The father of the Palestinian terrorist who murdered Aharon Cohen, a 71-year-old Israeli grandfather ambushed in a terrorist attack in Judea just this past week, proudly said that his greatest wish was to be the father of a martyr. Read that line again. A parent’s greatest wish was to be the father of a martyr. It is nauseating to absorb a sentence like that. A parent celebrating a child’s violence is a parent whose love has slipped into something dark and distorted. And after every terrorist attack in Israel, the same pattern appears. Parents speaking about murder as if it were honor. Families turning brutality into pride.
This forces a difficult question into the center of the conversation. What are the limits of our love. When does love build a child, and when does love collapse into something harmful.
The Torah gives us a very different kind of story, far from politics or terrorism, but still anchored in a child who is difficult, volatile, and unpredictable. If you look at the very short list of parenting stories in the Hebrew Bible up until this point, Esau stands out. He is the son who alarms you because you cannot trust his impulses. The son who makes you hold your breath because you do not know what he will choose next.
Yet the Torah tells us something surprising: Isaac loved Esau.
Why.
This is the question Rabbi Jonathan Sacks asked. Rebecca had received a divine message before the twins were even born: the older shall serve the younger. She understood that Jacob was chosen to carry the covenant forward. So why would Isaac focus his love on the son who seemed least capable of that path.
Rashi, the great eleventh century French commentator whose explanations form the backbone of Jewish Bible study, offers a classic answer. Esau deceived his father with his mouth. He pretended to be committed to religious law, even asking questions about tithing salt although salt does not require tithes. According to this reading, Isaac was fooled.
But Rabbi Sacks suggests a deeper possibility. And it is the line every parent of a complicated child recognizes instantly. He writes that Isaac loved Esau precisely because he did know what Esau was. Isaac saw the difficult child clearly. And instead of withdrawing, he leaned in.
This speaks to a simple truth. When you have one child who follows the rules and one child who breaks them, your heart moves toward the child who is slipping. It is not favoritism. It is responsibility. It is the instinct to hold on to the child who seems closest to being lost.
Rabbi Sacks brings a story from Rav Kook, the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of pre state Israel, that captures this instinct with startling clarity. A father once came to Rav Kook heartbroken that his son had abandoned Judaism. Rav Kook asked, Did you love him when he was religious. Of course, the man answered. Then now, Rav Kook told him, love him even more.
Love is not a prize for good behavior. The truest love grows stronger when a child is hurting or wandering or fighting the world.
This explains Isaac. He was not naive. He was not easily fooled. He was a father who understood that the harder child sometimes needs the softer heart.
Did this love shape Esau at all. The Sages say yes. Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel, one of the leading Sages of the Mishna and a direct descendant of the early rabbinic dynasty, once said that although he believed he honored his own father greatly, he realized Esau honored Isaac even more. Esau reserved his finest garments for serving his father. He cared deeply about how he appeared before Isaac. His respect was so sincere that God later rewarded his descendants. Israel was commanded not to wage war against them and not to despise them, for they were brothers.
So Isaac’s love did reach Esau. It planted something good. But it did not transform him into Jacob. Esau remained himself. A hunter. A man driven by appetite and impulse. Love could not rewrite his nature.
Here the Torah speaks honestly. Love can shape a child, soften a child, anchor a child. But it cannot take away another person’s freedom. It cannot force a destiny. That belongs to God and to the child alone.
Proverbs gives a verse that is often misunderstood:
This is not a guarantee of results. It is a command to recognize the individuality of each soul. Educate a child according to who the child actually is. Work with their nature, not against it.
Isaac did this. He loved Esau in the way Esau needed to be loved. He did not pretend Esau was Jacob. He did not try to erase Esau’s personality. He gave the complicated child the loyal heart he required, even though that love did not change the final outcome.
In a world where some parents celebrate their children’s destruction, Isaac stands as the opposite kind of father. A father who saw his son clearly, loved him honestly, and never surrendered him. It is not a sentimental love. It is a grounded, responsible, steady love. And perhaps that is the holiest love a parent can give.
