very name he claimed not to know? Because he was Jewish? Or because he was alone and far from any inhabited place? And why was the stranger so intent on learning the identity of his victim? If he didn’t know it, why not have inquired before assaulting him? And if he did know it, why did he ask? And why would he not disclose his own identity to Jacob? Of the two, Jacob was the “Jew,” yet it was the stranger who answered questions with questions. Until he ran out of them and then he changed the subject—and Jacob let him! And why did Jacob hold him back when logically he should have shouted with joy that finally he was rid of him? And how did the nocturnal visitor, with the advent of dawn, turn into . . . God, in the eyes of Jacob?

This is one of the most enigmatic episodes in Jacob’s life and even in Scripture. One that ended well for him, since it brought him a new dimension—secret and sacred—a dimension he seemed to need.

For indeed, of the three patriarchs, Jacob is the least interesting. His life up to that point lacked greatness. There was nothing exceptional about his problems, his preoccupations. Abraham had been the pioneer, the conqueror, the founder of a dynasty; Isaac had been the survivor, the inspired poet. They both had the kind of charisma that Jacob evidently did not possess. Compared to his predecessors, Jacob seemed a personality of no real stature, with a mediocre, or at least commonplace, destiny. Without his adventure and metamorphosis at Peniel, he would have gone through history as a melodramatic and moving figure, but one lacking majesty and a sense of tragedy, a stranger to the events and conflicts of which legends and epic poems are made.

The portrait as drawn in the Bible—before Peniel—is striking in its pallor. It depicts a man straightforward but unimaginative, honest but anxious to avoid risks. An introverted, frustrated man, given to fits of temper, leading a marginal life. A weakling, manipulated by others. Everyone made him do things—and he obeyed. Such was his nature. Incapable of initiative, he could never make up his mind. His mother—Rebecca—gave him the idea of disguising himself as Esau, to deceive his father in order to exact blessings meant for another; she was the one who taught him the necessary gestures and answers. He cried but he obeyed. And it was Rebecca who, once the act was played, advised him to go away for a while, to take refuge with his uncle Laban, and again it was she who gave him his instructions for the journey, including whom not to marry. Naturally, he promptly fell in love with the first girl he met—Rachel—and blushing like a shy adolescent, wanted to marry her on the spot. Yet somehow he ended up marrying her sister. Doubly unhappy, he loved someone he could not marry and was loved by someone he had married without love. He did not complain about it, not too much, anyway.

He accepted life as it came, preferring to follow rather than be followed. Some seven years later, after he had married Rachel too and was blissfully living with the two sisters and two women servants as well, he would let them decide amongst themselves which one would spend the night with him. When Rachel took away her father’s images and idols, she did not find it necessary to inform him. No one ever did. Both innocent and guileless, he took only what was handed to him. The only time he showed any independence was when he glimpsed Rachel for the first time at the edge of the well. He walked up to her and kissed her immediately. Yet the next moment he burst into sobs. Remorse? More likely, he was startled by his own audacity. As a matter of fact, he seems to have cried quite often. As a child, as an adolescent, even as an adult he seemed forever on the verge of tears. He wept at home, he wept away from home. He kissed Laban and wept; he kissed Esau and wept. When others kissed him, they too wept. We get the impression of a big child yearning for love and protection. Nothing surprising about that; his possessive, dominating mother had obviously done her best to spoil him. She had been after him constantly: do this, do not do that; come here, do not go there. Of course, she had meant well; he was, after all, weaker than his brother, more gentle and frail; clearly in need of a buffer between himself and the world. And so she had covered him with affection to the point of stifling him.

The fact that Isaac was an outstanding personality did nothing to help. Isaac was taciturn, uncommunicative; he discouraged confidences and yet from beyond his silence one sensed the mystery of his youth. It was not easy for Jacob to grow up in the shadow of a man whom God had singled out and demanded in sacrifice. It was not easy for Jacob to be the son of the first survivor in Jewish history, the first witness of a holocaust.

Moreover, for reasons known only to himself, Isaac favored Esau. One wonders why. Father and son had nothing in common; in fact, they were complete opposites. Isaac was sickly and blind; Esau was strong and keen on sports, physically endowed for games and hunting. Isaac aspired only to serenity and meditation; Esau was attracted by blood and violence. Isaac spent his time at home; Esau was forever roaming the fields and forests. Isaac lived for things spiritual; Esau sold his birthright for a bowl of lentils. And yet the two understood each other perfectly. Isaac loved his oldest son, who eagerly returned his love. Was it because opposites really attract one another? Or perhaps because Isaac, true to his name, wished to push laughter to its outer limits, thus showing God that man too is capable of combining peace of mind with brutality? The fact remains that father and son were close. To the point where the following question becomes unavoidable: Aside from all legal considerations, what would have happened to the people of Israel if the decisive encounter had taken place between Isaac and Esau? Without Rebecca’s intervention, without her intuition, her objectively immoral ruse, Isaac surely would have given his blessings not to Jacob but to Esau; then whose descendants would we be? What if Isaac had uncovered the stratagem? Are we then nothing but the result of a fortuitous encounter? Could Israel then not have been at all, or else been Esau?

Surely these doubts must have tormented Jacob. He must have felt vulnerable, on the defensive, ill-at-ease in his role, at fault with his father (to whom he had lied) and with his brother (whom he had cheated) and with the entire world for which he was playing out a role. He had deceived others too often, he now thought of nothing but penance, of suffering to expiate his fault and redeem himself. That was why he submitted quietly; that was why he often wept without uttering a word.

People were exploiting him? Never mind! They were cheating him? Never mind! They were using him against himself? Never mind! The more they hurt him, the more reassured he seemed. When the blows became too hard, he took refuge in dreams, thus becoming the first dreamer in Biblical history. Abraham had visions, Jacob had dreams. When one dreams, the world and its laws seem better. When Jacob dreamed, he transcended himself and became sublimated. His dreams transformed him—taught him that life is a ladder and that ladders lead up . . . and down. Nobody ever remains in on...