Dec 16/06 — Parashat Vayeshev

Commentary by Rabbi Lawrence Pinsker

As we move closer to the end of the Book of Genesis, it’s possible to see nearly all of the familiar stories, from the Garden of Eden narrative to the life and death of Joseph as a unified work addressing two major, linked themes. Rather than being merely a collection of fables about our ancestors, Genesis is a formulation of a universal human problem to which the covenant at Mt. Sinai is the answer. We see in the Book of Genesis a set of stories showing how even the closest human relationships, between members of the same family—between brothers!—can become bloody, violent conflicts, and how there must be some instrument for teaching us to control our violent inclinations and to advance the cause of living peacefully with each other.

Then, having stated the problem, the Genesis narratives also present us with a progression in the methods selected to resolve differences: Cain and Abel differ, and Cain solves the problem of his jealousy toward Abel by murdering his brother. Ishmael and his younger brother Isaac have their differences. What is the solution? God demands that Ishmael be expelled; the brothers will never meet again until their father Abraham’s funeral.

Then we have the story of Isaac’s twins, Esau and Jacob. Their relationship overflows with reasons for violence, and so they, too, are separated. However, unlike what happens in the story of Ishmael and Isaac, Jacob and Esau acquire sufficient maturity and control over their respective fears and anger to face each other once they are middle-aged. They are proud of each other’s successes. Nevertheless, they do not trust that their reconciliation is complete, and so cannot settle down in harmony. The best that they can muster is to meet within a framework of courtesy sweetened by a bit of fraternal affection.

It would seem consistent within the narrative that the children of Jacob, who are the next generation, would demonstrate further progress in their ability to resolve differences. Yet the opposite is true: Joseph and his brothers seem to relive the story of Cain and Abel. As the story is told, all that saves Joseph from being murdered outright is that Reuven and Judah are able to persuade their brothers that abandoning Joseph to an unknown fate with nomadic merchants is a preferable method for getting rid of him.

Anyone reading the Genesis narrative can readily appreciate the multiple layers and successive waves of irony in the story: When Jacob is about to meet his brother Esau after decades of separation, he prays to God: “Hatzileni na mi’yad achi”—“Save me from the hand of my brother.” (Genesis 32:12) Joseph, too, the beloved and pampered son of Jacob, might very well have uttered the same prayer.

But here we see that the story offers us a subtler picture of why brothers turn to hatred. If we read how Joseph’s situation developed, the p'shat—the simple reading of the text—tells us that he is in trouble for three reasons, all of which are separately capable of producing resentment:

• First, Jacob loves Joseph more than the others.
• Second, Jacob shows this preference with a special gift to Joseph; none of the other brothers receive a k’tonet-pasim
—a “coat of many-colors.”
• Third, Joseph teases his brothers with dreams of lordship over them.

In our own time, of course, we tend to question whether these behavioural errors inevitably lead to family dysfunction and fratricide, or whether they are inherent in some families. While the brothers have cause to feel antagonistic to Joseph, they also make no effort to examine whether Joseph’s dreams have any more meaning for them.

To his credit, Joseph turns out to be insightful about his family’s destiny. But when he attempts to share his insight with his siblings, their only response is resentment of his talent, his intelligence, and—ultimately—of him! The best that they can do is take Joseph’s reports of his dreams as an insult to themselves. They make no effort to seek a deeper meaning, as Joseph will when he hears the dreams of the royal cupbearer, the royal baker, and, eventually, Pharaoh himself. Unlike Joseph, who is truly gifted, the brothers negate whatever impulse they may have to explain or rationalize Joseph’s dreams. It would seem that they prefer to hate him and long for the opportunity to kill him.

The Torah describes the way that the brothers lay in wait for Joseph: “Va’yir’u oto me’rahok v’terem yikrav alehem va’yit’nak’lu oto l’hamito”—“They saw him from afar, and before he could come near them, they plotted to kill him.” (Gen. 37:18) The Or haChayyim commentary adds:

When the Torah says, “They saw him from afar—me’rahok,” it means “me’rihuk ha’l’vavot”—“they set him far from their hearts.” “Shelo ra’u’hu ki’r’iyat ahim l’ahehem ela k’ish m’ruhak me’hem”—“They did not look at him as brothers should look at a brother, but rather looked at him as a man who was as distant from them as a stranger.”

Once the brothers have in their hearts severed Joseph from any relationship to them, they can easily dismiss him from their lives, murder him, or sell him into slavery. Obviously the most satisfactory and complete way to rid themselves of him would be to kill him. The fact that they are brothers who have grown up together is an inconvenient fact that is easily dismissed. If the animosity they feel is severe enough, they can remove all traces of affection for Joseph, moving their hearts from brotherly love to suspicion to hatred and, finally, the ultimate act of dismissal, to elimination of a brother who is now a perfectly abhorrent stranger.

That the story does not end at this point is, of course, a blessing to all of the brothers. Through this Torah portion and the two that follow—representing decades of the separation between Joseph and his brothers—we are witness to an extraordinary triumph of human spirit. Rather than being crushed by his close encounter with death, the loss of family, and subsequent slavery, Joseph works towards a higher destiny, one that affirms the imperishable nature of the bond between God and the line of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs and also lays down the Jewish instrument for healing the wounds that siblings inflict on each other. The entire Joseph narrative is the reply to the problem posed by Cain (Genesis 4:9) when he asks, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Of course we are each other’s guardians! Of course we are responsible to each other. Joseph even lays down the three-part Jewish way of coping with wrongful behaviour, called teshuvah: —first, acknowledge one’s errors in relation to others, second, change one’s behaviour, and third, ask for forgiveness from the one you have wronged.

In the end, Joseph’s brothers will realize that they have wronged him—that in truth and in fact they need him, and two Torah portions from now, when his brothers finally acknowledge their need for him, Joseph will be able to say with extraordinary compassion, humility, and optimism “ki l’michya sh’lachani Elohim lif’nehem”—“God has given me the opportunity to help you live and thrive.” (Gen. 45:5) That is a first step toward fulfilling God’s will, the “mandate of Heaven”—God seeks a world in which human beings dwell in mutual respect and stand up for each other—a world in which a covenant with God codifies our obligation to care for each other and guarantees both justice and compassion for all.

In a world marked by seemingly-universal calls for people to treat each other as part of one great big family, to strive for “brotherhood,” “sisterhood,” and “genuine community,” the Torah reminds us that families and communities are not defined only by idyllic moments of harmony. Every family is awash in moments that can end in dysfunction—one of my teachers of pastoral counseling went so far as to say that all families are dysfunctional by nature. What also matters is whether we have ways to resolve the tensions and stresses that arise out of normal interactions between even the closest of people.

Shabbat Shalom.