Parshat Vayetzei5 min read

Issachar Was the Son Rachel Traded for a Handful of Mandrakes

Rachel saw Leah's mandrakes and wanted them. The price Leah set was a night with Jacob. An angel told Jacob what that bargain was going to cost Rachel.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Root Reuben Found
  2. The Angel's Warning to Jacob
  3. What the Bargain Produced
  4. The Sister Who Wanted Completely

The Root Reuben Found

Reuben was walking through his father's field during the wheat harvest when he found something unusual near the root of a plant his father's donkey was tied beside. The grain stood cut and stacked in the heat, and the donkey lay still in it. He pulled the plant up and found the animal dead next to it, which is one detail the tradition preserves without fully explaining. He carried what he had found back across the field to his mother. He was a good son. He did not keep it for himself, though a child finding a strange root in a field might have.

His mother was Leah. The plant was dudaim, mandrakes in English, a root the ancient world believed had properties that aided fertility. Rachel saw it in her sister's hands and wanted it immediately. She had been struggling with infertility for years while Leah bore son after son, watching the tents fill with children that were not hers. She asked her sister for the plant.

Leah looked at her sister and named a price: if Rachel wanted the mandrakes, she would give Jacob back to Leah for that night, instead of sending him to her own tent. The roots for the husband. That was the trade laid out plainly between the two women.

The Angel's Warning to Jacob

Rachel agreed. That evening, when Jacob came in from the field, Leah went out to meet him at the door and told him he was coming to her tent tonight. She had hired him with her son's mandrakes, and she said so to his face. Jacob went in to Leah.

An angel appeared to Jacob that night. The message was specific and unsparing: Rachel would bear only two sons. She had traded away her husband's presence, and not for nothing, not for a small thing, but for roots she would not even eat. She placed them in the house of God and gave them to the priest. What she wanted from the mandrakes was not the fruit of the plant but something more obscure, more connected to longing itself than to any practical benefit the roots could provide.

Leah had wanted Jacob's presence for the sake of children. That was the reason God counted in her favor. Rachel had wanted the mandrakes and had traded what Leah wanted in order to get them. The angel was marking the difference between the two desires, drawing the line between the sister who bargained for a husband and the sister who bargained him away.

What the Bargain Produced

Leah conceived that night and bore Issachar, whose name means wages, the son purchased by the mandrakes. She bore Zebulun after him. She had six sons in total before the counting stopped, a tent crowded with the children her single night had begun.

Rachel eventually bore Joseph and Benjamin. Two sons, as the angel had said, and no more. Benjamin's birth killed her on the road. The trajectory had been fixed at the mandrake bargain, and what she got was what had been determined by what she chose that afternoon in the field, with the roots in her hand and her sister's price already spoken.

The Sister Who Wanted Completely

The tradition does not treat Rachel cruelly in this telling. It treats her as a woman who made a choice she did not understand, who traded something she could not recover, and who bore the consequences with the same intensity she had brought to everything else in her life. She wanted the mandrakes the way she always wanted things: completely, immediately, at cost. The cost turned out to be the number of her children and the length of her own life.

She gave the roots away in the end. She did not eat them, did not plant them, did not keep them. She set them in the house of God and handed them to the priest, as though the wanting and not the having had been the whole of it. The night she traded for the plant became Issachar, the son named for a price, and the years she might have lived became the cost she paid for an afternoon's longing.


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From the tradition

Sources

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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Legends of the Jews 6:141Legends of the Jews

A reader can skim over names and births, but hidden in those details are tales of longing, rivalry, and divine intervention. Take the story of Issachar, Jacob's son. His very name, meaning "a reward," hints at the complex emotions swirling around his arrival.

It was Leah, once again, who gave birth. But why her? This was a reward from God. A reward for what, you might ask? For her deep, pious desire to bring all twelve tribes into the world. Leah wasn't just passively accepting her fate; she was actively working toward this sacred goal, leaving "no means untried."

The real drama unfolds with a little help from some dudaim. What are dudaim, you ask? The text refers to them as plants, and the story goes that Reuben, Leah's eldest, stumbled upon them while tending his father's donkey during the harvest. He tied the donkey to a root of these dudaim, but when he returned, a tragic scene awaited him: the donkey was dead, and the dudaim were uprooted. Apparently, this wasn’t just any plant. There was a deadly secret, a peculiar quality – whoever uprooted it was destined to die.

Reuben being a good son, didn't keep the potentially dangerous plant for himself. Instead, he brought it home to his mother, Leah. This is where things get interesting. Rachel, Jacob's beloved but previously barren wife, desired the dudaim. Perhaps she believed they held the key to conceiving. She asked Leah for the plant.

Leah, in a shrewd move, agreed to give Rachel the dudaim, but on one condition: that Jacob would spend the night with her. Talk about bartering!

The text doesn't shy away from judging Rachel's actions. It states plainly that it was "altogether unbecoming conduct" to trade her husband's affections. The consequence? According to this tradition, she might have lost two tribes because of it. Had she acted differently, she could have borne four sons instead of two. This idea that our actions, even seemingly small ones, can have profound repercussions is a recurring theme in Jewish thought.

And the consequences didn't end there. The narrative suggests a further punishment: Rachel was not permitted to rest in the grave beside her husband. A poignant and lasting separation.

So, what do we make of all this? It's a story filled with human desires, divine rewards, and earthly consequences. It reminds us that even in the interplay of biblical narratives, the personal struggles and choices of individuals can shape the course of history. And it leaves us pondering: what seemingly small choices are we making today that might have unforeseen consequences tomorrow?

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Legends of the Jews 2:40Legends of the Jews

Names weren't just labels back then; they were prophecies, echoes of events, little whispers of destiny. Take Issachar, for instance. His name is directly linked to a fascinating story of sibling rivalry, love, and a mysterious fruit.

The Torah tells us Leah bore Issachar, but his name is tied to a reward Rachel had given her mother. What reward? It all goes back to the dudaim. The dudaim, often translated as mandrakes, were believed to have the power to aid conception.

The story, elaborated upon in the Legends of the Jews, takes a dramatic turn. We learn that an angel appeared to Jacob and revealed the divine calculus behind the children he would father.

The angel said Rachel would only have two sons. Why? Because she had, in a way, rejected the physical intimacy of marriage, choosing continence instead. Leah, on the other hand, would have six sons because God knew her desire to be with her husband stemmed not from fleeting desire, not from the yetzer hara (evil inclination), but from a genuine longing for children.

But what about the dudaim? Here’s where Rachel's piety shines through. She desired the fruit, likely hoping it would help her conceive. But, according to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, she didn't eat them! Instead, she put them in the house of the Lord, offering them to the priest of the Most High. This act of devotion, born from her prayer, was also fulfilled.

So, the name Issachar becomes a reminder of so much more than just a birth. It’s a symbol of divine reward, of the complexities of love and desire, and the power of selfless devotion.

It makes you think, doesn't it? How many layers of meaning are hidden within the names and stories we think we know? How much can we learn about ourselves and the human condition by looking just a little bit closer?

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