blogs/rabbi-huberman

In early October 1976, an important moment occurred in my life.

After graduating from university with a degree in journalism, I obtained my first reporter’s job away from the suburbs of Montreal, working as a junior reporter for a small daily newspaper in northwest Canada.

My father, of blessed memory, had wanted me to take over his hardware business, but that was not to be.

The newspaper I worked for was located in Fort McMurray, Alberta an isolated community of 17,000 about 600 miles north of the Montana border. While the city’s name may seem rustic, if not primitive, it is probably one of the United States’ most important and sustaining communities.

On average, the US imports about three million barrels of oil per day from the Fort McMurray area.

Due to a housing shortage, I spent my first few months in the community boarding in the basement of a private home, along with three men working at the nearby oil plants.

When I moved in, my “roommates” surrounded me and posed two questions: “What do you do for work?” and “What kind of beer do you drink?”

As a good Jewish boy, I could count on one hand the number of beers I had consumed in my lifetime. As to what I did for a living, I replied, “I am a journalist.”

Brian, one of the tradesmen replied, “That’s not real work.”

“I’m a plumber. Sal over there is a welder. And Keith is a carpenter.

“Again, what kind of real work do you do?”

It was an odd convergence. The workers had never shared a conversation with someone those work was linked to intellectual skills, and I had never really given much thought to those who use physical labor to build our country’s infrastructure.

My father, reluctant to have me leave the comfortable Jewish suburbs, as I departed for the airport, tearily quoted two words from the Passover Haggadah.

“If you insist on going—T’zei Ul’mad. Go forth into the world—and learn.”

And from that day, for the next 13 years, this Jewish suburban university graduate lived and worked side by side with builders, welders, plumbers, electricians, and carpenters.

And my respect for those who work with tools in their hands has never waned. This week, as I reread the Torah portion Toldot—“These are the generations of Isaac”—I thought about two sentences at the beginning of the parashah.

They launch the story of two brothers, Essav and Jacob, sons of Isaac and Rebecca, who are valued in different ways.

As Rebecca struggles through a painful pregnancy, God explains, “Two nations are in your womb. Two separate people shall issue from your body.” (Genesis 25:23)

The traditional interpretation of these sentences relates to the fact that in the years to come, Essav—the gruff firstborn—will father Middle Eastern nations known for their brawn and violence.

Jacob will become the forerunner of the Jewish people, recognized for their dedication to study, values and intellectual pursuits.

But perhaps there is more to this story than geography and future conflict.

The parashah inspires us to consider the respective and equal strengths of each son.

Indeed, while Jewish culture tends to respect those who work with their intellect (like Rebecca’s favoritism of Jacob), her husband, Isaac, cherishes Essav more, largely because he is a hunter, fighter, and manual laborer.

Essav literally puts meat on Isaac’s table.

As a youth, if you told your parents you wanted to become a doctor, lawyer, engineer, architect or accountant, chances are they approved.

Not so much if you aspired to work in a factory, remove trash, become a welder, stock store shelves, or produce and transport the food we consume each day.

Sadly, within our current divisive society, respect has dwindled between the spiritual descendants of Jacob and Essav.

Rather, we need to develop a culture where everyone’s work is equally valued and respected.

Given our current political landscape, it is sad that those who claim to represent the “working people” have too often become aloof and removed from the factories and fields of our nation.

And how tragic these days that so many others express disrespect for the value of a good education, the accuracy of science, and those who have devoted their lives to the smooth workings of government.

As I reflect upon the Torah almost 4,000 years after the events of this week’s parashah, I wonder if anything has really changed.

When my father sent me out into the world almost 50 years ago, he told me to “go forth and learn.”

I don’t claim to be a good laborer. But during my 13 years in Fort McMurray, I learned to respect those who build and sustain—those who make it possible for all of us to live in comfort.

My time in Fort McMurray as a journalist and an explainer, eventually transferred to a career in Judaism—where so often practices, values and rituals appear out of reach, when they should be accessible to all.

As for beer, which I rarely drink, when I visit the “old country,” I pop open a Pilsner for old time’s sake.

As I continue my year of shiva, I thank God, and my parents. Though they sent me out in the world reluctantly, their advice helped me gain respect for work of all kinds.

Whether with our hands or minds, every form of work is an extension of God. Whether we are the working descendants of Essav or Jacob, however we contribute to society deserves to be treasured and respected.

Perhaps today more than ever, we need to revisit the lives, forever entwined, of Jacob and Essav.

Two nations in Rebecca’s womb. Those who work with mind and those who work with body.

How dearly God cherishes both.

And so should we.

Shabbat shalom, v’kol tuv.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman