This week, in Parashat Vayechi, we encounter something particularly striking: Our third patriarch, Jacob, departs from this world, and his children ascend to the Promised Land to bury him.
What’s interesting is that upon arriving in Jacob’s land, it feels as though they view it as foreign territory. Jacob’s children ascend to the Promised Land, bury their father, mourn him, and then return to Egypt. For herdsmen, what could be better than settling in the land of Goshen, described in Scripture as “the best of the land” (Genesis 47:6)?
During the Fourth Aliyah (1924–1928), when a large number of Polish Jews arrived in the Land of Israel, Rabbi Meir Shapiro of Lublin was asked why he didn’t visit the Land of Israel—even if just for a short while.
Rabbi Meir replied: “I still have the strength to ascend to Israel, but… where will I find the strength to return?”
Jacob’s children didn’t face that problem. They easily found the emotional reserves to detach from their ancestral land. For them, the Land of Israel had transformed into just that: their father’s land.
One could argue that famine and drought in the Promised Land drove them away, while Egypt had no shortage of food. However, the famine in Canaan lasted only a few years… Joseph lived for forty years after Jacob’s death! Why didn’t Jacob’s children return to their land then?
Perhaps the answer lies in a unique detail in our Parashah. Parashat Vayechi is the only stumah (closed) section of the Torah. What does this mean?
In the biblical text, there is no space between our Parashah and the previous one (Vayigash), whereas usually, a blank space separates sections.
Rabbi Beni Lau, drawing on the insights of our sages, explains this peculiarity:“As long as Jacob was alive, someone connected the family to its roots. After the father of the family passed, that root was severed, and new branches took root in the land of Egypt... The family settled in Egypt and began to thrive there, without feeling any sense of exile.”
Indeed, this is how Parashat Vayigash ends:“So Israel dwelt in the land of Egypt, in the land of Goshen; and they took possession of it and were fruitful and multiplied exceedingly” (Genesis 47:27).
And immediately after this conclusion, without a break, begins the new Parashah—Vayechi—a stumah (closed) Parashah. It seems that the eyes of Jacob’s children were closed. Over time, they forgot their origins and, apparently, even the covenant of their ancestors. They seemed to have no yearning for that land.
From a divided family, it was Joseph who initially succeeded in uniting it, forgiving and showing kindness to those who had wronged him. Joseph, in Parashat Vayechi, ultimately reunites with his brothers and his father.
“Now, therefore, do not be afraid. I will sustain you and your children.” So he comforted them and spoke kindly to their hearts. (Genesis 50:21)
Perhaps this is the message we all need in these times of pain, intransigence, and dead ends: to speak to the heart. To reclaim that inviolable portion of ourselves—our desire for well-being, peace, serenity, and affection, free of fear and the abyss.
Joseph spoke to their hearts and asked them not to fear.
Ibn Ezra (a 12th century comentarist) explains this beautifully:“To speak to the heart always aims to eliminate past pain and worry, as in ‘he spoke kindly to their hearts’” (Genesis 50:21).
Pain and worry are not eradicated with vengeance or violence. Hearts grow calloused, minds cloud over, and nothing good happens without a shift in perspective.
The Talmud in Masechet Megillah (16b) also reflects on this passage:“Regarding Joseph’s words to his brothers, it says: ‘And he comforted them and spoke kindly to their hearts’ (Genesis 50:21). Rabbi Binyamin bar Yefet said that Rabbi Elazar said: This teaches that he spoke words that were acceptable to the heart and eased their fears…”
What words can we discover that will reach hearts locked behind seven seals, preventing the resurgence of humanity within them? Is there a way to reach hearts like those of Putin in Russia, Maduro in Venezuela, Khamenei in Iran, and so many others? What could alleviate hatred, lies, and division so that we might close this chapter with the word Vayechi—“And he lived”?
Rashi (11th century) elaborates on Joseph’s handling of his brothers’ fear that he might kill them after their father’s death:“If he were to kill them, what would people say? He boasted about his relationship with them, saying, ‘These are my brothers,’ but then killed them? Have you ever heard of a man killing his brothers?”
This is the lesson of this book: Have you ever heard of a man killing his brothers? Or, phrased differently: Is it conceivable to perpetuate a story where brothers continue to kill each other?
In Parashat Vayechi, Jacob, sensing the end of his life, blesses his children and grandchildren, passing on the promises of the covenant of past generations and sharing visions for their future.
One of the most beautiful Jewish traditions is that parents bless their children at the start of Shabbat and festive meals. Rashi notes that the blessing for sons is based on Genesis 48:20 in this week’s Parashah when Jacob blesses Joseph’s sons: “May God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh.”
We do not find equivalent blessings for daughters in the Torah, but there is one in the Book of Ruth (4:11) that inspires:“May the Lord make the woman who comes into your home [Ruth] like Rachel and Leah, who together built up the house of Israel.”
Thus, in many Jewish homes today, parents bless their daughters:“May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah.”
Why were Ephraim and Manasseh chosen as the main sources of inspiration for this important tradition instead of the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?
Ephraim and Manasseh were the first brothers in Genesis about whom no conflicts are recorded. Abraham’s sons, Isaac and Ishmael, did not get along, and some see their discord as the foundation of the Arab-Israeli conflict. In the next generation, the rivalries between Jacob and Esau are detailed extensively, and Jacob’s sons sold Joseph into slavery.
Ephraim and Manasseh broke this pattern. The familial strife that runs throughout Genesis finally comes to an end. This is what we convey to our children with this blessing: there is no greater blessing than peace among siblings.
Just as Jacob’s blessings recognized the diversity of his children, we, too, must value the diversity within the Jewish people and come together during critical moments. May Jacob’s words inspire us to maintain hope and act with wisdom, strength, and compassion, building a future where identity, justice, and peace prevail for all the children of Israel.
Vayechi—“And he lived.” This is the command: life. Despite conflicts, setbacks, and misfortunes. Life must be the culmination of the story, for without it, the narrative remains unresolved, the wound unhealed, bleeding endlessly.
This is how we conclude this book: with weary eyes, still witnessing how malice and hostility prevent us from telling a different story.
Unless we—each and every one of us—commit to generating change in our congregations and communities,supporting Israel, sustaining and transmitting the Torah’s inclusive and open message. May we ensure the continuity of the People of Israel and bring about the Tikkun Olam we all long for.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Gustavo Geier