5 min read

Jacob Swore to Return to Canaan and Elijah Ran Through It in Despair

Jacob dying in Egypt demanded burial in Canaan. Elijah running through Canaan centuries later demanded death. They were both keeping faith with the same land.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Dying Man's Demand
  2. What the Land Had Cost Him
  3. Elijah at the Same Ground
  4. What the Angel Gave Elijah Under the Tree

The Dying Man's Demand

Jacob was dying in Egypt, surrounded by comfort, and his one urgent demand was about geography. He summoned Joseph and required an oath: do not bury me here. Carry my bones back to the land. The request had nothing sentimental about it. Jacob had spent twenty years in exile in Aram, returned to Canaan to find it no safer than he had left it, buried Rachel on a roadside in Ephrath, nearly lost Benjamin to Simeon's imprisonment, and finally been dragged by famine to a foreign kingdom where his son happened to be second in command. He had no illusions about Canaan being comfortable. He wanted to be buried there anyway.

The midrashic tradition preserved in Bereshit Rabbah, the great collection on Genesis compiled in the Land of Israel around the fourth to fifth century CE, reads Jacob's deathbed plea as a covenant assertion. The land was the physical anchor of the promise God had made to Abraham and passed through Isaac and directly to Jacob himself. Jacob's body belonged there not because Canaan was pleasant but because the covenant was real, and the covenant was territorial, and to be buried anywhere else would be to concede that the covenant's claim on the land could be overridden by circumstance.

What the Land Had Cost Him

Jacob's relationship with Canaan was built from losses. He had left it running from Esau with nothing. He had returned from Laban's household to find that the twenty years away had not made anything easier. The wrestling at the Jabbok, the naming as Israel, the incident at Shechem with its violence and its aftermath, the death of Rachel within sight of Bethlehem. He arrived at every significant place in Canaan carrying a new scar. The land was not shelter. It was struggle. And he wanted to go back to it when he died.

The Targum Jonathan, the Aramaic expansion of the Torah, provides a detail the Torah leaves implicit: when Jacob rose from his deathbed to receive Joseph's oath, he sat up with a straightness that should not have been possible for a sick old man. The oath required full presence. He gave it his full presence. What he was swearing about mattered more than the condition of his body.

Elijah at the Same Ground

Centuries later, Elijah ran through the same territory in the opposite direction. He had stood on Carmel and called down fire and killed the prophets of Baal and proved everything he had come to prove, and then Jezebel sent him a message describing in detail how he would be dead by morning, and he fled. He ran south through the land Jacob had sworn his bones would return to, and he ran until he was a day's journey into the wilderness and sat down under a broom tree and asked God to take his life. He had had enough. He was no better than his fathers.

The tradition that connects Jacob and Elijah is preserved in the aggadic sources treated in Legends of the Jews. They were not simply two figures who happened to pass through the same territory. They were bound by the same covenant, the same claim on the land, the same obligation to continue when continuation was painful. Jacob had made his claim on the land from his deathbed in Egypt. Elijah made his refusal of that claim from inside the land itself, in the wilderness, asking to be released from the covenant he was supposed to be upholding.

What the Angel Gave Elijah Under the Tree

God sent an angel who touched Elijah and left him food and water. Twice. The angel's message the second time was specific: get up and eat, because the journey is too long for you. The journey was to Horeb, the mountain of God, the same Sinai where the covenant had been sealed with fire and blood. Elijah ate the food and walked forty days and forty nights on the strength of it to the mountain. He did not walk to rest. He walked to argue.

At Horeb, God asked him what he was doing there. Elijah said he was the only one left who cared, that Israel had abandoned the covenant, broken the altars, killed the prophets. He presented himself as the last faithful man. God told him there were seven thousand who had not bowed to Baal. Elijah's claim to be the last faithful man was wrong. He had run through a land full of the faithful and seen none of them, which was its own kind of failure of vision. Jacob, dying in Egypt, had seen the land clearly from a distance. Elijah, running through it, could not see what was there.


← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

5 sources

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

Bereshit Rabbah 96:2Bereshit Rabbah

What it means to truly come "home?" The Torah touches on this very human longing as Jacob, nearing the end of his life, makes a heartfelt request of his son, Joseph.

"The time for Israel to die approached, and he called his son, Joseph, and he said to him: Please, if I have found favor in your eyes, please place your hand under my thigh and perform kindness and truth with me; please do not bury me in Egypt" (Genesis 47:29).

It's a poignant moment, isn't it? This verse from (Genesis 47:29) opens a door to a deeper contemplation on mortality, belonging, and the enduring connection to one's ancestors. Bereshit Rabbah, that beautiful collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, explores this verse, drawing parallels from other sacred texts to illuminate its meaning.

Bereshit Rabbah 96 begins by quoting, "The time for Israel to die approached." and then explores this universal human experience, using verses from Psalms and Chronicles to paint a picture of our fleeting existence. "For I am a stranger with You, a resident, [as were all my fathers]" (Psalms 39:13). We’re just passing through, aren’t we? Like our ancestors before us.

It continues with, "For we are strangers before You…our days on earth are like a shadow, and there is no hope" (I (Chronicles 29:1)5). But what kind of shadow? The text asks. Is it "like the shadow of a wall, or the shadow of a tree," something stable and enduring? Sadly, no. Instead, it's "like the shadow of a bird when it is flying," as we read in (Psalms 144:4), "Like a passing shadow." Fleeting. Ephemeral. Gone in an instant.

The text then adds, "And there is no hope – there is no one who can hope not to die." A stark reminder of our shared destiny. It's a truth we all carry within us, whether we acknowledge it or not. The Bereshit Rabbah illustrates this by pointing out that even our patriarchs spoke of their impending deaths. Abraham lamented, "I am going childless" (Genesis 15:2), with "going" here understood as a euphemism for dying. Isaac, preparing to bless Jacob, said, "I will bless you before the Lord before my death" (Genesis 27:7). And, of course, Jacob himself, in our opening verse, declared, "I will lie with my fathers" (Genesis 47:30).

All of them, facing the inevitable.

What I find so moving about this passage is its honesty. It doesn't shy away from the reality of death, but instead uses it as a springboard to explore what truly matters: connection, legacy, and the desire to return to our roots. Jacob's plea to Joseph wasn't just about burial; it was about ensuring his place in the story of his people, a return to the land promised to his ancestors. It's a powerful reminder that even in the face of mortality, we can find meaning and purpose in the bonds we forge and the values we uphold.

So, where do you want to be buried? Is it about the physical place, or something deeper? Perhaps it's about being gathered to your people, your values, your story. A final, enduring connection.

Full source
Bereshit Rabbah 96:5Bereshit Rabbah

It seems like a strange thing to worry about when, well, we're no longer around to worry about anything. But the story of Jacob, as he nears the end of his life in Egypt, gives us some fascinating insights into this very question.

In (Genesis 47:29), we read that Jacob calls for his son, Joseph, and makes him swear an oath: "Please do not bury me in Egypt." But why Joseph? Why not Reuben, his firstborn, or Judah, the one destined for kingship? Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, explores this very question. It suggests that Jacob chose Joseph because he was the one with the power to actually carry out his request. He was in a position of influence in Egypt, capable of ensuring his father's wishes were honored.

Jacob’s request goes further: "Perform kindness and truth with me." Now, what's with the "kindness and truth" part? Is there such a thing as false kindness? The Rabbis, in their characteristic way, explore the nuances. They bring up a folk saying: "If the son of your friend dies, bear with him, because he can repay the kindness. If your friend dies, cast off… because he cannot repay the kindness." In other words, kindness shown after death is a true kindness because there's no expectation of reciprocation. It's pure and selfless.

Why not Egypt? Jacob gives a few reasons, each layered with meaning. One reason is a bit…uncomfortable. He says he doesn't want to be buried in Egypt because the land will eventually be struck with lice, and, well, those lice would swarm his body. Yikes!

Another reason is far more profound. Jacob was concerned that the Egyptians might turn him into an object of idolatrous worship. The Rabbis in Bereshit Rabbah remind us that just as punishment is meted out to those who worship idols, so too is it meted out to the one who is worshipped. They bring examples like Daniel refusing worship from Nebuchadnezzar, and the downfall of Hiram, who declared himself a god.

Jacob also worried that his burial in Egypt might inadvertently grant the Egyptians merit they didn't deserve. They worshipped lambs, and Jacob was likened to a lamb ("Israel is a scattered lamb," says (Jeremiah 50:1)7). The Egyptians' flesh was likened to that of donkeys (Ezekiel 23:20), and "the firstborn of a donkey you shall redeem with a lamb" (Exodus 34:20). The symbolism is complex, but the core idea is that Jacob didn't want his burial to somehow benefit a society steeped in idolatry.

So, why did all the patriarchs – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – insist on being buried in the Land of Israel? Rabbi Elazar simply calls them "cryptic matters." But Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi offers an explanation: "I walk before the Lord in the land of the living" (Psalms 116:9). The Land of Israel, he says, is the "land of the living."

Rabbi Ḥelbo, cited in the name of our Rabbis, gives us two reasons: First, the dead of the Land of Israel will be the first to come back to life in the messianic era and enjoy those messianic years. Second, Rabbi Ḥanina adds that someone who dies outside the Land of Israel and is buried there undergoes "two deaths" – death and burial, as exemplified by the prophet Jeremiah's words about Pashhur (Jeremiah 20:6).

But what about those righteous people who do die outside the Land? Are they out of luck? Rabbi Simon offers a remarkable image: God makes tunnels and channels in the earth, and the bodies of the righteous roll through them until they reach the Land of Israel! Then, God breathes life back into them. As (Ezekiel 37:12) states, "Behold, I am opening your graves, and I will take you up from your graves, My people, and I will bring you to the soil of Israel." Then, "I will place My spirit into you and you will live" (Ezekiel 37:14). Reish Lakish finds further support in (Isaiah 42:5), "Who places a soul in the people upon it."

There's even a story about Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and Rabbi Eliezer encountering a coffin being brought from outside the Land to be buried in Tiberias. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi wasn't impressed, suggesting the person had defiled the land in life and continued to do so in death. But Rabbi Eliezer countered that burial in the Land of Israel atones for their sins, citing (Deuteronomy 32:43): "His earth will atone for his people."

Even on his deathbed, Rabbi Yoḥanan was concerned with appearances, asking to be buried in green garments, "so if I stand among the righteous we will not be shamed, and if I stand among the wicked we will not be disgraced." Rabbi Yoshiya, on the other hand, had no such qualms, requesting to be buried in white, "Because I am not ashamed to greet my Creator because of my actions."

The story of Jacob's request, and the Rabbis' interpretations, reveal a deep connection between the Jewish people and the Land of Israel, a connection that transcends even death. It's a connection rooted in history, destiny, and a profound belief in the power of the land to bring about redemption. It prompts us to consider what truly matters in life, and what kind of legacy we hope to leave behind, even after we're gone.

Full source
Midrash Tehillim 24:7Midrash Tehillim

Who shall stand in His holy place?" (Psalm 24:3). It’s a powerful image, isn’t it? But what does it really mean to ascend? Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Psalms, offers a fascinating answer, focusing on none other than our patriarch, Jacob.

Jacob, not just as a historical figure, but as a blueprint for spiritual ascent.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) sees Jacob embodied in the words of the Psalm. "Who will ascend?" it asks. The Midrash answers, "This refers to our father Jacob," citing God's command to him: "Arise, go up to Bethel and dwell there" (Genesis 35:1). Bethel, the "House of God" – a place of profound spiritual significance. Jacob is literally called to ascend.

"Who will stand?" Again, the Midrash points to Jacob, referencing the verse: "And he encountered the place" (Genesis 28:11). That place, the very spot where Jacob dreamed of the ladder reaching to heaven, becomes synonymous with his standing before God. According to the Midrash, standing isn't passive; it's an active state of presence before the Divine.

But what qualities allow Jacob to ascend and stand? "Clean of hands," the Psalm continues. The Midrash interprets this as referring to Jacob's years of honest labor for Laban. As it is written, "I worked for you for fourteen years" (Genesis 31:38). Jacob's integrity, his commitment to ethical dealings, becomes a prerequisite for spiritual elevation. It's a powerful reminder that our actions in the physical world directly impact our spiritual standing.

And what about "a pure heart"? The Midrash connects this to the verse: "For he was the son of his old age" (Genesis 37:3). Now, this might seem a bit obscure. But consider the special bond between Jacob and Joseph. Jacob's love for Joseph, born in his later years, represents a purity of affection, untainted by the complexities and rivalries that marked his earlier life. This pure love, this unadulterated devotion, reflects the purity of heart needed for spiritual ascent.

The Psalm continues, "Who did not lift up my soul in vain." The Midrash interprets this as referring to Jacob’s relationship with Laban. Jacob did not lift up Laban's soul in vain.

Finally, "And he did not swear to deceive." Here, the Midrash recalls Jacob's oath, "And Jacob swore by the fear of his father Isaac" (Genesis 31:53). Jacob’s commitment to truth, his refusal to deceive, further solidifies his righteous character.

So, what's the reward for such a life? "He will receive a blessing from the Lord," the Psalm promises. And, the Midrash concludes by citing the verse: "And God appeared to Jacob and blessed him" (Genesis 35:9-10). The ultimate blessing, divine favor, is bestowed upon Jacob, the one who embodies the qualities needed for spiritual ascent.

What does this all mean for us? The Midrash isn't just telling us a story about Jacob. It's offering a roadmap. It's suggesting that we, too, can ascend the mountain of the Lord, that we, too, can stand in His holy place. By striving for integrity, cultivating purity of heart, and committing to truth, we can follow in Jacob’s footsteps and draw closer to the Divine.

Full source
Bereshit Rabbah 82:5Bereshit Rabbah

One fascinating passage in Bereshit Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis, dives right into this thorny issue. Specifically, it tackles Jacob's blessing – or perhaps, a warning – about his descendants becoming "a nation and an assembly of nations." The rabbis ask: What does that really mean?

Rabbi Yoḥanan, as quoted by Rabbi Yudan, Rabbi Aivu, and Rabbi Mashyan ben Nagari, offers a striking interpretation. God tells Jacob, essentially: "Your descendants are destined to become like other nations." Just as those nations might sacrifice on private altars even when it’s technically not allowed, so too will Jacob's descendants.

Hold on. Sacrificing on private altars? That sounds… wrong. We know that sacrifices were supposed to be brought in the Temple in Jerusalem. So, what’s going on here?

The rabbis aren't suggesting that God approves of this behavior. Instead, they are acknowledging a reality: that there will be times when the Jewish people, like other nations, will stray from the ideal.

The text goes on to provide examples. Rabbi Ḥanina points to Elijah on Mount Carmel (I Kings 18). Remember that dramatic showdown with the prophets of Baal? Elijah builds an altar using twelve stones, representing the tribes of Israel, and offers a sacrifice. But the Temple was standing! So, why the private altar? It’s a moment of national crisis, a desperate plea to God to reveal Himself.

Rabbi Simlai brings up the story of the tribe of Dan (Judges 18:29), who named their city after their forefather. From the moment Dan received his name, the text implies, this duality – a nation, yet an assembly of nations – was part of their destiny.

And Rabbi Yoḥanan himself, citing (Deuteronomy 33:19), speaks of a time when the descendants of Zebulun will "call peoples to the mountain" and "slaughter offerings of righteousness." He emphasizes that it doesn't say "prohibited offerings," but "offerings of righteousness." The idea is that even in these unconventional acts, God can still find a way to perform righteousness and accept the offering.

The passage then pivots to a legalistic discussion. Rabbi Shimon interprets the phrase "a nation and an assembly of nations" as obligating each tribe to bring a communal sin offering (a par he'elem davar shel tzibur) if they sin unwittingly based on a ruling of the Sanhedrin (Mishna Horayot 1:5). Rabbi Yehuda broadens this, suggesting that even if a tribe sins based on the ruling of its own court, they are still obligated to bring the offering. In other words, the phrase emphasizes the collective responsibility of the community, even within its individual parts.

So, what’s the takeaway here? Is it a free pass to do whatever we want? Absolutely not. But it is a recognition that Jewish history is complex, messy, and full of unexpected turns. It's an acknowledgement that sometimes, in moments of crisis or confusion, our ancestors took paths that deviated from the norm. It is a evidence of the enduring covenant between God and the Jewish people, even when that covenant is tested. The Bereshit Rabbah reminds us that even in those moments, even in the "private altars," there's still a possibility for connection, for righteousness, and for a renewed sense of purpose.

Full source
Legends of the Jews 6:102Legends of the Jews

Legends of the Jews turns to Jacob's Dream Showed Sinai the Temple and the Messiah.

Can you even fathom it? God, in His infinite wisdom, showed Jacob nothing less than the revelation at Mount Sinai, the very moment the Torah was given! Think about the sheer awe of that vision. But it didn't stop there. Jacob also witnessed the ascent of Elijah into heaven, a truly miraculous event.

The visions kept coming. Jacob saw the Beit HaMikdash – the Temple – in all its glory, a shining beacon of faith. But heartbreakingly, he also witnessed its destruction, its spoliation, a tragedy that still resonates with us today.

It’s like a whirlwind tour of Jewish history, all within a single dream. He wasn't spared the difficult parts, either. The dream included Nebuchadnezzar’s attempt to burn Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah (the "three holy children") in the fiery furnace, and even Daniel's encounter with Bel, the Babylonian idol. According to tradition, this was Jacob's first prophetic dream, a profound experience.

But what did it all mean? What was the message behind this extraordinary preview?

Well, God made a powerful promise to Jacob in that dream. He declared that the very land upon which Jacob was lying would be given to him and his descendants. But here's the really part: the land he was lying on wasn't just a small patch of ground. Instead, God had miraculously folded the entire land of Palestine together and placed it beneath him! Imagine the scope of that.

"And," God continued, "thy seed will be like unto the dust of the earth." This is a double-edged promise, as we find in Midrash Rabbah. On one hand, "As the earth survives all things, so thy children will survive all the nations of the earth." A beautiful evidence of the enduring strength of the Jewish people.

But there's a somber side to it as well. "But as the earth is trodden upon by all, so thy children, when they commit trespasses, will be trodden upon by the nations of the earth." A stark reminder of the consequences of our actions and the challenges we would face throughout history.

And finally, God promised that Jacob would spread out to the west and to the east, a promise even greater than those given to his fathers, Abraham and Isaac. They were allotted a limited land, but Jacob's possession would be unbounded. A vision of a future where Jacob's descendants would have influence far and wide.

So, what do we take away from this incredible story? It’s a reminder of the profound connection between the Jewish people, the land of Israel, and our destiny. It’s a story filled with both immense promise and solemn warning. And it all began with a dream.

Full source