Yosef and the Consciousness of Redemption

A friend once told me a story about two relatives of his that were survivors from the Holocaust; they were a brother and a sister named Yaakov and Sarah. I don’t remember all the details, but like so many families during the war they were separated and sent to labor camps.

After the war, Sarah, still only a young adult, somehow made it to America on her own. She never found conclusive evidence for the deaths of her family, including her beloved brother Yaakov. Many years passed, and no new information surfaced; she had no reason but to assume the worst.

Thirty years later, the phone rang. She said hello, but there was only silence. She said hello again, and still silence. Then she heard two words that sent a chill through her body: “It’s Yaakov.”

I don’t remember how Yaakov made it to America, or how he had survived the war and the years after, but I’m reminded of this haunting story every year when we read the Torah portion Vayigash.

The climax of the story of Yosef and his brothers reaches its momentous peak with possibly the two most evocative words in the entire Torah: Ani Yosef, I am Yosef.

Rabbi Mordechai Yosef, known as the Ishbitzer, one of our great Polish Chasidic sages, gives us a broader insight into the impact contained within these two words. He explains that the story of Yosef and his brothers is the model for the future redemption of the Jewish people.

From the brothers’ perspective, their journey has gone completely awry. Binyamin has been taken captive by an Egyptian ruler for a crime he did not commit, and the consequences for returning without him are too great to bear. After hearing the news, their father Ya’akov would be dead to the world. The brothers had no hope in sight.

Yet Yehuda’s plea to take him as a servant instead of Binyamin opened Yosef’s heart: “I am Yosef,” he cried out. It was not you, but God who sent me here to provide for my father and for our family. Suddenly, salvation arrived from the very source of their impending tragedy.

Everything changed the moment Yosef revealed himself. Yet the only real transformation was the perspective of the brothers. Salvation arrived through a shift in consciousness.

Whether the redemption that we’re searching for is big or small, we can find solace in the story of Yosef and his brothers – that salvation arrives in the blink of an eye, and from the most surprising of places.

Lights that Reach the Lowest Place

Though I didn’t grow up in an observant home, there was one holiday whose laws we kept with strict adherence. Every night of Hanukkah the menorahs were set on the table, each one with the appropriate number of multi-colored candles ready to be lit, accompanied by small sacks of plastic netting filled with chocolate coins, and a wrapped present for each member of the family.

Hanukkah, unlike the other Jewish holidays, is embraced in all of its particulars in a way that no other holiday is. One could cynically argue that the Western consumer culture of the holiday season in December gives Hanukkah extra credence. But I believe there is more to the matter.

Netivot Shalom, a recent Chasidic work written by the previous rebbe of Slonim, Rabbi Sholom Noach Berezovski, offers a different answer. He points out a unique halacha about the placement of the Hanukkah candles. As opposed to Shabbat candles, which should be placed no lower than 10 handbreadths above the ground, Hanukkah candles ideally should be placed above 3 and lower than 10 handbreadths from the ground.

What is the significance of placing Hanukkah candles in such a low place?

The decrees made by the Greeks were a part of a spiritual war waged against Israel; under punishment of death they were not allowed to keep Shabbat, perform circumcision, sanctify the new moon, or learn Torah. Without their connection to mitzvot, the Jews fell to a destitute spiritual level. Yet even in this lowly state, void of mitzvot, Hashem saved them from the oppression and made a miracle in the Temple.

The holiday maintains this message. No matter how far a Jew is from observance-- even from Jewish identity-- still the lights of Hanukkah speak to him or her. There are no spiritual prerequisites to connect to these miracles. Just as it was then, so too now; it’s the holiday that reaches down and speaks to every Jew, and brings light to those places that are farthest from it.

Experiencing Shabbat Every Day

Every week I feel that I need Shabbat more than the previous week. For me and my family, it’s a time to reconnect to ourselves, to each other, and to Hashem. We can spend time together without making plans, take more time with our prayers in shul, learn and share ideas on the weekly Torah portion, enjoy our favorite foods, and of course take a holy Shabbos shluff.

But Shabbat is much more than these experiences. Rav Avraham Danzig, an important Lithuanian scholar in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, writes in his well-known halachic work Chayei Adam an important introduction to the laws of Shabbat. The commandment to remember Shabbat does not only apply on Shabbat itself; we are commanded to remember Shabbat every day.

This relates to the story of Shammai in the Tractate Beitza; when he would walk through the marketplace and find an especially nice item, he would purchase it and say, “This is special for Shabbat.”

Additionally, when we count the days of the week in Hebrew, on Sunday we say, Hayom yom rishon l’Shabbat, this is the first day of Shabbat. Shabbat is mentioned every day because every day draws blessing from it. The first three days of the week draw from the Shabbat that has just passed, and the last three days of the week draw from the coming Shabbat.

Shabbat is not a once-a-week event, but rather a consciousness that is meant to instill each and every day with a proper perspective. Shabbat is the foundation of faith with which God created the world; yet during the six days, we can lose focus of the Source of our creative energy. It’s easy to keep one’s priorities straight sitting at a table filled with family, food, and a long morning in shul. But remembering that Hashem is at the center of our lives on a Tuesday night when one is overstressed, underpaid, and lacking sleep is not as easy. Finding Shabbat hidden in each day means seeing Hashem as the Creator of the World in each moment, whether it is filled with success or with challenge.

The Constant Prayer of the Soul

One of the more paradoxical daily obligations of a Jewish male is the thrice-daily prayers.

On one hand, what an incredible spiritual sensitivity our sages had in enacting a system where one must constantly take pause in order to connect with one’s Creator.

On the other hand, what a nearly impossible task to recite the same words each day, three times a day, and attempt to make the experience meaningful!

Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, in his introduction to his commentary to the prayer book, sees prayer through a much broader lens. He writes the following:

“True prayer only comes through the awareness that the soul is always praying. Is it not soaring and nestling with its beloved (Hashem) in a constant union? When one actually stands in prayer, the constant soulful prayer is revealed to the world.” (Olot HaReiya, Inyanei Tefilla Bet)

According to Rav Kook, the assumption that a Jew prays three times a day is incorrect. We are always engaged in prayer, though we may not realize it. On an inner level our soul is constantly reaching out towards its Creator, desiring true good for itself, for the Jewish people, and for the entire world. Standing in prayer and speaking the words instituted by our sages (as well as adding our own prayers) gives a framework for the small, still voice in our hearts to be actualized.

The real challenge of prayer, then, is not only saying the words with feeling, but learning to listen to the quiet whispers of our soul. When we reach greater awareness of the prayers in the recesses of our hearts, there is no doubt that the experience will be as our sages had in mind, a vehicle for the expression of our most noble desires.

The Human Being: A Potent Pile of Dirt

The Torah’s depiction of the creation of the human is unique in relation to all other aspects of creation: “And Hashem Elokim created man from the dirt of the ground…” (Genesis 2:7).

When reading the passage in Hebrew, one can’t miss the similarity between the word for man, adam, and the word for ground or soil, adama. What does the etymological similarity of dirt and man teach us about the nature of the human being?

It cannot mean that man is a lowly being, worthy of being trampled upon, inherently unrefined, or filled with sin. Man is the crown jewel of all creation, as we see again and again in the creation story. He is put in charge of all the earth’s creatures; he is also told to work the garden and guard it.

The Maharal of Prague gives an important explanation for the connection between adam and adama. The uniqueness of the human is that he was not created fully actualized. In fact, unlike every other living species, he can never reach absolute completion. The human being exists in a constant state of unearthing potential.

This is why we are called adam, because dirt is that entity that actualizes potential. Without dirt, a redwood seed can never grow into a giant tree. The ground is a symbol for actualizing potential. This is the unique nature of the human; always in process, able to become more whole, but never fully arriving (at least in the physical world).

There are two sides to this; true, we are in our essence lacking, and can never fully reach perfection. But on the other hand, we have unlimited potential. Being truly alive means being connected to the unique nature of the human being: the ability to constantly grow. We cannot rest with our past accomplishments, no matter how great, nor can we deny the possibility of bettering ourselves; we are charged by our Creator to unleash the unlimited potential hidden inside all of us through the path of Torah and mitzvot.

Forget God, Just Hold on to the Torah

The Midrashic literature can provide a surprising and sometimes shocking new perspective through which to look at God and the Torah. The following is a great example:

“(God says) let it be that they leave me, but my Torah they should observe, since the light that is in it will return them to good” (Midrash Eicha).

At first glance, this is a very difficult statement. What good is observing the Torah if there is no connection to God? Isn’t the entire point to serve God through the Torah?

Rav Moshe Chaim Luzzato, the great eighteenth century thinker and Kabbalist, explains the Midrash. If a Jew is entrenched in an immoral lifestyle, yet maintained a connection to learning Torah, slowly it would start to affect his actions.

This is based on the unique nature of the Torah as the most refined manifestation of God’s presence in the world. The crass person who learns Torah cannot help but be affected by the light contained inside it, and will ultimately return to a relationship with God.

All the more so this holds true for those of us in the process of returning to God. The more we learn Torah with the awareness that we are interacting with our Creator, the more intimate the relationship becomes. This is part of the uniqueness of the mitzvah of learning Torah.

Say it Out Loud: The Library and the Beit Midrash

You can learn a lot about books not just from what’s inside them, but in how they are studied. Libraries across the world all share a common picture: massive stacks of books of all topics interspersed with desks where each person sits and reads quietly.

From where did the rule originate that inside such a massive storehouse of knowledge one must maintain absolute silence?

Anyone who walks into a Beit Midrash (House of Study) will see a completely different scene. People are arguing, hands are waving; others are standing, rocking in their chairs in front of a Talmud, or pacing around the room.

Why is the Beit Midrash such a raucous scene?

A fitting insight comes from the Maharal of Prague. He gives an interpretation of the first blessing over the Torah, in which we say la’asok b’divrei Torah, to involve one’s self with the words of Torah. The language of the blessing is unusual; it would have been much more straightforward for our sages to compose the blessing as “to learn the words of Torah.”

The formulation of the blessing teaches us how the Torah should be learned. In almost all cases after a blessing is said, the corresponding mitzvah action follows immediately. So in order to fulfill the mitzvah of learning Torah, there must also be an action. Therefore, simply contemplating the words of Torah may not fulfill the mitzvah—we must speak the words. The act of dialogue is the mitzvah of learning Torah.

Dialogue allows for a deep engagement with the text, as well as with the person with whom we are learning. The Beit Midrash, as opposed to the library, is a place where the texts are tangibly alive, not a book moratorium where texts must rest in peace. The discussions and arguments illustrate the passion that we have for God’s word, and allow for their understanding on the deepest level.