A Quick Torah Thought

Over the last few weeks I've written about the complicated nature of the relationship between Yaakov, and Rachel and Leah and the permutations that had in Joseph's seemingly underhanded dealings with his brothers. In essence, I wrote that Joseph wanted Jacob to admit to his sons, once and for all, that he, Jacob, was at the heart of the problem, that he was unwilling – or at least had been unwilling to concede that he loved Rachel over his other wives, that she was the only wife for him, and that essentially, Joseph and Benjamin were her only two children, and that he always harbored a visceral pain, and remorse about the fact that Leah had been appended to his family. It seemed to be a pain that he bore to the very end, that on the one hand sowed horrible conflict, but on the other, the future, in all of its very forms of the Children of Israel, something evidenced more than ever by the unique nature of each and every tribe as manifested by Jacob's heartfelt words of wisdo...

To me, those two words are ever so conspicuously absent from Joseph's reckoning with his brothers. I could use the word reunion, but at the same time, my hunch is that the brothers were more petrified when they learned that it was Joseph, than when they simply thought it was the true-born Egyptian viceroy with practically unbounded power.  The brothers saw daggers in Joseph's eyes, yet he looked on with the utmost compassion, consoling them, and encouraging them.  Yet to me, after this monumental, yet humbling reunion, one phrase - if you could call it that - should have been uttered, two words stringed together that would have carried such import, which were never said: "our father." With the chasm, the gaping abyss having been somewhat closed, what better rhetorical device could Joseph have used than to say, in an off-handed way (if there is such a thing in the Bible), "our father"?  "I am Joseph, is my father still alive?" Then, when Joseph cajo...

I am 40 now and so have the right to learn the Zohar, not that I do though. That notwithstanding, it is well know both in the ushpizin and the Zohar that Joseph represents the attribute of yesod , or loyalty, most often expressed in preserving the covenant, or shemirat ha'brit , using one's life giving powers only in the context of marital relations, and in no other way.  That depth, and clarity of purpose was truly unique to Joseph, a man on a mission, by himself for 22 years, sold into slavery - and yet, not for a minute did he waver. He was faithful, honest, true. What else could be needed for a marriage.  How though does this faithfulness manifest itself in its relations with others? For one, when he's finally elevated from the dungeon and presented to Pharaoh, not for the merest second does he boast that he has powers irrespective of God. "Hashem will interpret your dream for you. I am only the conduit. I have no capabilities without God's providence." Fu...

Whoever reads the Torah portion about Joseph and his brothers can't help the heart-wrenching feeling that either he himself experienced just that in some shape or form with his own siblings, or is currently experiencing it with his or her children. Jealousy so endemic, perverse and pervasive that it can warp and distort the very social fabric, however delicate that we as parents, or that our parents tried to devise and instill within us. And so, perhaps we feel the need to enter the driver's seat, and advise Jacob; how could you do that? Don't you know that preferential treatment can tear your children asunder, erode whatever trust you tried to create? How could you give Joseph a coat the others did not get? The Talmud in fact takes that approach saying that whoever gives preferential treatment to one child over the other has planted the seeds of mistrust that can not but germinate and well up later in the form of envy that can little be repaired.  Why then did Jacob fail s...

How would a laboring mother on what was soon to become her deathbed feel were the midwife tell her in the midst of her contractions, "Don't worry, it's going to be a boy." I can't imagine she would feel very good.  That though is presumably what comforted Rachel when she faced impending death due to complications in her childbirth.  As she struggled, with presumably no recourse, as she breathed her dying births the last thing she heard was either it's a boy, or it will be a boy, to which Rachel replied, "it is most surely the child of my suffering."  What import does a boy have, or rather, what does a boy portend to the extent that it would take away the agonizing pain of a mother in the throes of labor? The Midrash writes that a boy symbolized life, and its continuation; when she heard it was to be a boy, she could regain new strength, and faith in the possibility of living; the problem is the three times the Tanakh records a woman struggling in lab...