The Apology that Limped

This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on December 5, 2025.

There are few Torah scenes as emotionally charged, or as painfully relatable, as the reunion between Jacob and Esau in Parashat Vayishlach. It’s the kind of moment that makes you want to reach for popcorn and tissues.

Remember: the last time these brothers saw each other, Jacob was running for his life after stealing Esau’s blessing. Not exactly an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher. Decades pass. Jacob builds a family. Esau builds an army—at least, that’s how it looks when he approaches with 400 men.

The night before they meet, Jacob is left alone and wrestles with a mysterious figure until daybreak. He emerges with a limp and a blessing, but also with a new name: Yisrael. The one who wrestles. It’s as if Torah is telling us: “Before you face the person you hurt or who hurt you, you must first wrestle with yourself.”

Then dawn comes. Jacob limps forward. Esau runs toward him. And instead of revenge, Esau throws his arms around Jacob’s neck and weeps.

Here’s the part I find so moving: Esau does not give a polished apology. There’s no “I’ve been doing a lot of reflection, and I want to own my part in this conflict.” There’s no mutual processing with a box of tissues and a feelings wheel. There’s just an embrace. A gesture that says, “I missed you,” even if he never says the words “I’m sorry.”

And Jacob, who has every reason to be cautious, receives it. He allows that imperfect gesture to open the door to reconciliation, even if their paths ultimately diverge again.

So often we wait for the perfect apology, the one that hits all the right notes, includes footnotes and a bibliography, and arrives with a gift basket. But most human apologies are like Jacob’s limp: awkward, incomplete, evidence of a wound that’s still healing.

Vayishlach reminds us that apologizing requires courage, but so does accepting an apology that isn’t everything we hoped for. We mend relationships not because they’re perfect, but because we choose to step toward each other anyway.

May we learn to offer apologies that are brave, to receive apologies with generosity, and to trust that even imperfect steps can lead us toward wholeness.