Rebekah: Women of Genesis (47 page)

Not surprisingly, they agreed.

“This is a solemn oath,” said Isaac, “but an oath made under threat of death is no oath at all. So I tell you now that no matter what you say, you will not be put to death. Is your answer the same? Will you forsake your false gods and worship only the Lord God?”

Again they agreed.

“Then I will give you a year in which to show perfect obedience. If you keep this oath for a year, then this sin will be blotted out. I’ll remove all mention of it from the record I write, and it will be as if it never happened. But if you break this oath, then you’ll stand worthy of punishment as if you had never repented. Now thank your mother-in-law. You owe it to her that you were not sent out of this camp and back to your fathers this very night.”

They crawled to Rebekah and wept into the hem of her robe, until she bent over and raised them up and embraced them. “They can’t go home like this,” said Rebekah. “They’ll have to stay until their feet are healed.”

“I can lend them camels to ride,” said Isaac. “I don’t want them here.”

“You can’t see them, Isaac, but they’re not fit to ride. They can sleep in my tent.”

Isaac relented and they ended up staying for several weeks. For the first few days, Rebekah taught them about God for hours each day, and they listened contritely. But then, with their wounds healing nicely, they began to be restless during the lessons, and finally one day Bashemath said, “Haven’t we been punished enough?”

“This isn’t punishment,” said Rebekah. “You promised to serve the Lord God. I’m teaching you who he is and what he’s done for us and our ancestors.”

“All right, I’ll listen,” she said. But her tone was full of weariness, and Rebekah realized that all Esau had accomplished by beating them was to make them resentful. They would go through the motions of serving God because they had learned how harshly they would be dealt with if they didn’t. They probably wouldn’t have any more idols, or if they did, they’d make very sure not to be observed doing it. What they would never do was repent and become true daughters of God.

It made Rebekah heartsick and weary. She longed to be able to tell Isaac of her frustration and disappointment with Esau’s wives, but she didn’t dare. He might decide that their repentance was insincere and the penalty had to be paid after all. It was better for everyone if Rebekah held her tongue, even though it meant keeping in the camp two women who worshiped false gods in their hearts. They could keep it a secret from their husband, but as their children grew, their true beliefs could not be hidden from the little ones. Children always knew what their parents really believed, absorbing the attitudes of their parents without even realizing it. Esau’s children by these women would not grow up to serve God with an open heart.

She put them out of her tent, claiming that she needed her sleep and that the girls had learned everything she could teach them. Both statements were true, as far as they went.

In the long run, of course, the fault was with Esau, not his wives. Hadn’t Isaac and Rebekah always taught him that he must marry a woman—or women—who served the Lord? That if he married a woman of Canaan, whether she called herself a Canaanite or a daughter of Heth, in the long run it would mean that his children would not worship God?

Besides, was his anger at them really because they worshiped false gods, or because they had deceived him and embarrassed him in front of his parents? There was no sign that Esau had learned anything important or true from this.

The girls kept their covenant, outwardly at least, and at the end of a year, Isaac made a show of having Esau blot out the story of their transgression and judgment where it was written on parchment. “Your sins were recorded as black marks,” he told them. “But now where they were, not one word can be read.”

Judith and Bashemath took their revenge in subtle ways. Esau almost never came to visit. When he came, they almost never came with him. His children were rarely brought to their grandparents’ camp. Isaac and Esau should not have responded so harshly. Beatings don’t bring repentance, they lead to concealment and lies. No one’s mind was ever changed with a stick, only their mouths.

Isaac never seemed to recover from the pain of having his firstborn marry idolatrous women. It only got worse as first Bashemath, then Judith gave birth to sons. After the circumcisions, Isaac’s life seemed to fade within him. He came out of his tent less and less, and then only to sit in the sunlight to get warm. And before long he took to his bed and did not get up.

Rebekah came to him then, and tried to encourage him. “You aren’t sick, you silly old man, you’re just too lazy to get out of bed.”

But he didn’t respond to her cheerfulness, perhaps because it sounded forced to him. “Don’t try to deceive me, Rebekah,” he said. “I know every sound of your voice and what it means. You’re worried about me. I’m old and blind and you’re afraid I’m going to die.”

“Isaac,” she said. She knew she couldn’t refute his words, so she didn’t try. She could only take his hand. He clasped her hand, and his grip had lost much of its strength.

“The fact is, I
am
going to die, sooner or later. I think you were the one who pointed that out to me some time ago.”

“Please, Isaac.”

“There are things I need to take care of, in case I die soon.”

She waited for him to tell her what he needed her to do.

“I need to ordain Esau,” said Isaac, “and turn the records over to him.”

“No!” cried Rebekah. The word slipped out before she could stop herself.

He withdrew his hand.

“Isaac, please,” she said. “I obeyed you and haven’t spoken of the matter since, but his wives haven’t become servants of God. They pretend, that’s all.”

“Are you saying they still worship their false gods?” asked Isaac.

“I don’t know how they feel about their old false gods. But I do know that they hate the Lord God, and they’ll never raise their children to worship him.”

“Then Esau will have to raise them to love and serve God.”

“Do you really believe that? If it were so easy, why did your father send Eliezer to fetch me back to be your wife? Why did you and he forbid your sons to marry Canaanite women? You know why. If you give the holy writings to Esau, they’ll be in the hands of idolaters within a generation.”

“Did God tell you this?” said Isaac.

“No,
you
told me this. And Abraham. I’m doing nothing more than returning to you the truths you taught me long ago.”

“If God didn’t tell you,” said Isaac, “then maybe you ought to keep your prophecies to yourself.”

“Isaac, as surely as you love God, you can’t give the birthright to Esau.”

“I’m through with hearing your meaningless oaths,” said Isaac coldly. He turned his face toward the wall of the tent. “Bring me my firstborn son, so I can give him what he was born to receive from me.”

Weeping silently, Rebekah left the tent. When she had calmed down a little, she sent a messenger to Lahai-roi to summon Esau.

Esau came by the next morning, and when Isaac summoned him to his tent, Rebekah not only came herself but brought Jacob with her.

“What are you here for?” asked Isaac.

“You’ll give the birthright to Esau,” Rebekah said, “but surely you also have a blessing for your other son.”

“Another day, another time,” said Isaac impatiently. “Besides, I’m not ordaining Esau today. I don’t want Jacob here. This has nothing to do with him.”

Jacob, wordless, left the tent. Rebekah’s heart broke for the unloved son.

Isaac reached out a hand. “Esau?”

“Here I am, Father,” said Esau.

“Let me feel your hands.”

Esau held out his hands, but instead of taking hold of them, Isaac first slid his fingers up Esau’s wrist, to feel the thick matted hair that grew on his arms.

“You’re as hairy as a beast yourself,” said Isaac, chuckling.

“I’m always afraid some lion is going to tan
my
skin and use it to keep himself warm on cold nights.”

Isaac chuckled. Then he clasped Esau’s hand in his and said, “Son, I’m old, and I might die any day. I’m weak. Before I ordain you, my son, take your quiver of arrows and your bow and go into the field and take the life of a deer. Cook me the choice meat, spiced the way you know I like it. I think then I’ll have the strength to sacrifice the rest of the animal and then give you the blessing of the birthright before I die.”

“I will, Father,” said Esau.

“Go at once.”

Esau left the tent.

Isaac lay there in silence.

“You’re going to do this,” said Rebekah quietly. “You’ll be the last prophet to write in the holy books. Their long history ends with you.”

“I’ve had enough,” said Isaac. “Once you were a joy to me, Rebekah, but now your hatred of my firstborn son makes me weary of life.”

“I love our firstborn son,” said Rebekah. “I’m weary of
my
 life because of the daughters of Heth. Esau made choices and now he must bear the consequences.”

“He’s the one God chose by letting him come first from the womb.”

“God gave him no more than the
chance
to have the birthright, if he proved worthy. His own actions have made it impossible for the holy writings to be passed to him and his children.”

“When he comes back with my venison, Rebekah, you’ll see just what is possible and what isn’t.”

“All you can do is pass it to him,” said Rebekah. “You can do nothing about his children.”

“That’s right. I learned the lesson you taught to Abraham—the next generation is not my responsibility. Those children are Esau’s to raise. He’ll have to make sure his firstborn son is ready to receive the writings and the priesthood. I know that Esau cares about the Lord and is determined to serve him. And now if you’re through condemning me, I’d like to sleep.” He turned his face to the wall and she left the tent.

She immediately looked for Jacob. He wasn’t in his tent, and it took more than an hour before she saw him walking up from the thicket on the far side of the well. He waved—sadly, it seemed to her, but maybe that was because of her own sadness for him.

She told him of all that Isaac had said.

“Then it’s done,” said Jacob. “Esau will surely rise to the responsibility.”

“It’s too late for him to do anything about it,” said Rebekah. “His firstborn is already being raised by a mother who’s an idolater in her heart.”

“It’s in God’s hands now,” said Jacob. “I’m content with it, Mother. Truly I am.”

“It’s not God’s will,” said Rebekah. “It’s Isaac’s blindness and stubbornness.”

“Remember that Midian has copies of everything.”

“Copies, but no authority. Words on parchment, but no prophetic gift to write any more of the words and works of God.”

Jacob put his arm around her. “Nothing will be lost, Mother. The Lord is watching out for these books.”

“The Lord allows his children to make their mistakes. He won’t stop Isaac from making this one. But I will. You are the son who’s worthy of having the birthright, and I’ll see to it you have it.”

“How?” asked Jacob. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen Father change his mind. Especially when it has anything to do with me. He decided who I was before I can remember, and nothing I do can change his mind.”

So he saw it, and bore it.

“Jacob,” said Rebekah, “I have a plan. Bring me two strong young kids out of the herd of goats. I know how to cook them so they’ll taste like venison, including all the spices Esau uses. Where do you think he learned to cook the meat the way his father likes it, if not from me?”

“Mother, I know what you’re thinking,” said Jacob, “but it won’t work. I know our voices sound alike, but Father’s hearing is sharp and he can tell the difference between our voices even when other people can’t. And look at my arms and my chest, Mother. I’m smooth as a baby’s bottom, and Esau’s as hairy as a goat. You saw how Father checked his wrists to make sure it was him. He’ll know it’s me and then he’ll be confirmed in his belief that I’m an ambitious sneak, and I’ll get a curse instead of a blessing.”

“Do you have a better plan?”

“Yes,” said Jacob. “I’ll leave it in the hands of God.”

“No, Jacob. By doing nothing, you leave the birthright in the hands of Esau’s Hittite wives. My plan is the way to put it back in the hands of God. Your father is blind to the man you are, Jacob, but God is not. If it’s God’s will for you to have the birthright, Isaac will give you the blessing when you go to him.”

“If he gives it to me, thinking I’m Esau, what will it be worth?”

“As someone once said to me, leave it in the hands of God.”

“Mother, Father isn’t a fool.”

“No, he’s not. We have to help him avoid the consequences of this foolish, foolish decision. Now go, get me the two kids. Even if you decide not to do it, it won’t hurt for me to cook them.”