And He Lived
- Uriel ben Avraham
- Jan 2
- 5 min read
The parsha about Jacob's death is called "And He Lived."
That is the first thing to notice about Parashat Vayechi, and it is worth sitting with for a moment before anything else. The Torah does not name this portion "And He Died" or "And He Blessed" or "And He Was Gathered to His People" — all of which happen in the text.
It names it for the seventeen years Jacob spent in Egypt with his family around him, the years after the famine and the reconciliation and the long road down from Canaan. The quiet years. The living ones.
וַיְחִ֤י יַעֲקֹב֙ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם שְׁבַ֥ע עֶשְׂרֵ֖ה שָׁנָ֑ה וַיְהִ֤י יְמֵֽי־יַעֲקֹב֙ שְׁנֵ֣י חַיָּ֔יו שֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֔ים וְאַרְבָּעִ֥ים וּמְאַ֖ת שָׁנָֽה׃
Jacob lived seventeen years in the land of Egypt, so that the span of Jacob’s life came to one hundred and forty-seven years.
Rashi asks a famous question about this parsha: why is it "closed"? In a Torah scroll, most portions begin with a visible break — an open space on the parchment. Vayechi has none. It runs directly from the end of Vayigash with no gap.
He offers two reasons. The first: because when Jacob died, the eyes and hearts of Israel were closed by the coming bondage. The second: because Jacob wished to reveal the end of days to his sons, but the vision was concealed from him.
A closed parsha. A hidden future. And still: "And he lived."
I am (still, blessedly) writing this from Israel. We have been with the Atlanta Israel Coalition some of our time here on this trip. We showed up to help because solidarity between our community in Atlanta and the greater community of Am Yisrael is something you do with your hands, not something you talk about from a distance.
On New Year's Eve, we spent hours preparing food with Shlomi's food truck and then drove along the Gaza border fence, in both restricted and "open" areas, distributing falafel, schnitzel, and shakshuka pita sandwiches to IDF troops.
This is still an active war zone. The soldiers told us, more than once, that they feel forgotten. That the world's hatred bears down on them. And then we handed them kosher ducks — the little rubber ones with the yarmulkes, the ones that started as a silly whimsy and became something else — and you could hear them squeaking as we drove off to the next stop.
Soldiers laughed. Some of them, we were told, laughed for the first time in days.
Many asked for extras to bring home to their kids. We wouldn't refuse anyway, but they're armed — of course — we gave them. More joy in the world is always a blessing. To bring it to their children? Phenomenal.
A few days later, we held a BBQ at a base just over the Green Line for soldiers who had not had a single one in more than two years of war. We grilled sausages and burgers and carved smoked briskets, set up tables with salads, and stayed. We also gave them some ducks. The demand far outpaced our supply, but the smiles and laughs were in abundance.
The next day we visited wounded soldiers at Sheba Medical Center and delivered care packages, ducks, supplies, and adult LEGO kits. The kits were gone in minutes.
I keep thinking about Jacob's deathbed. The text says he called his sons together, and then he blessed each one — individually, specifically, seeing each for who he was. Judah gets royalty. Zebulun gets the sea. Dan gets judgment. Issachar gets scholarship. Not a single generic blessing in the bunch.
כׇּל־אֵ֛לֶּה שִׁבְטֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל שְׁנֵ֣ים עָשָׂ֑ר וְ֠זֹ֠את אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֨ר לָהֶ֤ם אֲבִיהֶם֙ וַיְבָ֣רֶךְ אוֹתָ֔ם אִ֛ישׁ אֲשֶׁ֥ר כְּבִרְכָת֖וֹ בֵּרַ֥ךְ אֹתָֽם׃
All these were the tribes of Israel, twelve in number, and this is what their father said to them as he bade them farewell, addressing to each a parting word appropriate to him.
"Appropriate to him." Each blessing fit the person receiving it. Jacob did not give a speech. He gave twelve.
There is a detail from the parsha that has traveled farther than almost anything else in the Torah. When Jacob blesses Joseph's two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, he crosses his hands — placing his right hand on the younger son's head and his left on the elder's. Joseph tries to correct him. Jacob refuses. And then he says the words that Jewish parents have repeated every Friday night since:
וַיְבָ֨רְכֵ֜ם בַּיּ֣וֹם הַהוּא֮ לֵאמוֹר֒ בְּךָ֗ יְבָרֵ֤ךְ יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר יְשִֽׂמְךָ֣ אֱלֹהִ֔ים כְּאֶפְרַ֖יִם וְכִמְנַשֶּׁ֑ה וַיָּ֥שֶׂם אֶת־אֶפְרַ֖יִם לִפְנֵ֥י מְנַשֶּֽׁה׃
So he blessed them that day, saying, “By you shall Israel invoke blessings, saying: God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh.” Thus he put Ephraim before Manasseh.
Every Friday night. Hands on heads. "May God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh." The commentators ask: why these two? Why not Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob themselves?
One answer that has stayed with me: Ephraim and Manasseh were the first generation raised entirely in exile — born in Egypt, surrounded by Egyptian culture — and they remained who they were. The blessing is not for greatness. It is for continuity.
Meanwhile, this past Monday, Israel announced that President Trump will receive the Israel Prize — the country's highest civilian honor — for the first time ever awarded to a non-Israeli. The prize recognizes his contributions to the Jewish people, including his role in the hostage negotiations and his recognition of Jerusalem as Israel's capital.
Whatever one thinks of the politics or the spray tan, the gesture carries weight: a seventy-seven-year-old nation breaking its own precedent to say thank you.
Jacob's life was not easy. He fled his brother, worked fourteen years for the wife he loved, buried Rachel on the road, lost Joseph for twenty-two years, watched his sons tear themselves apart.
When Pharaoh asked him his age, Jacob answered: "Few and hard have been the years of my life" (Bereishit 47:9). And yet the Torah names his final chapter "Vayechi." And he lived.
There is a moment, near the very end, after Jacob has died and the brothers are terrified that Joseph will finally take his revenge. Joseph weeps. And then he says:
וְאַתֶּ֕ם חֲשַׁבְתֶּ֥ם עָלַ֖י רָעָ֑ה אֱלֹהִים֙ חֲשָׁבָ֣הּ לְטֹבָ֔ה לְמַ֗עַן עֲשֹׂ֛ה כַּיּ֥וֹם הַזֶּ֖ה לְהַחֲיֹ֥ת עַם־רָֽב׃
Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.
L'hachayot am rav. To keep alive a great people. That is what Joseph sees when he looks back at his own suffering: not vindication, not justice, but preservation. Life sustained.
On New Year's Day, some of our group went to distribute toys to children in an Israeli hospital. Tomorrow, some of us fly home. My husband and I stay. For now. Though, the work does not stop when we will land in Atlanta. It shifts — to programming, to education, to showing up again the next time showing up is what is needed.
The parsha is closed. The future is hidden. And the name on the parchment, with no gap and no break, still reads: And he lived.
Shabbat shalom.
— Uriel ben Avraham
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