Toldot 
Genesis 25:19–28:9 

By Jen Smith  

Parshat Toldot is, at its core, a story about family: its beauty, its tensions, and the deep spiritual work of raising the next generation. In the opening lines, we meet two children who could not be more different: Esau, a ruddy, outdoorsy, rough and tumble boy, and Jacob, the softer, more sensitive kid who primarily dwelling in the community tents. Even before birth, we read about the twins’ struggle within Rebekah’s womb, foreshadowing the complex dynamic yet to come. 

The Torah tells us something startling and achingly honest:  

“Isaac loved Esau… but Rebekah loved Jacob.” (Genesis 25:28) 

In a single verse, the Torah names the parental trap we all fear: loving our children for the parts of them that reflect our own preferences. While Isaac delights in Esau’s bravery and skill with the hunt, Rebekah delights in Jacob’s spiritual depth and sensitivity. Neither parent ever seems to delight in the whole of each child. 

And so, the story spirals into moments rife with competition, misunderstanding, and agonizing emotional pain. But hidden in this ancient family drama is a powerful lesson for modern Jewish life. 

Jewish mysticism teaches that every soul comes into the world with a unique tikkun – a repair, a strength, and/or a purpose which only that unique soul can fulfill. The Zohar describes souls as sparks of Divine light; while each refracts differently, each is necessary to illuminate the world’s wholeness. 

Jacob is not a failed version of Esau. Esau is not a rougher, less refined shadow of Jacob. 

Each boy represents a distinct spiritual archetype. Jacob embodies the contemplative mystic, the studious and stable inner life. Esau embodies the embodied achiever, representing courage, physical presence, and action.  

But here’s the thing: Judaism needs both. The world needs both. And certainly, a family needs both. When we ask a child to conform to someone else’s gifts, whether they are siblings, peers, or abstract entities like social norms, we effectively dim the spark within that soul – a spark that God placed there intentionally. 

Much is written about the morality of the blessings, Rebekah’s (and Jacob’s) deception, and Esau’s anguish and feelings of betrayal. But beneath the surface lies a more subtle message: When parents fail to honor the unique essence of a child, they risk creating insurmountable chasms that are difficult to repair. 

Isaac sees Esau, and Rebekah sees Jacob. But who sees the whole family? Who delights in each child as they are – not as they “should” be?  

Jewish mystical tradition imagines that if each child been blessed according to their essence, the rivalry might never have erupted. Esau, the man of the field, needed strength and guidance to live his life in the world. Jacob, the gentle scholar, needed wisdom and clarity to successfully navigate his own life. Instead, both realms, the physical and the spiritual, became entangled and confused. 

Our world is loud with expectations: Get the right grades, fit the right social mold, play the right sports, post the right moments (at the right moment), and earn the right accolades.  

It takes a certain sacred defiance to declare to oneself and the world: My child is allowed to be who they are. 

Jewish values remind us that raising children is not about shaping them into what society rewards. It’s about giving children the tools to help them uncover their unique Divine imprint inside.  

The Talmud teaches us to “teach a child according to their way.” (Proverbs 22:6) Not according to our way. Not according to the world’s way. Their way.  

A child who is introverted may carry the spiritual depth of Jacob, and a child who vibrates with physical energy may hold the holy vitality of Esau. A creative child, a quiet child, an anxious child, a bold child – all are reflections of the Divine. Our task is not to mold these little divine beings, but rather to reflect to them the strengths they already carry.  

Imagine a different Toldot. Let’s imagine that Isaac turned to Esau and said: My son, your strength lies in your courage and presence. You bring vitality into the world. May you channel your passionate fire with righteousness and compassion. 

What if Rebekah turned to Jacob and said: My son, your gift is wisdom and sensitivity. May you walk gently and lead others with understanding. 

This is a blessing we can still give our children: to see them without comparison, to delight in their gifts, and to help them imagine a future where they can use their gifts to live a meaningful life and help others do the same. L’Dor v’Dor, from generation to generation.   

Parshat Toldot invites parents, grandparents, teachers, and mentors to pause and reflect on the expectations we may be projecting onto our children. And I find myself asking the same questions about my own children: Do I praise them for who they are or who I imagine they should be? Do I allow them to lead me toward their true nature, or do I spend too much time steering them toward mine?  

Raising children, in the Jewish mystical imagination, is an act of reverence for the soul before us.  When we honor their essence, we honor God’s creativity. Our children, like Jacob and Esau, come into the world different from each other and different from us.    

This is the blessing that heals the mistakes of Toldot, and it’s the blessing that builds the kind of world we all believe our children deserve; a world illuminated by the radiance of every soul living its truest purpose. 

Shabbat Shalom