Rachel lived a life of broken dreams. She was in love with Jacob, waiting seven long years for marriage, only to be betrayed by her father at the wedding. For years, God holds Rachel childless. In her distress, Rachel quarrels with her husband and sister. And in the end, Rachel dies in childbirth, a young woman. Her body is too bloody to be carried to the family burial plot; so she is buried hastily on the side of the road, alone.
In her final moments, Rachel fully expresses her anguish. She had so desperately wanted children that she once told Jacob “give me children; if not, I will die.” Ironically, Rachel ends up dying in childbirth; and with her last breaths, she expresses a lifetime of frustration when she declares that her baby should be called Ben-Oni – “the son of my sorrow.” Rachel has known too much sorrow in her own life; and this baby is a living tribute to her broken life.
Rachel’s lament becomes part of her legacy. Jeremiah, (a Kohen who lived among the tribe of Benjamin,) writes that when the Jews went into exile, one could hear the voice of “Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted for her children, for they are gone.” Rachel, the woman who sacrificed her life so Benjamin could have his, cannot bear to see the exile of her descendants.
Her cry is a bitter call of protest. In kabbalistic practice, special prayers known as Tikkun Chatzot are recited at midnight. One section is known as Tikkun Rachel, which bewails the destruction of Temple. In the Jewish imagination, Rachel refuses to accept the broken reality of this world.
Rachel knows the bitterness of a life interrupted, pulled apart by multiple moments of alienation from one’s dreams; and she will forever be our mother Rachel, who cries with us, and for us, when we stand at a painful distance from our own destiny.
Not so Jacob. He doesn’t accept the name Ben-Oni, and instead, offers a new name for the child: Ben-Yamin, or Benjamin.
Rashi explains that Yamin is the Hebrew word for right side; and if one faces east, the right side corresponds to the South. (The Arabic word for Yemen may have the same derivation.) Israel, Rashi explains, is to the South when one comes from Aram (where Jacob had just lived for 20 years). Jacob is declaring that Benjamin is his only child who was born in the South, i.e., Israel. Instead of focusing on sorrow, Jacob’s choice of name tells a story of redemption, of a family that finally has come home.
The Ramban offers a different interpretation. Yamin, the right side, is the side of strength. Benjamin is the “son of strength,” a child meant for greatness.
The Ramban adds another thought-provoking point. He explains that the Hebrew word Oni actually has two possible meanings; sorrow and strength. Even though Jacob modified Rachel’s name for her son, Jacob didn’t want to uproot it entirely. Instead, he reread Oni as meaning strength instead of sorrow. This allows the name Benjamin to remain the equivalent of Ben-Oni, and for Jacob to continue to respect the name Rachel chose.
I always thought the Ramban’s explanation was disingenuous, some clever linguistic sophistry. But actually, it reflects a profound truth, that the ability to carry on despite sorrow is a source of enormous strength. Ezekiel says “that in your blood you shall live.” The name Benjamin expresses the very same idea: sorrow and strength are often close companions.
According to both Rashi and the Ramban, the name Benjamin reframes the story; instead of focusing on the tragedy of Rachel’s death, it focuses on a better future. Even after burying his beloved, Jacob turns to optimism. But how does he do that?
This question is not just about Jacob; it is about Jewish history. While we might make jokes about Jewish pessimism, Jews have always been optimists, even in the worst of times. We never lost hope, and never stopped believing in redemption.
Many see Jewish optimism as connected to the belief in the Messiah; if you dream of a better world, you have to be an optimist. And this Biblical dream has spread throughout the world; for centuries philosophers and social scientists have preached about the possibility of unending progress, perhaps even an “end to history.” Those dreams are messianic dreams, and simply a commentary to Isaiah’s prophecies.
But that isn’t the source of Jacob’s optimism.
Jacob is holding an orphan in his hands. He must make a decision; will he wallow in grief, or will he raise this child properly? You cannot raise a child by telling them they are a cause for sorrow. Like every child, Benjamin has a gift to bring to this world; it must not be eclipsed by sadness.
This is survival optimism.
During my career, I have seen awful tragedies; and none are worse than a parent who loses a child. Yet those same parents, bereft and broken, change their tone and demeanor when they are with their other children. There is an intuitive understanding that they must live, if not for their own sake, for the sake of their remaining children. They know they must learn how to savor life, and once again embrace hope, because the survival of their family demands it. They have no choice.
This is survival optimism. It is primal, a call from inside that declares “I shall not die but live.” (Psalms 118:17) And in order to live, you must embrace a bit of optimism to nourish the spirit.
In the last year, several stories have appeared in Israeli media about widows of soldiers who have given birth. These women are the mirror image of Rachel, giving birth to children who will never know their father. The stories are touching; hospital staff, friends, and even complete strangers assist them in every conceivable way. The mothers speak about the void they feel, but also, how they feel this child brings them even closer to their late husbands. And they vow to bring the child up to proud, to be strong, and to be happy.
They have optimism because they know that is what life demands of them.
And there is nothing more sacred than survival optimism.
Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.
