When I read Parashat Miketz I feel the same movement from darkness to light. Joseph is brought from the pit (Gen. 37:24) and from prison (Gen. 41:14) into Pharaoh’s court, where he interprets dreams and saves a nation from famine. Later, when his brothers fear that he will punish them, he answers, “Hatahat elohim ani?—Am I in the place of God?” (Gen. 50:19). Joseph knows his role is to preserve, not to possess. He is a guardian of life, not its owner. Pollak was too—a guardian of light and of memory.

Pollak had been the owner of the Prato Haggadah for many years. Before his deportation he made clear that he wished the manuscript to pass to the Prato family, close friends of his from Rome who had fled to Egypt before the war because of their anti-fascist politics. After the war his surviving relatives fulfilled that wish and transferred the book to them, now in Israel. Decades later, the Prato family donated the Haggadah to The Library of 91�첥 so that it could be studied and displayed in public—a fulfillment of Pollak’s own belief that light and learning belong in the open.

Scholars have noticed that this fourteenth-century Spanish manuscript is unusual. It contains the entire narrative of the Magid section of the Haggadah, but it omits the table rituals: there is no kiddush, no blessing over matzah or maror, no birkat hamazon. As former 91�첥 Librarian Menahem Schmelzer pointed out, it was probably not made for a single family seder at home. It was meant for public reading—perhaps in a synagogue or communal hall — a book built for many eyes. Its purpose was to be seen. That origin makes its modern life in a public collection feel like a return to form.

The Talmud moves this idea about being a guardian of light into practice. In Shabbat 21b the sages teach the law of Ḥanukkah: “ner ish u-veito—the light of a person and their household.” One light per household is enough to fulfill the commandment. But we are told to add more if we can—one for each person, or an increasing number each night. Holiness is measured not by luxury but by inclusion. Every home must shine. And the light should be visible. The Gemara says to place it at the door or in the window so passers-by will see it. That practice is called pirsumei nisa—proclaiming the miracle. I keep that commandment literally. I set my menorah outside by the door so the neighborhood can see it burn. Every flame is a statement: light belongs in the open.

That is the same principle behind a public collection. A book locked away in private hands may be safe, but it is silent. Placed in a library or a museum, it can shine. Pollak spent his life bringing ancient objects into view so that others could learn from them. The Prato Haggadah’s presence at the Grolier Club is an act of pirsumei nisa: a public retelling of how Jewish life and art endured against the odds.

Later, in Shabbat 122a, the Talmud uses the line “ner le-eḥad ner leme’ah—a light for one is a light for a hundred.” It appears in a discussion about benefiting from a lamp lit by a non-Jew on Shabbat. If the lamp is already burning, one person’s use does not diminish another’s. The phrase is legal, not poetic—a compressed, well-made sentence in the rabbinic style. But it holds a larger truth. Light is not reduced by sharing. So it is with knowledge, art, and memory. When we open the Haggadah to many, we multiply its reach. A light for one is a light for a hundred.

That sentence gains force when set against what Pollak and his world faced. Nazism sought to erase culture: burning books, looting libraries, and staging the infamous exhibit of “degenerate art.” To preserve a Jewish manuscript in that time was not only scholarly act but an act of defiance.

The rabbis of Bereshit Rabbah 2:4 say that when God created light on the first day (Genesis 1:3–4), it was a radiance so pure that “a person could see from one end of the world to the other.” Predicting how human beings would abuse that gift, God hid it away for the righteous in the future. The Prato Haggadah belongs to that kind of light—a radiance kept safe through centuries of exile, sale, and war. Some treasures must be concealed to be saved. But eventually they must surface. A light hidden forever is a light lost. Jewish study and Jewish libraries exist to bring these ideas out when the time is right.

Bereshit Rabbah 3:6 adds one more principle: “Everything the Holy One created in His world He created for His glory.” If that is true, then every act of sharing a book or a work of art is a small restoration of divine purpose. We honor creation when we allow its light to be seen. Pollak believed that, and so do I. A public collection is a form of praise.

A light for one, a light for a hundred. That is the message of Miketz and of Ḥanukkah, of the Prato Haggadah and of Pollak’s life. Hidden light is meant to be brought back into the world. Our task is to guard it, share it, and keep it burning where all can see.

More information about the 91�첥 Library exhibit, “Jewish Worlds Illuminated: A Treasury of Hebrew Manuscripts from The 91�첥 Library” including a virtual tour can be found at jtsa.edu/library-exhibits/

In a chapter called “The World that Isn’t There,” Klosterman explores the concept of dreaming:

“For most of human history, the act of dreaming was considered deeply important, almost like a spiritual interaction with a higher power . . . . The zenith of dream seriousness occurred at the turn of the twentieth century, defined by the work of Sigmund Freud (who thought dreams were everything) and his adversarial protégé Carl Jung (who thought dreams were more than everything—they were glimpses into a collective unconscious, shared by everyone who’s ever lived.)”

But all that changed over the course of the twentieth century. As Klosterman explains, when science began to map the brain’s electrical activity in 1924, “from that point forward, dreams increasingly mattered less . . . . dreams were just the byproduct of the brain stem firing chaotically during sleep. Since then, the conventional scientific sentiment has become that—while we don’t totally understand why dreaming happens—the dreams themselves are meaningless. Which seems like a potentially massive misjudgment.”

In the Torah, dreams are anything but meaningless. The Joseph narrative (Gen. 37–50) is dominated by dream motifs. At first, those dreams are the cause of Joseph’s downfall—by sharing his two dreams in which he envisions his family bowing down to him, he raises the ire of his brothers, who conspire to kill him, saying:

וַיֹּאמְר֖וּ אִ֣ישׁ אֶל־אָחִ֑יו הִנֵּ֗ה בַּ֛עַל הַחֲלֹמ֥וֹת הַלָּזֶ֖ה בָּֽא׃

וְעַתָּ֣ה ׀ לְכ֣וּ וְנַֽהַרְגֵ֗הוּ וְנַשְׁלִכֵ֙הוּ֙ בְּאַחַ֣ד הַבֹּר֔וֹת וְאָמַ֕רְנוּ חַיָּ֥ה רָעָ֖ה אֲכָלָ֑תְהוּ וְנִרְאֶ֕ה מַה־יִּהְי֖וּ חֲלֹמֹתָֽיו׃

They said to one another, “Here comes that dreamer! Come now, let us kill him and throw him into one of the pits; and we can say, ‘A savage beast devoured him.’ We shall see what comes of his dreams!” (Gen. 37: 19–20).

Later, in Chapter 40, Joseph’s ability to interpret dreams moves the drama of the narrative further:

וַיַּֽחַלְמוּ֩ חֲל֨וֹם שְׁנֵיהֶ֜ם אִ֤ישׁ חֲלֹמוֹ֙ בְּלַ֣יְלָה אֶחָ֔ד אִ֖ישׁ כְּפִתְר֣וֹן חֲלֹמ֑וֹ הַמַּשְׁקֶ֣ה וְהָאֹפֶ֗ה אֲשֶׁר֙ לְמֶ֣לֶךְ מִצְרַ֔יִם אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֲסוּרִ֖ים בְּבֵ֥ית הַסֹּֽהַר׃

Both of them—the cupbearer and the baker of the king of Egypt, who were confined in the prison—dreamed in the same night, each his own dream and each dream with its own meaning.

And lastly, this week’s parashah, Parashat Miketz, begins with a dream sequence, this time of Pharoah himself:

וַיְהִ֕י מִקֵּ֖ץ שְׁנָתַ֣יִם יָמִ֑ים וּפַרְעֹ֣ה חֹלֵ��ם וְהִנֵּ֖ה עֹמֵ֥ד עַל־הַיְאֹֽר׃

After two years’ time, Pharaoh dreamed that he was standing by the Nile.

Ultimately, it is the cupbearer’s remembrance of Joseph as someone who could correctly interpret dreams that leads to Joseph’s (and his family’s) salvation.

So how might we as moderns balance our scientific rationality regarding dream interpretation with the mystical potential that our dreams are glimpses into the future?

The Hasidic Rabbi Yosef Patzanovski (1875–1942) attempted to find just this balance in a comment he offers on this week’s parashah.

בדבר החלומות אמרו חכמינו שיש חלומות המתהווים על ידי סיבות גופניות, כגון עיכול המזון, השפעת המזג, המצב הנפשי וכדומה, והם חלומות שווא ואין בהן ממש. אבל יש חלומות שהם הוראה והודעה מן השמים. וחז”ל אמרו (ברכות נז.) חלום אחד מששים לנבואה.

“On the matter of dreams, our sages said that there are dreams which come into being as a direct result of bodily functions, like digestion of food, changes in the weather, the state of one’s mental health, etc. and these are dreams that are inconsequential and meaningless. However, there are other types of dreams which are forms of instruction and enlightenment from the Heavens. As our sages of blessed memory said (B. Talmud Berakhot 57a): ‘Dreams are one sixtieth of prophecy.’”

Undoubtedly, some of our dreams are simply the result of our brains staying active while our bodies rest. But what about those dreams, like Joseph’s vision of his family’s subservience, which feel like glimpses into the future or windows into the past? How can I explain the fact that humans often share the same dream? That one where the university you graduated from 25 years ago tells you that you are a couple of credits shy of graduating? Or what about dreams where we are visited by family members long gone, or friends long forgotten? And what about the Jew by Choice who tells you that they used to dream of their childhood home, but there was a secret door only they knew about, one that led them into a secret part of the home, one they always opened before the dream ended? Each of these dreams may be an echo of prophecy, a gift from God (or our subconscious?) which can offer insight, understanding, and truth; so why would we discount them as merely “the byproduct of the brain stem”?

Perhaps the answer to these questions can be found in Joseph’s consistent approach to the delicate art of dream interpretation. Each time Joseph is asked to interpret a dream, his response is always the same, a humble recognition that it is God, not Joseph, who provides the interpretation.

When the cupbearer and the baker ask Joseph to interpret their dreams he replies:

יֹּאמְר֣וּ אֵלָ֔יו חֲל֣וֹם חָלַ֔מְנוּ וּפֹתֵ֖ר אֵ֣ין אֹת֑וֹ וַיֹּ֨אמֶר אֲלֵהֶ֜ם יוֹסֵ֗ף הֲל֤וֹא לֵֽאלֹהִים֙ פִּתְרֹנִ֔ים סַפְּרוּ־נָ֖א לִֽי׃

And they said to him, “We had dreams, and there is no one to interpret them.” So Joseph said to them, “Surely God can interpret! Tell me [your dreams].”

And again, when Pharoah brings Joseph out of prison to interpret his nightmares on the Nile, Joseph responds:

וַיַּ֨עַן יוֹסֵ֧ף אֶת־פַּרְעֹ֛ה לֵאמֹ֖ר בִּלְעָדָ֑י אֱלֹהִ֕ים יַעֲנֶ֖ה אֶת־שְׁל֥וֹם פַּרְעֹֽה׃

Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, “Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.”

In our modern times, let us not fall into the trap of assuming that our understanding of the world (and even our bodies) is complete and infallible. Instead, like Joseph, let us consistently surrender to mystery, and open our minds to the possibility of prophecy, each time we lie down to sleep.

Rabbi Joel Seltzer is the Vice Chancelor for Institutional Advancement at 91�첥 and it is the 31^st anniversary of his Bar Mitzvah.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

Yosef appears in Parashat Miketz as the savior of Egyptian society from an ecological crisis of epic proportions. Seven straight ruined harvests would have resounded catastrophically across the region if not for Yosef’s prescient interventions on Pharaoh’s behalf.

One quarter of the way through the 21st century, we cry out for our own Yosef: leadership with the courage to recognize the looming crisis and the aptitude to marshal resources on a global scale.

Was the famine foreseeable? Pharaoh literally saw it in a dream. The truth of the crisis lurked at the threshold of his consciousness. Quite possibly imperial expansion had brought the soil to the point of exhaustion and set the stage for failure. His court interpreters, rooted in Egyptian society, couldn’t imagine failure at such a comprehensive scale, so they couldn’t see the warning etched into Pharaoh’s dream.

The midrash in Bereishit Rabbah 41:5 suggests that they understood the dreams as seven daughters who would be born to Pharaoh and then die, seven lands that Pharaoh would conquer and that would later rise up. The symbolism is loose, and the events (personal and military) disconnected from each other—they capture only the general flow and ebb of fortune and misfortune but do nothing to satisfy the sense of urgency that Pharaoh seems to feel. As R. Shmuel David Luzzatto writes:

לא היה מי שידע לפתור אותם לפרעה להנאתו ולהנאת עמו, כי זה הוא מה שהיה פרעה מבקש, שיבינו מתוך חלומו דבר העתיד לבא על עמו ושיועיל למצרים היותו נודע בטרם יבוא . . . שאם אין אתה אומר כן, מי מנע אותם מאמור לו פתרון ככל העולה על רוחם?

Nobody could interpret the dreams to Pharaoh’s and his people’s benefit. For this is what Pharaoh was seeking: to understand from his dream something that will happen to his people in the future that it would help them to know in advance . . . for if this is not so, who could stop them from saying any interpretation that came to mind?

Pharaoh feels in his gut that he has received a warning.

Yosef, a young foreigner, sees the clear and unified warning in the dream—the symbolism is tight and the events of the dream focused on one message. Stout cattle and fat grain will give way to starving cattle and blighted grain: it’s time to act.

The miracle is not that Yosef could interpret the dream, but that Pharaoh could listen to his dark and inconvenient vision, because God had planted within him — he who had the power—a warning of existential crisis for his people.

We should also listen to the warning in our gut.

Yosef’s ability to hear the warning of Pharaoh’s dream means his analysis and advice is of value too. He advises the appointment of a steward who is both knowledgeable (navon) and wise (hakham). Incredibly, this convicted adulterer and foreigner has instantly gained the Pharaoh’s trust—Pharaoh knows that Yosef is that steward. Bereishit Rabbah provides a vivid analogy for the double qualification: navon vehakham is someone who is both strong and well-armed; someone who both knows what to do and has the means to get it done.

According to Ramban, navon refers to a leader who knows how much grain to distribute to the people to meet their needs and brings the surplus to market to generate funds for the state; hakham is one who knows how to manage grain storage and avoid rot. That is, wisdom in economic management and agronomy. A broad view of all the moving pieces and intimate understanding of how all the pieces work together. But implied by this is a suggestion of the plan: hold Egyptian society to strict, but not punitive, rations, in order to build up a formidable surplus to survive the lean years.

Yosef’s stewardship of the crisis led to a reorganization of Egyptian society, described in detail in chapter 47. detect a note of critique in the Torah’s treatment of this reorganization, even suggesting it may have led to the slavery suffered by the Israelites. But his intervention was undeniably appropriate to the scale of the crisis. Suffering and starvation would have destabilized Egyptian society, with local landowners hoarding grain from their poorer neighbors before depleting their own small stores. Yosef recognized that facing the crisis meant facing entrenched social interests that might not share his and Pharaoh’s vision and be reluctant to give up their bounty to a centralized authority. As a magistrate who was navon vehakham—intellectually well-armed—Yosef knew big changes wouldn’t come easily.

In 2023, our years of plenty have passed and the famine is upon us. The flood waters are rising, and no Noah has built an ark to save us. In a world of rising and unbalanced, chaotic , the earth’s ability to sustain God’s creation is in question like never before. And yet even at the dawn of the , a new geological epoch driven by human activity, Northern hemisphere farming is projected to suffer less than the ecospheres of the South, which will be scorched by unlivable heat. We in the US and Canada will find ourselves in a situation similar to Yosef’s Egypt, less damaged by ecosystem collapse and facing a wave of refugees looking for our help. We should welcome a Yosef who comes to change our way of life. We don’t need a Noah who will build an ark and wall others out; we need leadership that paints a vision for how to help ourselves and make space to help others.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

How much distinctiveness should Jews maintain in a society and culture like ours that offers unprecedented opportunity and freedom? How much distinctiveness can we maintain without putting our acceptance in jeopardy? And—perhaps the most difficult question on the communal agenda these days—how much distinctiveness can Jews afford to sacrifice without losing Jewish children and grandchildren to the ways and identity of the majority?

Joseph—the most important figure among the first generation of the children of Israel—struggles with a version of these same dilemmas as he rises from one prison-pit after another to the height of power at the court of Pharaoh. Of all the dramatic moments in the gripping story of his reconciliation with the brothers who once betrayed him, none is more poignant, I think, than when Pharaoh tells Joseph that he will have absolute power limited only by the Pharaoh himself. The astute ruler had taken the measure of Joseph and realized immediately that this “shrewd and perceptive” Israelite was perfectly suited to the nasty work of gathering up all the grain of Egypt during the seven years of plenty, and selling it back to them during the seven years of famine. () He immediately gives Joseph two gifts that can be read as heart-wrenching examples of the price he will pay for that power. Joseph will have an Egyptian name, Tsafenat Pane’ah—“the sustainer of life”—and an Egyptian wife, Asenat, the daughter of a priest, Poti Fera. (41:45).

The story that follows reads differently because of those moves by the king to forcibly integrate Joseph into Egyptian society and culture. Joseph himself testifies to the pain of his situation as the highest outsider in the land. When (vv. 50-52) “two sons were born to [him] by Asenat the daughter of Poti Fera, the priest of On, Joseph called the first-born Menasheh, because ‘God has made me forget completely my hardship and the house of my father.’ And Joseph called the second son Ephraim, because ‘God has made me fertile in the land of my affliction.’” We will soon learn that he has not forgotten the pain suffered in his father’s house. When the brothers arrive to purchase grain, he at once recognizes them and—seeing them bow before him—remembers the dream in which they symbolically had done exactly that. (42:6-9) He has not forgotten his father either: when the brothers return home empty-handed, having left Simeon behind as a hostage, they tell Jacob (43:7) that the man in charge of distributing grain had asked them if their father was still alive—and, in next week’s portion Vayigash, when Joseph finally breaks down in tears and reveals himself to his brothers (45:3), the very first question out of his mouth will be, “Is my father still alive?”

Consider the irony: the survival of the children of Israel is secured by this child of Israel who, married to the daughter of a gentile priest, brings his family down to Egypt, where he and they loyally serve the Pharaoh. The survival of the Children of Israel in a later generation will be secured by another Israelite, that one from the tribe of Levi, also married to the daughter of a gentile priest, who will lead a rebellion that liberates his people from Pharaoh’s service/slavery. (The Hebrew word for “slavery” and “service” is the same.) Had Joseph and Moses not been at home at Pharaoh’s court, wise in the ways of ministers and kings, skillful at magic arts beyond the capacity of Pharaoh’s magicians (dream interpretation and the working of miracles), and gifted with the right word at the right time and inside knowledge of Egyptian society and culture; and had they not, despite all this, retained a strong sense of divine mission and purpose—they would not have been able to perform the redemptive tasks assigned them.

We might say, in contemporary terms, that a certain measure of assimilation was required for their success, as was a measure of resistance to assimilation. Contemporary Jews know from experience that the balance is difficult to calibrate correctly. That has been all the more true of the Jews who have served gentile kings and courts over the centuries—and by so doing, served their people and their God. From the poet and general Shmuel Hanagid at the Spanish court to Henry Kissinger at the Nixon White House to the many humble tax collectors in Polish domains populated by Ukrainian peasants, the Joseph story has time after time repeated itself.

Gerson Cohen, chancellor of 91�첥 from 1972 to 1986 and a magisterial historian of Jewish societies and cultures in many eras on many continents, probed these dilemmas 50 years ago in a brilliant essay entitled “The Blessing of Assimilation in Jewish History.” Cohen took issue with the well-known midrash that attributes Jewish survival to the fact that our ancestors did not change their names, abandon their ancestral language, or stop wearing distinctive clothing. He notes that this generalization did not hold for Jacob’s grandchildren in Egypt (who according to the Torah took Egyptian names such as Aaron and Moses), or for the later generations who adopted Greek names like those of the ambassadors whom Judah Maccabee sent to Rome, Jason and Eupolemos. Nor did Jews refrain from writing and giving sermons in other languages than Hebrew, or (when permitted to do so) from dressing like their gentile neighbors. (The author of this Torah commentary, written in English, of course bears the name Arnold, and happens to be wearing slacks and a V-neck sweater.) Cohen forcefully disputed the claim that Jews survived only by remaining utterly distinct from the cultures that surrounded them. Rather, “a frank appraisal of the periods in which Judaism flourished will indicate that not only did a certain amount of assimilation and acculturation not impede Jewish continuity, but that in a profound sense, this assimilation and acculturation was a stimulus to original thinking and expression, a source or renewed vitality.” (Jewish History and Jewish Destiny, 151)

The lesson of Hannukkah, then, or of the Joseph story, or of countless episodes in the long history of Jewish encounter with gentile ways, is that if Jews assimilate completely to those ways, we lose our own way, and Jewish continuity is lost with it, but if we don’t wish to “ghettoize” ourselves, or allow Judaism to become “fossilized,” we will need “to assimilate—at least to some extent.” (ibid.,152) That has meant learning to speak new languages, and to have Torah speak in those languages. We have adapted customs and laws to new circumstances and found latent meanings in classical texts that previous generations had not seen there. We continue to draw lines that are at times squiggly or blurred, and at other times razor-sharp—and to argue with one another about which kind of boundary is required, and how to maintain it. And thanks to the cycle of weekly Torah readings, Joseph is here with us each year to guide us through the complexities of this holiday season.

This commentary was originally published in 2015

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

We readers are given a detailed account of the brothers’ visit as it unfolds, with a focus on the verbal exchange with Joseph. Joseph’s manner and words reflect animus towards his brothers as he recalls some very difficult moments in his life. Then, when sharing with their father, Jacob, their account of their experience, the brothers’ retelling of what took place in Egypt diverges from what happened earlier in the chapter. The modifications, additions, and omissions are all quite revealing of the mindset of the brothers. It seems to me, reflecting on what might be seen as an innocent omission, that they failed to fully comprehend the harm they had caused Joseph.   

When Jacob sends the brothers to fulfill the important task of travelling to Egypt to procure food for the family, he does not recognize that once again, as was the case with Joseph years earlier, his sending sons away would result in having one fewer son present in his household.

Upon reaching Egypt, the brothers’ identity becomes immediately known to Joseph:

וַיַּ֥רְא יוֹסֵ֛ף אֶת־אֶחָ֖יו וַיַּכִּרֵ֑ם וַיִּתְנַכֵּ֨ר אֲלֵיהֶ֜ם וַיְדַבֵּ֧ר אִתָּ֣ם קָשׁ֗וֹת וַיֹּ֤אמֶר אֲלֵהֶם֙ מֵאַ֣יִן בָּאתֶ֔ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ כְּנַ֖עַן לִשְׁבׇּר־אֹֽכֶל׃

“When Joseph saw his brothers, he recognized them; but he acted like a stranger toward them and spoke harshly to them. He asked them, ‘Where do you come from?’ And they said, ‘From the Land of Canaan, to procure food.’” (Gen. 42:7)

The brothers answer the question “Where do you come from?” rather tersely, saying, “From the Land of Canaan.” They then offer additional information: “To procure food.” Joseph ignores this claim and accuses them of being spies. But before this accusation, the narrator introduces an internal revelation experienced by Joseph:     וַיִּזְכֹּ֣ר יוֹסֵ֔ף אֵ֚ת הַחֲלֹמ֔וֹת אֲשֶׁ֥ר חָלַ֖ם לָהֶ֑ם “And Joseph remembered the dreams that he had dreamed about them” (ibid, v.9).

What exactly did Joseph recall? It seems that Joseph did more than just remember his dreams. Possibly he recalled being doted upon as his father’s favorite, as a result of which his brothers came to hate him and wouldn’t speak a civil word to him. Perhaps he remembered the humiliation he suffered at the hands of his brothers, including when he found them in Dotan and they stripped him of his coat and threw him into a pit in spite of his pleas (ibid, v.21). He very likely thought about how he was drawn from the pit, sold to travelling nomads, brought to Egypt, and sold to Potiphar, a respected dignitary in Pharaoh’s court. And he likely recalled how he became the object of Potiphar’s wife’s sexual interest, resulting in another humiliating scene where he left his clothes in her hands as he ran away to escape her advances. 

Note that among the memories connected to his dreams are two incidents in which he had been left naked. It is no wonder that his accusation toward his brothers of being spies is accompanied by his claim that they are looking to “see the nakedness of the land” וַיֹּ֤אמֶר אֲלֵהֶם֙ מְרַגְּלִ֣ים אַתֶּ֔ם לִרְא֛וֹת אֶת־עֶרְוַ֥ת הָאָ֖רֶץ בָּאתֶֽם׃ “He said to them, ‘You are spies! You have come to see the land in its nakedness!’” (ibid, v.9). Joseph has “nakedness” on the brain, and this accusation against his brothers reflects his mindset. 

Joseph’s accusations toward the brothers are presented in the text in a chiastic formulation (ABBA), which is often used to emphasize the point in the center of the phrase (BB). Joseph accuses his brothers as follows: (v. 9), A – You are spies!  B – You have come to see the land in its nakedness!  B’ – The nakedness of the land you have come to see! (v.12) A’ – You are spies! (v.14). The chiastic format reflects that Joseph’s thoughts at this moment are about nakedness and humiliation much more than espionage.

When the brothers share this ordeal with their father upon their return to Canaan, they make no mention whatsoever of this segment of Joseph’s speech, because the emphasis on nakedness simply meant nothing to them. They didn’t relate these words to the fact that they had left their brother naked in a pit near Dotan. And they certainly were not privy to the attempted seduction by Potiphar’s wife, leaving the “nakedness” portion of Joseph’s tirade understandably omitted from their report to Jacob.          

When recalling an event, we (as human beings) might retell the story with impressive exactitude, describing all that occurred exactly as it happened or quoting spoken words precisely as they were uttered. More likely, however, we will do our best to recall the details, acknowledging that we may miss a specific or two (or three . . .) in the telling. Sometimes, those omissions are deliberate, perhaps in hopes of avoiding possible discomfort to the listener. At other times, our recollection does not include portions of the event or particular words spoken, simply because they meant nothing to us at the time, and subsequently have no conscious presence when we later attempt to produce details to share. This is what happened to Joseph’s brothers, whom I believe did their very best to share their experience with their father honestly and accurately.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

Contranyms are a natural linguistic expression of the Torah’s insistence that a “both/and” perspective is essential to understanding deep truths, other people, and ourselves. The portrayal of Joseph is a prime example:

Is Joseph a hero, who saves everyone from famine? Or is he an authoritarian enabler who, seduced by proximity to power and wealth, sets the stage for oppression by consolidating land, wealth, and population control under Pharaoh?

Are his machinations with his brothers a test of their remorse and repentance, calculated to lead to reconciliation? Or is he using his position to exact revenge, cruelly toying with his brothers’ and father’s fears?

Is he genuinely pious, or does he abuse his charismatic gifts in the service of his ego, invoking God to shore up his position, or to appear humble and disinterested?

Does he truly wield power, or has he surrendered his agency—becoming the highest-ranking slave to Pharaoh, enslaved as well to his own emotional needs?

The answer in every case is “yes.” But it’s hard to hold simultaneously such conflicting views of one person. So depending on how we’ve “read” Joseph in the past and what we expect from our biblical ancestors (do we want to admire and emulate them? do we want to critique them?), we as readers are likely to credit some aspects of the story while discounting or not even noticing other details. As with people in our lives, absent significant effort and ongoing study, we tend to construct for ourselves an artificially smooth narrative of who Joseph is, consisting of only part of the reality.

This tendency helps explain the most striking contranym in the story, the root נכר (nun-khaf-resh), which is used—within a single verse—to mean both “recognize” and “unrecognizable”: “When Joseph saw his brothers, he recognized them (וַיַּכִּרֵ֑ם / vayakirem); but he made himself unrecognizable (וַיִּתְנַכֵּ֨ר / vayitnaker) to them” (Gen. 42:7).

The term refers to actual identification, of course, but suggests much more. I “recognize” someone when I see them accurately as an independent Other, acknowledging and accepting what we share and also how we differ. To “not be recognized” is to be overlooked or seen falsely—as a partial rather than whole self, or a projection of the one seeing.

The problem of recognizing an Other is thus entangled with the problem of recognizing one’s self. If I don’t recognize my own preconceptions, biases, unconsciousness narratives, agendas, etc., how can I know if I’m truly seeing anyone else?

“Joseph recognized (וַיַּכֵּ֥ר / vayaker) his brothers, but they did not recognize him ( לֹ֥א  הִכִּרֻֽהוּ / lo hikruhu)” (Gen. 42:8).

The Midrash explains that Joseph could recognize his brothers because when he left them, they were already fully mature and bearded. He however was a youth, and the greater change in his appearance made him unrecognizable now (Genesis Rabbah 91:7).

But in a stunningly insightful (and contemporary!) reading, the Or Hahayyim (Chaim Ibn Attar, 18th c. Morocco) rejects this. He explains that, usually, once I know you dawns on one person, the Other too senses it unconsciously and begins scrutinizing more carefully, eventually also realizing, ah yes, I do know this person. But the Torah specifically informs us that that didn’t happen. Why? Because seeing him in such an exalted position, says the Or Hahayyim, they had already decided what they would see in him, and “distanced this thought from their consciousness.” In other words, because the brothers’ operative narrative had Joseph in a debased, disempowered state, at the bottom of an actual pit the last time they saw him, they were unable or unwilling to recognize him raised high.

This reading comes remarkably close to what cognitive scientists call confirmation bias—the human tendency to only notice or give credence to data if it can be understood as conforming to our existing beliefs, such that our views of Self and Other tend to reinforce themselves. The brothers’ confirmation bias prevented them from recognizing him. But Joseph “made himself strange” (an alternate translation of vayitnaker)—a good description of the conscious effort required to see past what we already believe—and so he could recognize them.

Now we can understand the profound significance of having the same word mean both “recognize” and “unrecognizable.” A simple inability to make a physical identification may be the result of too little familiarity. But deeper failures of recognition are often a problem of too much familiarity: we fail to truly see someone because we think we already know who they are. Recognition thus depends upon a kind of estrangement, allowing who and what we think we know to become a bit foreign, becoming strangers to ourselves.

It is no accident that this insight is highlighted just at this point in the story, as it begins its movement toward the dramatic reconciliation of brothers who hated and hurt one another. Stepping out of our familiar interior landscapes into a strange land of new thoughts—becoming a bit foreign to ourselves—takes effort and courage. But it is essential to moving past hatred, to seeking and granting forgiveness, to truly seeing and understanding the Other, ourselves, and our world.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Even in looking back at that notebook a few months later, it read to me like an absurdist novel, descriptions of my nighttime bird-like flights over NYC streets, and of conversations with people long gone from my life. It was mostly enjoyable, but sometimes quite disturbing—so much so that my recounts could be difficult to read. And yet, I labeled the notebook as a “luminous journal,” rather than a “dream journal.” Perhaps this was aspirational—I wanted to shed light and sparkle on the sometimes jarring images.

Parashat Miketz kicks off with Pharaoh’s dreams—of standing by the Nile, “ugly, gaunt cows” eating “handsome, sturdy cows” (Gen. 41:2–4), There is then a second dream: “seven ears of grain, solid and healthy” that were swallowed up by “seven ears, thin and scorched by the east wind” (vv. 6–7). Pharaoh’s “spirit was troubled” (v. 8) by his dreams, and was further rattled as no one could interpret their meanings for him, eventually telling Joseph, “I have dreamed a dream, and there is no interpreter for it, but I have heard it said of you [that] you understand a dream, to interpret it.” (v.15).

We often focus our discussions of Parashat Miketz on the serendipity and miracle of Joseph being in the right place in the right time, offering his spot-on interpretation skills to Pharaoh. We can then draw a bold, clear narrative line, connecting the dots from his support of Pharaoh to successfully predicting the dreams and thus saving Egypt from famine, to Egypt becoming the land to which Joseph’s brothers travel for survival, eventually bringing Jacob to reunite with his son. The final connected-dot plot point is the eventual enslavement of Jacob’s descendants in Egypt, leading generations later to our Exodus, emerging peoplehood, and entering the Promised Land.

However, this narrative thread gives short shrift to a brief description of the transition between the two dreams: “and Pharoah awoke. He fell asleep and dreamed a second time” (vs. 4–5) —no action, self-reflection, or speaking aloud between awoke-asleep-second dream. What would have happened if Pharaoh had his own ancient, personal version of a “luminous journal”, a way of recording his dreams in that liminal moment between awoke-asleep? Would he have become his own interpreter, rendering Joseph’s skills irrelevant?

“Rav Ḥisda said: A dream not interpreted is like a letter not read” (BT Berakhot 55a).

Through this lens, the real miracle of the Miketz narrative is that Pharaoh rapidly returned to slumber after the first set of unsettling dreams, vividly dreamt again, and recollected all of his dreams upon reawaking—the entire, collective dreamscape process. Any of us who has ever attempted to recall a vivid dream after falling back to sleep knows that if we are lucky, we are at best left with a lingering feeling, perhaps a small glimmer of memory, but the details are most usually lost, never to be rediscovered. It would have been so easy for the dreams of cows and ears of grain to become ‘letters not read’. And yet, Pharaoh weathered the fits and starts of a sleep-disrupted night and had the motivation, desire, and lucidness to ask for help in understanding what he had seen and experienced.

Miracles come in all sorts of packages, and sometimes we need to double-check to make sure that an unread letter is opened—what might be waiting for us inside? As we celebrate the final days of Hanukkah, may we each recognize the miracles both small and large—of being in the right place at the right time, of finding something that we thought was lost, of hearing words of support and receiving actions of assistance right when we need them. May we experience a luminous hag and Shabbat.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).