Parshat Vayishlach: Sibling Rivalries, Modes of Service, and Acceptance

by Chanchkie Slavin Class of '26

The book of Bereishit is, in many ways, a tapestry of sibling stories: complex, painful, and profoundly human. Let us focus on the stories of our forefathers, whose life work and journeys provide guidance for our own lives today. Yishmael and Yitzchak. Esav and Yaakov. And finally, the twelve sons of Yaakov, Bnei Yisrael. Each generation faces its own version of rivalry, misunderstanding, and separation. But only one generation, the children of Yaakov, manage to end with unity of brothers rather than division. Only one generation becomes one people. How did this come to be? What was different about Yaakov’s children?

Yitzchak and Yishmael In Chayei Sarah, the parsha concludes with the story of Avraham’s death. It tells us that Yitzchak and Yishmael bury their father together. Two brothers momentarily reunited. Their lives had never run smoothly side by side. Yishmael, the older brother, born to Hagar the maidservant, is described as wild and unrestrained. Eventually he is removed from the home. He nearly dies in the wilderness. And Yitzchak, a young child, watches his brother’s banishment. What does this do to a child’s understanding of family, belonging, and brotherhood?

Even if Yishmael later repents, even if he respectfully allows Yitzchak to go first at Avraham’s funeral, the rift is never healed. Only one of them is heir to their father. Their families grow into two separate nations, residing in two different lands. Perhaps this is the lingering consequence of the parents’ choices—separation for safety, perhaps necessary, but still separation. Brotherhood never quite takes root.

Esav and Yaakov Then comes the next generation. Rivka’s twins battle from the womb. The Midrash paints a dramatic picture: when she walks past a house of study, Yaakov kicks; when she passes a house of idolatry, Esav kicks. Esav is born red and hairy, and in the stories of my youth he is a fearsome character, alongside his placid, obedient brother. Was Esav doomed from the start?

Yitzchak, remarkably, loves Esav. Some suggest he saw in Esav the wild spirit of his own brother Yishmael—someone who could easily be lost if not embraced. Others point to Esav’s extraordinary potential: he possessed the strength to conquer darkness from within, to refine the low places of the world. In Chassidic thought, his soul’s source was in some ways higher than Yaakov’s; higher potential risked greater fall.

But Rivka sees the danger. She senses that without strong boundaries, Esav’s fire might scorch more than it warms. Yaakov sees something, too. But, instead of embracing it, he spends much of his early life trying to replace it, to control it, to manage it.

Yaakov’s Struggle

From birth, Yaakov clutches Esav’s heel. He wants something his brother has. He buys the birthright. He steals the blessings. He runs, he hides, he negotiates, and he disguises himself pursuing a life that isn’t wholly his, but a reaction to others. Perhaps he feels that with the traits Esav has, he could have done better. Perhaps he is jealous of his brother. Perhaps he is afraid of where his brother might end up and so tries to control his destiny.

When Yaakov and Esav finally meet in this week’s parsha, something is different, not in Esav, but in Yaakov.

The story begins with Yaakov being fearful and implementing every strategy he knows to control and contain his brother. And then he spends a night alone, wrestling—perhaps with an angel, perhaps with himself. And something transforms. For the first time, he stops grasping at someone else’s role. He claims his own name, his own mission, his own path.

He is no longer Yaakov, trying to hang on to his brother’s heel. He is Yisrael, the master of himself. Only a man at peace with himself can meet his brother in peace. They are no longer competing, no longer fighting for one blessing. They are acknowledging that they travel differently, serve differently, live differently. Yaakov bows. Esav embraces. They recognize each other not as rivals but as two beings whose destinies diverge without negating one another.

In the face of Yaakov’s overwhelming generosity and preparations, Esav tells him, “I have enough, my brother; let what you have remain yours.” We don’t need to have the same things. I recognize that we are different people. Esav, seeing his brother’s peace, offers to travel alongside him, saying, “Let us start on our journey, and I will proceed at your pace.” Yaakov replies, “Let my lord go on ahead of his servant, while I travel slowly, at the pace of the cattle before me and at the pace of the children.” He recognizes that he doesn’t need to travel as quickly as his brother or serve in his brother’s way. He can travel his own way.

This moment, this acceptance is the turning point. Because only once Yaakov stops trying to be Esav can he truly learn from him. And only once he learns from him can he stop fearing him. This encounter plants a seed: the ability to hold difference without tearing apart.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe explains that there are two types of divine service in the world: the righteous one who lives in the light and draws holiness downward, and the wrestler who enters darkness to transform it. Yaakov is the first. Esav was meant to be the second. Neither invalidates the other. The world needs both. But the key is to recognize what is yours to do.

Yaakov’s earlier life was filled with attempts to perform Esav’s mission better than Esav himself. Only once he stops does peace become possible. Although at peace with one another, they have endured too much to travel forward together. At the end of their father Yitzchak’s life, their families go separate ways, settling and living apart. Two separate nations.

The Twelve Tribes of Israel Yaakov’s own 12 sons are far from perfect. Reuven interferes in his father’s marriage. Shimon and Levi decimate an entire city. Yosef is nearly killed by his brothers and sold into slavery. Yet when Yaakov dies at the end of Bereishit, all 12 sons stand present. Not one has left the family. Not one has drifted away to forge a new nation. What changed from previous generations?

The answer lies in Yaakov’s final act, which is a culmination of his role as father. He blesses each child individually, according to who they are, not who he wished they were. Yehudah the leader, Yissachar the scholar, Dan the judge, Zevulun the merchant. Each with their own story. Each with a role. Each with a path.

And the Torah concludes: “These are the tribes of Israel—twelve.” Everyone included. Everyone necessary. Yaakov, who spent his youth denying difference, living as though there was only one way to be, ends his life embracing it. And this acceptance becomes the foundation of the Jewish people.

Living as Jews We all come from families and communities filled with differences: personalities, ideologies, talents, spiritual styles. Some of us are seekers. Some are settled. Some light-bearers, some warriors in the trenches. But the moment we insist that others must serve God our way, conflict begins. The moment we fear what is unfamiliar, judgment takes over, and the moment we try to live someone else’s mission, we lose our own. We spend our energy stifling their efforts instead of fulfilling our own potential.

Yaakov teaches us that unity does not come from sameness. It comes from honestly recognizing each person’s path and trusting that God needs all of them. Only when we stop struggling to change others, and stop trying to be someone else ourselves, can we truly become one people.

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Chanchkie Slavin is a passionate teacher and lifelong learner. She takes inspiration from the Torah, Jewish mysticism, rituals, customs and songs that were such a vital part of her Chassidic upbringing and is committed to incorporating these into modern day life. She lives in Melbourne, Australia with her family.