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Tzimtzum and Pulling Ourselves Out of Exile By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin

Tzimtzum - "Reduction"

In his introduction to the Book of Exodus, the Ramban calls this section of the Torah the book of Galus and Geulah, of Exile and Redemption. But what do these terms mean? “Exile” from what? Rabbi Yaakov Lainer (d. 1878) offered a completely novel idea about what it really means to be in “exile” on an existential level, something that all of us experience at different stages in life. You may be familiar with a kabbalistic concept called “tzimtzum,” which literally means “reduction.” It describes an action that G-d employed when creating our universe. Because nothing truly exists outside of G-d, it became necessary for G-d to “reduce” Himself at the time of Creation in order to make room for our universe and its contents to exist independently of this all-encompassing G-d. According to the kabbalists, just as we are meant to emulate G-d in a variety of ways, we’re also meant to emulate G-d’s trait of “tzimtzum.” That is, I should strive to “reduce” myself, especially in the presence of others, to make room for them and allow others to have a presence, even though my tendency, as a being created in G-d’s image, is to be all-encompassing. Tzimtzum happens when man encounters the Divine. Not only does man seek to emulate Divine reduction; the closer he encounters Divinity, the more he realizes that “אין עוד מלבדו”, that one has no true independent existence outside of G-d. In his effort to attach himself to the Divine, man also seeks to diminish himself. Tzimtzum is thus a natural reaction to a Divine encounter. When a person feels distant from G-d, namely, one feels in “exile,” this instinct for tzimtzum begins to disappear.

Yosef's Death & Exile

When looking at the opening to the whole story of our ancestors’ slavery, the Torah lets us know that (1:6) “וַיָּ֤מָת יוֹסֵף֙ וְכָל־אֶחָ֔יו וְכֹ֖ל הַדּ֥וֹר הַהֽוּא:” – Yoseph, his brothers, and their entire generation passed away. Only after Yoseph died did true exile begin, because even in Egypt, Yoseph was able to represent the idea of tzimtzum. Not only did he provide his people with the clarity of vision to discern G-d in their everyday lives. The entire story of Yoseph being the great conservationist, in that he collected and saved food during the years of plenty in order to have what to eat during the years of famine, represents that very wise trait of tzimtzum. One type of “reduction” is to freely choose to deny oneself available pleasures and indulgences, in order that one can save up for a rainy day. One limits one’s consumption of goods, and in so doing, makes room for there being a future when those goods will come in handy. Exile begins when one no longer sees any point in doing anything for tomorrow, and instead focusing only on the joys and needs of today. These two features of tzimtzum – reducing oneself and planning for the future – are negated in existential “exile.” When one feels distant from Hashem, one no longer feels the need to reduce oneself in order to make room for G-d to enter in. One also lacks the clarity of vision to anticipate and plan for the future. The two features of “exile,” then, are rapid expansion (instead of reduction) and living only for today (instead of having a long-term plan). Immediately after reading about Yoseph’s death, we read about how Bnei Israel’s population exploded exponentially. We also read how Pharaoh was able to trick the Jews into becoming his slaves, realizing that upon Yoseph’s death, the Jews lost their clarity of vision and their power of conservation, and could not see what was happening to them.

Population Explosion

While at face value, expanding the Jewish population with lots of babies is a great thing. But on a deeper level, it represents a horizontal growth of a nation which has lost its vertical connection to the Divine. This is why we can note a fascinating contrast in population growths. For the 210 years that the Jews were in Egypt, they grew from 70 families to 600,000 families. In the following 40 years, when the Jews were traveling in the desert, the population remained essentially unchanged. Why? Because in Exile, one compensates for the lack of Divine connection with terrestrial expansion. Once the Jews left Egypt and lived the next 40 years in Hashem’s presence with daily miracles, they no longer felt the need to expand, but instead reduced their growth aspirations in order to bask in Divine light. When we go into exile, it’s easy to forget who we are and why we are here. This is one reason why this book is called Shemos – “Names.” One only needs a name when they need to identify who they are. If I’m in danger of losing my identity and forgetting who I am, my name acts as my “name tag” to remind me that I’m me. This is one of the features of Exile, to require a name so that I don’t completely lose myself. In fact, we have a tradition then once we die, we’ll be asked to identify ourselves by name, which is why we recite verses after our daily prayer that remind us of our name. Heaven wants to make sure that we didn’t forget ourselves during this life. Finally, when considering that Bnei Israel experienced this growth in Egyptian exile, we note that Egypt was a place where Pharaoh and his subjects believed that they could expand as much as they wanted. As masters of their own destiny, their ambitions were completely unrestrained. This attitude rubbed off on the Jewish people. Hashem instructed Moshe, through a series of warning and plagues to Pharaoh, to re-educate Pharaoh and all of Egypt about the need for “tzimtzum” in everyone’s life. One can read the entire Exodus story in this light.

Personal Exiles, Personal Redemptions

My takeaway from this very esoteric discussion is that we all go through periods of Exile and Redemption in life. We have our hungry years, when we are ambitious to grow and make a name for ourselves. This hunger is borne from a deep-seated desire to connect with something much larger than ourselves, and when we fail to clearly see that Divine source, we compensate for it by trying to fill the void with as much expansion of ourselves as possible. This void can be addressed quite directly through overeating, which leads to a literal expansion of one’s body. But there are other ways to fill that void, sometimes in even more harmful ways. The pursuit of fame, of fortune, or even the pursuit of alcohol, cannabis, and other mind-altering drugs to deaden the pain of that void are all symptoms of exile. When we go through these iterations of exile, it’s easy to forget who we really are. But then, we have periods in life, usually as we get older and start to gain more clarity of vision, when we realize that there is greater glory to our lives when we reduce ourselves so that we can receive the Divine light. We don’t eliminate our ambitions entirely, but we’re able to put them into the perspective they deserve of being a secondary priority to the real objective, which is to walk humbly before G-d. The goal, of course, is to work towards redeeming ourselves from exile. At times we undergo experiences in life that help to shake us out of our exilic state. The experience can be of a very personal nature, such as an illness or a breakdown of a relationship. Other times, the experience can occur on a societal level, impacting an entire population. During the pandemic, we were forced to undergo some level of “tzimtzum” despite being in Exile. Our material freedoms and luxuries were curtailed, and we were forced to take stock of social systems and structures that we had taken for granted for decades. We were shaken awake from our stupor and confusion so that we could regain clarity about our very purpose. Rav Lainer concludes his thought with a consoling prospect: The prophet Zechariah calls the Exile a “planting” of the Jewish people among the nations (Zech. 10:9). When you plant a seed, you expect it to rot and decompose before germinating and growing into something much larger and grander than the original seed. Being placed in exile is a necessary preparatory stage that will bring us to Redemption. Although we may expand and lose our connection with G-d, it is ultimately to allow us to reconnect and reduce ourselves before Him in the future. Let’s repair the acrimony borne amidst the stresses of daily living. Let’s all become reconnected with the Divine and experience Redemption. May we all see it writ large, bb”a.

Blessings, Curses, and More By Sarah Rudolph In this week’s parsha, after 17 years in Egypt, Yaakov knows his death is approaching and he summons his sons: “Gather, and I will tell you what will happen to you in the end of days” (Bereishit 49:1). Typically, we refer to the ensuing verses as “Yaakov’s blessings” – often studied in comparison to the blessings Moshe offered before his death, as both Yaakov and Moshe address each of the sons/tribes individually. However, it is not so clear to even a casual reader that what Yaakov said to his sons constituted “blessings.” When it comes to Moshe, the Torah is very specific in introducing his speech: “This is the blessing which Moshe, man of God, blessed the children of Israel before he died” (Devarim 33:1) – but Yaakov’s statements to his sons are not introduced with such a definitive label, for good reason.

With Blessings Like These…

True, Yaakov starts on a positive note: “Reuven, my firstborn, my strength…!” But in the very next verse, Reuven is called unstable and reminded of his disgraceful behavior with regard to his father’s intimate life. Shimon and Levi are described as a violent pair with whom their father does not even wish to associate; he goes so far as to curse their anger and predict they will be scattered. Most of the sons do receive words of praise and blessings for the future; one notable example is Yehuda, who is told at length that his brothers will recognize him, his enemies will bow to him, the scepter will belong to him, etc. Yosef’s blessing actually contains the word “blessing,” more than once, and seems fairly effusively positive (whatever exactly it means) – but we already knew he was a favorite. Others seem a bit more mundane and/or brief, even negative, or too poetically obscure to characterize with ease (see: abundant exegetical comments on each, spanning the past thousands of years). On the other hand, while Yaakov’s words are not introduced as blessings, they do seem to be summarized as such. Immediately after he addresses Binyamin, the Torah states:

All these were the tribes of Israel, twelve, and this is what their father spoke to them, and he blessed them; each according to his blessing, he blessed them. (Bereishit 49:28)

Three uses of the word “bless” in one sentence – seems pretty clear. But how are we to understand this characterization? Perhaps simply by reading, and punctuating (outlining?), more carefully.

Where are the blessings?

Ibn Ezra comments on the initial verse:

“What will happen to you” – The prophet spoke of the future. And those who say these are blessings, because [of the verse at the end], err – for where are the blessings of Reuven and Shimon and Levi? [Rather,] “and this is what their father spoke to them” refers to what he said by way of prophecy, and afterwards he blessed them, and Scripture does not mention [what he said in] the blessings.

We may have assumed that verse 28 is a summary, but Ibn Ezra tells us there’s more to it: it is both a summary and new information. It notes that Yaakov said the above to his sons, to share the futures in store for them, and adds that he blessed them, individually, as well.

And you get a blessing! And you get a blessing!

Beyond the importance of taking care with syntax – as attentive readers, and also as writers aiming for clarity – I think there is more to glean from highlighting the distinction between Yaakov’s predictions and his blessings. For instance, consider the fact that both are presented: the truths, even the hard ones, of character and destiny – and also the giving of blessings, suited to each individual but not limited by character or destiny. Everyone does get a blessing, regardless of what else they need to hear. And perhaps there is also significance in the fact that the Torah spells out the predictions but not the blessings. After all, these twelve are both the Tribes of Israel and Yaakov’s own sons. Blessing one’s child can be a very personal, loving moment, and while there are things about these twelve individuals – even some personal things – that we all need to hear, perhaps there were things Yaakov wanted to say to his children that are none of our business. All we need to know is that he blessed them, each of them. And so should we, with our children, “each according to his blessing,” as we know and love them.

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.