Joseph and Judah: A Tale Of Two Brothers, One Religion (Vayigash.20)

 Joseph and Judah: A Tale Of Two Brothers, One Religion

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayigash

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 25, 2020

This week’s Torah portion, Vayigash (Genesis 44:18-47:27), contains the tearful climax of the story of Joseph and his brothers. It also presents us with the dual aspects of the Jewish religion, faith and action, and has us consider the role that each plays in our life.

The story line is famous. Joseph, as we remember, was Jacob’s favorite son, first born of his beloved wife Rachel. Jacob’s preferential treatment, however, works (as expected) in a divisive manner, causing jealousy and hatred. Sent by Jacob to inquire about his brothers’ welfare, Joseph heads for Shechem, only to find them gone. Lost in the fields, he encounters a stranger who tells him that his brothers have moved on to Dothan along with their flocks. Joseph proceeds to find them there.

But upon seeing him from a distance, the brothers come up with their own ideas—first to murder him, and then, on rethinking, to sell him as a slave to a caravan of Ishmaelite traders. 

Joseph finds himself in Egypt, where his knack for interpreting dreams lands him in Pharaoh’s palace—and with a job he could only dream of, overlord over the entire Egyptian population, second in power only to Pharaoh himself.

One of those famines of Biblical scale ensues, forcing all those affected to go to Egypt and purchase food at the hands of Joseph. Among them is Joseph’s family. The brothers do not recognize him. Years have passed; the boy he once was has grown up and now appears before them in full royal regalia. Joseph, however, immediately recognizes them. We can only imagine what goes on in his mind at that moment.

Faced with the two options of revenge or reconciliation, Joseph sets his brothers up for all sorts of misadventures. He secretly returns their money, forces them to bring Benjamin—his younger brother, also born of Rachel—to him, then accuses Benjamin of theft and the rest of them of espionage and treason. The calamity forces Judah—who, years earlier, had come up with the idea of selling Joseph into slavery in the first place—to confess. But rather than asking for mercy for himself and his brothers, Judah asks Joseph to show pity for Jacob, who now stands to lose the second of his most beloved children. The realization that Judah’s remorse is sincere leads Joseph to tearfully reveal his true identity to his brothers. Comforting them, he says,  “Do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, because it was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you” (Gen. 45:5, NIV). 

While reminding his brothers of their wrongdoing, Joseph also invokes his deep belief that it was all God’s doing. Every step of the journey was pre-determined, programmed by Providence to save the life of the family—and thus also of the entire Jewish People.

The belief in Providence (hashgacha in Hebrew) is deeply embedded within every religion. God’s power over all life is complete and pre-determined. Yes, we still have choice, but it is limited to two possibilities: we can give ourselves freely to God’s will, or rebel against it. Joseph comforts his brothers, yet his message contains a troubling thought: that our choices do not matter. God has set everything up, and willy-nilly we end up doing exactly what God had meant us to do all along.

Judah, however, has a different viewpoint. Over the course of his life, from that first moment when he chose to sell Joseph to the Ishmaelites through the shameful incident with his daughter-in-law Tamar, Judah has finally reached a different kind of wisdom. Remorse has led him to understand that our actions carry consequences. At this point of the story, he isn’t so much concerned with pre-determination. It’s Jacob’s grief, caused by his—Judah’s—wrongdoings, that he cannot bear any longer. 

As this Torah portion begins, Judah steps forward (the meaning of the Hebrew word vayigash). He realizes that the only way out of the predicament is to make public confession and offer reparation. Judah’s series of actions—stepping up, owning his mistakes and trying to make amends—is essential to Jewish belief, perhaps even more so than Joseph’s belief in an all-controlling and manipulating God.

To be sure, Joseph’s belief does offer hope to humanity. All that suffering, all that sadness and pain that fill our life, all have a place in God’s inscrutable plan. 

But Judaism—the belief of Judah—goes beyond this simplistic view. It places much of the responsibility on our shoulders. Yes, there is suffering and great misery, and only God knows why; however, relief and consolation are in our power. We can bring solace and comfort. We can alleviate some of that pain. Hope and Redemption are not only in God’s hands; they are equally within our own, human, abilities.

These two philosophies are at the wellspring of every religion. Some faiths focus more on one or the other. Judaism, however, combines them into one. Judaism’s understanding of causality leads us to the awareness of God’s power not only to create but also to set up a multitude of possibilities, each with its own set of consequences. But simultaneously, Judaism places the responsibility for our choices squarely upon our shoulders. While Joseph’s beliefs lead to a more messianic approach to life—that all is in God’s hands—Judah’s insight is more practical and hands-on. His perspective gives us human beings a far greater role in what happens to us.

In some ways, the story of Joseph and Judah is the story of religion itself. Throughout human history, the two ways of believing have given rise to conflicts, war and terror. The invaluable lesson that Vayigash would have us learn, however, is that the two are not mutually exclusive. Faith does not stand alone; it should lead us to acts of love, reconciliation and responsibility. And while righteous behavior does not necessarily have to come from faith, invariably it leads to it.

There are factual and historical reasons behind the name that we Jews give our religion. But there is also another reason. Joseph may have saved the Jewish People, but it was Judah who instilled within us the seeds of our religion, a combination of faith and action that has proven its success and truth throughout our history. 

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Seventh Candle: Hanukkah.20

 

Hanukkah: The Seventh Candle 

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 16, 2020

A few moments ago I lit the seventh candle of Hanukkah on the chanukiah (the Hanukkah candelabra) perched on my study’s windowsill. This year’s celebration of the holiday is nearly over (one more candle to be lit), but its spirit still survives, as it has for nearly 2200 years now.

Hanukkah was born in darkness, out of war, oppression and prejudice. What had started as a rebellion against a cruel tyrant  turned into a war of survival—not the first nor the last for the Jewish People. The victory of Judah the Maccabee became the stuff legends are made of. As we know and retell it, Judah entered Jerusalem and quickly made his way to the Holy Temple, which he found desolate and desecrated. Judah cleansed the Temple, rebuilt the sacrificial altar, and rededicated it (chanukah is the Hebrew word for dedication). But when he came to light the menorah—the seven-branch, gold candelabra that stood at the entrance to the Temple—they couldn’t find any  pure olive oil for its lights. After searching all over, the Maccabees finally discovered one sealed cruse of oil that still had the stamp of the High Priest on it. In it was enough oil for one night; yet by a miracle, this small amount lasted eight nights instead.

At least, so goes the legend.

The real story behind the rededication of the Temple is more complicated.  At least two versions of events exist—the first in the apocryphal Books of the Maccabees, the other in Antiquities of the Jews, history as told by Josephus Flavius, a Judean expatriate who lived in Rome in the first century CE. 

But the famous miracle of the oil makes its first appearance even later than that, in a tractate of the Talmud.

Since then, the meaning of the holiday and its wonders has continued to evolve. The appellation “Hellenizer” (at first applied to those Judeans who, for one reason or another, sided with the Greeks) was a pejorative tag used to describe one group after another, while “the Faithful” (a self-applied designation, obviously) always stood for those who stood bravely and heroically, against assimilation or defeatism. Even today this division exists among groups of the Jewish People, a cause of friction and endless antagonism between factions and sects.

One lesson of Hanukkah, however, comes to us from across the ages pure and untarnished, emerging as the most important wonder of all: the will of the Jews to survive not only as a religion, but also as a people with a valuable message to proclaim.

This meaning of Hanukkah is highlighted by Josephus, who refers to the holiday it by its other name—the Festival of Lights (possibly referring to an even more ancient, pagan, festivity related to the winter solstice). In his Antiquities, Josephus writes: “And from that time to this we celebrate this [holiday], because, I imagine, beyond our hopes this right was brought to light, and so this name was placed on the festival.” 

The “right” Josephus speaks of is basic. It’s a human right, the right to worship freely. Enshrined today in the United States Constitution, two thousand years ago this right was already put in writing, by a Jewish historian addressing a Roman emperor.  

And this is what Hanukkah has come to mean ever since.  

The war of the Maccabees against the ancient Greeks wasn’t the first existential war the Jews have fought. Alas, there have been many, down to our own day. But whereas other wars may be about territory, or money, or even women, what the Maccabean revolt stood for was religious freedom. Hanukkah stands for the right of Jews—indeed, of every human being—to worship in their own way, according to their own beliefs, as long as this does not infringe on anybody else’s right. 

A miracle is a story that tries to expand on history—to capture not only events themselves but also their meaning in a larger narrative. When we explain the Eight Days of Hanukkah, we don’t delve into history. We refer to the miracle. We let the candles tell the story. Each one reminds us of the victory of the Maccabee, yet also stands for something greater: a value we uphold, a life we recall, an act of courage and heroism that we admire.  

In many homes it has become traditional for every member of a Jewish family to have and light their own menorah. With each additional night, we add a candle. And the collected light, reflected from countless windows and porches, grows exponentially larger than any one of us. And that’s the miracle. That for thousands of years, the Jewish People have upheld basic human rights: to food and water, shelter, health and safety; and the even greater freedoms of knowledge, understanding and belief.

Hanukkah is the miracle of a small people holding up, fighting for, dying for, the flame of freedom. Hanukkah tells the story of Jewish resistance to oppression, ignorance, and hatred. Somehow, despite all currents and winds, despite all, even when some of the other lights disappear, this is the spark that remains, a reminder of the Menorah that was lit by the Maccabees so long ago. 

It’s a light that many have tried to extinguish, yet still glows brightly. 

And that is a miracle worth retelling.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Tales of Struggle And Survival: Va-Yishlach 2020

 Tales of Struggle And Survival: Va-Yishlach

December 3, 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

History sometimes is depicted in large brush strokes, as a series of monumental events populated by larger-than-life heroes. Reality, however, is different. It’s made of deeds carried out by ordinary people, often through incidents that, in themselves, do not amount to much.

The decision of 29 November 1947, taken at the United Nations and known as the UN General Assembly Resolution 181 is one of the former kind. By a vote of 33 to 13 and with 10 abstentions, the UN decided to partition the land that up until then was widely known as Palestine into two states—one Jewish, one Arab.  

This historical vote was preceded by an almost endless chain of political maneuvering. Partially it was motivated by the awakening that the world came to after the Holocaust. However to a much greater extent it represents a wave that began many years earlier: the rise of Zionism and the return of the Jews to their ancient homeland, Israel.

But for a much smaller group, now consisting only of a few hundred people, November 29 holds a more personal significance. 

In 1942, a group of Jewish youth from Zaglembia—a region in Poland—began meeting regularly, mostly for social reasons, but also because they were forbidden to meet anywhere else. Prohibited from attending schools and other social events, these young men and women—most of them still in their teens—gathered to discuss politics, culture, religion, and the Zionist ideal of moving to Israel.

But that was before the Nazis began deporting the Jews of Poland to death camps. 

Once the deportations began—and it was clear where they were going: Auschwitz was less than 25 miles away—the purpose of these meetings changed. Thus was born the group whose members called it Nasza Grupa (“Our Group”). For a while, they debated whether they should focus on escape or resistance. Inspired by a visit by Mordechai Anielewicz, who later led the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, their final decision was unanimous: They would fight. 

Members of the group were assigned to small units—3 or 4 at a time—to steal weapons, forge documents, discover escape routes, and bribe officials and border smugglers. “One for all” became their motto, as they helped not only themselves, but also each other. An orphaned child (and there were so many!) became everyone’s child; a bereaved parent became everyone’s father or mother. 

One such unit was assigned to carry out a particularly dangerous mission. A Jewish man was discovered to be a Nazi collaborator. Accused of turning in Jews to the Nazis, he was judged in absentia and condemned to death. A squad of three—two men and a woman—was sent to carry out the sentence. Unfortunately, they were caught. Tortured until they confessed, the three were sentenced to be hanged, with the date of execution set for November 29.

On November 29, however, just two hours before the execution, the Russians arrived and liberated the prison. All three survived. 

Coincidentally, November 29 was also the birthday of one of them.

About 50 of the original members of the Nasza Grupa survived the Holocaust. My mother is one of them. And November 29 became their annual day of remembrance. For decades, the survivors—and later, their children, grandchildren and now even great-grandchildren—have been meeting on that date every year, to remember, to celebrate, to pass on the tales of heroism, of struggle and survival.

The victory of the Nasza Grupa isn’t told in any movie. A few of the survivors wrote their memoirs; some gave testimony or donated artifacts to Yad Vashem (the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem), the US Holocaust Museum, and the Spielberg Foundation, among others. Their stories are far from complete, however. There are still many missing pieces to the puzzle. 

What we do know, however, can tell us much about the courage and the sheer determination to live that characterized this group. Though many were killed by the Germans and their accomplices, the survivors found their way to Israel and began new lives there. Some served in the Israel Defense Forces, reaching high ranks and earning the highest awards for bravery. 

One became a Supreme Court judge. Yet another joined the Mossad (Israel’s fabled security and intelligence agency) and headed the secret operation to bring the Jews of Morocco to Israel. Still another was instrumental in the hunt and capture of the mastermind of the Holocaust, Adolf Eichmann (of cursed memory), and bringing him to justice in Israel.

One of the three who were liberated on that fateful 29th of November, Esther Herzberg, the one whose birthday it was, was awarded the President’s Medal for her volunteer work in impoverished neighborhoods and for establishing the first after-school club for children in Israel. 

Was it luck that sustained the Nasza Grupa? What accounts for their success, both during the terrible years of the Holocaust, and later, as they began new lives? Was it their friendship? Their vow to be there for one another? 

Maybe it was the very struggle that made them so strong. 

Viewed through this lens, that’s how I understand the message of this week’s Torah portion, Va-Yishlach (Genesis 32:4—36:43). This portion tells of the Jewish Patriarch Jacob’s terrible ordeals as he returns to his homeland after being away for nearly 20 years—his wrestling with an angel, the reunion with his vengeful brother Esau, the rape of his daughter, Dina, and the loss of his beloved wife Rachel. Each battle, no matter how difficult, how dangerous, how tragic, strengthened Jacob and made him even more determined to survive. 

The name given to Jacob at the end of this portion, “Israel,” denotes struggle and victory. It has become a paradigm for Jewish history. We aren’t born heroes: our struggles, however, make us that. As long as we don’t give up, each step forward, no matter how small, is another victory. It’s only when we look back that we realize that with every decision and every deed, we shape the stories that, one day, our children and grandchildren will read about in their history books. 

For me, November 29 isn’t just another day on the calendar, and never will be. For me this date symbolizes all Jewish history, our struggles, our hopes, and ultimately our survival. 

As our weekly portion, Va-Yishlach, tells us, “for we have striven with God and with men, and we have prevailed.”

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman