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“Yitzchak loved Eisav for game was in his mouth …”
The commentaries note that the pasuk doesn’t tell us in whose mouth there was game. Rashi cites the medrash that this refers to Eisav, who would ply Yitzchak with questions that suggested that he was a pious person, such as how one gives ma’aser on straw or salt.
Rashi also offers Targum’s interpretation, which is that this refers to Yitzchak, who enticed Eisav with the Torah “in his mouth.” The Shach explains that Yitzchak knew exactly who Eisav was; he knew of his deeds and who he really was. Yitzchak Avinu could not be fooled. He recognized the spiritual level of others, certainly that of his own son. He was well aware that Eisav made incense offerings to avodah zarah. Nevertheless, Yitzchak persevered, using Eisav’s questions as a springboard to engage him in Torah study.
The Chasam Sofer elaborates that the written Torah is associated with Avraham Avinu, whereas the Oral Torah is linked with Yitzchak. He explains that when Hashem commanded Avraham with regard to the Akeidah, Avraham heeded His command with mesiras nefesh (self-sacrifice, indicating a willingness to accept any possible consequences). Yitzchak, on the other hand, did not personally hear Hashem’s command. He heard it from his father and likewise was moser nefesh to fulfill that command. He was therefore gifted that special connection to the written law.
Furthermore, says the Chasam Sofer, that is the reason Yitzchak wanted to bless Eisav. He knew that Yaakov would continue to learn Torah and didn’t need a blessing for Torah. If Eisav received the blessing there was the possibility that Torah could be propagated in the future, and he would beget descendants who were Torah scholars. When Yitzchak learned Torah with Eisav he wanted to instill within him a portion of the Torah, notwithstanding the evil that Eisav represented.
In fact, the Sefer Sas B’Imrasecha says that history demonstrates that much Torah later emerged from Eisav’s descendants, owing to the Torah that Yitzchak imparted to Eisav. Shmaya and Avtalyon, as well as Hillel the Elder were all geirim (converts to Judaism) who transmitted the Torah of the Great Assembly. In addition, the Talmud (Sanhedrin 86b) states that all unattributed mishnayos in Talmud Bavli and Yerushalmi are derived from R’ Akiva, who was the son of geirim. How powerful is the exposure, even if limited, to Torah!
Rivka, though, opposed this approach, because she believed that if Eisav received the blessings he would abandon the spiritual aspect of the brachos and become totally immersed in the material aspect. She was focused on his negative characteristics. She remembered his willingness to sell his invaluable birthright, that would impact on his life and future generations, for lentil soup, just to satiate his immediate desires.
The medrash relates when the Romans came to destroy the Bais HaMikdash they needed someone to guide them through the structure. Yosef Meshisa volunteered, and as payment he was promised any one of the precious vessels in the Bais HaMikdash that he chose to take.
Yosef Meshisa came out with the golden menorah. But the Romans told him that it was inappropriate for a simple person to have such an item, and they told him to go in again and take something else.
Yosef Meshisa was reluctant to do that and told them, “I can’t go back in.” Even after they promised that he would not have to pay taxes for the next three years, he adamantly refused to reenter the Bais HaMikdash. “Isn’t it enough that I angered my G-d once? I should do it again? Woe is to me that I angered my Creator.”
The Romans tortured him brutally until he died.
The Ponovezher Rav asks: What happened here? What made Yosef Meshisa do teshuva? Initially he was ready to join the enemy, and suddenly he was ready to give up his life al Kiddush Hashem (for the sanctity of Heaven).
The Ponovezher Rav explains that after entering the sanctity of the Bais HaMikdash and being exposed to its holiness, even for only a few minutes, Yosef Meshisa was transformed. The kedusha of the site altered him completely.
Last year I was invited to be a scholar-in-residence in a community on the east coast. As I waited in the airport for the car that was being sent to pick me up, an older Yid approached me. He asked my name and where I was from, and after I responded I asked the same of him. He answered that he was a long way from home, and explained that he had been brought up in an “ultra-religious home,” however, when he became a teenager, he had abandoned yiddishkeit.
We continued to talk, but my car arrived shortly thereafter, so I quickly gave him my phone number and begged him to please keep in touch.
“Can I ask you something?” he interrupted. “Is there a Bava Metziah available with a Yiddish translation?” I told him that I wasn’t sure, but I would certainly make every effort to find one if he would like. “It would be a dream fulfilled,” he said softly, with tears in his eyes. I took down his name and address and promised to look for the sefer. “I still remember the Gemara Bava Metziah. I loved to learn it as a young boy, and I would give anything to see those words another time,” he whispered.
I was actually able to find a scarce edition of the volume in New York, and I immediately sent it out to him. A few weeks later I received a thank you note from the man. “You will never know how much that Gemara means to me,” he wrote.
The impact of Torah learning is far-reaching and its ramifications can last a lifetime and beyond.