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Miketz
"Joseph recognized his brothers, but they did not recognize him.”
Joseph is now the ruler of Egypt. The famine he predicted has come to pass. It extends beyond Egypt to the land of Canaan. Seeking to buy food, Joseph’s brothers make the journey to Egypt. They arrive at the palace of the man in charge of grain distribution:
Now Joseph was governor of all Egypt, and it was he who sold the corn to all the people of the land. Joseph’s brothers came and bowed to the ground before him. Joseph recognized his brothers as soon as he saw them, but he behaved like a stranger and spoke harshly to them . . . Joseph recognized his brothers, but they did not recognize him. (42: 6-8)
We owe to Robert Alter the idea of a type-scene, a drama enacted several times with variations; and these are particularly in evidence in the book of Bereishith. There is no universal rule as to how to decode the significance of a type-scene. One example is boy-meets-girl-at-well, an encounter that takes places three times, between Abraham’s servant and Rebekah, Jacob and Rachel, and Moses and the daughters of Jethro. Here, the setting is probably not significant (wells are where strangers met in those days, like the water-dispenser in a New York office). What we must attend to in these three episodes is their variations: Rebekah’s activism, Jacob’s show of strength, Moses’ passion for justice. How people act toward strangers at a well is, in other words, a test of their character. In some cases, however, a type-scene seems to indicate a recurring theme. That is the case here. If we are to understand what is at stake in the meeting between Joseph and his brothers, we have to set it aside three other episodes, all of which occur in Bereishith.
The first takes place in Isaac’s tent. The patriarch is old and blind. He tells his elder son to go out into the field, trap an animal and prepare a meal so that he can bless him. Surprisingly soon, Isaac hears someone enter. “Who are you?” he asks. “I am Esau, your elder son,” the voice replies. Isaac is not convinced. “Come close and let me feel you, my son. Are you really Esau or not?” He reaches out and feels the rough texture of the skins covering his arms. Still unsure, he asks again, “But are you really my son Esau?” The other replies, “I am.” So Isaac blesses him: “Ah, the smell of my son is like the smell of a field blessed by G-d.” But it is not Esau. It is Jacob in disguise.
Scene two: Jacob has fled to his uncle Laban’s house. Arriving, he meets and falls in love with Rachel, and offers to work for her father for seven years in order to marry her. The time passes quickly: the years “seemed like a few days because he loved her.” The wedding day approaches. Laban makes a feast. The bride enters her tent. Late at night, Jacob follows her. Now at last he has married his beloved Rachel. When morning comes, he discovers that he has been the victim of a deception. It is not Rachel. It is Leah in disguise.
Scene three: Judah has married a Canaanite girl and is now the father of three sons. The first marries a local girl, Tamar, but dies mysteriously young, leaving his wife a childless widow. Following a pre-Mosaic version of the law of levirate marriage, Judah marries his second son to Tamar so that she can have a child “to keep his brother’s name alive.” He is loathe to have a son that will, in effect, belong to his late brother so he “spilled his seed,” and for this he too died young. Judah is reluctant to give Tamar his third son, so she is left an agunah, “chained,” bound to someone she is prevented from marrying, and unable to marry anyone else.
The years pass. Judah’s own wife dies. Returning home from sheep-shearing, he sees a veiled prostitute by the side of the road. He asks her to sleep with him, promising, by way of payment, a kid from the flock. She asks him for his “seal and its cord and his staff” as security. The next day he sends a friend to deliver the kid, but the woman has disappeared. The locals deny all knowledge of her. Three months later, Judah hears that his daughter-in-law Tamar has become pregnant. He is incensed. Bound to his youngest son, she was not allowed to have a relationship with anyone else. She must have been guilty of adultery. “Bring her out so that she may be burnt,” he says. She is brought to be killed, but she asks one favour. She tells one of the people to take to Judah the seal and cord and staff. “The father of my child,” she says, “is the man to whom these things belong.” Immediately, Judah understands. Tamar, unable to marry yet honour-bound to have a child to perpetuate the memory of her first husband, has tricked her father-in-law into performing the duty he should have allowed his youngest son to do. “She is more righteous than I,” Judah admits. He thought he had slept with a prostitute. But it was Tamar in disguise.
That is the context against which the meeting between Joseph and his brothers must be understood. The man the brothers bow down to bears no resemblance to a Hebrew shepherd. He speaks Egyptian. He is dressed in an Egyptian ruler’s robes. He wears Pharaoh’s signet ring and the gold chain of authority. They think they are in the presence of an Egyptian prince, but it is Joseph – their brother – in disguise.
Four scenes, four disguises, four failures to see behind the mask. What do they have in common? Something very striking indeed. It is only by not being recognized that Jacob, Leah, Tamar and Joseph can be recognized, in the sense of attended, taken seriously, heeded. Isaac loves Esau, not Jacob. He loves Rachel, not Leah. Judah thinks of his youngest son, not the plight of Tamar. Joseph is hated by his brothers. Only when they appear as something or someone other than they are can they achieve what they seek – for Jacob, his father’s blessing; for Leah, a husband; for Tamar, a son; for Joseph, the non-hostile attention of his brothers. The plight of these four individuals is summed up in a single poignant phrase: “Joseph recognized his brothers, but they did not recognize him.”
Do the disguises work? In the short term, yes; but in the long term, not necessarily. Jacob suffers greatly for having taken Esau’s blessing. Leah, though she marries Jacob, never wins his love. Tamar had a child (in fact, twins) but Judah “was not intimate with her any more.” Joseph – well, his brothers no longer hated him but they feared him. Even after his assurances that he bore them no grudge, they still thought he would take revenge on them after their father died. What we achieve in disguise is never the love we sought.
But something else happens. Jacob, Leah, Tamar and Joseph discover that, though they may never win the affection of those from whom they seek it, G-d is with them; and that, ultimately, is enough. A disguise is an act of hiding – from others, and perhaps from oneself. From G-d, however, we cannot, nor do we need to, hide. He hears our cry. He answers our unspoken prayer. He heeds the unheeded and brings them comfort. In the aftermath of the four episodes, there is no healing of relationship but there is a mending of identity. That is what makes them, not secular narratives but deeply religious chronicles of psychological growth and maturation. What they tell us is simple and profound: those who stand before G-d need no disguises to achieve self-worth when standing before mankind.
The Light Of Home
Over the next few days, if you pass a house with candles burning in the windows, chances are that it’s a Jewish family celebrating Chanukah, the Jewish festival of lights. It’s our way of celebrating a moment in Jewish history about two centuries before the birth of Christianity. Israel was under Greek rule, which began to suppress our religious practices. Jews rose in rebellion and won back their freedom. The Temple was rededicated, and the great menorah or candelabrum was relit. And ever since, we too have lit candles to remind us of that time.
Like so many Jewish festivals, it takes place at home – parents and children celebrating together; lighting candles, singing songs – and, well, it wouldn’t be Jewish if it didn’t have food, which on Chanukah means donuts and potato pancakes. Judaism isn’t a religion of the kitchen, but it’s surely a religion of the home.
And that’s my thought for the day. For the past few days following the launch of the National Family and Parenting Institute, there’s been a fierce debate about the future of the family, and I expect it’ll carry on long into the new millennium. Is the family – by which I mean father, mother and children linked in a stable bond of love – just a passing phenomenon? Can we do without it? Is it just one lifestyle among many? How do we answer such questions in a way that’s more than subjective?
One of the things about being part of an ancient faith is that, however new a problem seems, our ancestors have been there before, and they’ve passed on their experience to us. At the time of Chanukah 2,200 years ago, the Greeks dominated the world. Their power seems invincible. And Jews - well, they were a tiny people. And yet within a few years Greece began its decline and fall, yet Jews and Judaism survived; they still do.
What was the difference? The Greeks focused on politics and the state. Jews placed their faith in something smaller – the family and the home. And somehow, in doing so, they hit on a great truth: that when families are strong, children are strong and they can face the future without fear. When families are weak, children grow up anxious and confused and a civilization begins its decline. The future of our world won’t be decided by the Euro, the Internet, or space probes to Mars, but by how much or how little we value our children – by the flame we light at home.
(From “From Optimism To Hope” Continuum 2004 Pages 135-136)
Yigdal
I have known many atheists. My doctoral supervisor, the late Sir Bernard Williams, described as the most brilliant mind in Britain, was one. He was a good, caring, deeply moral human being, but he could not understand my faith at all. For him, life was ultimately tragic. The universe was blind to our presence, deaf to our prayers, indifferent to our hopes. There is no meaning beyond that which human beings construct for themselves. We are dust on the surface of infinity.
I understood that vision, yet in the end I could not share his belief that it is somehow more honest to despair than to trust, to see existence as an accident rather than as invested with meaning we strive to discover. Sir Bernard loved ancient Greece; I loved biblical Israel. Greece gave the world tragedy; Israel taught it hope.
A people, a person, who can pray is one who, even in the darkest night of the soul, can never ultimately lose hope.
It takes courage to believe. Jews need no proof of the apparent injustice of the world. It is there throughout the pages of Jewish history. Jews had no power or earthly glory.
For most of our history our ancestors lived dispersed throughout the world, without a home, without rights, all too often experiencing persecution and pain.
All they had was an invisible G-d and the line connecting us to Him: the siddur, the words of prayer. All they had was faith.
Some scholars of Judaism, noting that it contains little systematic theology, cam to the conclusion that it’s a religion of deeds not creeds, acts not beliefs, rules not faith. After all, the Mishnah, the Talmud and the codes of Jewish law, contain very little discussion about belief in G-d. They thought that if Judaism really cared about faith, it would have given rise to a library of philosophical works like Moses Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed. They were wrong because they were searching in the wrong place. They should have looked instead at the prayer book. We don’t analyze our faith: we pray it. We don’t philosophize about truth: we sing it, davven it. For Judaism, theology becomes real when it becomes prayer. We don’t talk about G-d. We talk to G-d.And the proof is what happened to the most famous of all creeds in the history of Judaism, Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles of Jewish faith. Maimonides wrote in the twelfth century, but the Thirteen Principles only entered the mainstream Jewish consciousness when, two centuries later, they were turned into the hymn known as Yigdal.
Faith as music.
I believe, therefore my soul sings.
(From the CD “Music for the Jewish Soul” - Words and music to celebrate the publication of a new siddur - Track 5 http://www.chiefrabbi.org/siddur.html )