Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’ co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishing

Context

After the descent of Yaakov’s family to Egypt, Yosef prepares a delegation of his brothers for an interview with the Egyptian king.

He counsels them to specify that they are shepherds so that Pharaoh will settle them separately in the region of Goshen, “since all shepherds are abhorrent to the Egyptians.”

Questions

Why does Yosef specifically counsel his brothers to identify themselves with a profession that the Egyptians find repulsive?

Approaches

 

A

Some commentaries believe that Yosef is simply trying to ensure that his brothers will be able to continue practicing a beneficial profession.

The Abravanel, for example, maintains that Yosef could well have appointed his brothers to positions of authority and power. He desires, however, that they eschew such leadership in favor of a simple, humble, “sacred” livelihood.

According to Rabbeinu Bachya, shepherding was an intrinsically advantageous profession with clear physical and spiritual benefits. Producing a number of profitable materials (meat, milk and wool) for relatively little physical effort, shepherding also provided the opportunity for periodic isolation from civilization and its influence. Through seclusion the shepherd found time for self-examination and spiritual growth. Not coincidentally, continues Rabbeinu Bachya, many great figures of Jewish history, including Moshe, Shmuel, Shaul and David, were shepherds at some point in their lives.

B

Numerous other commentaries, however, see Yosef’s efforts in a totally different light.

Yosef, they claim, deliberately instructs his brothers to identify with a profession that will distance them from Egyptian society. Forced to live separately, the members of Yosef’s family and their progeny will have a greater chance of maintaining their own identity.

In the words of the Netziv: “Yosef’s intent was to ensure that his family would dwell apart from the Egyptians. Although [Yosef’s plan] would cause his father and brothers to be degraded in Pharaoh’s eyes, nonetheless, all was worth sacrificing to guarantee the preservation of Israel’s sanctity.”

Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch adds: “The disgust of the Egyptians for their [the brothers’] profession…was the first means of preservation of that race which was destined for an isolated path through the ages…. That is why Joseph acted with the express purpose of obtaining a separate province within which his family would settle.”

Yosef, the cosmopolitan Hebrew, the paradigm of success in an alien culture, becomes the architect of our people’s first ghetto.

C

Why is Yosef, viceroy of all of Egypt, accomplished beyond measure in a foreign world, so determined that the members of his family not follow his winning path?

What motivates him to personally construct a plan for their isolation?

Perhaps he is driven by the recognition of the price that he has had to pay for his own success. The years in Egypt have taken their toll. By the time he meets his brothers after their long separation, the Torah states: “Yosef recognized his brothers but they did not recognize him.” Yosef is no longer recognizable as a Hebrew, even to his family. Moved by this knowledge, and apprehending the devastation that would be caused if generation after generation of Hebrews paid this same price, Yosef acts to preserve his family’s identity.

Or, perhaps, Yosef is motivated by the pain of his personal isolation in the face of his rise to power (see Vayechi 2, Approaches b) and tries to spare his family from similar disappointment and loneliness.

Or, finally, perhaps this cosmopolitan Hebrew simply understands that what he has accomplished as an individual cannot be duplicated by his family as a whole. Talents are not uniform. Yosef’s enormous success could only be paralleled by a select few. Fewer still would be able to maintain the spiritual balance that had sustained him throughout his turbulent personal odyssey.

One way or the other, as Yosef orchestrates the descent of his family to Egypt, he clearly does everything he can to ensure their separation from the Egyptians. As will be the case throughout Jewish history, the delicate balance struck during Avraham’s lifetime (see Chayei Sara 1) is front and center, decades later, in the thoughts and planning of his great-grandson. Yosef realizes that for the members of his family to retain their status as “strangers and citizens” over generations and in the face of an overwhelming Egyptian culture, they will have to live in our people’s first ghetto.

D

Yosef’s careful plans are ultimately put to the test.

While the sojourn in Egypt should have been viewed by Yaakov’s family as temporary, the Torah testifies that: “Israel settled in the land of Egypt, in the region of Goshen, and they secured a permanent foothold and they were fruitful and multiplied greatly.”

And, although the Jews were meant to remain in Goshen, the text continues: “And the children of Israel were fruitful, multiplied, increased, and became strong…and the land became filled with them.”

Building upon an earlier Midrashic tradition, the Netziv comments: “They filled not only the land of Goshen which had been especially assigned to them, but the whole land of Egypt…. Wherever they could purchase a dwelling, there the Israelites went…. They wished to be like the Egyptians.”

Given the opportunity, in spite of Yosef’s careful planning, the Israelites begin to assimilate into Egyptian culture and society. A tragic pattern, however, emerges – a pattern that is destined to be repeated over and over again across our long national journey. The harder the Israelites try to fit in, the more assiduously they try to be like those around them, the more they incur the enmity of their neighbors and set the stage for their own persecution. They are soon enslaved and pushed back into Goshen.

Yosef’s implicit urgings are ignored by later generations. His efforts, however, may well have saved his people from oblivion. First by choice, than by force, the Israelites remain a population separate within Egypt. Within the “ghetto” of Goshen they remain identifiable and, therefore, redeemable when the moment of the Exodus arrives.

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s ‘The Megillah: Majesty & Mystery’, co-published by OU Press and Ktav

The Progressive Candles: A Commentary on Jewish Life

Perhaps the most significant aspect of the most important feature of Hanukkah — the Hanukkah candles — is the increase in the number of candles from day to day. The lighting of the candles is progressive; that is, we proceed from least to most. The first night we light one candle, the second night two candles, the third night three candles, and so until the eighth night, when the candelabrum is ablaze with all eight candles. What we have is growth and increase and progress. It was the House of Hillel which gave this order its legal form when it said that mosif ve-holekh, the number of candles is to be increased each night, because ma’alin be-kodesh, because one must rise, increase, or progress in holiness.

In a sense, this idea of increase, of addition, of the progressive candles, is a very deep and incisive commentary on Jewish life and what it should be. The Hanukkah candles represent more than merely the military victory of the Jewish Maccabeans over the Greek Antiochus. They symbolize as well the clash of cultures, the war of world-views. There was the Greek world, steeped in its oriental idolatry, pitted against a Jewish minority stubbornly proud of its pure belief in one God.

One should not dismiss the Greek world lightly. The world’s greatest philosophers were nursed in the cradle of Greek culture. But the great difference between Hellenism, as the Greek culture is known, and Judaism, lies in this: The Greek world glorified contemplation, the Jewish world glorified behavior, mitzvot. The Greeks stressed creed, while we insisted upon deed. The Greeks were inclined to inactivity — the perfection of form, while the Jew insisted upon activity. The Greeks had many philosophers but few saints; many thinkers but few doers. With the Jews this was reversed. Our world was not one of cold thought, but one of warm action. And this Jewish attitude is best represented by the progressive candles — increase, growth, action, progress. I have no doubt that if the Greeks had won the war, and decided to celebrate it by the lighting of candles, they would have constructed one gigantic, beautiful candle in front of the statue of Zeus, or a thousand smaller ones all around him — but it would have remained that way. With us Jews, however, Hanukkah is celebrated by progressive candles. Ma’alin be-kodesh.

In human terms, we could call the Greeks sitters or standers; that is, in their cold inactivity they confined themselves, insofar as ethics and good deeds are concerned, to one place and there stagnated. They were sitters or standers who rarely chose to help a fellow man. And if the Greeks were sitters and standers, we Jews were walkers and goers. And when one of us decided to “sit it out,” and not participate actively in the good life, then our Rabbis were merciless in their criticism.

The Torah tells us, “Va-yeshev Ya’akov ba-aretz megurei aviv,” which is usually translated as, “and Jacob dwelt in the land of his father’s residence,” but which literally means, “and Jacob sat in the land of his father’s residence” (Genesis 37:1). Even Jacob — who was all his life a great and dynamic “doer” and “goer” — was at times a “sitter.” And listen to the Rabbis’ biting remark: “Wherever man sits, Satan jumps; wherever man becomes inactive, Satan raises his ugly head and becomes active” (Bereishit Rabbah, Va-Yeshev 84). Here was Jacob, an old man who was tired and weary of a life of wandering and running away. He felt that his energies were spent in wrestling with angels, in warding off Laban, and in protecting himself from Esau. He now had twelve children and he was ready to retire. “Enough done in one lifetime,” he thought. “Now is the time to get a little nahat, the time to sit back and relax.”

And so Jacob sat back and relaxed where his father had once lived. And what happens? Satan becomes active. Once a Jacob sits, jealousy invades his home, and his sons begin a struggle with each other over a mere colored shirt. Once a Jacob sits, then one son speaks evil of another. Once a Jacob sits, then he finds that his son Joseph, as the Rabbis relate, spends more time combing his hair in front of a mirror than in poring over his schoolbooks, and he soon begins to dream high-handed dreams of conquest and royalty. Indeed, once a Jacob sits, then his family is torn apart and some sons sell other sons down the river and into slavery.

And sitting, in this sense of inactivity, leads not only to family dissension, but also to downright immorality. Here was Israel, a “holy nation and a kingdom of priests” (Exodus 19:6), wandering in the desert, and suddenly “Israel sat in the plains of Moab” (Exodus 22:1). What happens when a nation sits? The children of Israel entered into immoral relationships with the daughters of Moab. So sitting leads to immorality as well. Indeed, once stagnation sets in, once there is only sitting or standing but no going or progress, then Satan jumps and becomes ferociously hyperactive.

What is the Jewish way? Certainly not sitting or standing, but going and walking. In the great vision that Abraham beheld, God’s command was clear and to the point: “Walk before me and be perfect” (Genesis 17:1). When a man walks, not sits, then he has a chance of becoming perfect. When Joshua the high priest stands before Almighty God, and Satan is at his right hand, God promises Joshua the ultimate redemption of Israel and tells him, “If you will walk in my ways, then I will give you places to walk among those that stand” (Zechariah 3:7). Yes, the world is full of sitters and standers, those who in their inactivity and stagnation invite the company of Satan. But the Abrahams and the Joshuas are committed to a policy of walking and going, of constant activity and positive, helpful deeds. For such is the active policy of Jews in all ages, an activation symbolized by the progressive candles of the Hanukkah menorah. Ma’alin be-kodesh.

How unfortunate, therefore, that so many of our modern Jews, while lighting the candles, forget their meaning. How often a rabbi hears the following remarks: “You see, Rabbi, it’s true I am not an Orthodox Jew, I don’t put on tefillin, I don’t observe Shabbat, I don’t observe the dietary laws; but, Rabbi, let me tell you that I have a good heart; it’s all in here.” And this is followed by a thumping of his chest.

Of course, that is precisely what Rabbis are afraid of — that it’s all in here, that the good heart is something which lies buried between the ribs and behind the diaphragm, and whose warm heartbeats cannot be heard without the aid of artificial instruments. The “good heart” is the excuse of the sitter or the stander. The “good heart” excuse is in the tradition of Greece, and not Israel. I am very wary, indeed, when all a person has to offer is a good heart; whose good intentions cannot be reflected in good limbs and good pockets and good deeds. Imagine what would happen if we would translate that “good heart” idea into actual medical terms. If all the blood were to be drained from your body, from the fingertips to the tips of your toes, and concentrated in your heart, it would certainly be a good heart because it would contain all the blood in your body. But such a situation can only lead to death, because a good heart is not enough; we must have a heart which can circulate this goodness all over the body.

Good intentions without good deeds and good actions are characteristic of the Greeks and not of the Jews. I feel sure, for example, that our synagogues were not built by good intentions or good hearts alone, but by good deeds and good actions. The UJA and Yeshiva University were not built by good hearts alone. They required sturdy hands and sharp heads and noble actions.

With this in mind, we can understand part of the special Al ha-Nissim prayer. In the course of that prayer we praise God and thank Him for assuring us of victory over the Greeks, who, we say, wanted to cause us to forget the Torah and to transgress God’s commandments. This statement is, seemingly, not true from a historical point of view. We know that Antiochus promulgated only three harsh laws against the Jews: He forbade the observance of Shabbat, the festival of Rosh Hodesh, and the rite of circumcision. But nowhere do we find that this mad emperor prohibited the study of Torah.

The answer, however, lies in the idea we have been trying to convey; that is, if the Jew is forbidden to observe the practical commandments, the hukkei retzonekha, if the study of the Torah cannot lead to resolute action, then it is the same as if he were prohibited from even thinking about the Torah — and it must lead to forgetting the Torah. Of what use is Torah if it does not lead to concrete action and noble deeds? If Antiochus did not allow the Jews to observe their commandments, then he stands accused in the eyes of history of destroying their study of the Torah. For the Jew, study without implementation is of slight value. Creed must give birth to deed; contemplation must result in behavior; thought must end in action. Ma’alin be-kodesh.

The light of the progressive candles is, therefore, for us, an enlightening commentary on what Jewish life should be. They inspire us to better behavior, challenge us to greater deeds, and urge us on to new and broader horizons, with that ever-valid commandment, “Rise in holiness.”

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s ‘The Megillah: Majesty & Mystery’

America, Bless God

I am pleased to occupy a pulpit celebrated both because of its historic past and its present distinguished spiritual leadership in a congregation rightfully famous in our city. I am doubly happy because Shearith Israel is not only an illustrious synagogue, but also a good neighbor of my congregation, The Jewish Center. In this context, I prefer to translate the word she’arit of “Shearith Israel” not in its primary signification of “remnant,” but rather in its secondary meaning, as in the Biblical words she’er basar or sha’arah — “relative,” or “close friend.” For indeed both our congregations are part of the larger family of Orthodox Jewry on the West Side of Manhattan.

The Thanksgiving Day Services at the Spanish-Portuguese Synagogue are not only a fine patriotic gesture as loyal American citizens; they are also an authentic expression of Judaism. The source for this judgment is the Sephardi scholar of the late Middle Ages, Abudrahm. Why is it, he asks, that during the repetition of the Amidah by the cantor, the congregation joins him for only one blessing, in the course of which it expresses the same sentiments in modified language? Abudrahm was referring to the Modim blessing, for while the cantor chants the Modim, the congregation recites, in an undertone, the Modim de-Rabbanan. The reason for this, says Abudrahm, is that the other blessings consist of petitions for various benefits: We ask God for wisdom, health, prosperity, peace. Such prayers can be delegated to a representative of the congregation, which the cantor, in effect, is — the shaliah tzibbur. But when it comes to offering our thanks to the Almighty — and this is the essence of Modim — there, no delegation suffices, for the expression of gratitude is too personal, too intimate, too significant for substitutes.

In the same sense, when our fellow Americans repair each to his own house of worship to offer thanks to our Heavenly Father for the blessings of life, freedom, peace, and bounty which we enjoy in our beloved land, we Jews feel quite naturally obliged to turn to God and, in our own way, to thank Him. No real Jew can hear others say Modim and remain silent! The very name “Jew” derives from the expression of gratitude to God. The word derives from “Judea,” or from “Judah,” the fourth son of Jacob and Leah, who was named thus because ha-pa’am odeh et Hashem, “this time I will thank the Lord” (Genesis 29:35).

Yet it is not enough merely to approve of Thanksgiving Day. Judaism has, as well, an original approach to the phenomenon of gratitude that is analytic and profound in nature, and in which there is implicit a remarkable spiritual insight. We err if we imagine that the offering of thanks to God is a kind of religious courtesy, a form of spiritual politeness, of good manners to a good God. Thanks may be the sort of good taste that lubricates the machinery of human relations, but certainly God transcends the limits of cultivation and good breeding. The Merciful One desires the heart; God looks to the depths of a man’s soul and is unimpressed by ceremonial compliments. Surely the Lord prefers piety over polish, genuineness over gentility, the broken heart over the soft tongue. Obviously our thanks are not made to flatter God. What then does the Torah tradition mean when it emphasizes the importance of thanking Him?

I believe that the true Jewish conception goes to the existential roots of man himself. It addresses itself to the human situation in all its rawness and starkness, and to the human being in his anguished feelings of solitude, terror, and worthlessness. It tells us that an appreciation of God’s greatness must be accompanied and enhanced by an awareness and acknowledgment of our pettiness and inadequacy. True thankfulness is coupled with the knowledge that without God we would have nothing and be nothing. When we contemplate God’s greatness and beneficence, we realize our own worthlessness; and when we understand our own pettiness and inferiority, we begin to appreciate the divine perfection and the majesty of His loving-kindness. That is why we bow at the Modim prayer — in thanking Him for His goodness, we declare our own insufficiency.

The Hebrew language itself reveals this insight. The word hodayah means two things: thankfulness — and a confession of guilt. In line with this double meaning, one can give two parallel interpretations to the Modeh Ani prayer that we recite every morning. One is the usual translation, in which modeh is rendered as “I thank.” “I thank thee, O King, who lives and endures, who has mercifully restored my soul unto me; great is Your faithfulness.” The other would follow the second meaning of the word, thus: “I confess, or acknowledge, that as a human being I have no real sovereignty, I am mortal and frail; I keep myself alive only with the greatest difficulty, and often find myself sorely lacking in mercy and compassion; small is my faithfulness.”

When man sleeps he is unconscious, close to death, defenseless, prey to the terrors of the night and disease that stalks unseen, a potential victim of nature’s cruel whims. Modeh ani! In the special prayer of thanksgiving that we are obligated to recite upon deliverance from certain specific occasions of danger, the Birkhat ha-Gomel, we explicitly mention this same idea. We thank God ha-gomel la-hayyavim tovot, who bestows kindness upon the undeserving. God is good, we are undeserving: both elements are merged in one blessing. Here lies the true significance of thanksgiving in Judaism: the contrast between divine infinity and human finitude; between God’s eternity and our transience; His endless might and our helplessness; His all-encompassing wisdom and our pervasive ignorance.

Our gratitude is deepened when we face the fact that we are hayyavim, undeserving. For this reason, we American Jews are in a unique position to offer meaningful thanks to the Almighty.

Our hodayah consists of both the elements we mentioned. For it has already been pointed out that the Holocaust in Europe has left deep wounds on the collective psyche of American Jewry. We think of the precious individuals, families, and whole communities that perished in the flames that engulfed one-third of our people. What marvelous Jews, what sterling human beings they were! Can we in all honesty say that we are in any way superior to them? Yet, if not, why are we alive and they not? We know ourselves and we knew them. And we know that they were not deserving of their bitter fate, and that we are not deserving of any better destiny than they. It is a feeling of perplexity and also inner worthlessness, a knowledge of being undeserving of being saved, that informs our state of mind. We know that, comparatively, we are hayyavim — and therefore how much more grateful ought we to be to Almighty God for having spared us and our families! So our thanks to our Father in Heaven for this beloved haven called America stem from a unique historical experience and the cumulative vicissitudes of centuries. The distinguishing moral failure of the contemporary world, Jews no less than others, is that we have forgotten both elements: that God is gomel tovot and ought to be thanked, and that we humans are hayyavim. As a matter of fact, we have all but forgotten Him completely. Modern man contemplates his felicity, his abundance, his surpluses, and he thanks anyone but God except in his speech, and that is but a verbal vestige of ages past. He thanks his stockbroker, labor union, government, the UN, his own shrewdness or luck, or science and medicine, or mankind as such.

And here, speaking as an Ashkenazi rabbi to a Sephardi congregation, is an area where all Jews can benefit from the Sephardi historical experience, Let me explain by referring to a law codified in the Shulhan Arukh (Orah Hayyim 219). We mentioned before the special thanksgiving prayer, the Birkhat ha-Gomel. One of the four occasions when this prayer is mandatory is after one has safely crossed the midbar, the desert or wilderness. Here the author of the Shulhan Arukh notes a divergence between Ashkenazi and Sephardi practice: In Germany (Ashkenaz) and France, he writes, the practice is not to recite the blessing when journeying from city to city, for it was intended only for those who travel in the desert, which is frequented by hayyot ra’ot, wild beasts, and listim, bandits. However, in Spain (Sepharad) the custom is that we do recite the blessing, because all the highways are presumed to be dangerous.

No doubt historians will find good historical reasons for this difference in religious practice. Probably intercity traffic in Spain was far more dangerous than in Germany and France, where highway robbery was less frequent. Yet there is more than a sociological difference between them. The commentators see a halakhic principle in issue. And even more the difference in approach has a larger significance; it is a parable for modern men. For modernity was born in Ashkenaz, in Germany and in France, the whole modern cast of mind, the contemporary celebration of human might and ingenuity and independence from God, the age of humanism — these were sired by the French Revolution and German Enlightenment. Here there took place the collective apotheosis of man, and the dethronement of God. And all too many of us Jews went along with the tide. We hailed the Encyclopedists as our prophets, Goethe as our psalmist, and Marx as our messiah. We all but cried out, “Science is my shepherd, I shall not want …” We deluded ourselves with that nineteenth-century tranquilizer called “progress.” We thought we had conquered the midbar and had substituted for it the city, symbol of human achievement. Our journey was from city to city, from one level of culture and civilization to another yet higher. We were making “linear progress” and there was nothing or no one who would or could impede us. With the midbar of life and the world vanquished, we were confident that we no longer had any reason to fear the “wild beasts” and “bandits” that once afflicted the human race. Universal peace and justice were, after all, just around the corner — thanks to
man’s new ways and great knowledge.

We forgot the experience of the Sephardi Jews. We should have learned from them that you can have a Golden Age and great universities and cultural centers, Barcelonas and Toledos and Cordovas — and yet, so short a time afterwards, expulsions, dispersions, and inquisitions! We should have learned this — but we did not. We ignored the fact that where there is no sense of submission and responsibility to a Higher Power, there are can be no occasion for gomel, for there are no tovot. And where there is no thankfulness to God, where there is no humility, there man becomes ruthless, he turns into bandits, and all of society abounds in wild beasts.

We of the twentieth century thought that all the world was one “city,” one giant, united, cultural human unit. Then suddenly, and to our dismay, we learned that it was really only a midbar, a desert, and that the vision of a civilized city was just another mirage in the wide, terrifying desert. We discovered that we were prey to the wild beasts of Hitler and Mussolini, and that decent men and women were being victimized by the international bandits operating out of the Kremlin and Cairo. Oh, how we looked for new ways, new derakhim! We tried the “scientific way of life” — and discovered not only penicillin and radio, but also nuclear bombs, fallout, and leukemia. We thought nationalism was the best way and learned that with independence can come new tyrannies undreamed of, and terror more fierce than ever imagined. We tried the way of humanism and found that the ringing declarations soon hung like limp clichés, leaving our youth rootless, psychologically unstable, devoid of ideals or enthusiasm, interested in nothing but themselves — and these selves were morally diminutive.

Kol ha-derakhim be-hezkat sakkanah, as our Sephardi scholars taught: Where there is no Godliness, where man arrogantly asserts his absolute independence, all ways are corrupt and dangerous. Where man fails to acknowledge that he is of the hayyavim, where he maintains that he is guiltless and master of his own destiny and need not thank the divine gomel tovot, his ways wind through wilderness and wasteland, and he is at the mercy of the bandits and the wild animals. What we learn, therefore, is a marvelous paradox: When man begins with self-assertion and self-confidence, he ends with self-destruction and annihilation; when he begins with self-abnegation and distrust, he ends with a ringing self-affirmation and ennoblement.

It is this thoroughly Jewish idea — the dual nature of hodayah and the inexorable failure and mortal danger of human ways without God that should be our specific Jewish contribution to the American experience of Thanksgiving. It is for this reason that, to my mind, Thanksgiving Day is so much more precious than other national holidays. Other patriotic occasions, such as Independence Day, valuable though they are, can easily degenerate into national self-idolatry and collective self-glorification. In order to reestablish the proper harmony we need the kind of corrective of humility inspired by Thanksgiving Day. For if July 4th is Independence Day, then Thanksgiving is our Dependence Day — our dependence upon the Almighty. Let this, then, be our prayer: Almighty God, as we rely upon Thy guidance, recognizing our unutterable debt to Thee as hayyavim. You lead us out of the midbar, spare us from the listim who would unleash unspeakable terror upon all men, and from the hayyot ra’ot that lurk unpredictably in the hearts of each of us. May all our derakhim (ways) be safe from sakkanah (danger), and may they all lead to a greater and better future for all of us, all America, and all mankind.

For all this we thank You, O Lord. And even as during the rest of the year we pray “God, bless America,” today we turn to our own hearts and to the soul of our country and declare, “America, bless God.”

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit’, co-published with Gefen Publishing

What Frightens a King

Context

After dreaming of seven lean cows consuming seven healthy cows and of seven thin ears of grain consuming seven robust ears, Pharaoh awakens deeply troubled. He commands “all of the sorcerers of Egypt and all of its wise men” to interpret his visions but receives no satisfactory response.

The butler recalls Yosef’s ability to interpret dreams and mentions him to the king. Pharaoh orders Yosef released from prison and brought to the palace. Pharaoh then repeats the content of his dreams to Yosef.

Questions

Why is Pharaoh so deeply troubled by his dreams?

Does the text offer any hint as to the source of Pharaoh’s fears?

Approaches

 

A

The narrative before us is strangely repetitive. First the text describes Pharaoh’s dreams in detail as they occur. Then the dreams are described, again in detail, when the king recounts them for Yosef. The Torah could simply have stated, “And Pharaoh told the content of his dreams to Yosef.” Why the redundancy?

The Torah, as noted before (see Bereishit 3 and Chayei Sara 3), never repeats a conversation or an event without reason. In this case, the repetition within the text provides a glimpse into Pharaoh’s mind. When Pharaoh speaks to Yosef, he conveys not only his dreams but his perception of those dreams.

Specifically, two addenda appended by Pharaoh to his first vision may provide the key to the fears of this mighty king.

1. The king dreams: “And behold out of the river emerged seven cows, of beautiful appearance and healthy flesh…. And behold seven other cows emerged out of the river after them, poor of appearance and gaunt of flesh…”

The king recounts: “And behold out of the river emerged seven cows, of healthy flesh and beautiful form…. And behold seven other cows emerged after them, scrawny, and of very poor form and emaciated flesh.

Never have I seen such in all the land of Egypt for badness.”

Pharaoh is clearly disturbed by the possibility that “scrawny, emaciated cows” could even appear in Egypt at all. Like so many monarchs before and after him, Pharaoh prefers to live in a fantasy world of absolute power and success. There is no place in the king’s lush, rich empire for “weak cows.” Pharaoh, therefore, emphatically declares that no such cows have ever before appeared in his land, as he desperately attempts to avoid the ramifications of his vision.

2. The king dreams: “And the seven cows of poor appearance and gaunt flesh consumed the seven cows of beautiful appearance and good health, and Pharaoh awoke.”

The king recounts: “And the emaciated, inferior cows consumed the first seven healthy cows. And they came inside them and it was not apparent that they came inside them – for their appearance was as inferior as before; and I awoke.”

The world in which Pharaoh lives is governed by clear rules. In this world nations conquer other nations with regularity. Through subterfuge and cunning, the seemingly weak can even defeat the seemingly strong. The king can therefore accept the possibility of lean cows eating healthy cows.

What Pharaoh cannot accept, however, is the possibility that the victor in a battle should remain unchanged. In the king’s world, conquest invariably bestows upon the victor increased physical power and strength. This rule is the basis of Pharaoh’s own supremacy. When, in his vision, the lean cows remain visibly unaffected after consuming the healthy cows, Pharaoh’s world is threatened and he awakens abruptly, sorely troubled and distraught.

B

Yosef sets the king’s mind at ease by explaining both the existence of the lean cows and their unchanged status in symbolic terms. Pharaoh’s visions, he asserts, represent natural challenges which can be overcome through proper planning.

Little does Pharaoh know, however, that his fears are actually wellfounded. There is, unbeknownst to Pharaoh and perhaps even to Yosef, a hidden subtext to these visions. Pharaoh is about to be threatened in ways he could scarcely begin to imagine.

The king’s dreams set in motion a series of events which eventually give rise to the birth of a unique nation within his very realm. This eternal Jewish nation will not be bound by the rules governing Pharaoh’s world. Spiritual fortitude will overcome physical strength as this seemingly weak people outlasts the most powerful empires in the history of mankind. Pharaoh’s kingdom will be only the first to fall in the face of the Jews’ march across the face of history.

The victorious Jewish nation, however, will not change overtly for generations. We will measure our success, not in terms of increased physical strength, but in the unbroken maintenance and development of our enduring spiritual heritage.

“Lean cows” will consume “robust cows.” The seemingly weak will overcome the strong, yet remain unchanged.

Pharaoh’s world is about to crumble; he has good reason to be troubled by his dreams.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit‘

Context

After thrusting Yosef into a pit, his brothers sit down to eat. When they observe an approaching caravan of Ishmaelites, Yehuda convinces his siblings to sell Yosef into bondage rather than allow him to die.

The text then continues (note the pronouns and their referents): “And Midianite men passed by, merchants, and they drew Yosef up out of the pit; and they sold Yosef to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver; and they brought Yosef to Egypt.”

Later, the Torah relates: “And the Medanites sold him (Yosef) to Egypt, to Potiphar, a court official of Pharaoh…”

Finally, even later, the text states: “And Potiphar…bought him from the hand of the Ishmaelites who had brought him there.”

Questions

The text concerning the critical event of Yosef’s sale seems strangely ambiguous, even contradictory.

Who are the Midianite men who suddenly appear, as if out of nowhere, and what is their relationship, if any, to the caravan of Ishmaelites?

Who actually pulled Yosef out of the pit and sold him to the Ishmaelites: his brothers or the Midianites?

If Yosef was sold to the Ishmaelites why does the Torah state that the Medanites “sold him to Egypt, to Potiphar…”?

Why does the Torah seem to contradict itself again with the statement “and Potiphar…bought him from the hand of the Ishmaelites who had brought him there”?

Finally, why is the Torah so deliberately vague concerning the sequence of events at this critical juncture in the story of our people?

Approaches

The commentaries directly confront the ambiguity of the text in their discussions
of the sale of Yosef.

A

Rashi maintains the classical position that Yosef’s brothers actively sold him into slavery. Commenting on the phrase “and they drew…,” Rashi simply states, “The sons of Yaakov (drew) Yosef from the pit.”

Rashi further explains that the appearance of the Midianites reflects the fact that Yosef was sold numerous times: “The brothers sold him to the Ishmaelites who sold him to the Midianites, and the Midianites sold him to Egypt.”

Yosef ’s grievous treatment at the hand of his brothers is further exacerbated when he is treated like chattel and sold from one hand to the next. [Rashi identifies the Medanites, mentioned later in the text, with the Midianites. He fails, however, to explain the final statement which declares that Potiphar bought Yosef from the Ishmaelites.]

B

Numerous other scholars, while agreeing with Rashi’s basic premise that the brothers sold Yosef into slavery, offer their own solutions to the mention of Ishmaelites, Midianites and Medanites.

The Ramban and the Sforno both simplify the scene by suggesting that the Ishmaelites and Midianites were operating in partnership within one caravan, with the Ishmaelites serving as camel drivers for the Midianite merchants. Yosef was, therefore, only sold twice: first by the brothers to the passing caravan and then by the merchants of the caravan to Potiphar. The Ramban further explains that the references in the text to the Ishmaelites underscore their role as the ones who physically brought Yosef to Egypt, while the Midianites are highlighted as the merchants who actually bought and sold him. The Sforno, for his part, suggests that the brothers were unwilling to speak directly to the Midianites for fear that they might be recognized. For this reason, he says, they negotiated with the Ishmaelites.

The Ibn Ezra goes a step further and claims that there was only one group of merchants, at times referred to by the text as Ishmaelites and at times as Midianites. To prove his position he quotes a passage from the book of Shoftim which identifies Midianite kings as Ishmaelites.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, Chizkuni suggests that Yosef was actually sold four times. The brothers sold Yosef to the Midianites while he was still in the pit. The Midianites then drew Yosef out of the pit and sold him to the Ishmaelites who in turn then sold him again to the Midianites (Medanites). Finally, the Medanites sold Yosef, for the last time, to Potiphar.

C

An entirely different, revolutionary approach to the sale of Yosef is first suggested by the Rashbam and then echoed by a number of subsequent commentaries including Rabbeinu Bachya, Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch and the Malbim. Remaining true to his pashut pshat approach to text, the Rashbam maintains that Yosef’s brothers were not actually involved in his sale. He literally interprets the passage “and Midianite men passed by, merchants, and they drew Yosef up out of the pit; and they sold Yosef to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver…” as follows: The brothers were eating at a distance from the pit…and waiting for the arrival of the Ishmaelites whom they had observed approaching.

Before the Ishmaelites arrived, however, others, Midianites, passed by, saw [Yosef] in the pit, drew him up out of the pit – and the Midianites sold him to the Ishmaelites. It is even possible that the brothers were unaware of these events.

This approach, closer to the text, changes our entire conception of the events surrounding Yosef’s sale: Yosef ’s brothers fully intended to sell him but never actually got the chance to carry out their plans.

D

The most important question, however, yet remains. Why is the Torah, at this critical and dramatic moment in the story of our people, so deliberately vague? Why doesn’t the text tell us clearly whether or not Yosef ’s brothers were actively involved in his sale? Why allow for conflicting interpretations?

Perhaps the text is deliberately vague to teach us that it really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether the brothers actually pulled Yosef out of the pit and sold him or whether they simply set the stage for others to do so. Their guilt, in either case, remains constant.

Centuries later the Torah text will proclaim: “Do not stand idly by the blood of your friend” – If you witness danger to another, you are obligated to act.

We are responsible for the pain we cause or allow to occur to others even when it is not inflicted directly by our hands.

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s ‘Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Genesis‘ co-published by OU Press, Maggid Books, and Yeshiva University Press; Edited by Stuart W. Halpern

Hypocrisy is rightly a despised trait, and the word “hypocrite” a harsh and contemptuous epithet reserved for vile people. It is all the more unfortunate, therefore, that the popular condemnation of insincerity is not always matched by a correspondingly universal abstention from this vice in the affairs of man in society. Every day many thousands of letters are written in which the writers employ varied devices ranging from subtle deviousness to outright deceit, and compound their crime by signing the letters, “I am, sincerely yours….”

What is a hypocrite? According to the dictionary definition it is one who pretends to be something other than what he really is (usually one who pretends to be better than he really is) or to feel what he does not really feel. Hypocrisy is feigning, acting a part, pretending. Perhaps a better word is the Hebrew tzeviut – literally: coloring, dyeing. Hypocrisy, then, is giving an impression which does not correspond with the facts. It is the incommensurateness of the inner fact and the outer appearance.

Our prophets stormed against hypocrisy. Our rabbis thundered against it. The Talmud quotes King Yannai advising his wife, Queen Salome, “Do not be afraid either of the Pharisees or of those who are not Pharisees; fear only those hypocrites who act like Pharisees, who behave like Zimri (an ignoble person), and who expect to be rewarded like Pinchas (the saintly priest of Israel)” (Sota 22b).

In that case, we are presented with a problem by the sidra. We read, in very few lines, that Reuben sinned with Bilha, the concubine of his father Jacob. If the Bible said so, it is the truth. Yet the Talmud (Megilla 25b) advises us that the story of Reuben should be read but not translated. It was once the custom that the Torah would be read as we read it, and then one person would be assigned to translate it publicly into Aramaic, the vernacular at that time. However, an exception was made of this story of Reuben, and when one rabbi insisted that it be read in the Hebrew but left untranslated, he was congratulated by his colleagues. But is this not insincere, even hypocritical? Is not the suppression of the truth hypocrisy, and is not every instance of hypocrisy deplorable?

The answer is no, it is not hypocrisy or insincerity, although it suppresses the broadcast of a true event. And, if one should insist that this is hypocrisy, then with full respect to all our honorable prejudices, certain forms of such insincerity are not malicious but wholesome and healthy. Not in all ways must one’s appearances be thoroughly equivalent and correspond to his inner thoughts. To speak a conscious untruth aiming at personal gain or creating a favorable image and false impression is a foul act. But to refrain from telling all I know and consider to be true, either because I am unsure how that truth will be interpreted, or out of respect for the sensitivity and feelings of others – that is an act of civility, not insincerity.

Thus, in the affair of Reuben there were many mitigating factors, and varying interpretations are possible, as indeed many of them appear in the Talmud. A direct translation into the vernacular is, therefore, misleading and the cause of much misunderstanding. Furthermore, it is bad enough that the Torah preserves a sacred record of Reuben’s misdeed, and there is no need to add salt to the wounds of a cherished forebear even if he is no longer in the world of the living.

It is a sin to lie; it is no mitzva to tell all I know, even if it is the truth. There is a law in the Shulchan Arukh that if a man has, heaven forbid, lost a close relative for whom he must mourn, but he is unaware of his loss, then one ought not to apprise him of it within thirty days of the death, for then he would be obligated to observe all of the shiva. One may not give a false answer upon interrogation, but one ought not to volunteer this kind of information, and if he does he is considered a kesil, a fool. A fool, indeed! Hypocrisy is not avoided and insincerity not served by mindless chattering and compulsive loquaciousness!

Too much cruelty has been practiced under the guise of honesty, too much frightful foolishness excused as frankness, too many assaults on the feelings of others carried out under the pretense of sincerity. Is it hypocrisy for a teacher to refrain from telling a slow student that he is unintelligent? Is it commendable sincerity to tell every homely person, “You are plain-looking and unattractive”? No, it is not. In fact, Hillel taught that one must even tell an unattractive bride that she is beautiful and charming!

The truth should be spoken, not blurted out. If you hear a performer or entertainer or artist, and have adverse criticism – even if it is constructive – then Jewish ethics and derekh eretz advise you: wait for a propitious time before offering your comments, do not offend the innermost feelings of another human being. If you apprehend a friend in embarrassing circumstances, performing an evil deed, it is a mitzvah to reproach him. You are not free to withhold your comment. But the rebuke must be administered gently, considerately, delicately. The Torah commands us, “You shall reproach your friend” (Leviticus 19:17). And the rabbis add, “Even a hundred times” (Bava Metzia 31a). On this, one of the great lights of the Musar movement commented: this means that the single rebuke must be broken into a hundred pieces and offered in tiny doses, lest the person you seek to correct should become the victim of painful insult.

Furthermore, there is a decent, beneficial, and honorable kind of hypocrisy which is not insincere, and without which society might well collapse. There are certain conventional fictions that are apparently untrue, but that suggest a kind of truth far beyond the reach of normal comprehension. Jewish law, for instance, aims at producing perfect individuals and a holy society, yet it knows full well, as King Solomon taught, that no person in the world is perfectly righteous and blameless.

Halakha grants each person a chezkat kashrut, a presumption of innocence and virtue; yet it knows full well that, as the Bible teaches, “Man’s innate disposition is toward evil” (Genesis 8:21). Is this hypocrisy? If it is, then we should all be in favor of hypocrisy! For without it, all law and religion must progressively be reduced and diminished to the lowest level of common practice. This spells the death of all ideals. A child who errs and stumbles, yet who is trusted by a parent and feels that the parent’s opinion of him is higher than his poor reality, is inspired by this discrepancy to fulfill the higher image. Likewise the Jew and his halakha: he is imperfect and faulted, yet because he is granted the chezkat kashrut and told that he incorporates the image of God, and is expected to live up to it, he will strive to do just that, lest he suffer inner embarrassment and shame.

This week the Supreme Court has been deliberating on the problems of censorship and pornography. This brings to mind a fascinating article by George P. Elliot I read in a national magazine, in which a principle similar to the one we have been discussing was put forth. The author believes that the law should banish pornography, but not enforce this regulation. He asks: is it not, however, hypocrisy to outlaw pornography if we know well that it will be sold surreptitiously? He answers: “The law should rest content with a decent hypocrisy,’’ and ban obscene literature in the marketplace even if it knows that it will be sold under the counter, where the law will not and cannot bother with it. Law is the way that society approves and disapproves of certain acts. “A certain amount of official hypocrisy is one of the operative principles of a good society.” Unenforced laws express society’s goals, ideals, and visions. Law is meant not only to punish, but also to educate to higher standards. “Civilization behaves as though men are decent in full knowledge that they are not.”

Judaism cannot take exception to this doctrine. When, at the beginning of the Emancipation, non-Orthodox Jews did adopt an opposite point of view, they began to prune the laws and cut down the halakha to fit current, prevalent practice. As a result, they discovered – as we well know in our days – that when you do this Judaism begins to crumble and Jews begin to vanish. If Jewish laws are abandoned because they are not universally observed, Judaism becomes nothing but a sanctimonious self-approval for spiritual failures, a vacuous “hekhsher” for not-so-kosher Jews.

That is why we ought not to be impressed or depressed at the cries of hypocrisy often hurled at Orthodox synagogues that disapprove of travel on the Sabbath, though many of its members violate that standard. We rightly insist upon full and meticulous observance of kashrut, though some members in the privacy of their homes or when away from home do not live up to this ideal. If a standard is set, the congregation must live under the impression that the ideal is a reality; and all who fail to conform must suffer the pangs of guilt. If that is a fiction, it is a splendid and sublime fiction, on the way to becoming a luminous truth.

…

We live in an alma diperuda, an imperfect and fragmented world. For truth to be triumphant, it must proceed cautiously. We must give no quarter to falsehood, but we must remember that truth must often disguise itself in a thousand different garments – until that blessed day, the “day of the Lord,” when man and society will be redeemed; when truth will be revealed courageously and fully; when this world will become transformed into an olam ha’emet, a world of truth; when God’s unity will be expressed in living the whole truth and nothing but the truth; and when men will confront their own selves in truth, and be truly devoted to each other, so that each man will be able to address his brother and say, in full and genuine honesty, “I am, sincerely, yours!”

*For the full text of this sermon, see Rabbi Norman Lamm’s ‘Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Genesis‘

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit‘, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Yaakov’s Second Dream

Context

Hidden in the shadow of Yaakov’s dramatic dream at Beit E-l is a second dream, experienced by the patriarch and recorded in Parshat Vayeitzei.

Unlike the first, this second dream is not recorded directly as it occurs. We learn about it only secondhand when, at the end of twenty years in the house of Lavan, Yaakov tells Rachel and Leah that the time has come to return to Canaan. In the course of the discussion the patriarch says:

And it was at the time of the mating of the flock that I raised my eyes and saw in a dream: And behold all of the goats mounting the flocks were ringed, speckled and checkered. And an Angel of God said to me in the dream, “…Lift up your eyes and see that all the goats mounting the flocks are ringed, speckled and checkered; for I have seen all that Lavan is doing to you. I am the God of Beit E-l where you anointed a pillar and where you made me a vow; now arise, leave this land and return to the land of your birth.”

Questions

Yaakov’s vision of sheep clearly relates to the financial agreements which he had made with Lavan and to Lavan’s attempts to undermine those agreements. At the beginning of his last six years in his father-in-law’s house, Yaakov arranged that his payment would consist of any unusually marked or colored animals born to the flocks under his care. Lavan attempted to manipulate the flocks to minimize the birth of such animals.

What, however, is the relationship between the symbolism and substance of this second dream? There seems to be no clear connection between Yaakov’s vision of sheep and the divine commandment to return to his homeland.

Why, in addition, does the angel in the dream refer to himself as the emissary of the “God of Beit E-l,” and why does he makes specific reference to Yaakov’s vow?

Approaches

A

Clearly bothered by the disconnect between the vision and the message of Yaakov’s dream, the Ramban maintains that Yaakov is actually describing the content of two separate dreams to his wives.

The first of these dreams, which consisted of the vision of sheep, occurred towards the beginning of the six-year period during which Yaakov was to be paid through the receipt of the unusually marked animals. With this vision God was informing the patriarch that divine intervention would overcome Lavan’s machinations.

The second dream, says the Ramban, occurred at the end of the six years, right before Yaakov spoke to his wives. In this dream the angel appeared and informed Yaakov that the time had come to return to Canaan.

B

Other commentaries maintain that Yaakov was referring to one unified dream. They differ, however, as to the message conveyed by that vision.

Rashi, for example, sees the dream as emphasizing God’s miraculous protection of Yaakov’s welfare. He quotes the Midrashic tradition which pictures heavenly angels overcoming Lavan’s deceit by physically returning to Yaakov sheep that Lavan had unfairly appropriated. The Ralbag explains the dream as underscoring the partnership between God and man. Yaakov’s own efforts are supplemented by God’s support.

Neither of these approaches, however, seems to address the apparent disconnect between the vision and the angel’s message to return home.

The Malbim connects the disparate segments of the dreams by suggesting that God’s message is: “Stay in this place no longer, so that you will no longer have to rely upon miracles to succeed.” The Rivash, on the other hand, sees the unified message as: “Don’t think that because God is protecting you, you can at last relax and bask in your success. God is now commanding you to return to Canaan.”

C

Finally, it has been suggested that Yaakov’s second dream can be connected to his first vision at Beit E-l, yielding an entirely different approach. Seen in context, the two dreams recorded in Parshat Vayeitzei emerge as contrasting end points in Yaakov’s philosophical journey over his years in exile.

When Yaakov leaves the home of his parents and embarks on the path to Charan, he dreams of angels ascending and descending a ladder. Towards the end of his journey, after twenty years in the house of Lavan, when the patriarch dreams again, he dreams of sheep.

The message of that second dream may simply be: Yaakov, when you stop dreaming of angels and start dreaming of sheep, it’s time to go home.

The words of the angel who appears in Yaakov’s second dream are, thus, to be interpreted as follows:

“I have seen what Lavan is doing to you.” I have seen how your father in-law has changed you. You no longer set your sights upon the heavens. Your focus is, instead, upon material gain.

“I am the God of Beit E-l where you anointed a pillar and where you offered to me a vow; now arise and leave this land and return to the land of your birth.” Remember that morning at Beit El when you vowed to return? The time has come to fulfill your vow before it is too late; return to your roots before you are unalterably changed.

Points to Ponder

The frightening possibility that Yaakov needed prodding from God to return and fulfill his vow serves as a cautionary reminder of the powerful allure of material wealth and of its potential effect on our lives. Jewish tradition clearly acknowledges the value of self-sufficiency and underscores that the physical world is a gift from God, meant to be appreciated and enjoyed. The attainment of material wealth, however, should never become the primary focus of our lives. When that happens, and it can easily happen without our conscious realization, wealth becomes a god, effectively supplanting lofty principles and ideals with pedestrian, limited dreams.

Simply put, when we stop dreaming of angels and we start dreaming of sheep, it’s time to go home.

Excerpted from Dr. Mandell Ganchow’s Coming of Age: An Anthology of Divrei Torah for Bar and Bat Mitzvah

Parashat Toldot

by Rabbi Mordechai Willig

The parashah of Toldot contains the source for the berachah made on the occasion of a bar mitzvah. When Esav and Yaakov reached manhood, the Torah tells us, Esav became a hunter, while Yaakov entered the tents of study. The Midrash comments that from this verse we derive that a father must attend to his son until the son turns thirteen, at which time the father says, “Baruch she-petarani me-onsho shel zeh—Blessed is He who exempted me from the punishment of this [boy].”

The Magen Avraham (Orach Chayyim 225:5) explains that after bar mitzvah a father is no longer punished for the sins of his son. The Levush maintains the opposite—that after bar mitzvah the son is no longer punished for the sins of his father. Both understandings, however, share the same difficulty: Why is this berachah limited to a father and son? Why isn’t the same berachah recited for a daughter? Why isn’t it recited by the mother?

Perhaps the basis for this berachah can be explained differently. The first halachah of the Rambam’s Hilchot Talmud Torah states, “Women, slaves, and children are exempt from Torah study, but a father is commanded to teach his young child Torah.” Two questions can be raised. First, why does the Rambam mention only a child? Isn’t a father required to continue teaching his son Torah after bar mitzvah? Second, why does the Rambam begin this series of halachot by telling us who is exempt? Wouldn’t it be more logical to first describe the obligation of talmud Torah and then list the exemptions?

It would seem that, according to the Rambam, one cannot be commanded to teach Torah to someone who has his own personal obligation to learn Torah. Therefore, it is necessary to state that children are exempt from talmud Torah before stating that the father is obligated to teach him. Moreover, though a father is certainly responsible for his son’s education beyond bar mitzvah, this obligation does not fall under the specific mitzvah of “ve-limadtem otam et beneichem”—teaching Torah to one’s sons (See Chazon Ish Yoreh De’ah 152:1).

In this light, the berachah is the father’s statement of gratitude that he has completed his mitzvah of ve-limadtem and is no longer punishable for it. This interpretation is supported by the context of the berachah’s midrashic source: A father must care for his son for thirteen years, after which the son himself must choose the tents of study over the hunting field. Since ve-limadtem does not apply to daughters or mothers, the berachah is not said for or by them.

The Magen Avraham (Orach Chayyim 225:4), citing the Zohar, requires that a father make a festive meal when his son becomes bar mitzvah just as he would make for his son’s wedding. The Zohar’s comparison to a wedding reflects a father’s mitzvah to celebrate with a se’udah when completing one of his obligations towards his son, namely, milah, pidyon ha-ben, teaching him Torah and marrying him off.

The Maharshal, however, views the se’udah from the boy’s vantage point—as a celebration for becoming commanded to do mitzvoth. As such, the Yechaveh Da’at (II, 29) equates bar and bat mitzvah celebrations. It would seem that the Maharshal’s reason does, in fact, apply and therefore the girl is required to make a party for her close friends and family. However, a wedding-like feast, which reflects the completion of the father’s obligation of ve-limadtem, applies, like the berachah of Baruch she-petarani, to a bar mitzvah only.

Rabbi Willig is rav of the Young Israel of Riverdale, New York and Rosh Yeshiva, RIETS.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit‘, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Context

Mystery surrounds the search for Yitzchak’s wife.

Although the rabbis identify the servant sent by Avraham to Aram Naharaim as Eliezer, he is not mentioned by name in the text at all. Instead, two terms are used interchangeably throughout the narrative to describe the anonymous envoy: eved, “servant,” and ish, “man.”

Questions

Why does the Torah fail to identify Eliezer in his central role in this pivotal event?

What is the significance of the seemingly interchangeable terms eved and ish in the narrative, and why does the Torah text fluctuate between the two?

Approaches

A

The mystery of Eliezer’s “absence” from the text raises a series of tantalizing possibilities within rabbinic literature.

Some authorities actually suggest that the omission of Eliezer’s name reflects a fundamental ambivalence on the servant’s part concerning the possible success of his mission. At some level, Eliezer may well have hoped that he would fail.

Until the birth of Yishmael and Yitzchak, Eliezer was the heir apparent to Avraham’s wealth and spiritual legacy. This fact is reflected in Avraham’s own complaint to God: “And the controller of my home is Eliezer of Damascus.”

Eliezer, say these scholars, still harbored a hope that he would somehow be Avraham’s heir. He even believed that if his journey to find a wife for Yitzchak ended in failure Avraham would consider a marriage between Yitzchak and Eliezer’s own daughter.

The Midrashic tradition of Eliezer’s ambivalence reminds us that the Torah narrative reflects the lives of real individuals in complex situations. Avraham’s servant could well have patiently guarded his own personal aspirations over years of faithful service to his master, only to find those very aspirations now threatened by a mission in which he is to play the pivotal role. The Midrash thus adds a poignant and complex human twist to a familiar biblical tale.

Whatever the truth concerning Eliezer’s intentions, however, the textual evidence is clear. This faithful servant responds to Avraham’s wishes completely and without hesitation.

Perhaps the Torah omits Eliezer’s name from the narrative to demonstrate the total sublimation of his personal aspirations as he fulfils his respected master’s will. He is, in this tale, truly and completely the nameless servant of Avraham.

B

More significant, perhaps, than the omission of Eliezer’s name in the narrative is the seemingly arbitrary alternation between two terms in the Torah’s description of the messenger sent by Avraham. At times the envoy is referred to as an eved, “servant,” and at times as an ish, “man.”

While this linguistic fluctuation might seem inconsequential, a careful review of the narrative reveals, once again, that no word in the Torah text should ever be taken for granted. By alternating between these two terms, the Torah creates a subtle pattern which courses beneath the surface of this tale. Once revealed, this pattern chronicles significant changes in Eliezer’s role as his mission progresses.

C

Eliezer’s journey can be divided into three major sections. During the first, he receives instructions from Avraham, agrees to carry them out, travels to Aram Naharaim, prays to God for success and devises a test by which a wife will be chosen for Yitzchak. Throughout these steps he is consistently referred to as Avraham’s eved, “servant.”

Suddenly, however, Eliezer’s efforts are blessed with success. Rivka appears and passes her test, and the second phase of Eliezer’s mission begins. The servant is now in uncharted territory. He has come to the point where he no longer has clear instructions from his master telling him what to do. On-the-spot decisions now must made. Serious diplomatic skill will have to be brought to bear as he enters into active negotiations with Rivka’s family. Personal initiative and inventiveness will be required if his delicate mission is to be blessed with success.

As Eliezer moves into this new, autonomous arena, the Torah no longer refers to him as an eved, “servant.” He is now ha’ish, “the man.” He has become an independent operator who must move beyond the instructions he has received if he is to succeed in fulfilling his mission.

Evidence of Eliezer’s new role can be clearly seen in the text as the envoy repeats Avraham’s messages to Rivka’s family. The Abravanel enumerates no less than ten substantive changes between Avraham’s instructions to Eliezer and the way the servant repeats those instructions to Rivka’s family. Other commentaries also illuminate additional variations.

This is one of a number of instances where the Torah repeats a conversation or an event. As we have noted before, such repetition serves as a red flag and challenges us to compare the two versions before us. The differences that emerge are invariably meaningful and instructive.

While each variation in Eliezer’s dialogue warrants its own study and explanation, an overall pattern begins to surface. Eliezer changes his master’s very words in order to make the messages more palatable to his audience. To cite a few examples:

Avraham	Eliezer
1. “You shall not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell.”	1. “You shall not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites in whose land I dwell.”
2. “Go to my land and to my birthplace and take a wife for my son Yitzchak.”	2. “…to the home of my father shall you go and to my family and you shall take a wife for my son.”
3. “He [God] shall send His angel before you and you shall take a wife for my son from there.”	3. “[God] shall send His angel with you…and you shall take a wife for my son from my family and from the home of my father.”

The differences between Eliezer’s words and Avraham’s words are extremely telling.

Avraham has successfully fulfilled God’s commandment of Lech Lecha and has effectively severed his connection with his past. Canaan is now his land and he no longer refers to his family as his family at all.

Eliezer, on the other hand, correctly perceives Avraham’s severance with the past as an insult to the patriarch’s family. He therefore alters the text of Avraham’s message to suit the situation.

Eliezer’s diplomacy is revealed through his words as the Torah testifies not only to his loyalty but to his initiative, as well. He has truly been transformed from a servant into a man.

The tale, however, does not end there. As soon as Rivka’s brother and father agree to her union with Yitzchak, the Torah states, “And the servant took out jewelry of silver and gold…”

Eliezer’s brief transformation into an ish has ended and from this point in the narrative onward he will be referred to once again as an eved. His diplomatic initiative behind him, he is again Avraham’s servant, fulfilling the specific instructions of his master as he brings his mission to a close.

Points to Ponder

Through the use of specific words the Torah transforms the simple story of a servant on a mission into the poignant tale of a man with his own conflicting dreams and responsibilities.

On the one hand, Eliezer emerges as the most faithful of servants, enshrined in our history as an example of fealty and devotion. Living at a time when servitude was commonplace, he had the good fortune not only to serve a benevolent master but to play an important role in the unfolding story of the Jewish nation.

At the same time, however, who knows what personal dreams may have remained unrealized? For a moment, as his story unfolds, Eliezer reveals initiative and talents until this point unexplored.

In a different situation, at a different time, given other opportunities, who knows what kind of “man” this “servant” would have been?

A final possibility is hinted at by a Midrashic tradition which suggests that Eliezer was actually the son of the powerful and corrupt hunter and ruler, Nimrod. One can only imagine the possibilities for personal advancement that must have confronted the heir to Nimrod’s throne; and yet, Eliezer becomes Avraham’s servant.

Is it possible that Eliezer’s servitude is a matter of personal choice? Does this biblical figure make the conscious decision to live by the rabbinic dictum verbalized centuries later, “Be a tail to lions rather than a head to foxes?” Faced with the possibility of ruling over an immoral domain, does Eliezer instead put personal ambition aside and deliberately choose servitude to a great man?

If so, Eliezer sets a quiet example of private sacrifice, nobility of service and dedication to society, concepts so sorely missing in our “me first” world.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Bereishit‘, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Context

One of the strangest and most disturbing episodes in the entire Torah is recorded immediately before the destruction of the city of Sodom. Two of the three angels who earlier visited Avraham now arrive at his nephew Lot’s doorstep in Sodom. Lot showers them with hospitality as he invites them into the protection of his home. It does not take long, however, before the evil inhabitants of the city learn of the angels’ presence and surround Lot’s house demanding that the strangers be given up to them. Seeking to protect his guests from the danger confronting them, Lot reasons with the mob and offers his two unmarried daughters in their stead. The Sodomites refuse the offer, and prepare to storm the house. The angels miraculously afflict their potential attackers with blindness, and then inform Lot that to protect himself and his family he must now leave Sodom.

Questions

How are we to understand Lot’s bizarre behavior? He welcomes strangers into his home, but is then willing to sacrifice his own daughters to mob violence.

Does this episode provide us with any kind of window into Lot’s personality and soul? If so, what does a glimpse through that window reveal?

Approaches

A

With the story of Lot, we are confronted with one of those occasions where a simple, careful, straightforward reading of the biblical text reveals easily missed significance. We must first, however, back up to gain an overview. When we do so, a tragic pattern begins to emerge. This pattern, spanning a number of chapters in the text, enables us to understand Lot and his frightening journey.

B

Our story begins in Parshat Lech Lecha at the point when Avraham and his nephew part ways.

Responding to a dispute that erupts between Avraham’s and Lot’s shepherds, the patriarch turns to his nephew and says: “Let there not be a dispute between you and me and between my shepherds and your shepherds, for we are brothers. Behold, all of the land is before you. Separate yourself from me. If you go left then I will go right, and if you go right I will go left.”

Given the opportunity to choose anywhere within the land of Canaan, Lot chooses the fertile Jordan plain and the Torah states, Va’ye’ehal ad Sodom, “And he tented until Sodom.”

C

Two elements of this phrase immediately catch our attention.

1. First of all, the Torah uses the verb va’ye’ehal, “and he tented,” to describe Lot’s relationship to the land near Sodom.

The two words normally used by the Torah to indicate residence in a particular location are lashevet, “to live,” which connotes permanent residence, and lagur, “to dwell,” which connotes impermanent residence.

Here, however, the Torah chooses to use an even more transient term – “tenting.” Why?

2. Secondly, the word ad, “until,” is an inherently ambiguous one and its use here seems strange.

The rabbis tell us that ad can mean one of two things depending upon context. The word sometimes means “up to and including,” and sometimes means “up to but not including.” (For example, if Jewish law says that a certain object is acceptable ad, “up to,” a height of forty amot [a halachic measurement], the rabbis will still have to define what that means. Is an object forty amot high acceptable, or must the object be, at most, 39.999 amot high?)

By stating that Lot tents “ad Sodom,” the Torah deliberately leaves his situation vague. Is Lot in the city or outside the city? The facts are unclear. The Torah goes out of its way to convey a sense of ambivalence on Lot’s part as he considers his relationship to the city of Sodom. The reasons for this ambivalence are made abundantly clear in the Torah’s very next sentence: “And the citizens of Sodom were greatly evil and sinful towards God.”

Lot is aware of the true nature of the city before him and consciously tents at its border. He literally has one foot in the city and one foot out. He believes that he can live on the edge of Sodom without being affected by its evil.

D

We next encounter Lot a chapter later, when he is taken captive during a war involving Sodom. The Torah states: “And they took Lot and all of his wealth, the son of Avraham’s brother, and they went. V’hu yoshev b’Sodom, and he was living in Sodom.”

The seemingly superfluous phrase v’hu yoshev b’Sodom, “and he is living in Sodom,” is actually chronicling an important transformation. By this point, Lot is no longer living at the edge of the city, but rather “in Sodom.” At first ambivalent about his relationship with Sodom, Lot is now comfortable as a full citizen within its borders.

E

Finally, we meet Lot yet again, this time in Parshat Vayeira five chapters later. The occasion is the event with which we began: the visit of the angels to Sodom. The Torah introduces this event in the following fashion: “And the two angels came to Sodom in the evening; and Lot was sitting b’sha’ar Sodom, in the gates of Sodom.”

You could easily miss it, but the Torah is conveying a very significant point with the two words b’sha’ar Sodom, “in the gates of Sodom.” Only specific people had the privilege of sitting in the gates of a city in biblical times: the elders and officials of that city. By now, Lot’s transformation is complete. He has moved from the edge of the city to its center. Lot is now a respected elder of the evil city of Sodom. The man who felt that he would be able to withstand the lure of the city has fallen prey to its power.

F

With the pattern of Lot’s personal transformation as a backdrop, we can now begin to understand his seemingly inexplicable behavior when confronted with the threatening mob outside his door.

Lot is not an evil, but, rather, a weak man. His most fatal flaw, in fact, is his failure to recognize his own vulnerability. He believes that he can withstand the temptations of Sodom. Without realizing it, however, he is sucked in and indelibly transformed by the city around him. The Torah testifies that you cannot live near Sodom and remain unchanged.

At the most critical juncture of his life, Lot displays the aberrant behavior of a man who is trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. On the one hand, he desperately attempts to hold true to the traditions he witnessed in his Uncle Avraham’s tent. He welcomes guests and treats them royally. He is willing to go to any lengths to protect them. At the same time, however, he seamlessly crosses over into the horrific world of Sodom and offers to sacrifice his own daughters to a brutal fate. Lot fails because he believes that he can live in two worlds at once – in two worlds which simply cannot coexist.

Points to Ponder

Over the course of several chapters, the Torah clearly chronicles Lot’s step- by- step transformation: an unwitting journey into the hell that is Sodom.

Lot’s story remains a cautionary tale concerning the effects of external environment on our lives. We must be ever aware of the world that surrounds us, and we must actively reject those elements of our surroundings that are incompatible with our own standards.

Through such vigilance, we will escape Lot’s fate.