Commentary - Genesis 35:16-21

Bird's-eye view

This short, poignant narrative records the bitter and the sweet of God's covenant dealings. As Jacob's family journeys from Bethel, the place of renewed covenant vows, they are immediately struck by tragedy. Rachel, Jacob's beloved wife, dies while giving birth to her second son. The event is a stark portrait of life in a fallen world, where the blessing of childbirth is intertwined with the curse of pain and death. Yet, in the midst of this profound sorrow, God's purpose moves forward unstoppably. The passage pivots on the naming of the child. Rachel, in her dying agony, names him Ben-oni, "son of my sorrow." But Jacob, the patriarch, renames him Benjamin, "son of the right hand." This is not a mere sentimental adjustment; it is a profound act of faith. It is the father of the covenant people refusing to define his future by grief, and instead defining it by the promise of strength and honor from God. The passage thus sets a crucial landmark in redemptive history, both literally, with Rachel's tomb on the way to Bethlehem, and theologically, demonstrating how God's sovereign plan incorporates and redeems our deepest pains.

This is a story of two perspectives. There is the perspective from the ground, from the midst of the blood and tears, which sees only loss and sorrow. Then there is the perspective of faith, which looks to the right hand of God and sees His strength and purpose being worked out. Jacob, now called Israel, chooses the latter. He buries his beloved wife, sets up a pillar of remembrance, and journeys on, carrying the son of promise with him. The geography is not accidental; that this sorrow unfolds on the road to Bethlehem, the future "house of bread" and birthplace of the Messiah, seasons that place with a history of grief that will one day be answered by the ultimate joy.

Outline

Context In Genesis

This passage comes at a pivotal moment in Jacob's life. He has finally returned to the Promised Land after his long exile in Haran. He has wrestled with God and received a new name, Israel (Gen 32). He has reconciled with his brother Esau (Gen 33). And most recently, he has obeyed God's command to go to Bethel, where he first met God, to build an altar and purge his household of foreign gods (Gen 35:1-15). It was at Bethel that God Almighty appeared to him again, reaffirmed the Abrahamic covenant, and reiterated his new name, Israel. This story of Rachel's death, therefore, occurs immediately after a high point of covenant renewal and purification. It serves as a powerful reminder that life under the covenant, in this fallen world, is not a life free from suffering. The promises of God do not negate the pain of existence; they provide the framework and the hope through which that pain can be endured and redeemed.

Key Issues

Sorrow and Sonship

In the economy of God, our greatest sorrows are often the soil in which He plants our greatest strengths. This is the principle that governs this brief but weighty passage. We are confronted with the raw reality of death, a death that comes packaged with the blessing of a new life. This is the world after Genesis 3, a world of thorns and thistles, of pain in childbirth, a world where every joy is tinged with sorrow. Rachel, who once said "Give me children, or I shall die" (Gen 30:1), now dies in the act of receiving another child. The irony is thick with the tragedy of the fall. But the story does not end with her tragic cry. Jacob, the patriarch, steps in with an act of prophetic faith. He takes the "son of sorrow" and declares him to be the "son of the right hand." This is the gospel in miniature. It is the refusal to let death have the last word. It is the father declaring the identity of the son, not based on the circumstances of his birth, but on his position in the covenant of promise.

Verse by Verse Commentary

16 Then they journeyed from Bethel; and there was still some distance to go to Ephrath, and Rachel gave birth, and she suffered severely in her labor.

They are on the move, obediently heading south from Bethel, the house of God. They are in the land of promise, but they are not yet home. The phrase "still some distance to go" is true in more ways than one. They have a geographic distance to travel, but Jacob's family still has a long spiritual journey ahead. It is on this road that Rachel goes into labor. The blessing of a child, the fulfillment of her deepest desire, arrives. But it comes with severe suffering. The Hebrew is stark: she had hardship in her bearing. This is a direct echo of the curse pronounced upon Eve in Genesis 3:16, "in pain you shall bring forth children." Rachel's agony is a personal tragedy, but it is also a picture of the universal condition of humanity under the curse. Every birth is a reminder of both God's creative goodness and the painful consequences of our rebellion.

17 Now it happened that when she was in severe labor the midwife said to her, “Do not fear, for now you have another son.”

In the midst of her life-threatening struggle, the midwife offers a word of encouragement. It is the best comfort that human wisdom can provide. "Do not fear." Why? Because the outcome you desired is here: "you have another son." In a patriarchal culture, the birth of a son was the highest blessing, ensuring the continuation of the family line. The midwife sees the blessing and tries to use it to soothe the pain. Her words are well-intentioned, but they are inadequate for the moment. The blessing is the very thing that is causing the pain and, ultimately, Rachel's death. This highlights the limits of earthly comfort. Sometimes, the good things God gives us are the very instruments of our deepest suffering. The midwife's words are true, but a greater word is needed.

18 Now it happened as her soul was departing (for she died), that she named him Ben-oni; but his father called him Benjamin.

This is the pivot of the entire narrative. Rachel gets to name the boy from her perspective, the perspective of death. As her life ebbs away, she looks at the infant and sees the cause of her agony. So she names him Ben-oni, "son of my sorrow." This is a true name; he was, for her, born of immense sorrow. Had this been the last word, the twelfth son of Israel would have carried a name of perpetual grief, a living monument to his mother's death. But it is not the last word. Jacob, the father, the head of the covenant household, intervenes. He hears the name of sorrow and overrides it with a name of faith. He calls him Benjamin, "son of the right hand." The right hand in Scripture is the place of power, authority, and blessing. Jacob was not in denial about his grief. He would mourn Rachel deeply. But by faith, he refused to let sorrow define his son's identity and destiny. He looked at this child and, instead of seeing a reminder of what he had lost, he saw a future of strength and honor for his people. This is a father acting as a prophet, speaking God's reality over the visible tragedy.

19 So Rachel died and was buried on the way to Ephrath (that is, Bethlehem).

The text states the hard fact bluntly: Rachel died. The love story that had driven so much of Jacob's life comes to an end on the side of a road. And the location is specified with great care. She was buried on the way to Ephrath, which the text immediately clarifies is Bethlehem. This is no trivial detail. The "house of bread," the future birthplace of King David and King Jesus, is first marked in the story of Israel as a place of sorrow, the place of a mother's death in childbirth. Hundreds of years later, the prophet Jeremiah would cry out, "A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children" (Jer 31:15), a prophecy Matthew applies to the slaughter of the infants in this same Bethlehem (Matt 2:18). Bethlehem is established here as a place of travail, making it the perfect backdrop for the birth of the Man of Sorrows, who would conquer death itself.

20 And Jacob set up a pillar over her grave; that is the pillar of Rachel’s grave to this day.

Jacob's grief is real, and he honors his wife. He sets up a stone marker, a pillar. This is not an act of idolatry but of remembrance. It stakes a claim. It says, "Here lies one of the mothers of the covenant people. This land is our land, even in our dying." The pillar serves as a testimony to future generations of both the sorrow of the loss and the faithfulness of the family to remain in the land God had promised them. That it was still identifiable "to this day" shows the significance of this event for the nation of Israel. It was a foundational story, a landmark of their history, geographically and emotionally.

21 Then Israel journeyed on and pitched his tent beyond the tower of Eder.

The story concludes with this simple, powerful statement. The name used for the patriarch here is significant: Israel, the one who strives with God. After this devastating loss, Israel does not stop. He does not turn back. He journeys on. He leads his family, including the newborn son of his right hand, further into the land. He pitches his tent "beyond the tower of Eder," which means "tower of the flock." It was likely a watchtower for shepherds near Bethlehem. The imagery is fitting. The shepherd of God's chosen people, having suffered a great loss, continues to lead his flock forward, trusting in the promises of God. Life goes on, the covenant continues, and the journey of faith must press forward, even with a limp.

Application

Every Christian lives their life somewhere between Bethel and Bethlehem. We have our Bethel moments, high points of commitment and communion with God where His promises feel near and clear. And we all have our Bethlehem road moments, where we are confronted with devastating, inexplicable sorrow. This passage teaches us how to navigate that road.

First, we must acknowledge the reality of the pain. The Bible is not stoic; it does not pretend that death and loss do not hurt. Rachel named her son from her pain, and that was an honest expression of her reality. We are allowed to weep; we are allowed to name our sorrows before God. But second, we must not allow sorrow to have the final word. Like Jacob, we are called by faith to rename our tragedies in light of God's sovereignty and promises. Our Father in heaven takes our "sons of sorrow" and, through the cross of His own Son, declares them to be "sons of the right hand." He works all things, even the most painful losses, for the good of those who love Him, for their establishment in strength and honor. The pain that you think will define you, the loss that you believe has crippled you, God intends to use as the foundation for a strength you could not have known otherwise.

Finally, we must, like Israel, journey on. Grief can be paralyzing, but faith is a pilgrim faith. We bury our dead, we set up our memorials, and then we pack up the tent and move toward the promises. We do this because we know that the story of that road to Bethlehem was not finished at Rachel's tomb. The ultimate Son of the Right Hand, Jesus Christ, was born in that very town. He walked the ultimate road of sorrow to the cross, but God raised Him up and seated Him at His own right hand, turning the greatest tragedy into the world's salvation. Because He lives, we can face our sorrows without despair and journey on with hope.