I want everyone to think for a second about the different versions of yourselves that exist.
There’s the version of you when you’re around your closest friends, the version when you’re home with your family, the version when you’re surrounded by people who inspire you, and even the version when you’re around people who don’t necessarily bring out your best qualities.
It is really interesting, though, because we’re technically the same person in all these situations. But somehow, our surroundings have an incredible effect on us and can influence who we become.
This made me wonder about a question I’m sure you’ve all heard: how much of who we are is determined by our environment, and how much of ourselves are we actively choosing?
There’s actually a mashal I heard from Rabbi Moshe Tzvi Weinberg that captures this concept beautifully. He asks: Are you a thermometer or a thermostat?
A thermometer measures the temperature of a room. If the room is cold, so is the thermometer. If the room is warm, thermometers warm too. But the thermometer doesn’t actually do anything.
A thermostat, on the other hand, sets the temperature of the room. It doesn’t just respond to its environment; it shapes it. So which one are we?
In this week’s parasha, Parashat Toldos, we’re introduced to Yaakov and Esav, and the Torah describes them in two very different lights.
“וַיְהִי עֵשָׂו אִישׁ יֹדֵעַ צַיִד אִישׁ שָׂדֶה וְיַעֲקֹב אִישׁ תָּם יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים”
“And the boys grew; and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob was a quiet man, dwelling in tents.” (Genesis 25:27).
Esav is described as an “ish sadeh,” a man of the field, while Yaakov is an “ish tam yoshev ohalim,” someone who dwells in tents.
These descriptions seem to tell us where each brother spends his time. However, that isn’t all it is. The Torah seems to be telling us something more profound—the way each brother relates to this world.
Rabbi Weinberg brings an interpretation that connects the field to a life without clearly defined boundaries, while Yaakov’s tent represents a space built around intention and values.
By describing Yaakov as an “ish tam yoshev ohalim,” the Torah tells us that Yaakov doesn’t allow the world around him to determine who he becomes. Rather, he creates an environment that reflects the person he wants to be. And this idea is reinforced by the Rambam in Hilchot De’ot, who writes:
“דֶּרֶךְ בְּרִיָּתוֹ שֶׁל אָדָם לִהְיוֹת נִמְשָׁךְ בְּדֵעוֹתָיו וּבְמַעֲשָׂיו אַחֲרֵי רֵעָיו וַחֲבֵרָיו”
“It’s human nature to be influenced in our thoughts and actions by the people around us.”
Rambam’s words depict a raw, honest observation about human behavior. We’re not immune to our surroundings, no matter how much we try or how independent we think we are. However, is an “ish tam yoshev ohalim” all that good?
If Yaakov’s greatness came from creating an environment that protected his values, what might happen when he has to leave that environment? What happens when the kid who just spent a whole year in yeshivah gets thrown into a secular environment and gets to make his own decisions now?
But that’s exactly the point. Because Yaakov doesn’t spend his entire life in the ohel, and he was never supposed to either. I don’t think the Torah is teaching us that the way to hold on to our values is to isolate. That the sole purpose of this “ohel” is to protect us from the outside world. The ohel may actually be there to prepare us to enter that world.
After all, Yaakov himself eventually leaves the ohel. And later, Yosef finds himself in Mitzrayim, about as far from the environment he grew up in as he could be. Yet he manages to not only preserve his identity, but to become a leader within that new foreign society.
The point of the ohel was never to stay forever, but to build a foundation strong enough to carry with us when we eventually step outside.
There’s a fascinating observation brought by Rabbi Yisrael Meir Lau about the wording of our pasuk. Esav is called an ish sadeh, a man of the field, as we previously mentioned. But Yaakov isn’t called an ish ohalim, a man of the tents. He’s called ish tam, yoshev ohalim. Not a man of the tents, but a dweller of them.
And the difference?
Rav Lau explains that simply being in the field is enough to become an ish sadeh. If we move through life without much thought about what we’re taking in, our surroundings will inevitably leave their mark on us.
But becoming a yoshev ohalim requires something more. The verb “yoshev” suggests an active commitment. Yaakov doesn’t become who he is simply because he happens to be sitting in the right place at the right time. He becomes who he is through what he chooses to do there.
And that distinction is everything, because it’s possible to be surrounded by Torah, by Jewish community, by people with strong values, and still move through the whole thing passively.
And the reverse is also true. We can find ourselves in an environment that isn’t necessarily conducive to spiritual growth and still make deliberate choices about the people we want to become.
I’m going to bring one more pasuk from Mishlei. It says, “נר ה׳ נשמת אדם” — the soul of a person is Hashem’s candle.
Think about this beautiful image while considering what we’ve just been discussing. This image reminds us that the light we’re trying to cultivate isn’t something our surroundings create for us but something we already carry within ourselves. Every soul has its own light, long before we enter any particular place.
Each candle has a flame. You light it, and it’s lit. It doesn’t need its surroundings to be bright in order to give off light. In fact, its light becomes most noticeable when everything around it is dark.
Perhaps that’s what Yaakov’s ohel was meant to give him. Not a permanent escape from the outside world, but an inner source of light that wouldn’t disappear the moment the lights went out everywhere else. A place used for his own cultivation, where he was able to develop the very foundation for the flame itself.
We tend to think that our values are measured by what we believe or by the kind of people we aspire to be. But the more meaningful measure may actually be what happens when we are tested by the environments we find ourselves in. What happens when someone covers your eyes, or turns out the lights. Does your flame go out? Or does it become the clearest, most beautiful thing in the room?
The challenge of this week’s parsha isn’t to spend our lives searching for the perfect surroundings or the brightest room. Yakov’s Ohel forces us to recognize that the true measure of the environment we’ve built for ourselves isn’t who we are when we’re inside it. It’s who we remain when we leave.
Shabbat shalom.
