Speak Softly

Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The stories of Sefer Bereishis are far more than historical accounts. They are the foundational narratives that define our national identity and outline the spiritual contours of Jewish life. They are living arteries carrying the blood of the Jewish soul across time. The axiom of maasei avos simon l’bonim teaches that the experiences of our avos serve as templates for the future. Their interactions with the world, with each other, and with Hashem form a blueprint that continues to guide us through the generations.

This week’s parsha introduces a new stage in that unfolding blueprint: the emergence of Yaakov and Eisov. At first glance, they appear simply as siblings, twins born moments apart. Yet, the Torah quickly reveals that they represent two opposing worldviews whose struggle has shaped human history and continues to influence our personal and communal lives. It is the struggle between depth and superficiality, between yearning and indifference, between sanctity and spiritual numbness, between the voice of Yaakov and the hands of Eisov, between gentle truth and noisy emptiness.

Their conflict is a profound spiritual tension that will persist until the End of Days and is the tension of our time.

Even before their birth, the distinctions between Yaakov and Eisov are evident. Rivkah’s tumultuous pregnancy sends her seeking Divine insight, and she learns that she is carrying two nations, each destined for a radically different path. Chazal describe how the unborn Yaakov was drawn toward places of Torah, while Eisov gravitated toward idolatrous environments. Even before they entered the world, their inclinations diverged. Yaakov gravitated toward kedusha. Eisov was pulled toward noise, spectacle, to the adrenaline of idolatry and the sensory thrill of the surface world.

After their birth, their personalities continue on those divergent trajectories. Yaakov grows into an ish tam yosheiv ohalim, a wholesome, spiritually driven person who finds meaning in contemplation, study, and inner discipline. Eisov becomes an ish yodeia tzayid, a hunter who thrives on action, impulse, and the excitement of the physical world. One lives with deliberate purpose. The other operates on instinct and appetite.

A revealing difference between them emerges through their speech. Yaakov speaks with humility, respect, and sincerity, reflecting the values he inherited from Avrohom and Yitzchok. Eisov, by contrast, delights in manipulative displays of piety that mask his true character. His words may sound clever, even impressive, but they are ultimately hollow. They do not represent conviction. They are merely tools for achieving his goals.

The contrast becomes stark in the sale of the bechorah. Eisov returns from the field exhausted, oyeif, a word the Torah uses not only to describe physical fatigue but also to hint at spiritual emptiness. Seeing Yaakov cooking lentil soup, he demands, “Haliteini na min ha’adom ha’adom hazeh—Pour into me some of this very red stuff.”

The phrasing is crude and revealing. Eisov identifies the food not by taste, purpose, or meaning, but by color alone. The Torah notes that this incident is the reason why Eisov and his descendants are called Edom. The name stems from his fixation on superficial appearance. This moment exposes his worldview: life defined by surface impressions and immediate gratification.

Yaakov, aware that Eisov has no interest in the spiritual responsibilities accompanying the birthright, proposes a trade. Without hesitation, Eisov sells the bechorah. Then the Torah adds, “Vayivez Eisov es habechorah—And Eisov scorned the birthright.” He mocked the very idea of spiritual legacy.

This was not merely a poor decision. It was a rejection of sacred obligation. The bechorah represents continuity, service, and responsibility. Yaakov understands that and is willing to invest in it. Eisov dismisses it as worthless.

Every generation has its Eisov types who mock tradition, trivialize depth, and laugh at meaning.

Later, when Yaakov approaches Yitzchok to receive the brachos, the Torah describes Yitzchok’s confusion. He feels the hands of Eisov but hears something entirely different. “Hakol kol Yaakov—The voice is the voice of Yaakov.”

This phrase becomes an eternal identifier of the Jewish character. Yaakov’s voice is measured, respectful, and sincere. Yitzchok immediately senses truth in it. Just as one recognizes a familiar melody, he recognizes the spiritual “sound” of Yaakov’s words. Even when externally disguised, internally he remains unmistakably Yaakov.

Eisov, by contrast, masters the art of external performance. He knows how to speak in ways that impress and deceive, but his words lack the depth and consistency that emerge from genuine humility and respect for others.

A telling moment comes when Eisov cries to his father after realizing that the brachos were given to Yaakov. His tears are dramatic, but they are for show and do not reflect inner transformation. He is not remorseful for his wrongdoing. He is angry that he lost something he now desires. His tears stem from frustration, not teshuvah or reflection, and not from a wish to improve and become worthy of the brachos.

Gentle, respectful speech reflects humility, compassion, and integrity.

We, as Yaakov’s descendants, are expected to embody these qualities. Our identity as rachmonim, bayshanim, and gomlei chassodim is most tangibly expressed in how we speak to others.

Words are everything to a Jew. Our manner of speech defines us. The way we speak, the words we choose, and our tone all matter. We are to be refined, disciplined, and respectful. We admire people whose words are soft and thoughtful, not brash and irreverent. We respect and elevate men and women of truth, whose fidelity to honesty and tradition grounds them. We mock the loud bullies—those with quick put-downs and glib tongues.

The voice of Yaakov builds worlds. The voice of Eisov destroys them.

Hypocritical words uttered without conviction are hallmarks of Eisov’s legacy. They may sound clever or entertaining, but they corrode the soul and diminish the sacred. Throughout history, nations influenced by Edom have celebrated sarcasm, ridicule, and abrasive rhetoric. Superficiality becomes a cultural virtue, and sincerity is viewed as weakness.

This dynamic remains familiar today. We live in a world saturated with quick put-downs, viral insults, and snide commentary. It is easy to adopt that tone. But the Torah urges us to resist it and preserve the kol Yaakov, speech that reflects depth rather than derision.

Our speech must remain rooted in truth. We should never say things merely because they sound pleasant or persuasive, without the resolve to stand by them. This contrast has accompanied us throughout the generations. Eisov’s legacy is one of empty promises and commitments made only to be broken.

The story of Eisov naming the lentil soup edom also conveys a deeper message. Eisov and his descendants fixate on externals—appearance, color, and surface impressions. This superficiality also influences modern culture, which often prioritizes image over substance. Marketing, advertising, and social media feed on this instinct. People are judged quickly by what can be seen, not by who they are.

The Jewish way is different. It values depth, meaning, and essence. A Jew is defined by soul, not by surface. We are meant to look beyond what is immediately visible, perceiving the Divine spark in every person and the sacred potential in every situation.

One of the most moving aspects of Jewish identity is that our spiritual core never disappears. It may lie dormant, but it never dies. With soft words, patience, encouragement, and sincerity, that inner spark can be awakened. History is replete with stories of Jews who returned to Torah and mitzvos because someone spoke to them with genuine warmth. The kol Yaakov—gentle, sincere speech—has the power to revive a soul.

As descendants of Avrohom , Yitzchok, and Yaakov, we carry their mission forward. We speak and act with dignity, compassion, and purpose. We are tasked with demonstrating that Torah shapes not only our beliefs but our behavior. We are not meant to be abrasive or judgmental, nor glib or dismissive. The world receives enough of that tone from the culture around us. Our role is to remain faithful to the kol Yaakov—steady, thoughtful, and sincere.

Eisov’s defining trait is expressed in the words “Vayivez Eisov.” He mocked the sacred, revealing that he had lost touch with the spiritual legacy he was meant to uphold. We, by contrast, remain loyal to our traditions that govern how we conduct ourselves, how we speak, and how we observe the mitzvos.

There is another subtle but profound distinction between Yaakov and Eisov. The Torah describes Eisov as oyeif, tired. Beyond physical fatigue, this word conveys a spiritual condition. Eisov’s life is fueled by momentary whims, so he constantly needs new stimulation. When gratification fades, he is drained. This is why he cannot appreciate long-term commitment or invest in future goals.

This trait appears again in his phrase “michra kayom—sell me the bechorah for today.” His worldview is dominated by immediate experience. He cannot think beyond the present.

Yaakov, however, possesses a different kind of energy. He sees the future vividly enough to find meaning in the present. He can envision the avodah of the Bais Hamikdosh, the sanctity of korbanos, and the beauty of a life oriented toward Hashem. This vision fuels him with vitality. It is what enables him to study in the yeshiva of Sheim and Eiver for fourteen years without sleep. When someone possesses a sense of mission, fatigue becomes secondary.

The difference between the brothers lies not only in what they value, but in the very quality of their energy.

This principle is visible throughout Jewish history. The Jewish people have endured challenges that defy comprehension. We walked into the fires of Spain during the Inquisition, into the death pits of Lithuania, and into the gas chambers of Poland. And in between those awful times, we faced the quieter but equally difficult tests of assimilation, poverty, societal scorn and the seductions of modernity.

My dear friend, Reb Dovid Klugmann, gifted me the remarkable work, Dew of Revival, by Rebbetzin Esther Farbstein. The book is a collection of letters written by survivors of concentration camps after their liberation. Through their grief, they write of hope for the future. Having experienced the destruction of their bodies and spirit, their words soar as their broken bodies give way to their holy souls. Through agony and pain, their determination and faith shine through.

The letters are heartrending. The writers speak of their dreadful conditions in the camps, of relatives who perished, and of their survival. Through it all, they maintained their faith as they set about beginning a new chapter in their lives.

What sustained them? It was vision, an inner clarity of purpose that kept the flame of faith alive. They saw themselves as part of a story larger than their own lives. That perspective gave them the strength to persevere.

So it is with us. Though Jewish life presents many challenges, our resilience comes from maintaining focus on our mandate: to excel in Torah and mitzvos, to advance the world toward the final redemption, and to embody the kindness, compassion, and moral greatness exemplified by our forefathers and perpetuated by their descendants. With that vision before us, we remain steadfast.

In our time, the struggle takes a different shape. We are surrounded by constant distractions. Notifications, messages, and digital noise pull us in countless directions. The “lentil soup” of our generation is not a bowl of red soup, but the stream of trivial content that interrupts us every few minutes. We may not be running to idolatry, but we are often running from purpose without realizing it.

Screens present endless nezid adashims, digital lentil soup, colorful, tempting, addictive, and empty. Notifications appear minute by minute, dragging our attention into trivialities. Our minds become fragmented. Our hearts become tired.

These distractions make us tired—not physically, but spiritually. They scatter our focus and diminish our capacity to engage deeply with Torah, tefillah, and relationships. To counter this, we must consciously choose meaningful engagement and reclaim our attention. The kol Yaakov is heard only when we create space for it.

The Torah describes Am Yisroel as forever youthful: “Ki naar Yisroel v’ohaveihu.” This youthfulness does not refer to age but to vitality. We retain the ability to renew ourselves, to begin again, to approach mitzvos with fresh energy. This trait comes from Yaakov, who never grew complacent or weary of spiritual growth.

Stories of great Jewish leaders demonstrate this trait vividly. Stories abound of rabbonim gedolim who, though elderly and frail, carried themselves with youthful enthusiasm as they went about working for the public benefit, learning and teaching Torah, and showing people how to live full Yiddishe lives. The awareness of purpose revitalizes a person. Purpose propels them, giving them strength and conviction to carry on.

And even when they are all out of strength, they find the ability to press on just a bit more.

Rav Yitzchok Elchonon Spector, the leader of Jewry in his day, lay on his deathbed, eyes closed, as crowds of talmidim recited Shema around him. Suddenly, the great leader opened his eyes, turned to a wealthy person in the room, and implored him to donate money to help a poor girl get married. With that, he closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Today, we stand near the conclusion of a long historical journey. Many of the prophecies that our ancestors could only dream about are unfolding before our eyes. We sense that the struggle between Yaakov and Eisov is approaching its final stage. The noise of Eisov grows louder, but the whisper of Yaakov grows stronger.

Eisov’s friendships, alliances and promises, are increasingly being proven to be what they are, fictitious and unreliable. We never should have, and certainly can no longer, trust their assurances. The only one we can depend on is Hakadosh Boruch Hu. 

We must also remain focused on our ultimate goal. The cumulative efforts of generations have brought us to this point. Now it is our turn to push forward with conviction and reach the goal.

As the descendants of Yaakov, we are called upon to reflect his legacy. We are tasked with using our words wisely, treating every person with dignity, and investing our energy in Torah, mitzvos and other meaningful pursuits. We must rise above superficiality and remain focused on the values that have sustained our people through every chapter of history.

We are close to the finish line. Let us do our part with strength, clarity, and bitachon so that we will we merit the arrival of Moshiach speedily in our days. Amein.