As parents, we often forget that our choices, our ways of being, our decisions—in short, our example—leave a lasting imprint on the minds of our children. This is how, after many years, we find similarities in their own attitudes and choices, sometimes good, sometimes not so good.
Joseph is similar to Jacob, not only in things that happened to him, but also in characteristics. According to the midrash Jacob was born circumcised, and so was Joseph. Jacob's mother was barren, and so was Joseph's. Jacob's mother had difficulty with the sorrow of his conception, and Joseph's mother had difficulty in the hour of giving birth. Jacob's mother gave birth to two, and so did Joseph's. Jacob's brother wished to kill him, and so did Joseph's brothers.
The list is even longer.
Jacob married a woman from outside the land of Israel, and so did Joseph. Both became self-important through their dreams. Both went down to Egypt. Both were embalmed and both were later brought back for burial in the land of Israel (according to the midrash Bemidbar Rabbah 14:5).
There is a wonderful story about an old sailor who stopped smoking when he saw his parrot coughing uncontrollably. He immediately thought the coughing was a symptom of pneumonia due to the smoke from his pipe.
The sailor took his poor parrot to the vet, who examined it thoroughly. At the end of the examination, the vet found the parrot in good health. "Don’t worry," the vet said to the sailor, "Your parrot is fine. He just learned to imitate your coughing."
It is the nature of man. For better or worse, children imitate their parents.
Joseph is also his father’s favorite—visibly and ostentatiously preferred—which earns him the envy and hatred of his brothers. Jacob seems unaware of the spirit he is allowing to grow among his sons and seems even to promote it with his different treatment of Joseph.
We reach the moment in the Parasha when Jacob sends Joseph to see what his brothers are doing while they are working. It is visibly clear in the text that Joseph is not working.
וַיִּרְא֥וּ אֹת֖וֹ מֵרָחֹ֑ק וּבְטֶ֙רֶם֙ יִקְרַ֣ב אֲלֵיהֶ֔ם וַיִּֽתְנַכְּל֥וּ אֹת֖וֹ לַהֲמִיתֽוֹ.
"They saw him from a distance, and before he came near them, they conspired to kill him." (Genesis 37:18)
This "seeing from a distance" seems to repeat the pattern of Jacob, who also appears not to see or perceive the consequences of his actions on his children. Jacob, too, looks from afar.
The brothers saw Joseph from a distance, where no feature could be identified. They saw him without truly seeing him. They saw that shape to which they assigned meaning in order to give him no chance. He didn’t get close. Closeness is not desirable because it’s there that we see faces, marks, the gleam in the eyes, we can perceive the tremor in the voice. No. Closeness is not convenient when there is already a decision to rid oneself of the other.
What would have happened if the brothers had looked him in the eye and had gotten closer, rather than "seeing him from afar?"
Rabbi Hayyim ben Moshe ibn Attar (18th century) comments on this verse:
"We might also say that 'they saw him from afar' refers to the distance of their hearts, for they did not see him as brothers see their brothers. They saw him as a man distant from them…”
Seeing him from afar refers to the distance in their hearts. This is a beautiful reading. There is no confrontation when you attempt to bridge the sensitivities of both sides, to listen to their positions, to give a little in order to make space for the other, to try for an agreement, to heal wounds, to want to start something new.
The American educator Loren Berman said: "The Hebrew word for 'cruel' is 'ajzar' (אכזר), spelled: alef, chet, zayin, reish."
If we didn’t read it and just listened, we might hear two words in each syllable: Aj-zar – אח זר – Aj: brother. Zar: stranger.
Cruelty arises when you see your brother as a stranger, from a distance, from the outside. Nothing can be built if our fractured brotherhoods declare us strangers. With this formula, cruelty becomes enabled to commit the worst aberrations against someone we don’t even dare to approach.
Such was the strangeness created by their cruelty that, when they meet him again many years later in Egypt, they won’t recognize him. They didn’t recognize the face of their own brother, even though he was surely made up and adorned as the grand minister of the Egyptian court.
The text suggests that, in truth, they never wanted to connect with his face. In Hebrew, the word for face is panim, which is also plural because it speaks to the multiplicity of facets we embody and show. It shares the same root as the word pnim, meaning interiority. When we dare to look someone in the face, the story can change course, because we see beyond what we thought we knew about the person standing before us.
As natural dreamers, we should respect and follow our dreams. We are tasked with reevaluating how we see ourselves and our role in this world.
It will be a matter of daring to look at ourselves again, to approach, to recognize, to give ourselves a chance. The distances that have been imposed on us—both by others and by ourselves—end up creating images without faces, without stories, without emotions, and without messages. Perhaps the first step is deciding to come closer, carefully, but freely. Maybe when we see each other face-to-face again, we can discover an inner world that feels familiar, a desire that is common, an infinite pain that needs to cease.
We are almost beginning Chanukah, a festival that invites us to light up the darkness and recognize the miracles around us. Let it not just be a dream, but may each flame we kindle grow to illuminate the coldest and deepest corners of this world and our souls.
May we give future generations the example of a search for peace where it seems impossible to find it.
May we give the example of doing what is right in our lives, of speaking face-to-face from a place of closeness, or seeking to be close, because alone, no one will save themselves.
May the darkness of the tunnels where 100 hostages still remain in Gaza shatter into flames of light that bring them back to their families.
Shabbat Shalom and Chag Urim Sameach, Happy Hanukkah, may we have a beautiful and communal celebration of lights.
Rabbi Gustavo Geier