Misunderstood Bible Character: Esau the Hunter

Recently, my family was in need of a good laugh. So—as many do—we went looking for a fun movie on Amazon Prime. We selected a movie starring a major Hollywood comedian, and pressed play, eager for some good entertainment.

Quickly, we realized that the wholesome, fun-filled movie we looked forward to was anything but. The dialogue was excessively crude. We fast-forwarded through chunks of the movie. It made me feel sick inside, so we selected a different movie.

This encounter reminded me of something important. What we consume is so important to our well-being, and particularly our spiritual growth. Everything we choose—from the articles we read, music we listen to, movies we watch, people we spend time with, to our partners—changes us. Popular culture knows this already, shown by articles such as What We Consume Determines The Life We Live by Joshua Becker, and We Are What We Consume by Psychology Today.

Genesis also consistently shows us that repeated habits—the things we choose—shape desire. Desire shapes perception. And perception shapes decision. We’ve already seen this pattern earlier in Genesis in the story of Cain. Cain’s anger doesn’t appear out of nowhere—it grows, festers, and begins to shape what he chooses. Genesis invites us to pay attention to these internal thoughts long before they end in obvious destruction. (If you missed it, I wrote more about Cain’s story here.)

Many Christians write off Esau in (Genesis 25–33) as short-tempered, impatient, and foolish. We discard Esau so often that no one ever admits that they see themselves in him.

But Esau was just as human as we are. Like many others, Esau’s life rewarded immediacy—and so immediacy became his spiritual reflex. Before we even read that he was an outdoorsman and hunter, his name alone would have informed ancient hearers and readers of the type of person he is, because “Esau” means “hairy.” But to stop here does Esau a disservice. His name is also connected to the Hebrew verb ‘asa (“to do,” to make,” and “to work”). This lends to the meanings “doer,” “maker,” and “worker”— good qualities. In fact, King Asa (1 Kings 15, 2 Chronicles 14-16), whose name is even closer to the Hebrew verb ‘asa, was a good, godly king who brought peace to the land.

In other words, Esau wasn’t doomed by his temperament—but he was formed by the life he lived. And Genesis shows us three times where Esau’s choices reveal what his desires had been trained to value.

Scene 1: Hunger and stew (Genesis 25:29–34)

Esau was really hungry—so hungry that when his brother suggests giving up his birthright, it doesn’t strike him as ridiculous. This should tell us that something much bigger is at play here.

A birthright to the eldest son was a promise: to receive a significant inheritance from his father, and to receive God’s blessing for himself and future generations. In other words, his role was to carry on the family legacy—to represent the family. This is both a gift, and a responsibility. He would have been aware of this birthright from the time he was born, absorbing the expectations to provide and protect and serve his family. He may have even seen hunting as his way to fulfill this role.

So when he is so willing to give up his birthright—his title, his inheritance, his promise for a blessed future—that should strike us as odd. It should make us wonder, “wait, how did Esau get here?”

Some people claim that being a hunter trained him to value immediate relief. I don’t. Hunting requires patience, endurance, long-range tracking, and delayed payoff. Hunters wait hours for an animal. He’s not impulsive here simply because he’s a hunter.

Perhaps, though, he was trained to value the tangible things in life. This would make Esau patient in hunting, where the reward is concrete, visible, sensory, and immediate. But the flip side to this is that Esau would be lacking patience for intangible things. The birthright is invisible, future-oriented, communal, spritually-weighted, and requires trust.

Maybe he was trained to value tangible things.

Perhaps Esau assumed that the birthright would always be his. Perhaps he had convinced himself that he could win it back with brute strength, never thinking it could slip through his capable hands.

And this is where the story of Esau becomes uncomfortable—not because he’s stupid, but because we might start to see ourselves in him. We read this story and think, “how could anyone trade away their future for a bowl of lentils?”

But don’t we do something similar when we settle for what’s visible and soothing now, rather than what forms us long-term? When we reach for distraction, escape or comfort when depleted? When we forget what the goal is? In these moments, we’re not just killing time—we’re participating in formation.

Scene 2: Marriage choices (Genesis 26:34–35; 27:46; 28:6–9)

Esau married at the age of 40, just like his father Isaac. By including this detail, Genesis invites a deliberate comparison. Where Isaac married within the covenantal line, Esau married outside it. One resulted in joy, and the other resulted in grief.

Rebekah (Esau’s mom) objects to Esau’s marriages not due to ethnic prejudice or personal dislike. But because she sees Esau’s marriage choices as being unfaithful to the covenant. The Abrahamic family understood itself as being set apart by God’s promises (Gen 12, 15, 17, 22).

Marrying local Canaanite (Hittite) women risks introducing foreign religious practices, leading to divided loyalties, and ultimately a weakening of commitment to YHWH.

This is a consistent concern across Genesis. Abraham forbids Isaac from marrying Canaanites (Gen 24:3–4), and Isaac later gives Jacob the same instruction. So why didn’t Isaac instruct Esau in this way?

Maybe he did, but Esau didn’t listen. Or, Isaac may have overlooked warning signs within his favourite son. He might have assumed that Esau’s future was secure, regardless of who he married, and that Esau understood the gravity of God’s promises.

Or, like Esau, Isaac may have taken God’s blessings for granted. This to me feels like the strongest reading. Isaac didn’t have to leave his homeland, and his wife was hand-picked for him. In other words, he may not have associated God’s blessing with real cost.

Maybe he took God’s blessings for granted.

Even when Esau eventually took the hint that he made the wrong choices with marriage, he tried to fix it by choosing women that still sat outside the covenant.

He’s not trying to rebel—he’s a flawed human being trying to fix a problem in the way he knows how. He wants belonging and blessing, but he reaches for them through what is nearest, most visible, and most socially available—rather than through covenantal trust.

Scene 3: The reunion (Genesis 33)

This part of Esau’s narrative is the most surprising of all. Despite Jacob taking his birthright, and stealing his father’s blessing, Esau shows up here as generous and reconciliatory—a far cry from his wanting to murder his brother in Gen 27:41.

Here, for the first time, we see that Esau’s appetite is no longer for immediate relief. We see how time, suffering, and distance have formed him. Esau runs to Jacob. He embraces him, throws his arms around him. They weep, together. His draw towards the tangible has now become a strength, rather than a weakness, as he reconciles with running, holding, and weeping.

And he even refuses Jacob’s gifts at first. This is not immediacy. This is emotionally mature generosity.

He once reached for tangible comfort instead of covenant inheritance. Now he reaches for tangible reconciliation instead of revenge.

And that’s beautiful.

Here, Genesis is insisting on Esau’s humanity, and refuses to reduce him to a warning label. If Scenes 1 and 2 show us Esau’s temperament, Scene 3 shows us how God can redeem. Esau does not become a violent, vengeful person, as we might have expected. Over time—though we’re not told how—something shifted in Esau. He learned to make choices that formed him into someone who no longer lets resentment dictate his choices, which has led to peace.

So what now?

Esau’s story is sobering, because it reminds us where spiritual formation resides. Not in big, grandiose moments of divine calling, but in the small, ordinary moments when we feel depleted. What do we choose when we’re tired? When we’re hungry? When we’ve lost hope? What (or who) do we reach for?

Yet, Esau’s story is also hopeful, because his story doesn’t end at his worst decision. He, like us, is capable of change and growth. Perhaps that is the final invitation of his story. To take our habits seriously—what we consume, what we pursue, what we soothe ourselves with. And we’re not stuck in our current patterns. If God can form Esau—re-train his appetite, re-shape his instincts—He can teach us to choose what leads to life, too.

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