The Art of Saying the Wrong Thing
Jake, a kind if not particularly bright fellow, was married to a woman whose glare could curdle milk at twenty paces. Still, despite her many faults, Jake loved his wife.
She passed away unexpectedly, leaving Jake—who missed her greatly—to carry on alone.
Time marched on and Jake remarried. This time, his choice was markedly better: a woman of grace, warmth, and kindness—a vast improvement in every conceivable way. Jacob respected her and truly loved her.
One fine day, overcome with affection for his new wife, Jake took her hand. “My dear,” he said warmly, “when I gaze upon your beautiful face, it’s as if my first wife has risen from the grave and is standing before me!”
You don’t have to be a marriage counselor (though, frankly, Jake probably needed one) to know that this wasn’t exactly a home run. His second wife was understandably less than thrilled.
Oh, Jake,” she said with a wry smile, “how romantic. But if your first wife is so vividly ingrained in your memory, why on earth would you say that I remind you of her? We both know my personality is nothing like hers!"
The Mistake of the Elders
The scene is staggering. The elders witnessed an extraordinary prophetic vision, with mystical images of sapphire stone and the pure essence of heaven. They experienced the incomparable sweetness of closeness to God and Divine revelation.
And yet, at that great moment of awe, they were pulled back to something far more mundane, familiar, and human. “And they ate and drank.” This otherworldly experience somehow reminded them of worldly pleasures.
Clearly, there is something terribly wrong with this comparison. Despite the glorious gift of prophetic vision, the elders failed to attain true awe and love of God. They deserved to be punished for this error, but “God did not send forth His hand against the leaders of the Israelites” (ibid). Their punishment was postponed for a more opportune time.
(Adapted from Mishlei Yaakov, pp. 129-130)
