SHLOSHIM SPEECH - PARSHAT TOLDOS

When a person you love is taken from this world, you find yourself standing at the edge of something you never wanted to face — the sharp border between what was and what will never be again. In those first moments, nothing feels conceptual or philosophical. It is raw, it is disorienting, and it feels impossibly final. But Chazal teach us that to understand what happens on the day a soul leaves this world, we must lift our eyes from the surface and look deeper — beyond the pain, beyond the rupture, into the spiritual architecture of life itself.

This shloshim drosha is not a eulogy. It is an attempt to place a life into the frame that the Torah gives us: a frame of purpose, ascent, and continuity. It is a way to see the neshama not as gone, but as moving forward into the world it was created for. And so before we speak about anything else — before we explore middos, legacy, growth, or the journey of the neshama — we must first understand a fundamental truth: that for a Jew, the day of death is not an end. It is the beginning of the soul’s truest life.

From this foundation, everything else becomes clearer.

The Day of Death: A Beginning, Not an End

Before anything else, we need to understand what our tradition teaches about that moment when a soul leaves this world.

To us, the day of death feels like the saddest day of a person’s life — an ending, a breaking, a silence. But Chazal reveal the opposite. The day of death is not the end at all; it is the beginning. It is the moment the soul finally steps into truth, into clarity, into the life it was always meant for. What looks to us like sunset is, in the world of the neshama, sunrise. It is the day on which a person’s real life begins — unburdened, unmasked, and eternal.  Because birth is the start of confusion, of struggle, of concealment, but death — for a person who has lived with faith and with teshuvah — is the doorway to Olam HaBa, the truest and highest form of life.

Koheles on the Meaning of the Final Day

This is exactly what Shlomo HaMelech teaches in Koheles 7:1:

טוֹב שֵׁם מִשֶּׁמֶן טוֹב; וְיוֹם הַמָּוֶת, מִיּוֹם הִוָּלְדוֹ.

“A good name is better than fine oil, and the day of death is better than the day of one’s birth.”

In this spirit, Shlomo HaMelech’s words are echoed beautifully in Eishes Chayil through the pasuk: “וַתִּשְׂחַק לְיוֹם אַחֲרוֹן” — “She laughs on the last day.” Chazal (Midrash Mishlei, Yalkut Shimoni 952) explain that “the last day” refers to the day of death. Why would a person laugh at such a moment? Because for the righteous — and for anyone who has spent a life building mitzvos, chesed, emunah, and goodness — the day of death is not darkness, but arrival. The Midrash teaches that she is joyous “because she knows she has reached her perfection.” Her life’s mission is complete; her “good name” now shines with clarity. Everything she built accompanies her eternally. The laughter is not denial — it is recognition. It is the soul’s deep understanding that what appears to us as an ending is, in truth, the beginning of forever.

Life in Death: Chayei Sarah and Vayechi

There is yet another profound proof of this idea: the two parshiyot in the Torah that deal most directly with death are both named with the language of life. The parsha that records Sarah Imeinu’s passing is called Chayei Sarah — “the life of Sarah.” The parsha that opens with Yaakov Avinu on his deathbed is called Vayechi Yaakov — “and Yaakov lived.” Why does the Torah speak of life at the very moment it describes death? Rav Chaim Shmulewitz explains that for the righteous, death is not an end but a continuation — and in a deeper sense, a beginning. In this world, a person’s spiritual achievements are concealed, mixed with struggle and limitation. But at the moment of death, the neshama enters a state of clarity, purity, and eternal existence. This passage into Olam HaBa is the moment their true life begins. That is why the Torah calls Sarah’s death her life, and Yaakov’s final moments living — because what appears to us as the end is, in truth, the opening of eternity.

Why Did Hashem Create Man?

People often ask: Why do people die? Yet almost no one asks: Why are people born? They ask: Why is there suffering? but rarely: Why is there pleasure? We question the darkness but take the light for granted. But it is impossible to understand one without the other. To grasp what the day of death truly is — and why it is not an end but a beginning — we must return to first principles. We must ask the most fundamental question: Why did Hashem create a human being in the first place? Only by understanding the purpose of life can we understand the meaning of its completion.

 

Two Formations: This World and the Next

And from the very beginning of creation, the Torah signals that a human being is created for two lives — the life of this world and the eternal life that follows. In Bereishis 2:7 we read:

וַיִּיצֶר ה’ אֱלֹקִים אֶת הָאָדָם עָפָר מִן הָאֲדָמָה וַיִּפַּח בְּאַפָּיו נִשְׁמַת חַיִּים וַיְהִי הָאָדָם לְנֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה

“Hashem God formed the human from the dust of the earth, and He blew into his nostrils the breath of life; and the human became a living being.”

Rashi famously comments on the unusual spelling of וַיִּיצֶר — written with two yuds:

וייצר — שתי יצירות: אחת לעולם הזה, ואחת לתחיית המתים.

“‘Vayitzer’ — two formations: one for this world, and one for Techiyas HaMeisim.”

According to Rashi, Hashem formed Adam with a built‑in duality: a body destined for this world, and a soul destined for eternal life. From the very first moment of human existence, the Torah teaches that this life is only the first chapter — the temporary corridor — and that the true, everlasting life begins after death. This perspective reframes everything: death is not a failure of creation, but the fulfillment of it. It is the moment the second ‘formation’ — the eternal life of the soul — finally takes its place.

Body and Soul: Returning Home

And this dual creation teaches us something essential: the body and the soul come from different places, and therefore return to different places. The body was formed from the dust of the earth, and so when a person’s mission in this world is complete, the body naturally returns to the ground — back to the material from which it was shaped. But the neshama is not from this world at all. It is “נִשְׁמַת חַיִּים” — a breath from Hashem Himself, a spark of the Divine. And just as it came from above, so too it returns above. When the first stage of life is complete, the body returns to earth, and the soul returns to the realm of the Divine. This is not annihilation — it is homecoming. It is the neshama returning to the Source from which it was carved, stepping back into the radiance, closeness, and truth of Hashem. This is why the day of death, for the soul, is a beginning — the moment it returns to where it truly belongs.

וְיָשֹׁב הֶעָפָר עַל הָאָרֶץ כְּשֶׁהָיָה, וְהָרוּחַ תָּשׁוּב אֶל הָאֱלֹקִים אֲשֶׁר נְתָנָהּ. “

“And the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God Who gave it.” (Kohelet 12:7)

A human being is born with two lives woven into his soul.

YOU AND I WILL MAKE YOU

We see yet another profound teaching in the creation of man itself. When Hashem says: “נַעֲשֶׂה אָדָם” — “Let us make man,” the Kabbalistic masters explain that Hashem is speaking to the human being. “Let us make man” means: you and I together will make you. Hashem creates the starting point — the potential, the raw material, the spark — but from there, a person must continue the creation process. A human being is not born complete; he must become complete. Refining himself, elevating his middos, struggling, choosing, growing — that is the partnership hinted to in the very first moments of creation. And this is why the word “טוב – good” is never said when Hashem creates man. Throughout the entire creation story, every stage that is complete is sealed with the word tov. But tov cannot be said about something unfinished. This is why the second day of creation — when the waters were split — lacks the word tov: the separation was only completed on the third day. The task wasn’t finished, so it could not yet be called good.

The same is true for the creation of man. Hashem did not say tov because man was deliberately created incomplete. His outcome was not predetermined; his spiritual shape was not fixed. At the moment of birth, a person is only the beginning of what he must become. Hashem forms the raw potential, but the final form is left to us. Every choice, every struggle, every act of refinement — all of it continues the creation that Hashem began. Man is born unfinished so that his life’s work is to finish himself.

Eternal Burial and The Double Cave: Ma’aras HaMachpeilah

I want to digress now and say that these parshiyot that we have been reading teach us several fundamental concepts about life and the afterlife. In last week’s parsha, Chayei Sarah, Avraham Avinu teaches us the very foundation of Olam HaBa and Techiyat HaMeitim. Chazal tell us that the people of Cheis — the society of that time — practiced temporary burial. They would bury the dead only long enough for the body to decompose, for purely practical reasons, and then they would clear the grave. Avraham, however, insisted on purchasing an eternal burial place. Why? To teach the world that death is not the end, that there is life after life, and that in the future there will be Techiyat HaMeitim.

And there is a deeper, often overlooked point. The very name Ma’aras HaMachpeilah means a double cave — a cave with an upper and a lower chamber. The symbolism is profound: there is a lower world and an upper world. The lower level — where we place the body — is the portal, the entryway, through which the soul ascends to the higher world. Avraham’s purchase of a double-layered cave was not only a real estate transaction; it was a theological declaration. It taught forever that what we see as an ending is in truth the opening to a higher plane of existence. The lower world and the upper world are connected — and the passage from one to the other is the moment we call “death.”

Yaakov and Eisav: Two Worldviews

Now that we have explored how Hashem created Adam HaRishon — with duality, with partnership, with a mission that stretches beyond this world — we can now follow this theme into this week’s parsha and see how the Torah draws the first great divide between the mission of a Jew and the mission of the nations of the world. The contrast between Yaakov and Eisav is not only a story of two brothers; it is the Torah’s blueprint for two entirely different approaches to life itself, two destinies, two worldviews. Their birth and their lives reveal how a Jew’s task is growth, refinement, becoming — while the non‑Jewish mission in the world is fundamentally different. This split appears already at the moment they enter the world, and it shapes the spiritual landscape of all of history.

The Torah reveals that the initial plan was not for Yaakov and Eisav to stand in opposition, but to function as a unified team, each fulfilling a distinct role within one shared mission. Chazal and the classical commentators paint a clear picture: Eisav was meant to handle the physical world — the dangers, the labor, the provision, the protection — while Yaakov would immerse himself in Torah, holiness, and spiritual elevation. Together they were meant to build Klal Yisrael, much like the later partnership of Zevulun and Yissachar.

This is why Yitzchak was not naïve. He wasn’t blind to Eisav’s shortcomings; rather, he envisioned a world in which Eisav’s immense physical capabilities would be harnessed for holiness by supporting Yaakov’s spiritual mission. The Ramban explains that Yitzchak intended to give Eisav the blessings of material success so he could sustain Yaakov. Rashi notes that Yitzchak believed Eisav served Hashem through worldly skill. The Abarbanel writes explicitly that Yitzchak planned to give Eisav the gifts of power and prosperity so he would take responsibility for the physical realm, leaving Yaakov free for pure avodas Hashem. And Bereishis Rabbah (65:16) describes Yitzchak’s hope that Eisav would be “the provider and protector,” allowing Yaakov to be the soul of the family. But as the Torah shows, Eisav rejected this entire partnership. He spurned the birthright, dismissed the next world, and chose only Olam HaZeh — “הָאָדֹם הָאָדֹם” — the red, the immediate, the surface. Because Eisav abandoned the mission he was meant to carry, the brachos — both material and spiritual — ultimately passed to Yaakov, who would now shoulder both worlds himself.

Let us now look closely at this week’s parsha and see, with clarity, what the true mission of a Jew is in this world — and contrast it with the path chosen by the descendants of Eisav — so that we can understand how we, as Jews, are meant to live our lives.  

The Birth of Yaakov and Eisav

Let’s look at the pesukim from this weeks’ parsha:

וַיֵּצֵ֤א הָרִאשׁוֹן֙ אַדְמוֹנִ֔י כֻּלּ֖וֹ כְּאַדֶּ֣רֶת שֵׂעָ֑ר וַיִּקְרְא֥וּ שְׁמ֖וֹ עֵשָֽׂו׃

The first one emerged red, like a hairy mantle all over; so they named him Esau.

וְאַֽחֲרֵי־כֵ֞ן יָצָ֣א אָחִ֗יו וְיָד֤וֹ אֹחֶ֙זֶת֙ בַּעֲקֵ֣ב עֵשָׂ֔ו וַיִּקְרָ֥א שְׁמ֖וֹ יַעֲקֹ֑ב וְיִצְחָ֛ק בֶּן־שִׁשִּׁ֥ים שָׁנָ֖ה בְּלֶ֥דֶת אֹתָֽם׃

Then his brother emerged, holding on to the heel of Esau; so they named him Jacob. Isaac was sixty years old when they were born.

A few powerful questions immediately emerge. What does the name Eisav actually mean? And then we must ask: the Torah says they called Yaakov “Yaakov” because he was holding onto the עֲקֵב — the heel of Eisav. But where did the yud in his name come from? And beyond that — why would the Torah name the father of the Jewish people after a momentary technicality of birth position? A name in Torah is destiny, essence, identity. How can a fleeting detail determine the eternal name of Yaakov Avinu? These questions open the door to understanding the deepest split between the missions of Yaakov and Eisav.

What Eisav’s Name Really Means

And we must ask an equally important question: what is the Torah trying to tell us when it describes Eisav as “red” and “full of hair” from the moment he emerged? And this is stated most explicitly in the Targum Yonasan ben Uziel, who writes:

וּנְפַק קַדְמָאָה סוּמוּקְרַיי כּוּלֵיהּ כְּכִילַן דְשֵיעַר וּקְרוֹי שְׁמֵיהּ עֵשָו מִן בִּגְלַל דְאִתְיְלִיד כּוּלֵיהּ גְמִיר בְּשֵעָר רֵישָׁא וְדִיקְנָא וְשִׁינִין וְכַּכִין

“And the first came forth wholly red, like a garment of hair; and they called his name Esav, because he was born altogether complete — with the hair of the head, and the beard, and teeth, and grinders.”

This Targum crystallises Chazal’s message: Eisav was not merely hairy — he was born complete, fully formed, physically mature in a way no newborn should be. This was not a biological anomaly but a spiritual statement. It revealed his nature: a person whose identity is rooted entirely in the physical world, whose growth is stunted at the outset because he has no interest in inner development. From the very moment of birth, his destiny was stamped on his appearance. On the surface, it sounds like a medical detail — a description of an unusual-looking newborn. But Torah doesn’t record medical details; everything is eternal. So why does this matter for all future generations? Chazal explain that this was not a physical observation but a spiritual diagnosis. “Red” symbolizes impulsivity, anger, violence, unrestrained physicality — the traits that would define Edom throughout history. And “covered in hair,” say the Midrashim, means asui — “fully made,” already developed, already finished. Hair represents completion, adulthood, externals.

Eisav was “complete” at birth because he had no interest in becoming anything more. He arrived fully formed physically because his essence was purely physical. From the first moment, the Torah is signalling his destiny: Eisav is the man of the immediate, the surface, the unrefined body — and his descendants would inherit this nature. These details are not cosmetic; they are the Torah’s way of teaching that Eisav chose Olam HaZeh as his identity, and Yaakov would therefore become the bearer of Olam HaBa.

The Magaleh Amukos on “Asui” and the Stolen Yud

The Magaleh Amukos (Toldos 231) offers a profound explanation of this dynamic, revealing the secret of the names themselves:

“תמצא שהבכורה שלקח יעקב מן עשו היא י’ שלו שהיתה תקועה בעקבו שהי’ נקרא עשוי ונגמר ויעקב הי’ ראוי ליקרא רק עקב רק ע”ש שידו אחזת בעקב עשו שהיא היוד שהיתה בשמו לבסוף סליתא עקב לקח יעקב ועשה עטרה לראשו ויקרא שמו יעקב ביו”ד מתחילה אות משמו יתברך ואצל עשו הו’ בסוף.”

“You will find that the birthright which Yaakov took from Esav was the yud that belonged to him, which was embedded in his heel. Esav was called ‘Asui,’ meaning made and complete, while Yaakov at first was fitting to be called only ‘Ekev,’ heel. But because his hand grasped Esav’s heel — which contained the yud at the end of Esav’s name — Yaakov took that yud and made it into a crown upon his own head. Therefore his name became ‘Yaakov’ with a yud at the beginning, a letter from God’s own Name. And regarding Esav, only the vav remained at the end of his name.”

Becoming, Not Being: The Jewish Mission

According to the Magaleh Amukos, Eisav’s true name was originally “Asui” — the one who is finished, complete, formed. His identity was fixed, static, rooted in the material world with no further growth. The yud— the spark of potential, the seed of spirituality — sat at the edge of his identity, “stuck in his heel.” When Yaakov grasped Eisav’s heel, he was not merely holding onto him physically; he was drawing out that yud, claiming the spiritual destiny that Eisav rejected. Yaakov lifts the yud from the heel and places it at the beginning of his own name — transforming “Ekev” into Yaakov, crowned with a letter from Hashem’s Name. Eisav is left with only the physical letter vav, while Yaakov becomes the bearer of the spiritual yud. This moment encapsulates their destinies: Eisav chooses this world, the completed physicality of “Asui,” and Yaakov becomes the one who grows, strives, ascends — carrying within him the spark of eternity.

As Jews,  we are not made to be static. We are made to become.

The Sale of the Bechorah

Before we continue developing the theme of “completion versus growth,” we need to first complete the story of Yaakov and Eisav to understand what actually happened between them — and why Eisav, through his own choices, forfeited Olam HaBa and was left with only this world.  Again, let us just read the pesukim:

וַיָּ֥זֶד יַעֲקֹ֖ב נָזִ֑יד וַיָּבֹ֥א עֵשָׂ֛ו מִן־הַשָּׂדֶ֖ה וְה֥וּא עָיֵֽף׃

Once when Jacob was cooking a stew, Esau came in from the open, famished.

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר עֵשָׂ֜ו אֶֽל־יַעֲקֹ֗ב הַלְעִיטֵ֤נִי נָא֙ מִן־הָאָדֹ֤ם הָאָדֹם֙ הַזֶּ֔ה כִּ֥י עָיֵ֖ף אָנֹ֑כִי עַל־כֵּ֥ן קָרָֽא־שְׁמ֖וֹ אֱדֽוֹם׃

And Esau said to Jacob, “Give me some of that red stuff to gulp down, for I am famished”—which is why he was named Edom.

וַיֹּ֖אמֶר יַעֲקֹ֑ב מִכְרָ֥ה כַיּ֛וֹם אֶת־בְּכֹרָתְךָ֖ לִֽי׃

Jacob said, “First sell me your birthright.”

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר עֵשָׂ֔ו הִנֵּ֛ה אָנֹכִ֥י הוֹלֵ֖ךְ לָמ֑וּת וְלָמָּה־זֶּ֥ה לִ֖י בְּכֹרָֽה׃

And Esau said, “I am at the point of death, so of what use is my birthright to me?”

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר יַעֲקֹ֗ב הִשָּׁ֤בְעָה לִּי֙ כַּיּ֔וֹם וַיִּשָּׁבַ֖ע ל֑וֹ וַיִּמְכֹּ֥ר אֶת־בְּכֹרָת֖וֹ לְיַעֲקֹֽב׃

But Jacob said, “Swear to me first.” So he swore to him, and sold his birthright to Jacob.

וְיַעֲקֹ֞ב נָתַ֣ן לְעֵשָׂ֗ו לֶ֚חֶם וּנְזִ֣יד עֲדָשִׁ֔ים וַיֹּ֣אכַל וַיֵּ֔שְׁתְּ וַיָּ֖קׇם וַיֵּלַ֑ךְ וַיִּ֥בֶז עֵשָׂ֖ו אֶת־הַבְּכֹרָֽה׃ 

Jacob then gave Esau bread and lentil stew; he ate and drank, and he rose and went away. Thus did Esau spurn the birthright.

The Five Sins of Eisav

Again, we can turn to the Targum Yonasan who elaborates these pesukim:  

וּבְהַהוּא יוֹמָא דְמִית אַבְרָהָם בָּשִׁיל יַעֲקב תַּבְשִׁילֵי דִטְלוֹפְחֵי וַאֲזַל לְנַחֲמָא לְאָבוֹי

On the day that Avraham died, Yaakov prepared a stew of lentils and went to comfort his father.

וְאָתָא עֵשָו מִן בָּרָא וְהוּא מְשַׁלְהֵי

And Eisav came from the field, exhausted.

אֲרוּם חֲמֵשׁ עֲבֵרְיַן עֲבַר בְּהַהוּא יוֹמָא:

For on that very day he had committed five transgressions:

פְּלַח פּוּלְחָנָא נוּכְרָאָה –

he engaged in idolatrous worship

.שָׁפַךְ אַדְמָה זַכְיָא –

he shed innocent blood

.וְעָל עַל עוּלֵימְתָּא מְאַרְשָא –

he violated a betrothed maiden.

וְכָּפַר בְּחַיֵי עַלְמָא דְאָתֵי –

he denied the existence of the World to Come

.וּבְזָא יַת בְּכֵירוּתָא –

and he despised the birthright.

וַאֲמַר עֵשָו לְיַעֲקב אַטְעִים יָתִי כְּדוֹן מִן תַּבְשִׁילָא סִמוּקָא סִמוּקָא הָדֵין אֲרוּם מְשַׁלְהֵי אֲנָא

And Eisav said to Yaakov: “Let me gulp down some of that red stew now, for I am faint.”

בְּגִין כֵּן קְרָא שְׁמֵיהּ אֱדוֹם

Therefore, he was called Edom.

וַאֲמַר יַעֲקב זַבִּין יוּמָנָא כְּיוֹם דִאַנְתְּ עָתִיד לְמֵיחְסָן יַת בְּכֵירוּתָךְ לִי

And Yaakov said, “Sell me today—as on this very day—your birthright.”

וַאֲמַר עֵשָו הָא אֲנָא אַזִיל לִמְמַת וְלֵית אֲנָא חֲיַי תּוּב בְּעָלַם אָחְרַן

And Eisav said, “Behold, I am going to die, and I will have no life in the World to Come.

וְלָמָּה דְנַן לִי בְּכֵרוּתָא וְחוּלְקָא בְעָלְמָא דְאַתְּ אָמַר

So what use to me is the birthright, or the portion in the world of which you speak?”

וַאֲמַר יַעֲקב קַיֵים לִי כְּיוֹם דֵיהִי וְקַיֵים לֵיהּ

And Yaakov said, “Swear to me today that this is so,” and he swore to him.

וְזַבִּין יַת בְּכֵירוּתֵיהּ לְיַעֲקב

And he sold his birthright to Yaakov.

וְיַעֲקב נָתַן לְעֵשָו לֶחֶם וְתַבְשִׁיל דִטְלוֹפְחִי

And Yaakov gave Eisav bread and lentil stew.

וְאָכַל וּשְׁתִי וְקָם וַאֲזַל

He ate and drank, then rose and went on his way.

וְשַׁט עֵשָו יַת בְּכֵירוּתָא וְחוֹלַק עַלְמָא דְאָתִי

And Eisav scorned the birthright and the portion in the World to Come.

What we see from the Targum Yonasan is that Eisav consciously cast off the service of Hashem — symbolized by the bechorah, with all its spiritual responsibility — and he severed himself from the World to Come. Having rejected eternal life, all that remained for him was this world alone. Chazal teach this openly: the two brothers divided the worlds — Eisav took Olam HaZeh, and Yaakov took Olam HaBa (Bava Basra 16b; Pesikta Rabbasi 12). This becomes the defining split between them: Eisav chooses the temporary, the immediate, the physical; Yaakov chooses the eternal, the spiritual, the world that begins where this one ends.

The Symbolism of “The Red, Red Stuff” and the name Edom

Another essential element in this story is the way Eisav relates to the lentils. When he returns from the field, exhausted and spiritually depleted, he points at Yaakov’s food and calls it: “הַלְּעָד הָאָדֹם הָאָדֹם הַזֶּה — that red, red stuff.” He never calls it lentils. He doesn’t ask what it is. He doesn’t inquire what it means. He doesn’t look beneath the surface. For him, it is just an immediate, sensory object — red — nothing more. And from that moment he is called Edom, the man of redness, of surface-level perception, of pure materiality.

Tzurah and Chomer: The Maharal’s Framework

This captures the deepest contrast between Yaakov and Eisav, and ithe concept is brought down by the Maharal of tzurah and chomer. Tzurah is form, purpose, depth, meaning — the part of a person that reaches upward. Chomer is raw matter, the unrefined physicality that exists only for the present moment. Yaakov represents tzurah, the one who looks beyond what is immediately visible and perceives the inner reality — the spiritual significance, the process, the growth. Eisav is chomer, responding only to sensation, impulse, and appearance.

This is why this small detail becomes his eternal name. “Edom” is the embodiment of a life lived on the surface — and “Yaakov,” the one who carries the yud of eternity, is the embodiment of a life lived toward Olam HaBa.

Chamor and Chomer: The Donkey as a Metaphor

There is another layer here, one that Chazal make explicit through language itself. The Hebrew word for raw materiality is חֹמֶר — chomer, and it is no coincidence that it shares the same root as חֲמוֹר — chamor, a donkey. Chazal draw this connection explicitly. When Avraham tells the lads accompanying him to the Akeidah:

“שְׁבוּ לָכֶם פֹּה עִם הַחֲמוֹר”

— “Stay here with the donkey” (Bereishis 22:5),

Rashi comments:

עם הדומה לחמור

 — “with the ones similar to a donkey.”

Meaning: they were compared to a donkey, not as an insult, but as a spiritual description — beings operating on the level of chomer, material existence without higher awareness. This reinforces the Maharal’s framework: Eisav embodies chomer, raw physicality without inner form or growth.

And this framework also explains a famous image in Tanach about the end of days. Chazal teach that when Mashiach comes, he is described as “עני ורוכב על חמור” — a poor man riding on a donkey. This is not meant literally. The image of a poor person riding a donkey means mastery over the chomer — the physical world. Mashiach is the one who will not  be controlled by the physicality it but rides above it.

What Makes a Human Being Unique

I want to go one layer deeper. Rav Amnon Yitzchak quotes the Aderet Eliyahu of the Ben Ish Chai, who explains why the Torah emphasises that Eisav was born “asui” — fully formed — and why Chazal compare him to a chamor. The Ben Ish Chai notes that there is nothing in creation more helpless than a human infant. A baby enters the world utterly dependent — unable to stand, walk, feed, or protect itself. Human growth is slow, incremental, developmental — one tiny step, one small improvement, one spoonful at a time. That is because the essence of a human being is to grow. Our greatness lies in our becoming.

Contrast this with the animal kingdom. A donkey — the very creature to which the nations are compared — can stand, walk, and drink within minutes of birth. It is born almost fully functional. The Gemara says clearly: Chullin 69a

“שׁוֹר בֶּן יוֹמוֹ נִקְרָא שׁוֹר”

“An ox even one day old is called an ox.”

This is the classic source used by Chazal to show that certain creatures are considered fully developed from birth, in contrast to humans who require growth and development.

At first glance, this appears to be an advantage for animals. They seem better off — stronger, more capable, more independent from the very moment they emerge into the world.

But the truth is the opposite. Their early strength reflects a deeper limitation: they are static. How they are born is how they remain. A donkey will be a donkey for its entire life;an elephant will graze for fifty‑five years doing the exact same thing it did on the day it first stood on its feet. Animals do not develop their character, refine their nature, or elevate their inner world. They live, they function, and they die exactly as they entered existence.

This is the spiritual metaphor the Torah is teaching: Eisav, like the donkey, emerges “complete,” finished, static — a being rooted entirely in chomer, with no interest in inner change. Yaakov, by contrast, begins as an “akev,” a heel — the low starting point that hints to a lifelong climb. His destiny is growth, struggle, refinement, and becoming.

We say a line in davenning every morning - 

וּמוֹתַר הָאָדָם מִן הַבְּהֵמָה אָיִן - 

Usually translated as Man has no superiority over the animal, for all is fleeting.

However, he interprets this differently:  

וּמוֹתַר הָאָדָם מִן הַבְּהֵמָה

 — אָיִן. 

 Man’s greatest superiority over animals, is that he is born as אָיִן - nothing. 

This speaks to his unique capacity to grow, to change, to transcend what he was yesterday. Because man begins as ayin, as nothing, he is not fixed. He is not finished. He is not trapped in the form in which he was born. His starting point is emptiness precisely so that he can fill it — with Torah, with mitzvos, with character, with holiness, with struggle, with triumph. Only a being who begins as “nothing” can become “something.” Only a creature who starts unfinished can choose who he will be. Animals are born complete — and therefore remain exactly what they are. A human being is born incomplete — and therefore can become infinitely more. 

This, then, is why the Torah makes such a point of describing Eisav’s birth as “completed,” why it paints him as the embodiment of chomer, and why non-jewss are also compared to a chamor. It is not biology — it is ideology. The Torah is teaching us that Eisav represents the world of the static, the fixed, the unchanging. His essence is Olam HaZeh — the here, the now, the immediate. The donkey may appear strong and capable at birth, but its very completeness is its limitation. So too Eisav: what he is at the beginning is what he remains. No ascent, no transformation, no becoming. No character refinement. No drive to become better.

Yaakov’s Life of Ascent

And if you look at Yaakov’s life, you see this truth in every chapter. His life is one test after another — fleeing from Eisav, surviving Lavan, wrestling the malach, confronting loss, navigating the sorrow of Yosef, and carrying the weight of building the future of Klal Yisrael. Not only that, but when Yaakov wanted  to settle down “Vayesheiv”, Hashem responded by saying – is it not enough that you have the next world, that you want tranquility in this world too. Why? Because a Jew does not come to this world for comfort. Our purpose is not to enjoy this fleeting world — that portion was taken by Eisav when he rejected the bechorah and Olam HaBa. Our task is to earn our next world, to refine ourselves through the nisyonos Hashem tailors for us. Yaakov becomes the father of the Jewish people precisely because his entire life is ascent — growth through challenge, illumination through struggle, becoming through suffering and triumph. Through him the Torah teaches: a Jew’s greatness lies not in being complete, but in the lifelong journey of becoming. This world is not our reward — it is our workshop. The reward waits in the world that begins when this one ends.

How Jews and Non‑Jews Respond to Death

Now I want to return to the theme we began with — the day of death — because this point defines, perhaps more sharply than anything else, the difference between a Jew and a non‑Jew. Both the Jew and the nations think about death. Both confront the reality that life is finite. But what they do with that knowledge could not be more different.

For the worldview of the nations, the day of death produces a single conclusion: eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. It is the philosophy behind slogans like “you only live once.” If life ends, then the only rational response is to maximise pleasure now. To escape discomfort, to avoid struggle, to indulge the moment. Death, for them, empties life of meaning — so the only meaning available is enjoyment.

But for a Jew, the day of death is the opposite. It is not a signal to indulge but a call to rise. It is the most powerful reminder to repent, to refine, to walk in the ways of Hashem.

This is the meaning behind Eisav’s words: “הִנֵּה אָנֹכִי הוֹלֵךְ לָמוּת — Behold, I am going to die; and what do I need the birthright for?” For Eisav, death means nothing remains — so why invest in eternal responsibility? Why care about Olam HaBa if you deny its existence? His response to mortality is abandonment.

The Jew’s response is the opposite, expressed in Chazal’s teaching about overcoming the Yezter Horah. If nothing else works, the final solution the gemara (Bearachot 5a) brings is for a person to remember the day of death: “אִם לָאו — יִזְכּוֹר לוֹ יוֹם הַמִּיתָה” — If nothing else works, let him remember the day of death. Not to depress him, but to awaken him. To remind him that life is not a playground but a mission; not a momentary indulgence but eternal investment. The day of death is the great clarifier: the moment that tells us what matters and what does not.

Both the Jew and the non‑Jew think about death — but one uses it as an excuse to abandon responsibility, and the other uses it as a reason to embrace it. The nations say: “Tomorrow I die, so today I live without restraint.” The Jew says: “Tomorrow I die, so today I must live with purpose.” This is the essence of the divide between Eisav’s world and Yaakov’s world — between the man of the moment and the man of eternity.

The Final Clarification: Why the Day of Death Is “Good”

And this brings us full circle. For the Jew, the day of death is described not as a tragedy but as good, because it is the moment a person finally sees — with perfect clarity — the distance he travelled between where he started and where he chose to go. It is the moment his life’s work becomes visible, the moment the soul beholds the greatness it carved out of its own incompleteness.

Death is the threshold through which a person enters the reward he has earned — the world he built through growth, struggle, mitzvos, and teshuvah. What was hidden becomes revealed. What was potential becomes eternal. And that is why Chazal say “וְיוֹם הַמָּוֶת — מִיּוֹם הִוָּלְדוֹ” — the day of death is better than the day of birth. Birth gives a person nothing but possibility; death reveals what he made of it. For the Jew, death is not darkness — it is the unveiling of light, the moment his true life finally begins.

Closing Summary

When we step back from all the complexity — the questions, the pain, the uncertainty, the journey of the neshamah — a single, breathtaking theme emerges. The Torah keeps telling us, in Parshas Chayei Sarah and again in Vayechi Yaakov, that for a Jew, life doesn’t end when this world ends. In fact, it is the opposite: our true life begins at that moment.

Chayei Sarah is the parsha of Sarah’s “death,” and yet the Torah calls it Chayei — “the life of Sarah,” because her real, eternal existence starts where the physical one closes. Vayechi Yaakov describes Yaakov’s final moments, yet the parsha’s name is Vayechi — “and Yaakov lived.” The message is as clear as it is comforting: the real life of a tzaddik begins after the soul returns home.

And this is the secret behind Shlomo HaMelech’s phrase in Mishlei and Eishes Chayil:“Vatizchak l’yom acharon” — She will smile, she will rejoice, on the final day. Not despite the day of death — because of it. Because that is the day the neshamah steps into everything it worked for, everything it became, everything it truly is.

Our forefather Yitzchak, the one Chazal most associate with Techiyas HaMeisim and the future Geulah, carries this truth inside his very name. Rearranged, Yitzchak becomes “Ketz Chai.” The Keitz — the predetermined boundary of a person’s time in this world — arrives. And then comes Chai — real, unending life. Not finite. Not fragile. Not bound by illness or pain. Life that Hashem Himself breathes into the soul for eternity.

This is the Jewish view of existence.This is the comfort Chazal give us.And this is the hope that carries us through the darkest valleys.

For those who live lives of mitzvos, of growth, of kindness, of connection to Hashem — the final day is not an end at all. It is the doorway to everything.

I will end with one personal thing personal. There were people who gently suggested that we take one last family trip — to go somewhere beautiful, to make memories, to squeeze life into the time we had left. And I don’t judge anyone who chooses that path; it is human and it is precious. But for us… it didn’t feel right. When you know the clock is ticking, when every moment feels unbearably fragile, something inside you shifts. We realised — painfully, clearly — that time wasn’t something to be filled, it was something to be used. Not for distraction, not even for memory-making, but for eternity. We didn’t want our last days together to be about beaches or hotels or sunsets. We wanted them to be about things that would stay with her forever. So we said Tehillim. We learned. We tried to fill the air around her with mitzvos, with zechuyos, with things that would lift her neshama higher than any holiday ever could. That was our “trip.” That was our journey. And it was the only one that felt true.

And so it is fitting to end with the words of the Mishnah that capture this entire worldview:

רַבִּי יַעֲקֹב אוֹמֵר, הָעוֹלָם הַזֶּה דּוֹמֶה לִפְרוֹזְדוֹר בִּפְנֵי הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא. הַתְקֵן עַצְמְךָ בַפְּרוֹזְדוֹר, כְּדֵי שֶׁתִּכָּנֵס לַטְּרַקְלִין:

Rabbi Jacob said: this world is like an entrance-hall before the world to come; prepare yourself in the entrance-hall, so that you may enter the banqueting-hall.

הוּא הָיָה אוֹמֵר, יָפָה שָׁעָה אַחַת בִּתְשׁוּבָה וּמַעֲשִׂים טוֹבִים בָּעוֹלָם הַזֶּה, מִכָּל חַיֵּי הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא. וְיָפָה שָׁעָה אַחַת שֶׁל קוֹרַת רוּחַ בָּעוֹלָם הַבָּא, מִכָּל חַיֵּי הָעוֹלָם הַזֶּה:

He used to say: more precious is one hour in repentance and good deeds in this world, than all the life of the world to come; And more precious is one hour of the tranquility of the world to come, than all the life of this world.

לְעִילּוּי נִשְׁמַת מִיכַל חַוָּה בַּת זְאֵב צִיּוֹן הַכֹּהֵן מְנוּחָתָהּ עֵדֶן