Here, however, we get the list of Jacob’s sons, and his grandsons, as well. Curiouser, there is even mention of great-grandsons: Judah’s son Perez’s boys Hetzron and Hamul are listed (), as are some others. Curiouser and curiouser, in addition to the matriarchs who were Jacob/Israel’s wives, we learn the name of Jacob’s daughter Dinah (). And then, although unnamed, we find out in that same verse that Jacob had sons and daughters (note the plural)! The only one of Jacob’s daughters we know by name is Dinah; and we only know about her thanks to her sad misadventure and likely rape at the hands of Shekhem, the local prince, and the violent rampage by her brothers that followed ().

But look carefully, for most curious of all is the mention of Jacob’s son Asher, and Asher’s daughter, Serah. Serah bat Asher is Jacob’s granddaughter. She is mentioned again briefly in another genealogy list in , and finally in . Serah bat Asher is mentioned three times in the Bible; and unlike her aunt Dinah, she seems to have merited mention without extreme suffering and violence.

Her repeated appearance is one of those occasions in Scripture that scream for Midrash to fill in the gaps. Within the Torah, her chief virtue seems to be that she was among the Israelite clan who went down to Egypt during the famine to live off the largesse of her long-lost uncle Joseph. But it’s hard to see what separates her from her unnamed (and unnumbered) sisters who also made the journey. Yet through Midrash, like Alice through the looking glass, in Serah bat Asher, our Sages of blessed memory have given us a heroine for our times!

Early in the third century CE, the Rabbis imagine Serah is still alive in Egypt after centuries, when the Israelites are on the cusp of Exodus. Before they can leave Egypt, the children of Israel must fulfill a vow that their ancestor Joseph had placed upon them. In the very final verses of Genesis, which we will read next week, he adjures them, “Carry up my bones from here” ().

But at that point in the Exodus story, centuries have passed since the Israelites entered Egypt. Who even remembered the vow that Joseph made them take? Why Moses, of course! In the midst of the tumult of the Exodus we are quietly informed, “And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him . . .” (). How did faithful Moses know where Joseph’s bones were buried? The Tosefta Sotah (4:3) teaches that our heroine, long-lived Serah bat Asher, informed him, “In the River Nile are Joseph’s bones!”

Many centuries after the Exodus, long after the Land of Israel has been conquered, a certain no-goodnik named Sheba ben Bichri rebelled against King David (). Sheba sought refuge in a town that David’s general Yoav then besieged. Yoav threatened to destroy that town if they did not surrender Sheba. Scripture teaches that a “wise-woman” counseled them to give up the rebel and save the town. Who was that unnamed wise woman, the Rabbis ask a millennium later ()? Why she was Serah bat Asher; who else?

How long did Serah live? One midrash (Pesikta Derav Kahana 11:13) reports that the third-century CE Sage Rabbi Yohanan claimed that when the Red Sea parted, the walls of water that formed were like an impervious net. Serah bat Asher showed up to correct him, saying, “I was there! The walls of water had transparent windows!”

It is tempting to add to Serah’s adventures. Perhaps we could suggest that she was in another besieged city, Jerusalem, when the King of Babylonia, Nebuchadnezzar, surrounded it on the 10th of Tevet, which this year coincidently falls on December 25th. Or maybe Serah was there to save us on so many other December 25ths during pogroms in the Pale of Settlement. 

Does Serah dwell among us yet today?

A late Midrash, probably from around the year 1300 CE, called Sefer Hayashar, commenting on this week’s Torah reading, tells us why Serah merited to live forever: When the sons of Jacob went down to Egypt during the famine and were met there by their long-lost brother Joseph—he who forgave them, fed them, and helped them survive—they realized they would have to inform their father, who was still anxiously awaiting their return to the Land of Canaan. It would be difficult to let their father know of the cruel deception they had perpetrated upon him, allowing him, for all those years, to believe his beloved Joseph was dead, and watching Jacob mourn him without cease. Who could they send to break this terrible, yet exhilaratingly revivifying, news to him?

The brothers sent Serah bat Asher. She took her lyre and sang to the elderly Jacob, “Od Yosef hai—Joseph still lives” (). When he heard her song, his heart grew faint; for through all his years of despair, he yet held hope. Od Yosef hai, she sang—the very words that Jacob longed to hear. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Jacob rewarded his granddaughter for being the bearer of such good tidings. He blessed her and rewarded her with the promise that she might live forever.

May that song always be our hope: “Od Yosef hai.” For so long as Joseph still lives—and through us forgives and nourishes his family, which is our family—Serah and the Jewish people live forever.

This commentary was originally published in 2020

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

Yet while the incongruity of Jacob’s response to Pharaoh’s question is in some sense humorous, Jacob’s words are heart-rending. They grow out of the existential and ideological divide that separates Jacob from his son. One can speak of three differences between their perspectives.

For Joseph, his reunion with his father is the culmination of the most joyous events of his life. He occupies a place of power, fame, and fortune. His dreams have been fulfilled and his brothers, having unwittingly played a role in their fulfillment, must now not only acknowledge their truth but also accept as their savior the brother they sought to kill. He has been reunited with his beloved brother Benjamin. And he is together once more with his father Jacob—and in Egypt, where his Jacob can see how his son, a stranger in a land not his own and a former slave, has become the second most powerful man in the land. In this Joseph is like any other son, wishing his father to admire him and bask in his accomplishments. But Joseph also wants to show Jacob that his dreams were not idle ones and that Jacob’s gift to Joseph of a multicolored robe was a prefiguration of Joseph’s future success: Joseph’s family is now dependent upon him and he wears the robes of royalty.

Jacob, on the other hand, cares only that he will have an opportunity to see his beloved son once more before dying. Joseph insists, in his instructions to his brothers, “And you must tell my father everything about my high station in Egypt and all that you have seen” (). Yet when the brothers describe Joseph in all his glory and point out the wagons that Joseph has sent to convey Jacob and his family to Egypt, Jacob responds, “Enough! My son Joseph is still alive! I must go and see him before I die” (45:27). To Jacob, Joseph’s present station in life is irrelevant. He cares not whether Joseph is a prince or a pauper; what is important is that Joseph is alive.

The perspectives of Jacob and Joseph also differ in that dwelling in the land of Egypt has very different significance for Jacob than it does for Joseph. At the moment when he reunites with his father Joseph has lived in Egypt for about 23 years, having arrived there when he was but 17. Whatever fond recollections he may have had of his life in Canaan were no doubt largely if not entirely overshadowed by the bitter memory of his brothers’ betrayal. It is not for nothing that he names his firstborn Manasseh thereby declaring that “God has made me forget entirely my hardship and my parental home” (). And the trials and tribulations that befall him in Egypt notwithstanding, it is there that he rises to the heights of power and prestige. Thus he names his second son Ephraim, signifying that “God has made me fertile in the land of my affliction” (v.52).

For Jacob the land of Egypt is yet another way station in a life of wandering and suffering. He has had to flee his father’s house to avoid his brother Esau’s wrath. In Aram he is under the thumb of a manipulative father-in-law whom he ultimately outwits but from whom he must flee as well. His beloved Rachel dies just as he is about to enter the land of his ancestors. This is followed by his daughter Dina’s rape and the consequent mass slaughter at Shekhem, and sexual usurpation of his concubine by his eldest son Reuben. Jacob finally returns home—just in time to bury his father Isaac. And now, in order to be reunited with the son whose disappearance has caused him years of constant grief, he must leave his birthplace once again to take up residence in a strange country. Rather than expressing this to Joseph directly he pours out his heart to Pharaoh, though presumably in Joseph’s presence.

Jacob also understands something that Joseph only comes to realize on his deathbed. Joseph is short-sighted and self-centered; he is seduced by his own dreams. For him the story has reached its happy conclusion. Now that Joseph has become viceroy and his family has joined him in Egypt they and their descendants, he believes, will live in peace and security under the benevolent protection of the pharaohs. But from his sojourn in Aram Jacob knows that there is a dark side to being a guest in a foreign land, as Jacob’s descendants will learn soon enough. And unlike Joseph, Jacob hears the voice of God, the God who has made a covenant with Abraham and his progeny. He therefore knows that the destiny of his clan lies not in Egypt but in Canaan. It is only after God assures him that he—and his descendants—will be brought up once again from Egypt that Jacob consents to relocate himself there. And with his last breath Jacob requires Joseph to swear that he will ensure Jacob’s burial in Canaan.

And so it is for us. Our children do not necessarily share our dreams. We see them wandering toward Egypt, abandoning the land of their ancestors while believing that they have found their true home. At times we need to be with them in Egypt, hoping that by doing so we will help guide them back home. But above all we need, like Jacob, to know that it is enough that our children are alive and well—or at least we must at times accept it as being enough. And they must know that above all we love them, for with love all things are possible.

This 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).

To resolve these kinds of questions and others, scholars theorize that our Torah is actually an amalgam of separate source documents. This theory is called the Documentary Hypothesis (DH). While earlier iterations of the DH focused on thematic, stylistic, or linguistic markers, modern scholars (called Neo-Documentarians) have focused on narrative contradictions, inconsistencies, and redundancies to identify the underlying source documents. This adjustment to earlier documentary models has produced four cohesive and coherent source documents with different narrative and historical claims, providing a literary solution to what is essentially a literary problem.

Parashat Vayiggash is a good place to illustrate the modern scholarship, which sees the Torah’s Joseph story as a combination of three source documents with separate accounts of how and why Jacob descended to Egypt.

The bulk of the Joseph story is attributable to the J document, a document considered by many to be composed in the Southern Kingdom of Judah in the 10th century BCE and the oldest of the sources. In J, the brothers—back from their journey to Egypt—inform Jacob that his long-lost son, Joseph, is alive and well in Egypt, and they bring Jacob there to reunite with him. Leaving Canaan for Egypt is not a concern for Jacob; his grandfather Abraham already did so (see Gen. 12:10, a passage also attributable to J). Indeed, Jacob’s sojourn to Egypt is all a part of God’s overall plan. As Joseph tells his brothers: “it was not you that sent me [to Egypt], but God [who] has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house, and ruler over all the land of Egypt” (Gen. 45:8). The idea of a God who secretly works behind the scenes and whose providence is discernible only after-the-fact, is a hallmark of J.

The story ends with Jacob in the land of Goshen where, in J and only J, the children of Israel live.

The E document, concerned primarily with the northern tribes, is thought to be composed in the Northern Kingdom of Israel in about the 9th century. Here, Jacob doesn’t have to speculate as to God’s hidden intentions. God appears to Jacob in a night vision—a form of divine communication ubiquitous in E—and expressly directs Jacob to go to Egypt where, Jacob is informed by God for the first time, Joseph is waiting for him! In that same communication, God addresses Jacob’s understandable “fear” of descending to Egypt since in E none of the other patriarchs had ever left the Promised Land.

The P document is shaped by the concerns of the Priestly class in Jerusalem and its emphasis on purity and Temple-based sacrificial systems. In contrast to J and E, Jacob’s sojourn to Egypt in the Priestly source is not God’s idea at all. Jacob is simply foraging for food in the face of a catastrophic famine in Canaan. This leads Jacob to bring his sons and their families to Egypt where, in P and only P, there is plenty of food. Jacob feels the license to leave Israel because, in P, there is nothing holy about the land in the absence of God’s in-dwelling there. This will not occur until the Temple is built. In fact, even after God comes down from Heaven on Mount Sinai, His presence (kavod) is not locative. Rather, it is in a portable Sanctuary built to his specifications in which He chooses to dwell.

In P, Jacob is no stranger to life outside of the land. Jacob has traveled to Paddan Aram to find a wife and he sired all twelve of his sons there, including Benjamin. Thus, searching for food, Jacob brings his sons and their families to Egypt where Joseph had previously freely and voluntarily moved (neither kidnaped by the Midianites nor sold to the Ishmaelites), reaching the heights of society. Joseph introduces Jacob to Pharaoh and, with his royal prerogative, settles Jacob not in the backwaters of Goshen, but in the “choicest part of the land,” Rameses.

Each of the separate sources which together form the canonical Joseph story have a clear, cohesive, and coherent story line. Why would anyone turn these internally consistent sources into one difficult-to-read document containing contradictions, inconsistencies, and redundancies? It is hard to speculate about the compiler’s motives. What is obvious, however, is that the compiler considered each of the underlying source documents to be sacred and faithfully sought to preserve them as much as possible—even at the cost of inconsistencies in the final product. Just as later rabbinic literature, like the Midrash, the Mishna, and the Talmud, champion diversity and a pluralism of opinions by featuring a myriad of voices preserved as a mahloket leshem shamayim (debate for the sake of heaven), it is exciting to see that this phenomenon was equally important to the ancient compiler of the Torah as well.

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

Given the absence of any hint of hatred on Joseph’s part, it is easy to be blinded by the ostensible ease of the moment. Joseph is indeed absolutely forgiving. Rashi, in his commentary on Genesis 45:12, quotes a midrash which imagines Joseph proclaiming, “just as I bear no hatred against Benjamin, my brother, for he was not involved in selling me, so too do I harbor no hatred in my heart against you” (Tractate Megilah 16b). Despite Joseph’s readiness to forgive at this point, it is important to note that his reaction is not a spur-of-the-moment decision. His journey toward forgiveness spans three encounters with his brothers, for forgiveness is not born of one dramatic moment but is a product of patience and time.

In the first encounter with his brothers, Joseph is an Egyptian vizier—in charge of rationing Egypt’s abundant provisions in a time of famine. Jacob sent ten of his sons down to Egypt to procure food. The Torah states, “When Joseph saw his brothers, he recognized them; but he acted like a stranger toward them and spoke harshly to them” (Genesis 42:7). Joseph accuses his brothers of being spies, confines them to jail for three days, and then demands that they return to Canaan and bring their youngest brother, Benjamin, down to Egypt. The Hebrew word vayitnaker suggests absolute estrangement and alienation. Memories of his plight at their hands still haunt him. Trust is absent altogether. Joseph does not know whether the brothers have repented for their actions or even felt remorse. And so “Joseph turned away from them and wept” (Gen. 42:24). Hiding, followed by a cry of pain, is the initial response.

Joseph’s second encounter with his brothers brings him a step closer toward reconciliation. This time, Joseph reestablishes more of a connection to his family. Joseph seeks news of his father, asking, “How is your aged father of whom you spoke? Is he still in good health?” (Gen. 43:27). Furthermore, once Joseph lays his eyes on his younger brother Benjamin, he is overcome by emotion, though at this point he is still careful to hide his tears from his brothers: “Joseph hurried out, for he was overcome with feeling toward his brother and was on the verge of tears; he went into a room and wept there. Then he washed his face, went out and restrained himself” (Gen. 43:30). It is through Benjamin, the brother that had not participated in the conspiracy against him, that Joseph begins to reconcile with his past. The alienated Joseph who had spoken harshly in his first encounter begins to let down his guard. Emotions surge. One senses that Joseph desires to reveal himself. However, he controls himself once more and subjects his brothers to one final test to be sure they are truly repentant. Everett Fox, a noted scholar of Bible, comments, “only by recreating something of the original situation—the brothers are again in control of the life and death of a son of Rachel—can Joseph be sure that they have changed” (The Five Books of Moses, 202). To this end, Joseph instructs that his silver goblet be placed in Benjamin’s sack. He sends his steward to retrieve the men, the goblet is discovered in Benjamin’s bag, and the brothers are sent into a panic at the prospect of losing Joseph’s only full brother, son of Jacob’s beloved Rachel.

And so we enter the third encounter. A repentant Judah pleads with Joseph on behalf of a father who has already “lost” a child dear to his heart. Judah’s genuineness and contrite spirit, along with his moving words, penetrate the emotional wall Joseph had built around himself. Unlike Joseph’s response in the second encounter, this time he can no longer restrain himself. The wall has collapsed; he now weeps in the presence of his brothers: “His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh’s palace” (Gen. 45:2). Finally, Joseph is able to confront these Canaanite “strangers” as equals and more importantly, as brothers. Joseph’s process of forgiveness and reconciliation comes full circle.

The trials and tests he placed before his brothers have shown him that they regret their actions and are sincere in their wish to protect their father and youngest brother from further loss and pain. They have earned Joseph’s trust, and he is ready to release the bitterness that he has kept in his heart for so long, to make peace with the past, to forgive. But it is not in the passion of one moment that Joseph forgives; his forgiveness is the result of a process—from absolute alienation to tentative trust, to a complete, cathartic embrace. And, as Fox insightfully remarks, “once the brothers pass the test, life and covenant can then continue” (202).

May we strive to model the forgiving soul of Joseph.

With wishes for a Shabbat shalom.

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

There have been times in my life when my “belief number” was solidly positive; periods where I was inspired by Jewish teachers and expanding my knowledge base, times of solitude and sanctity in nature, times spent in the warmth of community and finding meaning in mitzvot.

And there have also been times where my “belief number” slid significantly negative; a loved one with cancer, a funeral for a friend, social unrest, and yes, a global pandemic.

I find it comforting to discuss my faith openly in this way, for unlike Maimonides, my faith is not “perfect”; nor is it static. Instead, it is dynamic and filled with the potential for skepticism. Or said another way: “I believe with a perfect faith in the existence of my doubt.”

Perhaps it is my “doubt-filled faith” which has always made me feel theologically distant from the Biblical figure of Joseph.

In Parashat Vayiggash, we read of the moment when Joseph finally reveals himself to his brothers, ending the ruse that caused them to bring his youngest brother, Benjamin, down with them to Egypt.

Joseph said to his brothers, “I am Joseph. Is my father still well?” But his brothers could not answer him, so dumfounded were they on account of him.

Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come forward to me.” And when they came forward, he said, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt. Now do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you. It is now two years that there has been famine in the land, and there are still five years to come in which there shall be no yield from tilling.God has sent me ahead of you to ensure your survival on earth, and to save your lives in an extraordinary deliverance. So, it was not you who sent me here, but God; and He has made me a father to Pharaoh, lord of all his household, and ruler over the whole land of Egypt. (Gen. 45 3–8)

Three times in Joseph’s speech to his brothers he makes clear that it was Elohim, God, and not Joseph’s brothers who designed that he be brought down to Egypt. Indeed, it was lemihyah, for the sake of keeping others alive, that God sent Joseph down to Egypt. So, Joseph wasn’t offering forgiveness to his brothers; in fact, he was saying thank you—a thank you born from his deep faith in God’s plan.

Following in this vein, the Sefat Emet (Rabbi Yehuda Aryeh Leib Alter, 1847–1905) sees Joseph’s use of the phrase “I am your bother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt” as being similar to God’s words to Moses in Exodus 34:1. There, following Moses’ smashing of the original tablets, God says:

“Carve two tablets of stone like the first, and I will inscribe upon the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you shattered.”

In Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 87a we find a midrash of Reish Lakish on this phrase “which you shattered”:

            “Yishar Kohakha—that you shattered them!” “Good for you for breaking them!”

Therefore, the Sefat Emet explains, in both Joseph’s recollection of his brothers selling him into slavery and in God’s commandment to Moses to inscribe new tablets to replace the ones he broke, a past mistake is brought up not as a moment of admonishment, but as a profound statement of gratitude; a gratitude that is born from faith. God has a plan. Even in the deepest and darkest pits of despair, like the one Joseph found himself in, gam zu letovah[1] (this too can be designed for good; designed to be lemihyah, to bring life).

In his commentary to our parashah, the Netivot Shalom (Rabbi Sholom Noah Berezovsky, 1911–2000) shares a story from the Zohar about what makes Joseph such a unique figure of righteousness and faith in our tradition.

Rabbi Abba was walking on the road, when he saw two divine miracles take place to a man who was seemingly unaware. Rabbi Abba asked him why he merited such miracles? The man explained that each and every day he forgives all those who do wrong to him; but not only that, he also seeks to pay them back with goodness! At this Rabbi Abba cried: “This is even greater than what is said about Joseph, since this one not only forgives completely, but he also returns them an immediate kindness!”

Perhaps surprised by Rabbi Abba’s statement in the Zohar that this man’s actions were “even greater” than Joseph’s, the Netivot Shalom explains:

And why was this greater even than Joseph? It is because Joseph’s faith came to him due to his exceeding holiness, that he was never conditioned to see that anything could be for bad, seeing as it was all part of the Divine plan; Joseph only saw the purpose, the ultimate vision of how things would turn out in the end.

These past two years have, at times, felt like we have all been living in Joseph’s pit. The walls surrounding us and separating us feel tall and immense, and it has been a struggle to see the light at the end of the pandemic’s tunnel. As such, it is only natural that my “belief number” on that number line has seen its slides to the left, questioning the very purpose of the darkness which seems to envelop us.

But these past two years have also been about surrendering the once-held illusion that we have such careful control of our lives, our careers, our families, and our very own bodies. We have all been taught the difficult but important lesson that the very “normalcy” of our lives might be irrevocably disrupted because of something we cannot even see with our naked eye.

And so, as we emerge from the darkness, I hope that we will turn to Joseph and borrow his ability to see not merely the present, but the purpose of God’s plan for our lives. And although I believe with a perfect faith in the existence of my doubt, I pray that this experience also pushes me and my “belief number” firmly toward faith.

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

[1] See B.T. Taanit 21a

Here, however, we get the list of Jacob’s sons, and his grandsons, as well. Curiouser, there is even mention of great-grandsons: Judah’s son Perez’s boys Hetzron and Hamul are listed (Gen. 46:12), as are some others. Curiouser and curiouser, in addition to the matriarchs who were Jacob/Israel’s wives, we learn the name of Jacob’s daughter Dinah (Gen. 46:15). And then, although unnamed, we find out in that same verse that Jacob had sons and daughters (note the plural)! The only one of Jacob’s daughters we know by name is Dinah; and we only know about her thanks to her sad misadventure and likely rape at the hands of Shekhem, the local prince, and the violent rampage by her brothers that followed (Gen. 34).

But look carefully, for most curious of all is the mention of Jacob’s son Asher, and Asher’s daughter, Serah. Serah bat Asher is Jacob’s granddaughter. She is mentioned again briefly in another genealogy list in Numbers 26:46, and finally in 1 Chronicles 7:30. Serah bat Asher is mentioned three times in the Bible; and unlike her aunt Dinah, she seems to have merited mention without extreme suffering and violence.

Her repeated appearance is one of those occasions in Scripture that scream for Midrash to fill in the gaps. Within the Torah, her chief virtue seems to be that she was among the Israelite clan who went down to Egypt during the famine to live off the largesse of her long-lost uncle Joseph. But it’s hard to see what separates her from her unnamed (and unnumbered) sisters who also made the journey. Yet through Midrash, like Alice through the looking glass, in Serah bat Asher, our Sages of blessed memory have given us a heroine for our times!

Early in the third century CE, the Rabbis imagine Serah is still alive in Egypt after centuries, when the Israelites are on the cusp of Exodus. Before they can leave Egypt, the children of Israel must fulfill a vow that their ancestor Joseph had placed upon them. In the very final verses of Genesis, which we will read next week, he adjures them, “Carry up my bones from here” (Gen. 50:25).

But at that point in the Exodus story, centuries have passed since the Israelites entered Egypt. Who even remembered the vow that Joseph made them take? Why Moses, of course! In the midst of the tumult of the Exodus we are quietly informed, “And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him . . .” (Exod. 13:19). How did faithful Moses know where Joseph’s bones were buried? The Tosefta Sotah (4:3) teaches that our heroine, long-lived Serah bat Asher, informed him, “In the River Nile are Joseph’s bones!”

Many centuries after the Exodus, long after the Land of Israel has been conquered, a certain no-goodnik named Sheba ben Bichri rebelled against King David (2 Sam. 20). Sheba sought refuge in a town that David’s general Yoav then besieged. Yoav threatened to destroy that town if they did not surrender Sheba. Scripture teaches that a “wise-woman” counseled them to give up the rebel and save the town. Who was that unnamed wise woman, the Rabbis ask a millennium later (Eccl. Rabbah 9:18:12)? Why she was Serah bat Asher; who else?

How long did Serah live? One midrash (Pesikta Derav Kahana 11:13) reports that the third-century CE Sage Rabbi Yohanan claimed that when the Red Sea parted, the walls of water that formed were like an impervious net. Serah bat Asher showed up to correct him, saying, “I was there! The walls of water had transparent windows!”

It is tempting to add to Serah’s adventures. Perhaps we could suggest that she was in another besieged city, Jerusalem, when the King of Babylonia, Nebuchadnezzar, surrounded it on the 10th of Tevet, which this year coincidently falls on December 25th. Or maybe Serah was there to save us on so many other December 25ths during pogroms in the Pale of Settlement. 

Does Serah dwell among us yet today?

A late Midrash, probably from around the year 1300 CE, called Sefer Hayashar, commenting on this week’s Torah reading, tells us why Serah merited to live forever: When the sons of Jacob went down to Egypt during the famine and were met there by their long-lost brother Joseph—he who forgave them, fed them, and helped them survive—they realized they would have to inform their father, who was still anxiously awaiting their return to the Land of Canaan. It would be difficult to let their father know of the cruel deception they had perpetrated upon him, allowing him, for all those years, to believe his beloved Joseph was dead, and watching Jacob mourn him without cease. Who could they send to break this terrible, yet exhilaratingly revivifying, news to him?

The brothers sent Serah bat Asher. She took her lyre and sang to the elderly Jacob, “Od Yosef hai—Joseph still lives” (Gen. 45:26). When he heard her song, his heart grew faint; for through all his years of despair, he yet held hope. Od Yosef hai, she sang—the very words that Jacob longed to hear. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Jacob rewarded his granddaughter for being the bearer of such good tidings. He blessed her and rewarded her with the promise that she might live forever.

May that song always be our hope: “Od Yosef hai.” For so long as Joseph still lives—and through us forgives and nourishes his family, which is our family—Serah and the Jewish people live forever.

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

After hearing Judah’s words, Joseph is overcome and finally makes himself known to his brothers:

“Then Joseph could not restrain himself before everyone who stood by him, and he cried: ‘Get everyone away from me.’ No one was standing with Joseph when he revealed his identity to his brothers. And he wept aloud, and the Egyptians heard, and the house of Pharaoh heard. And Joseph said to his brothers: ‘I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?’” (Gen. 45:1-3)

In these powerful verses, Joseph expresses a need both for concealment and for self-expression. He is about to tell the truth to his brothers, but he also demands that the others around him leave. If he is about to make public an identity that is no secret from those around him, what then is motivating Joseph’s demand to be alone with his family? Rashi tells us that by making sure that only family is left in the room, Joseph is acting out of a desire to protect his family from any further humiliation: he does not want the Egyptians to see his brothers put to shame when they realize who he is. According to this read, Joseph’s need to expel the Egyptians demonstrates that he is beginning to express compassion for his brothers.

But perhaps Joseph’s need for privacy at that moment has less to do with Joseph’s feelings towards his brothers and more to do with Joseph’s awareness, even self-consciousness, of his own emotional reactions. In his explanation of this verse, Rashbam focuses on the fact that we are told that Joseph “could not restrain himself,” and calls our attention to the appearance of Joseph’s self-restraint two chapters earlier, when Joseph first sees Benjamin in Egypt. Immediately after he recognizes his brother, the Torah tells us:

“Joseph hurried out, for he was growing warm and tender toward his brother and was on the verge of tears; he went to a room and wept there. Then he washed his face, reappeared, and restrained himself, and he said, ‘Set out the bread.’” (43:30-31)

Joseph notices that his emotions are welling up and he is about to cry. He immediately leaves the room and cries in private. When he emerges, his face is washed clean of tears and his true feelings of compassion and warmth towards his brother are hidden under a veneer of restraint.

Rashbam explains that from that point until the moment he decides to reveal himself to his brothers, Joseph “was able to do everything he did”—that is, continuing to carry out his deceit towards his brothers—“because he was restraining himself in his heart.” In other words, his ability to suppress his own emotions is what enabled his cruel manipulation of his family. Now that he is no longer able to restrain himself, however, he cannot maintain the deception, and he is overcome by weeping and his own desire to make amends.

When read alongside Joseph’s earlier reaction to his own weeping, then, it seems as though Joseph’s demand to be left alone may come from a place of not wanting his emotionally vulnerable side to be publicly revealed. Joseph is a political ruler, after all; perhaps his weeping could be seen as a sign of weakness by his subjects. Yet ironically, Joseph’s request for privacy is revealed to be completely ineffective: this time, when he cries, he is so loud that he is audible to everyone in the building.

Whereas earlier Joseph wept in secret, now Joseph is unable to hide the intensity of his emotion, not just from his family but from the people who are likely essentially his courtiers. Even though his powerful role may have served as a barrier to his ability to express vulnerability, he is unable to maintain his grip on himself any longer, and he reveals his full self. And it is in this moment of complete self-disclosure, of not only the outer trappings of his identity but his inner emotional life, that he is able to make amends with his brothers. If Joseph’s earlier self-restraint enabled his cruelty, his release now enables his compassion.

A powerful male political leader is perhaps an unusual role model for emotional honesty and vulnerability—but he also may serve as a role model precisely for those of us who, for reasons of gender, profession, or general personality, spend most of the time with a tight rein on our emotional self-expression. It is all the more striking that despite his ability to control himself most of the time, Joseph also lets go when he needs to, and it is only at this moment that he is able to become his best self and heal wounds that were created by long-ago interactions and family dynamics. If only we all could learn, as Joseph did over these few chapters, how to display our soft underbellies when we need to, and to allow our raw and tender emotions to show us how to be kind.

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

If you have made a statement about dying in a moment of joy, you are in good company. In this week’s parashah, Jacob reunites with his beloved son, Joseph, after 22 years of separation during which Jacob believed that Joseph was dead. Their emotional reunion is described in this passage:

Joseph ordered his chariot and went to Goshen to meet his father Israel [Jacob]; he presented himself to him and, embracing him around the neck, he wept on his neck a good while. Then Israel [Jacob] said to Joseph, “Now I can die, having seen for myself that you are still alive.” (Gen. 46: 29–30)

Jacob’s statement brings us right back to our initial paradox: why would Jacob wish to die, when we imagine he would want to spend as much time as possible with his son upon being reunited?

The obvious answer is that if Jacob had died before seeing Joseph again, he would have felt incomplete. Now that he has been granted his final wish, he can die satisfied. A sixteenth-century Italian rabbi, Seforno, adds an additional layer to Jacob’s statement. Seforno writes that Jacob did not merely mean that he would be satisfied if he happened to die at that moment, but that he actually wanted to die right then and there. He had experienced so many troubles in his life, and every time he was spared from one, another emerged. After ending his separation from Joseph and finally discovering that Joseph was indeed alive, he could not bear to handle any more troubles, so he prays to die and to be spared of any potential distress between that moment and the end of his life. Jacob is tired. He is tired of struggling, and when he finally reaches a moment of peace, he wants to hold onto it forever, meaning he must die.

We can imagine the degree of emotional distress Jacob could have experienced in believing that his son was dead, but not all of our traditional Torah commentators agree that Jacob truly believed this. Or Hahaim, a classical commentary written by a Moroccan Kabbalist and Talmudist in the eighteenth century, argues that Jacob actually did know that Joseph was alive and well, and even that he had become powerful. What Jacob did not know, however, was the state of Joseph’s soul. Given all that Joseph had experienced as a slave and then as a powerful ruler, Jacob did not know if Joseph could have preserved his righteousness. Perhaps Joseph had given up on God during his enslavement and mistreatment, or perhaps Joseph had forgotten God while consumed by his own power and influence. It is only once Jacob sets eyes on Joseph that he knows Joseph has not changed. Joseph’s soul was Jacob’s fundamental concern, according to Or Hahaim, so Jacob needs to see Joseph in order to be at peace.

After Jacob finally finds peace in reuniting with Joseph, learning that Joseph is safe, and seeing Joseph’s righteousness, we might expect that Jacob’s wish would come true, and he would die. But Jacob lives for another 17 years after this moment! Though Jacob’s life is complete in that verse, it is not over.

The distinction between a life that is complete and a life that is over is a critical one for us too. Ira Byock, an American physician and author, devotes an entire book to this topic, entitled, The Four Things that Matter Most. Byock writes exactly what Jacob teaches us, that though we often use the word “complete” to mean finished, it may not always mean that. We all know that a relationship can be complete but not over, or over but not complete. Complete just means that it is whole, reconciled, and at peace. It means that if we were to die tomorrow, we would have no regrets; we would feel we had left nothing undone or unsaid.

Based on his work in palliative care, Byock has identified four “things” that he believes people need to say to one another to feel whole. They are:

Please forgive me.
I forgive you.
Thank you.
I love you.

We might think of Byock’s four things when standing around the deathbed of a loved one, but do we think of them in all of our interactions, every time we say hello and goodbye? It is possible for it to be too late for the four things, but it is never too early. When Jacob finally looks his beloved son in the eyes after 22 years of separation and agony, Jacob finds wholeness. His life is complete, and his life will continue.

In the verse immediately preceding Jacob’s comment about dying, Joseph weeps on his father’s neck during their reunion, but Jacob does not weep. Rashi tells us that Jacob does not weep because he is busy reciting the Shema, renewing his allegiance to God upon settling in a new land. I wonder if there could be an alternate explanation for his saying the Shema. Traditionally, we recite the Shema just before death, so that we are fully reconciled in our faith in God in our final moments. Perhaps, having finally found wholeness in his relationships with human beings, Jacob suddenly feels the need to find wholeness in his faith in God too. If he is truly ready to die after this reunion, he needs to be whole in all of his relationships. These two verses are Jacob’s version of Byock’s four things and Judaism’s deathbed recitation of the Shema. He is finally whole.

We need not wait until moments before death to seek wholeness. We can turn to our loved ones with Byock’s four things, with Jacob’s love and concern, with Jacob’s wishes for his child’s physical and spiritual wellbeing, with Jacob’s faith, and with whatever is in our hearts. We hope that our lives are far from over, but close to complete.

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).