The Gate of Heaven

by Gilbert, Morris

  Isaac’s vision had dimmed in recent years, and he squinted but shook his head. “Who are they? I can’t make them out.”

  “They’re strangers. Philistines, I think. I can tell you that much.” Jacob got to his feet and helped Isaac stand. It saddened him to see his father wince as he put pressure on his weak and painful knees. “We’d better go out and greet them,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “I hope they’re friendly. Most Philistines are not.” Jacob counted six men on camels. “I think they’re soldiers or officials of some kind.”

  When the men dismounted, Isaac advanced and bowed slightly. “Welcome to our camp, sirs. My name is Isaac. I am the chief of my people, and this is my son Jacob.”

  The leader approached them. He was a short, broad man with strange yellow-brown eyes and a scar running down the side of his face. He wore a dark green robe with a wicked-looking sword by his side. The others were dressed much the same, as if they wore uniforms.

  “My name is Hazor. I am the captain of King Abimelech’s army.”

  Both Isaac and Jacob bowed low to the Philistine king’s officer. “We are strangers to this place, but we respect and honor the king,” Isaac said.

  Hazor stared at the two men. “Where are you bound?” he demanded, his yellowish eyes taking in everything.

  “We are shepherds, sir, as you see,” Isaac said, pointing toward their flocks. “The drought has driven us to find better pastures, and we intend to stay only until the rains return to our home country.”

  “We will have to inspect your camp,” Hazor said.

  “You’re very welcome. The evening meal is almost ready. Would you care to dine with us?”

  Hazor stared at the old man, then nodded. “Yes, I’m hungry—and have my men fed too.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Jacob spoke up. “I will tend to your men, and my father will take you to his tent for a fine meal.”

  Jacob left promptly and organized a meal for Hazor’s men. As soon as the soldiers were settled with plenty of food and drink, he hurried back to his parents’ tent. Finding Hazor already seated and his mother serving, he sat down too and listened as his father spoke with the captain. The Philistine’s manners left much to be desired, Jacob thought, as they ate the freshly roasted kid with mint, olives, and kemach—a special bread his mother often baked. As was their custom, Rebekah was careful to remain out of sight while the men ate, returning only to bring the next course and fill their cups with fine Syrian wine, of which Hazor consumed a great deal. They exchanged pleasantries throughout the meal until after the final course—a compote of plums and raisins served in copper bowls. Rebekah refilled the captain’s cup as the men got down to business.

  “We wish to have good relations with the king and your people, Captain,” Isaac began.

  Jacob could see that Hazor was only half listening to Isaac. Instead, the captain’s eyes were fastened steadily on Rebekah as she moved in and out of the tent. Jacob was accustomed to this, for even in her later years, his mother was still an unusual beauty, and men of all ages enjoyed watching her.

  “The king is a reasonable man.” Hazor finished the wine and wiped his lips with the back of his arm. “We will expect you to pay taxes, of course, like our own people.”

  “Certainly, Captain. We will not abuse your hospitality.”

  After carefully questioning Isaac, Hazor took his leave, bowing to his host and saying, “Thank you for an excellent meal. I will be back from time to time. You will need to be told about our laws. Every region differs, you know.”

  “I would be most happy to hear them, sir.”

  Darkness had fallen, and taking oil lamps, Isaac and Jacob escorted Hazor back to his men and the waiting animals. Hazor shouted for his men to move out, then turned again to Isaac, his yellowish eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “King Abimelech is a fair man, but he does like his women.”

  Isaac nodded. “Well, that’s as it should be, Captain.”

  “Yes, it is. I wish I had my choice like he does! Any woman he fancies, he just takes!”

  Isaac felt almost faint, and Hazor laughed. “Sometimes men object when the king takes their wives, but that’s what he has me for. Poor fellows! I have no choice but to cut off their heads.” Hazor’s brow knit tightly as he glanced back toward Isaac’s tent. “That woman who served us—is she your wife?”

  Isaac’s breath caught in his throat, knowing he was in grave danger. Almost without thinking, he blurted out, “Oh, no indeed! That is my sister, Rebekah.”

  “Your sister, eh? Well, it’s a good thing she’s not your wife. If Abimelech were to take a liking to her, you’d have to fight for her. And”—he grinned wickedly—“I don’t lose fights with men who have good-looking wives.” He stared at Isaac to be certain that his meaning was clear, then turned away, saying, “You’ll probably be seeing me again very soon.”

  Isaac and Jacob watched the troop ride off; then Isaac’s shoulders sagged. Jacob followed his father back to the tent.

  When they stepped inside, Rebekah took one look at them and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Isaac responded. “He said that the king likes women. That he takes whatever woman he wants, and if she is married, he kills her husband. I…I told them you were my sister.”

  Rebekah took in a sharp breath. “That was the wise thing to do, but we must get away from this place at once.”

  “We can’t go back to Beersheba,” Isaac said. “The cattle were starving there.”

  “Well, we can’t stay here!” Jacob exclaimed. “That fellow will be sure to return for Mother.”

  “Maybe not. There are lots of women here, and we’re far out in the hills, away from the city. We’ll probably never see him again.”

  In the days that followed Hazor’s visit, Jacob was continually watchful. He was nervous, as were his parents, but as the days passed and the Philistine did not return, they all grew more confident that they would not be troubled.

  The grass was green, and the cattle were doing well. Jacob, however, was disappointed by his father’s lie about Rebekah. In his mind, he went over and over what had happened. He had always revered his father. He knew Isaac was not the man his grandfather Abraham had been, but he had at least always been truthful—or so Jacob believed.

  Why did he have to lie to Hazor? Jacob often asked himself. It troubled him so much that one day, while he was with Rebekah, he brought up the subject. This was not unusual for him, for he was very close to his mother and told her most things that were on his heart. His mother was preparing supper, and as usual, Jacob was helping her.

  “Mother,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about what Father said to Hazor.”

  “What about it, son?”

  “Well, he lied. That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  Rebekah turned quickly and studied Jacob. He was a man who thought a great deal about what went on around him. He was highly intelligent and had a mind and temperament that would not allow him to put anything aside.

  “It was something your father had to do, son.”

  “But Grandfather wouldn’t have done it, would he?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did exactly that—two times!”

  Jacob stared at his mother. “He did what?”

  “When he was in Egypt, the pharaoh took your grandmother into his harem. Your grandfather had no choice but to lie. He was a stranger in a strange land, and the pharaoh would have killed him instantly had he told the truth. So he told the pharaoh that Sarah was his sister, not his wife. Then he did the same thing again with King Abimelech.”

  Jacob fell silent, and tears welled up in Rebekah’s eyes. She loved this son with all of her heart and hated to see him hurt. Putting her arm around him, she said quietly, “Son, sometimes a person has to do wrong things in order to make other things go right. If your grandfather hadn’t lied, he would have been killed, and that would have been the end of our tribe. And your father had the same choice to make. I don’t like it, but it’s the way the world is.”<
br />
  “So you’re saying it’s all right to do wrong if it’s good for us?” Jacob’s tone betrayed the bitterness and confusion he felt. He shook his head. “I wish I didn’t have to know these things.”

  “You have to know them because that’s the way life is. Now, put it out of your mind and help me with these beans.”

  Despite his mother’s viewpoint on the matter, Jacob worried constantly over his father’s lie to Hazor, especially when Hazor summoned his father to the palace. On Isaac’s return to camp, he told his family that the king had asked about his lie, and he was so shaken he had confessed his duplicity.

  Esau demanded to know what the king was going to do, but their father only looked dazed and said, “Nothing. He said I shouldn’t have lied—and he’s right.”

  Esau laughed. “Well, it all came out all right, so what’s one little lie? I tell more than that every day!”

  The seasons changed several times, and spring was upon them again. The new crops were springing up almost like magic, and the animals continued to bear and increase in a manner that none of them had ever witnessed before. It was a time of untold prosperity.

  Jacob watched all this with a mixture of gratitude and doubt. He was not able to shake off his worries over his father’s lie and his concern over how God would fulfill his mother’s prophetic vision. As the family continued to prosper, he counted the livestock and watched the grain pile up so high that there was even plenty to sell to the neighboring Philistines. It was as if God had drawn a circle around the camp and prospered Isaac and his people beyond any others. But for what reason? Jacob wondered.

  Unlike Jacob, Esau never questioned any of it. He reveled in the wealth that was rolling in, and well he might, for as the firstborn, it would all be his one day. He spent little time with the flocks, but he was a skillful hunter and brought in enough game that they never needed to kill any of the livestock for food.

  Many times Jacob wished he could look at the matter as Esau did. He prayed fervently, but God never spoke to him. Finally he whispered in despair, “I guess it doesn’t matter what a man does. God just blesses whomever He pleases.”

  His conclusion did not satisfy him, however, and he continued to carefully watch the growth of the flocks—waiting, perhaps, for God to strike down Isaac because of the lie he had told. But nothing ever happened, and Jacob finally succeeded in shoving it to the back of his mind, where he rarely had to think of it.

  One day, as he frequently did, Jacob set about preparing the evening meal. His mother was feeling poorly, but he was so used to helping her that he had become almost as good a cook as she was. He had put several handfuls of wild lentils from a nearby field into a large clay pot, adding wild onions, water, and spices, and had built a fine fire of dry wood. When the embers were hot, he had placed the pot on them, and the stew had by now cooked slowly for many hours. Aware that his father was approaching, he dipped in a wooden spoon and tasted it.

  “Come taste the stew, Father,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

  Isaac groped his way forward, allowing Jacob to guide him to sit by the fire, and Jacob dipped out a spoonful, saying, “Be careful. It’s bubbling hot.”

  Jacob smiled as his father blew on the stew, then carefully tasted it. “It’s good,” he said. “What’s the meat in there?”

  “It’s part of the venison Esau brought in day before yesterday.”

  “Well, it makes a fine stew.”

  Isaac listened as Jacob reported on the state of the herds. He couldn’t see very well now and could not help with the cattle, but he loved to hear all that was going on.

  Jacob’s thoughts turned again to the matter of the birthright. He knew that tribal custom dictated that the oldest son should inherit everything, and—although an exception had been made in the case of his grandfather Abraham—Isaac had told Jacob many times that he would keep to the family custom unless God himself told him otherwise.

  As he considered the tradition, great bitterness rose in Jacob, and he clamped his lips together. He wanted to say to his father “But Esau doesn’t care about these things. All he cares about is hunting. I’m the one who’s interested in the family and the tribe and in God.” He wanted desperately to tell his father of God’s promise to Rebekah, of Abraham’s gift to him of the medallion…but he had promised to keep silent. How could his father know that God was choosing him if he could not tell him? He felt a great agony of spirit, feeling that he was caught in an impossible situation. There was no sense in arguing with Isaac when he wasn’t able to reveal what he knew. All such argument would be useless, and wearily he put his hopes away. But he could not keep them from festering inside him.

  Some days later, while fixing a meal, Jacob noticed that Esau had returned to camp. His bitterness against his brother seized his innards as he watched Esau stop long enough to grab one of the young unmarried women of the tribe and kiss her. She shoved him away but was laughing. Jacob heard her say, “You have no manners, Esau. Why can’t you be more like Jacob?”

  “That baby!” Esau bellowed. “He’s not a real man. He can’t even sneeze without asking our mother!”

  At that moment, as mild-mannered as Jacob was, white rage welled up in him. He would have thrown himself against Esau, but he knew it would be senseless. No man could stand against his brother in one-on-one combat! He managed to keep his face straight and watched as Esau strolled up. Esau was indeed a massive man. His red hair caught the sunlight, and over his back he wore the powerful double-convex bow that no other man in the tribe could draw. The quiver full of wooden-shafted arrows with heads chipped from flint poked up at the sky, and Esau’s massive power seemed to flow out of him despite his weariness.

  “Oh, brother, am I ever exhausted!” he said, dumping his bow and arrows at the doorway of the tent.

  “Hello, Esau.”

  “I’m starving to death. What have you got in there?”

  “It’s a stew. I’m making it for Father.”

  “Give me some of it before I starve!”

  Ordinarily Jacob would have complied with Esau’s demand, but his anger was now deep and burning. How could he be left out of the inheritance—the wealth that he had almost single-handedly acquired for the family—and watch it be given to this crude hunter who had no concept of life other than hunting and women and living for himself? “You can’t have any of it,” Jacob muttered.

  Esau’s expression was almost comical. He blinked with shock, for never before had Jacob refused him anything. “What’s that you say?” he demanded.

  Jacob faced him. “I said you can’t have any of this stew. Is something wrong with your hearing?”

  “Oh, little brother, you’re in a mean mood today!” Esau was more amused than angered. He towered over Jacob, and the humor of the situation struck him. “You know, I could just take it if I wanted to.”

  “Well, take it, then. If you’re willing to kill your brother over stew, that shows what kind of a man you are.”

  Then, seeing the look in Jacob’s eyes, Esau sobered. Deep down he had an affection, of sorts, for his brother. He felt Jacob was a weak man and had determined that when he became head of the tribe he would see to it that Jacob was provided for. He had told his friends, “Jacob would never be able to make it in the world if he didn’t have a strong man to look out for him, but I’ll never let him down.” Now Esau was puzzled. “I’m really hungry,” he said.

  “I can’t help that. How hungry are you?”

  Esau was indeed famished. He had eaten nothing for two days, for surprisingly, the hunt had been unsuccessful. He swallowed as the aroma of the stew enticed him. “I’d give anything for all I could eat of that soup.”

  “All right, then. Sell me your birthright.”

  Esau laughed at his brother. “I can’t sell you something that comes to me because I’m the firstborn, little brother! Now, be serious.” But the gleam in Jacob’s eye said that he was clearly serious.

  Esau slapped his brother on
the back and shook his head. What was the harm of playing along with this little game? he thought. It was worth a bowl of that hearty soup just now! He actually had no concept of the importance of the birthright. As far as he was concerned, he was the firstborn and that settled it. He knew there were some rules governing this sort of thing, but he had utter confidence that what was his was his and no word spoken in private could change that. “All right. You can have the birthright if that’s what you want, but give me something to eat before I die.”

  “Good!” Jacob said, as he served up a bowl of stew. “Sit down and I’ll serve you. But you must swear I have the birthright.”

  “Yes, yes,” Esau muttered as he took the steaming bowl. “It won’t do me any good if I’m dead!”

  Jacob’s heart sprang up. He knew the value of the birthright—God’s blessing—even if Esau did not. He filled the bowl four times for his brother, who devoured the food like an animal. Esau finally arose, saying, “That was good. You—”

  Jacob interrupted him. “Don’t forget. The birthright is now mine.”

  “All right, little brother, you can have the silly thing. I’ll take everything else.” Esau laughed and turned away. He stopped long enough to flirt with another young woman and then shuffled off to his tent to sleep, sated as he was with his brother’s cooking.

  Jacob stared down into the stew pot. “The fool!” he said triumphantly. “He doesn’t even know what he’s given away. Now I have something that’s of great value—and I know that God himself wants me to have it!”

  Isaac was furious with Esau when Jacob told him what had happened. He immediately demanded that Esau come see him. “What’s this I hear about you selling your birthright for a bowl of soup?”

  Esau shrugged. “Four bowls—I was hungry, Father.” Esau’s bulk towered over the old man, yet somehow he was intimidated. “What’s the big deal? A few words…it didn’t mean anything.”