It is intricately interconnected. One of the first things a student notices about the Tanakh is how each line carries hints and allusions to other biblical texts. These connections are frequently commented on in rabbinic literature; and in contemporary scholarship, many pursue a literary approach to the Bible, and focus on interpreting the implicit messages hidden in these linguistic and thematic intersections.
For example, the unusual Hebrew word “mashash,” “to grope,” is used regarding Jacob’s deception and theft of the blessings from his father Isaac, and Rachel’s theft and deception of her father Laban’s teraphim. This linguistic connection demands the reader consider both stories together, and assess relationships; not just of fathers and children, but of the husband and wife, Jacob and Rachel, as well.
Parashat Vayetze begins with Jacob’s dream. Exiled and penniless, he lies down to sleep on the ground, with a mere rock to lean against. That night he has a dream of a ladder, whose “top reaches the heavens,” with angels going up and down to God, who stands above. Jacob awakes and declares: “This is none other than a house of God, and it is the gate of heaven!”
This is a powerful narrative; but lurking under the surface is a strange connection to a very different text: The Tower of Babel. In that story, a developing civilization learns to build with bricks, and undertakes an urgent public works project: “Let us build ourselves a city and a tower, its top in the heavens, and let us make ourselves a name, lest we be scattered over the face of all the earth!” However, God comes down to ensure that the tower project fails.
Hebrew readers will notice that this combination of “top” (“rosh”) and “heavens” (“shamayim”) appears nowhere else in the Tanach. But as intriguing as this linguistic connection is, it is also confounding; these texts are dramatically different, and one struggles to find a common theme. Thankfully, knowledge of the historical context can add critical insight to this connection.
Contemporary scholarship often identifies the Tower of Babel with the Etemenanki Ziggurat. This ancient building, (literally the “Temple of the Foundation of Heaven and Earth,”) was quite impressive, reaching nearly 300 feet tall; and it was intended to literally reach up to the Gods.
From a biblical perspective, these notions are absurd; man is not God, and not at all God’s equal. That is why the Torah says that God metaphorically “descends” to see this tower. Ultimately, the name the tower makes for its builders is not of greatness, but rather of impermanence and dispersion. The Talmud properly intuits this insight when it writes that the tower was built as a work of idolatry. The tower did not come to honor the divine; it diminishes God and sees Him as incapable of rising higher than the tallest building.
But what does this have to do with Jacob’s ladder? Yehudah Elitzur, in his article “The Tower of Babel and Jacob’s Ladder” explains the connection. Two terms in Jacob’s dream are not found elsewhere in the Tanakh: the phrase “shaar hashamayim,” “the gate of heaven,” and the word “sulam,” “ladder.” He explains that sulamis an Akkadian word, taken from the ancient language of Babylonia, a reference related to both Mesopotamian mythology as well as the staircases that led to the top of the ziggurat. The term “gate of heaven” is a rough translation of the word Babylon, “bab-ilu,” which means the “Gate of the Gods.” Both of these terms are clear references to ziggurats. They are meant as a comparison; the Babylonians have their stairway to heaven, and so does Jacob.
This comparison mocks the pretenses of the ancient Babylonians. They imagined that it was their great feats of engineering that allowed them access to God’s home. Yet even Jacob, a desperate man with absolutely nothing, can commune with God in the middle of nowhere.
As Elitzur puts it:
The ladder seen in Bethel…is not built of mighty bricks and asphalt, but it indeed reaches the heavens, and the Lord Himself stands above it.
Even an empty field can be the stairway to heaven.
You don’t need a ziggurat to seek God’s grace. But all too often we still search for our ziggurat, the “thing,” the magical item, that will ensure God’s blessing; a building, a blessing, a bracelet that will keep us safe and sound. We do so because it is not just children who search for a security blanket; adults do too.
Jacob must confront life without a security blanket; he has nothing, just a hard rock to lean against. But God is still with him. And that gives him the comfort to continue on his journey.
I just returned from a mission to Israel this past Monday. While many people are determined to stay optimistic, the mood is not. Residents of the North are furious about the ceasefire, which they believe doesn’t properly protect them. Residents of the South have no idea when they will get home. So many of Israel’s best and brightest have given their lives to defend their homeland. Businesses and marriages are suffering. There is just too much heartbreak.
Israelis are living life without a security blanket. It is frightening. But like Jacob, they still dream of something better.
On the final day of our mission, we met with the family of Rabbi Avi Goldberg z”l, who fell in battle a little over a month ago. He left behind a beloved family, a widow, and eight children. He was a teacher, role model, and community rabbi, and his passing leaves a void beyond description. I don’t know where they get the strength to do what they do.
Yet even so, his family and community are pursuing a dream. Rabbi Avi had a unique ability to engage every Jew and bring them to study together, sing together, and pray together. His synagogue had gotten so big, that they now have to meet in the street.
So they need a new building. And they are dreaming of building one in his memory.
This is how you live life without a security blanket: with dreams, with hopes, and with faith.
Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.
