Jacob, Trauma, and Kvetching

Vayigash Drash by Stan Satz

March 2026

 Gen 44:18-47:27

Jacob and Pharaoh

In our reading from Genesis, Pharaoh, when he meets Jacob, curiously asks the last of our Patriarchs to reveal his age. Many commentators have speculated that Jacob must appear to be very old because he is downtrodden and haggard.  Jacob (130 years old at the time) laments that he has suffered much in his lifetime: “Few and hard have been the days of my life.” In the King James Bible, Jacob’s attitude is even more negative, more dismal: “Few and evil have been the days of my years.” 

The encounter between Jacob and the Pharaoh is very brief: 33 words. A 13th century Midrash finds the number 33 very significant. Jacob (at age 147) dies 33 years earlier than did his father Isaac at age 180. The Midrash concludes that God has punished Jacob because of his kvetching, subtracting 33 years of his life! 

Why is God so upset with Jacob? Just what is his offense? Let’s backtrack for a moment. Jacob undoubtedly had undergone much trauma in his life: He had to escape from his home because he impersonated his older brother, Esau, in order to obtain their father’s deathbed blessing. As a pariah, he continually feared that Esau would kill him for his duplicity. Another burden is that Laban, his crafty and greedy prospective father in law, did not allow Jacob to marry his beloved Rachel as planned. He forced Jacob to marry Leah, the older and less attractive daughter. Only after another 7 years of working for Laban can Jacob wed Rachel. 

Soon afterwards, Jacob’s life is shattered: he was told that his youngest and most adored son Joseph has been devoured by wild beasts. Let’s not forget about Jacob’s fierce struggle during the grueling wrestling match with the angel, an ordeal which left him with a permanently damaged thigh. And Jacob was grievously distressed when he found out that two of his sons treacherously obliterated a pagan tribe because one of its members cohabited with Jacob’s daughter. 

So what is wrong with admitting to Pharaoh that life has not been kind to him? According to   a medieval Midrash, Jacob’s bleak assessment of his life indicates that he is an ingrate: he has not appreciated the blessings God has given him, especially the renewed covenant reaffirming that his descendants will flourish in the Promised Land. 

What can we learn from our 33-word Torah passage? As did Jacob, we too could forfeit years of our life if we dwell on our misfortunes. If we fail to celebrate life, if we don’t have a positive attitude, we shorten our life span. Complaining will increase stress, and stress is a killer. It weakens our immune system, making us susceptible to a host of life-threatening diseases. We all have been tested by adversity. How we handle affliction determines not only the quality but also the length of our lives. Some of us have allowed minor and major setbacks to undermine our well-being. We become disillusioned and feel defeated: a gloomy mindset poisons our physical health. All too often, tragedy can make us so forlorn that we are convinced that we are victims of an arbitrary, cruel God. And as we lose faith, we wither away. For our own sakes and for the sakes of our loved ones, we must struggle against the temptation to despair.

I’d like to reflect on a crisis in my own life. Twenty years ago, when my father was suffering from Parkinson’s disease, bone cancer, and dementia, I became a wreck. I was continually agitated. Every time the phone rang, I was afraid of more bad news about my father’s failing health. I cringed as I saw my father, who used to be so proud of his intellectual accomplishments and his social poise, stare blankly at a magazine and speak incoherently. And as he became more disoriented and depressed, I became more preoccupied with his awful fate and the fact that I could not save him, no matter how many doctors I enlisted on his behalf.

Bit by bit, as I deteriorated psychologically, I developed physical ailments: back pain, an ulcer, and liver abnormalities. 

Only after seeing a counselor was I able to recover my balance. The key was to begin emotionally detaching myself from my father, a life-saving process that helped stabilize my back, dissolve my ulcer, and cure my liver problem. I began to appreciate the blessings that God had given me: parents who sacrificed so much for their son; a steadfast, devoted wife; two exquisitely lovable children; and the bounty of close friends. With great relief, I even mustered a smile now and then. Gradually, I let go of the constant growling and scowling that had alienated me from my family and blocked me from enjoying even the simplest pleasures of life. I grew to accept my father’s condition, as he eventually did as well. And when he died, we both were at peace. 

 Years later, I have learned to rejoice in the gladness and goodness surrounding me—from my ever-expanding loved ones to my on-line friends in the AARP forums; from the aloha spirit in Hawaii to the Shabbat shaloms at our temple. Now don’t get me wrong. When people ask me how things are going, I don’t always say “terrific,” the automatic word one of my colleagues consistently but unconvincingly liked to use. Instead, I honestly tell people that I am doing well, citing many reasons why I am so positive about life. For example, I might refer to an incident that happened last week: while thumbing through a family scrapbook, I saw a picture of my oldest granddaughter, Autumn. She was beaming with delight while we embraced. I was so overcome, so happy, that I cried tears of gratitude. 

Ever since I have made it my mission to fight against the pessimism that ruled and almost ruined my life before my father died, I have begun to experience glimmerings of God’s grace that I hope I will continue to sustain me until I complete my allotted time on earth.  Amen.

Va’era EXODUS (6:2-9:35): Ruach roommate

The following momentous excerpts are from Exodus Chapter 6 of Va’eira.

 I specifically want to discuss verse 9: the Hebrews’ tepid response to the prospect of being liberated. They are so forlorn and downtrodden that they question Moses’ glowing account of their imminent freedom from bondage and their subsequent long-foretold entrance into the Promised Land. 

The text in various translations states that the demoralized and debilitated Hebrew slaves are worn out, listless, suffering from not only “shortness of breath,” but the “anguish of spirit.” The key Hebrew word in each case is RUACH, a multilayered expression that occurs 387 times in the Torah. Literally ruach means wind, but it more often epitomizes the breath of God, the mighty spirit of God that sustains our soul, the life-giving force that animates us all. Hawaiians have their own version of ruach: At the Polynesian Cultural Center, the major production for years has been called Ha: the breath of life. 

There are many other instances in subsequent portions of Exodus where the Israelites lack faith in God’s bounty, in God’s word.  When they confront the Sea of Reeds, they lament that they left the fleshpots of Egypt only to die in the wilderness: better to have served the Egyptians than to follow Moses. 

Later on, they periodically kvetch about God’s not supplying enough water or food. They even build the idolatrous golden calf soon after God, enveloped in thunderous clouds at the top of Mt. Sinai, proclaims to them the 10 Commandments.

There is, however, one glorious moment when the Hebrews cast off their disenchantment with God and with their new taskmaster Moses. Only after crossing the parted Reed Sea, freed from the devastated Egyptian army, do the Hebrew masses embrace their new-found faith, suffused with the spirit of ruach: they ecstatically sing about their deliverance, as we do every Shabbat to commemorate this watershed event. And accompanied by tambourines, they deliriously dance in praise of their omnipotent protector who has miraculously saved them from their implacable enemies.

My first encounter with the abundance of ruach occurred when I was a freshman at Tufts University. Initially, my Jewish roommate was buoyant, congenial, and caring. He enthusiastically joined many activities, from Hillel to wrestling, and almost effortlessly earned high grades.  He tremendously loved life, and his faith was strong: He was a poster boy for ruach.

But during the second half of the semester, he had a meltdown. Burdened by tremendous amounts of pressure from his affluent and influential parents to excel, he let his grades slide. He became distraught and distant. He stopped attending classes. He ate very little and spoke even less, except when he occasionally moaned about how unfair his parents were to expect so much from him. His behavior alarmed me; he needed help. I couldn’t rouse him from his lethargy, and he wouldn’t see any counselors. 

One night, as he was getting ready to sleep, he proclaimed that he took his scalpel to bed with him and whispered to me that he might be tempted to use it against himself. I immediately contacted the guidance department. The next day, my roommate was put under observation off campus. I didn’t see him until the next semester. He seemed normal enough, but after a while, he became almost catatonic. Whatever energy that he might have had when left school had diminished to such an extent that he was hospitalized. 

In a few weeks, however, he dramatically recovered from his incapacitating malaise. His parents no longer pressured him. They finally realized that he could carve out his own life without their ultimatums for him to excel academically. 

Although I never saw him again, he sent me upbeat updates about his steady progress at a second-tier college that his parents didn’t initially choose for him. 

 He eventually got back his mojo, his ruach. In

his last letter to me, he cited Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, a book that could well have been titled Man’s Search for Ruach. Frankl, a holocaust survivor, in the midst of the depravity and degradation of the concentration camp, sees light, sees meaning in little acts of kindness when a prisoner shares half of a minute crust of maggoty bred with another inmate. Despite the dehumanizing conditions in the camp, Frankl has a resilient faith in the power of love. He even has compassion for the Nazi guards. Regardless of the constant stench and brutality in the bunks, Frankl thanks God for being alive. The Nazis may break his body, but they can never break his will to survive; they can never erase his thoughts; they can never crush the spirit of God within him. His ruach is indomitable.  

All too often people in our own society have been deprived of life-enhancing ruach when they have found themselves enmeshed in addiction and relapse, mental anguish, an excruciatingly painful and long-lasting illness, sexual slavery, or ethnic cleansing. How hard it is to find solace when we are ground down in seemingly hopeless situations. How easy it is to despair of God’s grace in the midst of soul-crushing trauma. Yes, bad things happen to good people. But there is still redemption through suffering. 

I’m reminded of an old Jewish saying: we should thank God for everything, even the things that afflict us. Having faith and hope that the breath of God will ultimately sustain us, no matter how desperate our plight may be, is a blessing. It is a sanctification of life. 

Victor Frankl transcended the hideous conditions in a concentration camp. So can we overcome misfortunes as long as we nurture the spark of ruach within us.

A few years ago, my temple in New Bern, North Carolina, sponsored a musical event for the Jewish community: two singers from the mainland performed many lovely and lively Hebrew ballads. At one point they sang a short melody with only one cherished word, ruach. 

May we nurture the divine force within us, a superpower that will enable us to triumphantly confront adversity.

Amen.