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Words and Feelings By Sarah Rudolph The story of Yosef and his brothers offers a particularly poignant window into the very real emotional lives of our biblical ancestors. These emotions are described in words, as when the Torah first states outright that the brothers hated Yosef, and are also expressed in actions, as when their hatred is illustrated by the fact that they were unable to speak peaceably to him (Bereishit 37:4-5).

Show or tell?

They say actions speak more loudly than words. Certainly, Yehuda’s quiet assumption of responsibility for Binyamin, and his bold appeal to the Egyptian leader, provide a more vibrant picture than a simple statement that “Yehuda repented” could have conveyed. Yosef’s repeated struggles to hide his tears are similarly indicative, showing us rather than telling us that he is deeply moved by his brothers’ presence. On the other hand, the challenge in reading actions rather than explicit statements is that their meaning is less, well, explicit. We know the reason the brothers couldn’t speak nicely to Yosef was that they hated him, because we are told. But what exactly motivated Yehuda’s later actions? Was it regret over selling Yosef, and/or over causing Yaakov grief? Was it love for Binyamin? Was it simply a practical strategy to survive the famine? What exactly was behind Yosef’s tears? Was he happy to see his beloved brothers? Was he reliving the pain of what they had done to him? Was he reminded of their father and his love for him? Was it all this and more? Commentators address these questions with a variety of explanations that truly illustrates the existence of “seventy [i.e., many] faces to the Torah.”

Left Speechless

One such example in t his week’s parsha is the description of the brothers’ reaction when Yosef finally revealed his tears and identity, and his brothers “were not able to answer him, because nivhalu before him” (45:3). There are a number of possible translations for nivhalu: shocked, confused, overwhelmed, alarmed, scared… Even once we choose a word, the meaning is still not obvious. What exactly did the brothers feel at this momentous reveal, and why did that make them unable to respond to Yosef?

Shame?

Were they silenced by shame, as Rashi suggests? If so, why? Because they sold him, as in Radak? Or perhaps more deeply, because Yosef sent everyone else out before identifying himself and discussing their past, and they realized that he was protecting them from public embarrassment and that he loved them despite what they had done? (Inspired by R. Eliyahu Mizrachi’s comments on Rashi, though not quite what he says.)

Fear?

Or was it fear? Perhaps, as Malbim suggests, nivhalu indicates a trembling fear of revenge, “as if he had said: Is my father still alive despite the troubles you caused him?!” After all, Yosef knew from previous conversations that Yaakov was alive; why ask a question to which he knew the answer, if not to make a harsh point and perhaps introduce harsh retribution? In fact, the Gemara (Chagiga 4b) takes the brothers’ reaction in this verse as a small-scale model of the visceral fear we might expect to feel when facing God on judgment day – and as a reminder to consider our actions in that light. Alternatively, perhaps they were simply shocked. As a favorite joke from my youth had it: What did Benjamin Franklin say when he discovered electricity? Nothing; he was too shocked! Perhaps nivhalu simply means the brothers, too, were simply too shocked, and needed time to collect themselves and speak. (On a similar note, see Da’at Zekenim in the name of R. Yosef Kara: “They believed and didn’t believe.”)

Talking Through It

With the brothers rendered speechless, for whichever reason(s), Yosef calls them closer and speaks to them more fully, comfortingly, about their sale of him and how he views it. And finally, after he speaks at greater length and tearfully embraces each brother, “afterwards, his brothers spoke with him” (45:15). (Here, too, one must understand how and why they no longer nivhalu; how did Yosef’s further words help them past whatever it was they were feeling?) However we understand the details, the bottom line that stands out to me here goes back all the way to the beginning of the story, when “they were unable to speak peaceably to him.” They’ve been through a great deal, together and apart and together, and it will not be all smooth sailing in the relationship from this point on, either. But whatever exactly they have felt at various moments and whatever emotions are still to come – at least, finally, they can talk to each other.

The Tranquility of Trust By Sarah Rudolph We left Yosef at the end of last week’s parsha in prison – a “pit” he was naturally eager to leave. After correctly interpreting the dreams of his prison-mates, Yosef asked one of them, apparently quite reasonably, to mention Yosef and his unjust imprisonment to Pharaoh after being released. The butler, however, did not come through.

And the drinks officer did not remember Yosef, and he forgot him. (Bereishit 40:23)

And it was at the end of two years, Pharaoh dreamt a dream… (Ibid. 41:1)

That seems like a lot of words to tell us there was a span of time between the butler’s release and the royal dream that brought him to mention Yosef.

The Significance of Yosef’s Wait

According to the Maharal, in his Gur Aryeh commentary, this wordiness is behind Rashi’s comment (citing midrash) that holds Yosef to account for placing his faith in the butler. Rashi writes:

Because Yosef relied on him to remember him, he [Yosef] needed to be imprisoned two [more] years… [The midrash continues with a source verse too involved to discuss in this space, about misplaced trust vs. relying on God.)

The Gur Aryeh explains:

For otherwise, what difference does it make to write “and the drinks officer did not remember Yosef and he forgot him”? If it comes to say he didn’t do this kindness for him, that is already written – “and it was at the end of two years”...

Rather, to say that it was brought about by Hashem that he would not mention [Yosef] now – because he hung his faith on the drinks officer.

And… some explain that it is written “and mention me” “and bring me out” (40:14); for these two words, it was decreed upon him to be imprisoned two years.

However, even if we can understand the textual roots at the heart of the midrash, teasing out the message is more complicated.

Effort vs. Faith?

Apparently, the idea is that Yosef’s efforts to procure freedom via the butler displayed a lack of faith in God’s help – a lack so problematic as to deserve punishment. However, as the Beit HaLevi commentary (Rabbi Yosef Dov HaLevi Soloveitchik, 1820-1892, first Rav of Brisk) writes, the Torah permits human effort towards physical needs. For instance, Devarim 11:14 states, “you will gather your grain and your wine,” and the Gemara infers a mandate to “behave regarding them like the way of the world” (Berachot 35). We are not required to sit back and wait for God to provide; we are to live our physical lives in physical ways, not rely on miracles (Shabbat 32a). What, then, was the problem with Yosef’s request? To jump to the end, the Beit HaLevi suggests that different people are capable of different levels of trust in God, and Yosef was so capable that for him, even this little bit of effort was problematic. Yosef chose to rely on human effort more than necessary for him, so God responded by leaving him in the hands of the efforts he chose.

Effort as a Means to Faith

While there is plenty to discuss about this notion of different levels of faith and the idea that a person might not live up to his or her own trust in God, what I find most fascinating in this passage is the middle, where the Beit HaLevi offers a unique perspective on the relationship between faith and effort.

One’s heart should be calm and trust in God… Because not every person can achieve the level of complete trust, effort is permitted for him so he will have support to achieve the level of trust. Every person must engage in work/business so it will become easy for him to trust in God.

Like they said, “A person should always involve himself in Torah and Mitzvot even not for its own sake, for out of not for its sake will come for its sake” – not for its sake is permitted so that it will be a support to come to for its sake.

Humans are physical beings, and if we don’t see where our next meal is coming from, we get nervous. It is hard to truly, calmly rely on an unseen force, no matter how deeply we believe. (Even in the desert, surrounded by miracles, relying on the daily manna-fall – with nothing in storage – was a trial.) So we use our physical selves to put in physical efforts that bring a physical sense of security. Within that serenity, we can learn to trust God. The question is not how much effort we extend vs. how much we rely on God, but how we allow our efforts to create space in which we can grow our reliance on God.

Perfect Heroes? By Sarah Rudolph In one of my favorite passages, Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch (on Bereishit 12:10 – when Avraham behaves surprisingly in Egypt, long before this week’s parsha) addresses the question of fallibility of biblical heroes and argues emphatically that:

The Torah never presents our great men as being perfect... it may never be our task to whitewash the spiritual and moral heroes of our past, to appear as apologists for them. They do not require our apologies, nor do such attempts become them.

Yet, in his comments on Parshat Vayeshev, Rav Hirsch echoes an explanation of the sale of Yosef that certainly sounds like whitewashing.

What does the brothers’ plot against Yosef say about them?

Seforno (Bereishit 37:18) writes:

They thought…that Yosef had come to them not to inquire of their welfare but to find a pretext against them or cause them to sin, so that their father would curse them or God would punish them… in that they were all completely righteous…and the Torah tells us: “one who comes to kill you [kill him first]” (Sanhedrin 72a).

Through an intricate analysis of the grammar of verse 18 (too much to include here), Seforno concludes that the brothers planned to kill Yosef because they believed – mistakenly, but honestly – that he fell into the category of a rodef, a pursuer, to whom the law of self-defense applies. Rav Hirsch follows in Seforno’s footsteps, both in explaining the grammatical nuances and in his conclusion:

When Joseph came up to them, they imagined him to be a person most highly dangerous to all their highest and noblest interests, lahamito, that one would be allowed to kill him, that, in self-protection it seemed to them right to kill him.

Why whitewash the brothers’ terrible treatment of Yosef, if biblical figures “do not require our apologies, nor do such attempts become them”? Why not simply accept that jealousy and hatred led to a terrible sin? Perhaps because this is not whitewashing, but careful analysis.

Making Sense of the Facts

Although Rav Hirsch is fiercely supportive of the fallibility of our biblical heroes, he goes on in his comments to 12:10:

…All this, if we would have to say with Ramban: “Avraham our father sinned a great sin [by going to Egypt and by putting his wife into a terrible situation].” But before we come to this decision, let us consider more closely the facts which are told us of this event.

Rav Hirsch reminds us that before assuming the worst, we must consider the facts. We must look carefully at the narrative, at the larger picture of both the individual and his or her story. In the case of Avraham in Egypt, Rav Hirsch points out that Avraham played the exact same “game” in Gerar (chapter 20), and so did Yitzchak (chapter 26). It cannot be that claiming one’s wife as his sister was the strange course of action it seems to us; if it were, it would not make sense that they did it again – especially after it backfired so royally. There must have been some real logic to it, some clever strategy – within that historical and societal context – such that it made sense to claim they were siblings. And it is our task to read closely and determine what that might have been. (See Rav Hirsch there.)

And so too in our parsha

To quote further from Seforno,

They thought… And with this [we can explain how this happened], in that they were all completely righteous, to the extent that their names were a remembrance before Hashem (Shemot 28:29, and see Seforno there) – how could they have determined together to kill their brother, or to sell him…?!

Seforno doesn’t just wave his arms and yell “They were perfect!” Rather, he says: We have clear evidence that all twelve brothers were chosen by God and deemed righteous, including the fact that their names were inscribed on the priestly breastplate as a constant “remembrance” before God. That status doesn’t seem to fit with a group of thugs who would sell their brother because they’re jealous of him! Therefore, we have to read closely; there must be more to it. As Rav Hirsch writes (37:11-12):

Following the precedent of Sforno…we think it our duty to look, if not for a justification, still for an explanation for the event which now follows. After all we have not to do with a band of robbers and murderers who would lightly commit murder for the sake of a coat.

We don’t need to assume our ancestors or heroes were perfect, or that they weren’t. What we need to do is read, and try to make sense of what we read, and uncover the meaning in it all.

It’s the Little Things By Sarah Rudolph After sending a gift ahead for Esav, in advance of their anticipated reunion, Yaakov returns to the task of moving his family – no simple matter, with four wives, eleve nsons and at least one daughter, and all their animals and belongings. Bereishit 32:23 tells us that Yaakov brought his family across Nachal Yabok, and in the next verse, ויעבר את אשר לו – he brought his possessions across as well. It is not clear why, after that, Yaakov “remained alone” (v. 25), such that he encountered a “man” with whom he wrestled until daybreak. What kept Yaakov back after bringing his family and possessions across the river?

Last, but not least

A peshat-oriented commentator might not be bothered by this question, or might simply say that Yaakov planned to cross after supervising the crossing of his household, except that he got detained. On the other hand, R’ Elazar, in Chullin 91a, offers an oft-taught midrashic answer: “He remained because of pachim ketanim (small pitchers). From here [we learn] that the money (i.e., physical possessions) of the righteous is dear to them, more than their bodies (i.e., lives) – and why so much? Because they don’t stretch out their hands in theft.” Like most midrashic explanations, this one goes a step further than simply filling in a gap in the narrative; typically, the midrash wants us to glean a message, to learn something deeper from those gaps. In this case, R’ Elazar suggests the point to notice is that Yaakov cared even about his minor possessions, the small pitchers (or perhaps “small items” more generally; see R. Eliyahu Mizrachi). While this might seem like a criticism – the righteous Yaakov cares so much about something so mundane?! – R’ Elazar points out that there is indeed a deeper value here: People are human, and need human things – and if we don’t maintain our things, the temptation can be strong to dip into others’ things. The phrasing here is telling: he doesn’t say “so they don’t steal,” but “so they don’t stretch out their hands in theft.” How many ways might a human, who needs human things, find to justify dishonest ways of obtaining them? But the righteous won’t have any of it: they are well aware that they are susceptible to this human risk, and remain diligent about what does belong to them in order to ensure their needs are filled and thereby guard against that temptation – a worthy model for us all.

The roots of midrash

From the other direction, as with any midrashic explanation, we might want to know not just where the midrash is going with the idea (the lesson to learn), but where it came from: How does R’ Elazar know this is why Yaakov remained alone? Where does he get the idea of pachim ketanim? While it is always possible that a particular midrashic explanation comes from tradition, handed down over centuries from teacher to student, typically we can uncover a textual root/motivation for such interpretations. Rashi, in his commentary on the Gemara, finds an indication in the verse: Yaakov had already transferred “את אשר לו,” which Rashi takes to mean the important items; if something kept him back, it must have been the smaller things – those negligible enough to be ignored in a general reference to “that which belonged to him.” As anyone who has ever moved knows, there is always detritus remaining after the books and furniture and large pots and pans have been loaded into the truck and it seems that “the house is packed up.” These items are not quite garbage – in fact, the Maharal (in his Gur Aryeh commentary on Rashi) suggests the pachim were specifically the small items used most frequently, which therefore couldn’t be packed in advance – and typically, the homeowner will remain behind to collect those items.

What kind of messages matter?

Interpretations of this midrash abound, including intricate, lofty explanations that tie together Yaakov’s pachim ketanim with other pachim in our history and uncover allusions to epic themes. But the very mundane portrayal here, of a man moving his family and dealing with the leftover junk at the end, should not be discounted. It is from considering our biblical heroes as people, and their lives and moves as similar to our own, that we can best identify with, relate to, and learn from them. (See Rav Hirsch on Bereishit 12:10.) As the mystically-minded, yet apparently eminently practical, Maharal writes: “Since the Torah doesn’t elaborate on ‘and Yaakov remained alone’…it is upon us to fix it on what makes the most sense” – such as that Yaakov Avinu was collecting the toothbrushes.

A Pair, But Not the Same By Sarah Rudolph After Yaakov meets Rachel, the Torah (re)introduces us to Rachel and Leah as a pair – “And Lavan had two daughters” (Bereishit 29:16). From the very beginning of their story, we are to think of them in parallel – perhaps to look for those things that make this pair of daughters similar and different. Two points of difference between them are laid out in that very introduction, as they are essentially assigned contrasting labels: Leah is the older one, and Rachel is the younger one; Rachel is the pretty one, and Leah is the one with the funny (“soft”) eyes. Their ages play an obvious role in the story to come, and we might suggest Rachel’s beauty is an important detail as it contributes to Yaakov’s love for her (though some argue his feelings went deeper than that, and that her outward beauty was important only insofar as it reflected her inner beauty). But why are Leah’s eyes of significance to the story?

Leah’s Eyes

One famous midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 70:16) provides a possible answer or several, by suggesting her eyes were “soft” from crying. Why is it important to know Leah was a crier? It’s not just that she cried easily, but, says the midrash, she cried over something very specific: because rumors went around that predicted Rachel would marry their cousin Yaakov (“the younger to the younger”) and Leah would marry Esav (“the elder to the elder”) – and as rumors had also conveyed a bit of Esav’s character, Leah was devastated by the prospect of being matched up this way. And so, in the version in the Bereishit Rabbah, she cried – and prayed: “May it be Your will that I not fall into the fate of a wicked man!” On one level, Rav Huna (in the Bereishit Rabbah passage) takes this account as a message about the power of prayer: “that it nullified the decree, and not only that, but she preceded her sister [in marrying the righteous Yaakov first].” On another level, however, we might consider what the midrashic explanation tells us about Leah herself. First and most obviously, it tells us she doesn’t want to be attached to wickedness; presumably, she herself was righteous, or at least aimed to be. More specifically, however, the midrash portrays Leah as someone who prays. She is a person who knows God, a person who experiences depths of emotion, a person whose faith and sense of relationship with God is such that she turns to Him from those depths.

God and Woman

If we take the description of her eyes in this light, perhaps we are no longer contrasting the sisters as “the pretty one and the one with the weird eyes.” Rather, they are “the praying one” and [superficially?] “the pretty one.” Note that Leah immediately recognizes God’s role in the births of each of her children, and names them accordingly (29:31-35), while Rachel seems at the beginning to be almost oblivious to God: “And she said to Yaakov: Give me children, and if not, I will die!” (30:1); it is Yaakov who reminds her of God’s role: “Am I in God’s place, who has withheld from you fruit of the womb?” (30:2). The naming of her children ultimately expresses a recognition of that role, but in much of the narrative, Rachel seems primarily drawn to human-based strategies – such as having legal children via her maidservant, and obtaining dudaim, a plant that according to many commentaries was said to encourage pregnancy.

A Lesser-Known Switch in the Story of Rachel and Leah

A full study of the characters of these two matriarchs, and their respective areas of strength and growth, is well beyond the scope of this forum. I will leave that for the reader’s further study and thought, and God willing, my own future writings. For now, I will close with this: Though Leah is originally presented as the sister who cries and prays for God’s help, while Rachel seems more focused on her own human efforts, they each grow and adapt some of the other’s strengths. For instance, in the end, it is Rachel who is known for crying over their children’s future, and who is reassured that her efforts matter:

A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter crying; Rachel cries over her children. … Thus says Hashem: Remove your voice from crying, and your eyes from tears, for there is reward for your action…and the children will return to their border. (Yirmiyahu 31:14-16)