How do you recreate a relationship after a decade of forced separation? Shakespeare explored this question in The Winter’s Tale when King Leontes is reunited with his daughter, Perdita after the passage of sixteen years. The play ends with a joyful reunion and with a wedding, which is the textbook definition of a comedy, and yet, the shadow of tragedy, the death of Leontes’ older son, Mamillius, clouds the play’s ending. It’s not a tragedy, but it isn’t quite a comedy. Some Shakespeare scholars consider The Winter’s Tale, and a handful of similar plays, to be “romances” – plays with a happy ending that are nonetheless too dark or too poignant to be called comedies. They cannot elide the shadow of an encounter with tragic loss.
In our parasha, Yaakov is reunited with his beloved son Yosef. Their reunion is joyous and one of the most emotionally evocative moments in the Torah. It also never quite resolves some of the outstanding tensions and questions of Yaakov’s relationships with his wives and with his children, and their relationships with one another. As always, a careful reading of the Torah, reveals more…
When the brothers return to Eretz Yisrael to retrieve their father and tell him the unimaginably good news that his long lost son Yosef is not only alive and not only thriving, but is, in fact, the second to Pharaoh and executive director of all Egypt, the Torah describes the delegation that was sent from Egypt to Eretz Yisrael:
וַיַֽעֲשו־כֵן֙ בְנֵ֣י יִשְראֵ֔ל וַיִתֵ֨ן לָהֶ֥ם יוסֵ֛ף עֲגָל֖ות עַל־פִ֣י פַרעֹ֑ה וַיִתֵ֥ן לָהֶ֛ם צֵד֖ה לַדָֽרְ׃
“…Joseph gave them wagons as Pharaoh had commanded, and he supplied them with provisions for the journey.”
Whose idea was it to send wagons to Eretz Yisrael to help with the move? Pharaoh ordered the wagons to go to Eretz Yisrael. What happens when the wagons reach Eretz Yisrael?
וַיַגִ֨דו ל֜ו לֵאמֹ֗ר ע֚וד יוסֵ֣ף חַ֔י וְכִֽי־ה֥וא מֹשֵ֖ל בְכָל־אֶ֣רץ מִצְר֑יִם וַיָ֣פָג לִב֔ו כִ֥י לא־הֶאֱמִ֖ין לָהֶֽם׃ כז וַיְדבְר֣ו אֵלָ֗יו אֵ֣ת כָל־דִבְר֤י יוסֵף֙ אֲשֶ֣ר דִבֶ֣ר אֲלֵהֶ֔ם וַיַרא֙ אֶת־הָ֣עֲגָל֔ות אֲשֶר־שָלַ֥ח יוסֵ֖ף לָשֵ֣את אֹת֑ו וַתְחִ֕י ר֖וחַ יַעֲק֥ב אֲבִיהֶֽם׃
And they told him, “Joseph is still alive; yes, he is ruler over the whole land of Egypt.” His heart went numb, for he did not believe them. But when they recounted all that Joseph had said to them, and when he saw the wagons that Joseph had sent to transport him, the spirit of their father Jacob revived.
Yaakov is reluctant to believe that Yosef is still alive. It is just too good to be true. Yaakov doesn’t allow himself to believe that Yosef is alive. Perhaps, as is often the case in the aftermath of an unexpected tragedy, Yaakov nourished a fantasy that somehow, somewhere, his beloved Yosef was alive. But because it was a comforting fantasy, he had trouble making that shift to recognizing that his son was alive on earth and not just in his fantasies. Somehow and for some unexplained reason, seeing the wagons convinces Yaakov that his son is alive.
The Torah says that Yaakov understands that Yosef is alive when he sees the wagons that Yosef had sent
וַיַרא֙ אֶת־הָ֣עֲגָל֔ות אֲשֶר־שָלַ֥ח יוסֵ֖ף
Which is different from how those wagons were introduced just a few verses earlier—
וַיִתֵ֨ן לָהֶ֥ם יוסֵ֛ף עֲגָל֖ות עַל־פִ֣י פַרעֹ֑ה
Pharaoh is the essential cause of wagons being part of the delegation, but Yaakov sees the wagons as being somehow a unique confirmation that Yosef is alive and that it was Yosef who sent the wagons.
The midrash is sensitive to these questions – why did the wagons convince Yaakov that his son was alive and why are the wagons referred to as wagons sent by Yosef when it was Pharaoh who ordered their inclusion. The midrash explains that Agalah or wagon in Hebrew, sounds similar to Eglah, or calf and is written with the same letters The midrash isn’t explaining why these words sound the same, and the midrash didn’t emerge out of an assumption that these two words that sound the same must be connected. Rather, the midrash is trying to explain the true importance of the moment. The midrash is noting that Yaakov is strangely fixated on the wagons. Why do wagons comfort him? Why does he believe that Yosef is alive when Yaakov sees wagons yet was incredulous when his own sons told him that they had just seen Yosef?
Rashi, quoting this midrashic tradition says:
סִימָן מָסַר לָהֶם בַמֶה הָיָה עוסֵק כְשֶפֵרש מִמֶנו – בְפַרשַת עֶגְלָה עֲרופָה, זֶהו שֶנֶאֱמַר וירא את העגלות :אשר שלח יוסף, וְלא נֶאֱמַר אֲשֶר שָלַח פַרעֹה
Yosef sent a sign to his father. What topic had they been studying when they separated all those years ago? They had been learning about the mitzvah of eglah arufah, the calf whose neck must be broken according to Deuteronomy 21. By hinting to the unfinished lesson, interrupted and unfinished years earlier, Yosef proved to his father that he was still alive.
To understand the significance of this teaching, we need to review the mitzvah of the calf with the broken neck. Deuteronomy 21 teaches that when a dead body is found in an unsettled wilderness outside of any city, the elders must perform a ceremony in which a calf from the nearest town has its neck broken by a stream outside that city. The elders of that nearest city must then swear that “they have not shed the blood of this anonymous victim”.
יָד֗ינו ל֤א שפכה [שָֽפְכו֙] אֶת־הַדָ֣ם הַזֶ֔ה וְעֵינֵ֖ינו ל֥א ראֽו׃
The rabbis were very sensitive to the absurdity of a ritual in which the elders are forced to take an oath that they personally are innocent of the murder of this individual. Who would think that the elders of the court are murderers? In Rashi’s words:
וכי עלתה על לב שזקני בית דין שופכי דמים הם
”would it ever arise in your mind to think that the elders of the court are murderers?” Rashi answers with one of several possible interpretations of this ritual:
אלא לא ראינוהו ופטרנוהו בלא מזונות ובלא לויה
“we did not see him in our city and send him off without food or without escort.” Part of the responsibility for preventing the victimization of vulnerable passersby as they travel from town to town devolves upon the leadership of each town to ensure that travelers are offered food, shelter, and an escort lest they fall victim to dangers lurking beyond.
It is anachronistic to imagine Yosef and his father studying a mitzvah in the Torah that had not yet been given (we spoke about that a few weeks ago). But, if the mitzvot express a certain ethos or an ethical vision, then it is quite possible to imagine the father and son discussing the values of their family and the nation it will one day form. One of the defining characteristics of Jewish communities is the practice of hachnasat orchim, welcoming guests to our community and shepherding them to safety.
Robert Putnam’s book Bowling Alone, a book I’ve mentioned several times over the years that I’ve been here, describes the decline of social-capital in modern, suburbanized America. Over recent generations there has been a 35% drop in inviting friends or neighbors over for meals, a 43% decline in family dinners, and a 58% drop in attending club meetings. Bowling teams have disappeared across the United States even as bowling has endured as a popular activity. But now, we “bowl alone” – hence the title of the book. We now “bowl alone” just as we eat alone, engage in recreation alone, and live more isolated lives with less social-capital. This decline in social capital has had deleterious effects on all facets of American life. Joining and participating in one group cuts in half one’s risk of death in the coming years.
As active members of a shul community, we understand the value of social capital. When we meet a chevruta and study Torah together in the beit mdirash instead of alone in our living rooms, we are building social capital while we learn Torah. When we pray with a minyan instead of in isolation in our homes, we are building social capital while fulfilling the mitzvah of tefilah b’tzibbur. The way in which the playgrounds in our neighborhood spontaneously fill will our children on warm Shabbat afternoons, with no need for prior planning or coordination, is a testament to the power of social-capital in our community. Indeed, several months before I moved here, I met a young woman who had spent Shabbat in Lakeview- it was the first time she had ever celebrated Shabbat among a community of her peers who also celebrated Shabbat as she did and she was absolutely captivated by the opportunities for spontaneous and casual friendly interactions on Shabbat that are made possible by a critical mass of people who live within walking distance of one another and who spend Shabbat doing similar activities (and avoiding similar activities).
Every time we invite a friend to our home for a Shabbat meal we are building social capital within our shul community and that is a valuable thing and that is a necessary thing for our community to remain vital and warm. But, inviting your friends over for a Shabbat meal is not the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim. If your guests also have homes in the same community where you live, they do not qualify as “orchim” the halakhic category of “guests.” Guests, by definition, are those in need of hospitality because they are not able to find a meal on their own because they don’t live here or don’t have the resources to make a Shabbat meal.
Beneath the joy of reunion, Yosef and Yaakov were having a silent dialogue. By sending agalot, Yosef was reminding his father that the mitzvah of eglah arufah teaches ultimate responsibility for anyone who might be vulnerable as they travel in open and unsettled areas. Yosef was questioning his father’s own role in sending Yosef into great danger all those years ago when, as a seventeen year old kid, he stumbled into his brothers’ plot.
And, as we contemplate the happy reunion of Yosef and his father, let’s be sensitive to the ways in which the story leaves some questions unresolved and leaves some loose ends un-tied. It’s not quite a Shakespearean comedy, all is not well and all has not ended well. Let’s channel the enduring dissonance in the aftermath of this story into a commitment to set an extra seat at our Shabbat and holiday tables for an unexpected guest. You can let the hospitality committee know (hospitality@asbi.org) that you have one, or two, or three open seats at your meal in case they know of individuals searching for a place to eat. In this way, the social capital, the warmth and vibrancy of our community will be joined by a compassionate sense of responsibility for others. The children of Yaakov can do no less.
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 