That’s the kind of morning Jacob had.

We find ourselves in Genesis 28:18. Jacob, after his famous dream of the ladder stretching to heaven, wakes up "early in the morning, and he took the stone that he had placed beneath his head, and established it as a monument, and poured oil on the top of it." (Genesis 28:18). But what's the deal with the stone? Why oil? And why is this moment so significant that it's pondered over in Bereshit Rabbah 69?

Well, according to the text, that oil wasn't just any oil. "He provided to him, from the heavens, enough to fill a jug to its mouth." Talk about a divine refill! It’s as if the heavens themselves were endorsing Jacob's actions, validating his experience at this place.

And the place itself? It gets a new name. "He called the name of that place Beit El; however, Luz was the name of the city initially" (Genesis 28:19). Beit El, the House of God. But what about Luz? Bereshit Rabbah lingers on this earlier name, revealing a city steeped in mystery and resilience.

"However, Luz – this is Luz, in which they dye sky blue wool." A practical detail, perhaps, but it paints a picture of a vibrant community. But the stories don't stop there. This Luz, we're told, was unconquerable. Sennacherib attacked it, but couldn't displace its people. Nebuchadnezzar tried to destroy it, but failed. The angel of death, it's said, had no dominion over Luz!

So, how did its people die? Well, when they grew too old, they would voluntarily leave the city walls to pass on. It's a strange image, isn't it? Almost a willing surrender to the inevitable, but outside the protective embrace of Luz.

Rabbi Abba bar Kahana offers another perspective on the name: "Why is it called Luz? Anyone who would enter it would proliferate mitzvot and good deeds like an almond tree [luz]." (Note: Mitzvot are commandments or good deeds). So, Luz isn't just a place; it's a catalyst for spiritual growth, a generator of goodness.

And the Rabbis add to the mystique: "Just as a luz has no opening... so, too, no man could ascertain the location of the city entrance." It was hidden, inaccessible, a secret known only to those within.

Where was this hidden entrance? Rabbi Simon says it was at the entrance of the city itself. Rabbi Elazar, quoting Rabbi Pinḥas bar Ḥama, suggests it was at the entrance of a cave, accessible through a hollow almond tree. Imagine that – a secret passage through the heart of nature itself!

The text then references Judges 1:24-25, where the sentries capture a man emerging from the city and promise him benevolence if he shows them the way in. He does, the city is smitten, but the man and his family are spared.

Rabbi Yanai and Rabbi Yishmael draw a powerful conclusion from this story: "If this one, who did not go with his hands or with his feet, but because he showed them with his finger, was saved from suffering, Israel, who perform acts of kindness with their great ones and their lesser ones with their hands and with their feet, all the more so."

It's a powerful lesson about the ripple effect of even the smallest act of kindness. If a mere gesture of pointing could earn salvation, how much more reward awaits those who actively engage in acts of loving-kindness?

So, what does all this mean for us? This passage from Bereshit Rabbah isn't just about a stone, a city, or a dream. It’s about resilience, about the power of place, and about the enduring importance of kindness. Luz, though perhaps lost to history, lives on as a symbol of hidden strength and the potential for goodness that resides within us all. Maybe, just maybe, we each carry a little bit of Luz within us, waiting to be discovered.