Chapter 46 tells us about a significant moment: the Israelites, after a period of time, gathered up all the bones of Jacob’s children, with one notable exception: Joseph. And where did they bury them? "In the field in the double cave in the mountain." Now, this "double cave" is a direct reference to the Machpelah (מַכְפֵּלָה), the Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron. This is considered one of the most sacred sites in Judaism, believed to be the burial place of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, and Leah.
It's a powerful image, isn’t it? The children of Israel, carrying the earthly remains of their forefathers, returning them to the ancestral resting place. But it also raises a question: why not Joseph? His story is a tale for another time, but his absence here is definitely significant.
After this solemn act, most of the Israelites returned to Egypt. The text tells us, though, that "a few of them remained in the mountains of Hebron, and Amram thy father remained with them." This Amram is an important figure: he was the father of Moses, Aaron, and Miriam. So, we see a small group staying behind, maintaining a connection to the land, a flicker of hope amidst the coming darkness.
And darkness was indeed on the horizon.
The narrative takes a sharp turn. "And the king of Canaan was victorious over the king of Egypt, and he closed the gates of Egypt." Can you imagine the shock? Egypt, the mighty empire, defeated? And what did this mean for the Israelites living there?
Well, the Book of Jubilees doesn't hold back. The new king of Canaan "devised an evil device against the children of Israel of afflicting them." His reasoning? "Behold, the people of the children of Israel have increased and multiplied more than we."
Classic fear-mongering. A familiar story throughout history: the "other" group, growing too strong, becoming a threat. And what follows is the predictable outcome of such paranoia: oppression.
This passage in Jubilees, though brief, paints a vivid picture. We see the reverence for ancestors, the connection to the land, and the looming threat of persecution. It's a reminder that even in moments of peace and prosperity, the seeds of conflict can be sown, and the stories of our ancestors are often intertwined with both hope and hardship.
What does it mean to remember those who came before us? How do we honor their legacies, even when those legacies are complicated by suffering and struggle? Perhaps the Book of Jubilees invites us to consider these questions, urging us to learn from the past as we navigate the present.