Rebekah: Women of Genesis (48 page)

Jacob left, and returned not long after with two kids, already gutted and drained. She had him disjoint the animals and carve off the flank meat and the loin and chop it into large pieces, which she put into the cooking pot where she already had a broth of spices boiling. Two of the shoulders she saved for the burnt offering; the rest of the unused meat she set aside to go into a different stew for the camp’s supper.

Hours later, she had Jacob, despite his objections, wearing the robe Esau always wore for sacrifices, and bound to his arms within the sleeves of the robe he wore the hairy skin of the kids he had slaughtered that day. She had already sent the servants away from camp, some on errands, and some with the explanation that today’s rituals needed no witnesses. Only Deborah complained about it—her place was with Rebekah, she said, and Rebekah understood her feeling. But they all had to be gone, Deborah most of all—she wanted no chance of someone calling out Jacob’s name at the wrong moment, or, worse, shouting a greeting to Esau if he came home earlier than she expected. Deborah was the one most likely to forget and let something slip. So Rebekah was firm about needing Deborah to watch over the younger handmaidens, and she was gone with the others.

“How can I get the birthright with a lie?” asked Jacob.

“It’s not a lie,” said Rebekah.

“Oh, I really
am
Esau?”

“You really are the son to whom the birthright has to go,” said Rebekah. “It happens that your father mistakenly uses the name ‘Esau’ for that son. So by calling yourself ‘Esau,’ you are truthfully declaring yourself to be the son worthy of the birthright.”

“All that means is that you’ve found an even grander lie to tell yourself in order to justify the lie you’re having me tell.”

“Do you care about the holy writings, Jacob?”

“You know I do, Mother.”

“Then what’s
your
plan to keep them safe, since you don’t like mine?”

“I don’t have a plan, Mother. I’m counting on the Lord to stop Father the way he stopped Grandfather just before he sacrificed his son.”

“This is my doing, Jacob,” said Rebekah. “You’re only obeying your mother.”

Jacob shook his head. “Come up with all the justifications you want, Mother, but I know what I’m doing. And yes, I
am
going to do it. Because I really do believe, Mother, that when you want something to happen, your will is so strong that the whole world bends to accommodate you.”

“If only
that
were true, my life would be so much easier.”

“Not really, Mother. The truth is that if you
weren’t
that strong, your life would be that much worse.”

“It’s all on my head, my good son, my obedient son.”

“Esau’s a good man, too, Mother.”

“Esau’s a man of violence by his own choice, Jacob. When this is done and discovered, I won’t be surprised if he tries to kill you. So I’m going to have you guarded.”

“If this is the will of the Lord, Mother, he’ll protect me.”

“Jacob, haven’t you been paying attention? The Lord uses us frail humans to do his work. Miracles are rare. Blessings most commonly come to those who have worked hard and done all that was within their power to bring them to pass.”

Jacob nodded his agreement. “I’ll do this, Mother, because I feel something within me that whispers that I must do it. I hope that feeling comes from God, assuring me that what you’re having me do is right.”

“It does,” said Rebekah.

“Mother, when you’re
that
sure I know you’re just encouraging me. You really don’t know, do you?”

“I know that I think God is guiding us both right now.”

“You know that you think—”

“Sometimes that’s the best we can do.”

“Then why does it feel as though we’re doing the very worst thing we could do?”

“Because that’s also true.”

“The best and the worst are the same thing?”

“We offer the best lamb of the flock for a sacrifice. We give the best; but to the lamb, we do our worst.”

“So who’s the sacrificial lamb? Me? Or Father?”

“The sacrifice is the shoulder of a kid.”

“Shoulders,” said Jacob. “And make sure you don’t have two left shoulders instead of a left and a right. Father might check that, too.”

She slapped him lightly. “Enough joking. I’m going to pray that this goes well, the whole time you’re doing it.”

“So will I. And also that when Esau kills me, my death will be mercifully swift.”

“Enough of that,” she said.

Then she sent him in to Isaac’s tent, carrying the wide bowl of savory meat that smelled like Esau’s venison.

She stood outside the wall of the tent, listening.

“Father,” said Jacob.

“Here I am,” said Isaac, as if Jacob were the blind one. Though in the darkness of the tent, perhaps he was.

A pause, perhaps as Jacob set down the bowl before his father.

“Who are you, my son?” asked Isaac.

“I’m Esau, your firstborn. I’ve done what you asked. Now sit up, Father, and eat the venison I’ve prepared for you, so you’ll have the strength to bless me.”

“How did you find a deer so quickly?”

“Because the Lord brought it to me.”

To Rebekah, Jacob sounded exactly like Esau. Right down to the way he let the words glide out of his mouth lazily. Jacob was mimicking him perfectly.

Yet not perfectly enough. Isaac said, “Come closer to me, my son.”

Rebekah knew what was happening—the hands probing under the sleeve. She felt bad about deceiving her husband like this. And yet she also felt good when she heard him through the tent wall, saying, “There’s something of Jacob in your voice today, but those are the arms of my son Esau. Did you save the shoulders of the deer for sacrifice?”

“Yes, Father.”

“When we’re done here, you’ll have the authority to give all the burnt offerings to the Lord, and the same power to bless that I have. All that I have from God will be yours then, my son.”

“I pray that God will have as much from me as he’s had from you.”

It was then that Isaac fell silent as he ate and drank. She hadn’t come from Haran yet when Abraham did all this with Isaac, but he had told her about it, and he knew that Isaac would be giving Jacob morsels of meat from the bowl. It was a good thing that Jacob’s beard had finally come in thickly. If Isaac should brush against it with his hand, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference from that.

Isaac wasn’t well, and he ate only a little before he called again for his son to come near him. “Kiss me, Esau,” he said.

After a moment, Rebekah heard him say, “Ah, the smell of my son is the smell of the open field which the Lord has blessed. Therefore God will give you the dew of heaven, the fatness of the earth, and plenty of grain and wine. People will serve you willingly, and the nations of the earth will bow down to you. Be a good ruler over your brother, and your mother’s son will bow down to you.” Then he said the words that conferred the full authority that he had received from Abraham, ending with the formula, “God will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you. Whatever you do upon the earth in God’s name will stand in heaven, and whatever you record on earth will be recorded in heaven.”

And it was done.

Jacob emerged weeping from the tent, carrying the bowl, his tears falling into the nearly-untouched meat. Rebekah led him to his tent, where she waited while he stripped off Esau’s robe so she could return it to his tent.

Which she did just in time, for as she emerged from his tent to return to Jacob’s, she saw Esau down by the cookfire, cutting fresh-killed venison into a stewpot.

“Jacob,” she called softly as she stood outside his tent.

“Come in, Mother,” he said.

She found him looking dejected, sitting on the rug, the kidskins he had worn on his arms lying where he had dropped them.

“Esau’s back,” she said.

“I know,” he answered.

“I think you should leave, just for a few days. He’s going to be very angry.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Jacob. “Not unless Father sends me away.”

“I’m afraid for you,” said Rebekah.

“But you weren’t afraid when you cooked the meat and put it in my hands, when you wrapped my wrists with kidskin, when you told me to call myself Esau.”

“I was afraid then, too.”

“So am I afraid now,” said Jacob. “What I have is a lie. I haven’t saved the birthright. I’ve destroyed it.”

“Pray with me,” said Rebekah. “Pray
for
me. For if there was any sin today, it was mine.”

“You don’t have the power to take my sin and bear it yourself,” said Jacob. “Father was right. I was ambitious. I did resent Esau for having what he didn’t value and I did. But I shouldn’t have taken what Father meant for him.” He wept then. “I didn’t want the blessing,” he said. “I wanted Father to want me to have it.”

“I know,” said Rebekah, kneeling beside him, holding him. “Just as your father wanted
his
father to love him too much to sacrifice him. But what matters is that God’s purposes are served.”

“No, that isn’t all that matters,” said Jacob. “It also matters how we treat each other.”

They heard Esau walking up the path heading for Father’s tent. Jacob stopped weeping and got up. Rebekah followed him out of the tent.

Esau saw him, saw how his eyes were red from weeping. “Poor Jacob,” he said. “Don’t grieve, little brother. At least you have that paper I signed.” Esau grinned.

Rebekah felt only a slight stirring of anger at his taunting of Jacob. It was immediately swallowed up in her grief for what she knew Esau was about to go through.

Esau passed through the door of his father’s tent. Rebekah was not standing close enough to hear what was said this time, but she could have been on the far side of the orchard and she would have heard Esau’s wail of anguish.

After that, their voices were loud enough for Rebekah to hear them even by Jacob’s tent.

“It was a lie! How can the blessing count for him when you thought you were giving it to me? It’s mine, Father!”

“The blessing will stand. It belongs to Jacob now.”

“That supplanter! That sneak!”

“He has been blessed.” The tone of Isaac’s voice made it clear—the decision was final.

“Bless me, Father! Bless me too! Isn’t there something left for me?”

“I’ve made him your lord,” said Isaac. “I’ve made all men his servants. The keys to the priesthood of God are his. What is there besides that?”

“Is there only one blessing in the world?” cried Esau. “You have another, Father. Bless me also.”

And he wept.

Outside the tent, so did Jacob, sinking to the ground and weeping for his brother. Or perhaps, at least partly, weeping because when his father could have renounced the blessing he had given Jacob, he chose not to. He let it stand.

“Yes, Esau, I can bless you with the fatness of the earth, and I do. I bless you with the dew from heaven. By the sword you will live, and though you serve your brother, in the day when you become a true servant of God, you will come into your dominion. You’ll break the yoke of subservience and be a free man, because only the servants of God are truly free.”

Rebekah wondered if Esau would understand what Isaac had blessed him with. If he would only obey the Lord, then he would have his own place in the kingdom of God. He might never have the authority that Isaac had confirmed upon Jacob, but he would have a place in God’s favor, if he changed his life and earned it. Please, Esau, hear what your father said, and live by it. Please, God, help my son Esau to fulfill his father’s blessing.

When Esau emerged from the tent, he saw Jacob curled up on the ground, weeping. He said nothing, but he stood there gazing at Jacob for a long moment. And as he did, Rebekah heard his voice, the words of his heart, not from his lips, but inside her mind. “Father will die soon,” he was saying, “and when he does, you’ll also die, and I’ll have everything you stole from me.” Then he burst into bitter tears himself, and fled, not to the tent he slept in when he visited Beersheba, but down the hill to the corral, where he prepared his camel for the journey back to his wives.

His wives, who were the reason that he had lost the birthright.

The tent door opened again, and Isaac emerged into the light, though his eyes showed no sign of responding to it. He had a sturdy chest in his arms. Rebekah recognized it. All the holy writings were kept within it.

“Jacob!” Isaac called. His voice was also ragged with weeping.

“Father,” said Jacob. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I forbid you to be sorry,” said Isaac. “What you did today came from God.”