Calamitous Contentment

Were the experiences of Yaakov Avinu and his descendants in Egypt the prototype of subsequent exiles, going from comfort to suffering? And did our forefather make the wrong choice? Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger investigates.

Between the years 800 and 1930 various countries, municipalities, principalities, noblemen, Church officials, and angry mobs in Europe expelled the Jews from their homes. This happened more than 130 times. As we know, after that date the strategy devolved to one of extermination. In many instances, the Jews enjoyed periods when they were accepted and welcomed as productive members of their communities. In earlier times, they may have had a second-class status, but they had their niche as merchants and in finance—and even mingled with the upper echelons of the citizenry. After emancipation arrived in various countries, they assimilated into the professions and universities and into the worlds of science, art and culture. In other words, although their situation was often precarious, Jews often lived in a fantasy world, the world of “this time will be different”: their neighbors accepted them, they were protected, they were safe, nothing could happen to them. But it did – time and time again. Their comfort resulted in such a credible illusion that they were unable to believe or accept the inevitable as they were led to their near extinction.

Today we are once again witnessing such denial. Jews and their communities in the diaspora suffer: in South America (Buenos Aries), in India (Mumbai), in Australia (Bondi Beach) in the US (Pittsburgh), in France (Toulouse and Montauban) and in New York (multiple incidents on subways, at synagogues and on the streets). Antisemitism is rampant.  Individual Jews and their communities face threats from the Left and the Right: from college campuses and from social media; from influential political commentators and from political leaders. Then there is the rising number of Moslems that are asserting their brand of aggressive power over polite and civilized society.

Nevertheless, most Jews either remain in denial or are so comfortable with the trappings of the material bounty they enjoy that they cannot accept their predicament and reach for their best alternative – their spiritual legacy and true homeland.

They are not alone: they are simply modeling their behavior after their forefather  Yaakov – the choicest and purest of the Avot insofar as all twelve of his sons,were likewise untainted. After experiencing two difficult exiles, in the house of Lavan and in Egypt, he should have yearned for a return to the Land of Israel. Instead, in parashat Vayigash we find that, once the famine ended, “the Jews remained in the Land of Goshen, and they prospered and became very fruitful” (Bereishit 47:27). Yaakov and his sons were so comfortable. Yet a generation or so later they would be enslaved, initiating the pattern of classic antisemitic tropes (Shemot 1:9-10). How was this possible?

History has shown us time and time again how this was possible. Today, despite the warning signs, we have a front row seat to yet another round in this cycle. However, as regards Yaakov, we perhaps should not be so quick to judge. He at least could justify his choice (although one could ask whether he was required to so choose). Turn back to Yaakov’s first “exile.” As he is escaping the wrath of his brother for having taken the berachah of the first-born, fleeing to Padan Aram, something interesting occurs. Yitzchak’s parting words are: “(He) should give to you and your children with you Avraham’s blessing to inherit the land you reside in, that He gave to Avraham” (Bereishit 28:4). In other words, Yaakov did not take the berachah. Yitzchak always intended to pass to him the legacy of Avraham and that legacy was the berachah of Avraham -- the land.

So when did this berachah—this commitment regarding the land—become effective? In truth Hashem dangled this promise before Avram several times, reaching the point where a frustrated Avram finally asked, “How do I know that I will really inherit it?” (Bereishit 15:8). So, Hashem enters into a covenant with him, the brit ben habetarim. The terms were as follows: The Jews would be exiled to a foreign land for four hundred years; they would be enslaved there and, in the end, they would be redeemed with great wealth and given the land (Bereishit 15:13-14). This is when the right of Avram’s children to the land would be fixed.

Yaakov received both the legacy and the burden of this blessing. When he sojourned to Egypt to reunite the entire family – something he thought would never happen from the time Yosef was lost to him – he recognized that this was the beginning of the process that would result in the fulfillment of the berachah. He thus knew that he must choose to stay in Egypt. He remained with his eyes wide open, knowing that his children and their succeeding four generations would suffer.

Is this really what Hashem wanted for Bnei Yisrael? We cannot know. All we know is that this is the choice Yaakov made. And, as they say, the rest is history.

What we do know, with the advantage of hindsight and now with the wisdom of the ages is that, as successive generations of Jews have made this same choice, it has only resulted in catastrophe. There are no beneficial exiles, there are not even benign ones. Blissful ignorance or, worse, contentment leads only to calamity.

Psalms that Speak to You, by Yitzchok Leib Bell (Book of the Month, Tevet 5786)

Psalms that Speak to You, described as "a clear and meaningful translation for our generation", is a volume that many Anglophone Israelis own -- and which has been much in use over the past two years when we have been drawn into the regular recitation of Tehillim for the members of our armed forces, for those held captive and those in need of a refuah shelemah. 

The emotional profundity and spiritual depth of the 150 psalms that make up our canonical book cannot be doubted. Somehow, however, their meaning eludes us and we are left to do our best with words and poetical modes of expression that are not so familiar. This is where Psalms that Speak to You comes in. The English translation is plain and idiomatic, while losing none of the dignity of the Hebrew. In terms of its presentational format, the large, clear print is easy on the eye and the translation lies directly opposite the Hebrew on the page.

The author, Yitzchok Leib Bell, lives locally. He is a member of Beit Knesset Hanassi.

The Strength of Being Seen: Miketz 5786

This devar Torah was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 18 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew (thanks to ChatGPT) by clicking here.

The interaction between Yosef and Pharaoh is one of the more surprising encounters in Sefer Bereishit. Yosef is summoned from prison after two long years of silence and disappointment and brought before the most powerful ruler of his time. He faces what might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to secure his future. How might we expect him to act?

One might imagine that Yosef would try to blend in. At the very least, to soften the edges of his difference. To speak in a way that sounds familiar, acceptable and safe. After all, we know that Esther, generations later, conceals her Jewish identity in the Persian palace. Survival, it would seem, sometimes requires discretion.

Yet Yosef does nothing of the sort.

From his very first response to Pharaoh, Yosef marks himself as different. When asked if he can interpret dreams, he replies without hesitation: “Bil’adai—it is not me; God will answer Pharaoh’s welfare.” He does not credit his own brilliance, nor does he translate his faith into neutral terms. Yosef speaks openly, in a distinctly Jewish register, naming God without apology or calculation.

What is striking is how Pharaoh responds. Rather than recoiling from this difference, he is drawn to it. Yosef’s clarity, integrity, and rootedness inspire confidence. He is elevated not in spite of his identity, but alongside it. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l once captured this dynamic succinctly: “Non-Jews respect Jews who respect Judaism.” Yosef does not seek legitimacy by erasing who he is; he earns it by standing firmly within it.

This theme resonates powerfully as we approach Chanukah. The mitzvah of lighting the Chanukiah is centered in the Jewish home, yet placed where its light can be seen. Pirsumei nisa emerges not from the public square, but from a place of rooted identity. Chanukah affirms a Judaism that is visible because it is lived, not because it is proclaimed.

The symbol of Chanukah is oil, and Chazal famously compare Am Yisrael to the olive. Oil does not mix. No matter how vigorously it is shaken, it always rises to the top and separates again. For generations, Jews believed that perhaps this time we could fully blend in, finally fit in, finally disappear into the surrounding culture. History has taught us, repeatedly, that this was an illusion.

Even in our own days, recent tragic events have reminded us how fragile acceptance can be, and how quickly ancient hatreds resurface. The response cannot be confined to fear and retreat. It must be quiet strength and dignified confidence.

Yosef embodies a Jewish identity that is neither concealed nor apologetic. His faith is visible, his values intact, his presence grounded and confident. Like olives, we may be pressed, and at times deeply shaken—yet we endure. And across Jewish history, often in the most painful of moments, it has been precisely this quiet fidelity—rooted in who we are and in our trust in Hashem—that has sustained us.

Shabbat Shalom and Chanukah Sameach!

Chanukah: How Do We Get it So Wrong?

 Here's another surprise from our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger, who asks if we have missed the point of Chanukah completely. 

Since our early childhoods we all have a special fondness for Chanukah. What a joy! Presents – perhaps on all eight days, and maybe even more from grandparents and aunts and uncles and friends – an absolute bonanza. Then there are the latkes and sufganiot. Add on high stakes games of dreidel, parties, and festive meals and we have a holiday quite different from the typical “shul-fest.” Even the sole ritualistic element, lighting the menorah, in many homes where each child regardless of age participates with their own, is not a burden but an expression of love and appreciation.

If we dig deep enough, we can find many reasons, not a single uniform one, for each of these practices; the gift giving and dreidel game, the particular foods and even the many aspects of lighting the menorah itself.  However, unlike on Pesach when our various practices are intended to provoke questions that lead to opportunities to teach – or more importantly, to educate through an experiential process – on Chanukah all we seem to do is indulge ourselves and the children.  What is the source for all these practices?  What is the real story of Chanukah?  What happened?  Why is it so important?

Perhaps one of the issues for us, as adults, regarding Chanukah, is that we still approach it with the eyes of our childhoods. For us it is still the story of the brave Yehudit defying the Greek general and the seven sons of Hannah refusing to bow to Antiochus; of Matityahu calling out “mi la’Hashem e’lai” to rally the Jews to fight the Greeks who had defiled the Temple, and of the Maccabees who led Judah and waged a guerilla war to defeat them with a handful of men. Then, of course, there is the miracle of the one jug of oil lasting eight days. In our minds, this all led to the declaration of the annual holiday that we celebrate with our menorah lighting and all the other wonderful, meaningful and joyous customs.

However, history and reality do not quite match this narrative.

At that time Antiochus IV, the Seleucid king, was enthusiastically welcomed by many Judean Jews. He installed a man named Yeshua (Jason) as Kohen Gadol (in place of his older brother). He incorporated Greek culture into Jerusalem. A more assimilated Jew, named Menelaus, bribed his way into the position and introduced idolatrous practices into the Temple – including sacrificing unclean animals. The first day the mizbe’ach was used for such worship was…. 25 Kislev! It is doubtful that the date is a coincidence.

About two years later, Matityahu, with the family name Hashmonai, instigated a rebellion against NOT the Greeks (Yevanim) but against the assimilated Jews/Hellenizers (Mityavnim). After Matityahu died, his son Yehudah assumed leadership.  Since he was a great warrior, he was given the nickname Makabee, the Aramaic word for hammer. The rebels were never called Maccabees.  That name became attached to these heroes when the two books of the Maccabees were canonized as a part of the Christian Bible!

When the Hashmonaim regained control of Har Habayit and the Temple from the Hellenizers, they were not concerned with the menorah. The mizbe’ach had been defiled.  If you recall, the mizbe’ach is constructed from stones and the mityavnim rendered the current ones unfit. On 25 Kislev, the same day that two years earlier the actions of Menelaus disqualified it, they rebuilt it with new stones. This is the actual Chanukah the “chanukat hamizbe’ach” (rededication of the altar). Once they rebuilt the mizbe’ach, they made a strategic decision. Since the most recent chag for which they had not brought korbanot was Succot/Shmini Atzeret, they decided to celebrate for eight days and to compensate those offerings (this is actually expressly written in II Maccabees 10:5-8, although I hesitate to rely on it as the definitive source. However, I do note that Beit Shammai explained that the order of candle lighting corresponds to the korbanot brought on the eight days of Succot/Shmini Atzeret).

So, have we gotten Chanukah all wrong? In fact, the Rabbis did not institute the mitzvah of lighting the menorah on Chanukah for another two centuries, which was well after the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash.

Fundamentally, as with many other aspects of our religion, the Sages faced a nearly insurmountable challenge: how to provide the foundation and structure for our faith and ritual, to provide hope for future generations and to assure survival and continuity after the destruction of the Temple and the devastation wrought by the Romans. They wove the fabric of today’s Judaism – daily prayer, the written teachings of the oral tradition, the superstructure of Rabbinic ordinances, and holiday rituals such as how to utilize the arbah minim the fifteen aspects of the Pesach seder, and the mitzvah and mystique of Chanukah.

Bringing light into the home and stressing the primacy of traditional Judaism over Hellenism and paganism, during the darkness of exile, was a most important and appropriate symbol. Moreover, by adding an eighth branch to the seven of the traditional Menorah, the Sages were commemorating past glory and foreshadowing future salvation.  The number seven represents the natural, teva. Eight is beyond nature, le’maala min hateva. Thus (i) they needed to highlight a miracle narrative (the one jar) and (ii) they needed to move the focus away from the mizbe’ach and the korbanot and direct it toward the Menorah. As we can see, they succeeded.

Bottom line, we do not get Chanukah wrong. The Rabbis simply wanted us to celebrate a different version: Chanukah 2.0.

“Chanukah, Oh Chanukah”

"Oh Chanukah" (also "Chanukah, Oh Chanukah") is an English version of the Yiddish song "Oy Chanukah”. The English words, while not a translation, are roughly based on the Yiddish. The lyrics are about dancing the hora, eating latkes, playing dreidel, lighting the candles and singing happy songs.

Here's another joyous rendition of this cheerful song by our member Max Stern, arranged for unaccompanied women's voices

The Two Stories of Chanukah: How a Military Victory Became a Spiritual Revolution

The following is a Devar Torah from our member Rabbi Paul Bloom, abstracted from videos by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks and Rabbi Yitzchak Breitowitz.

As Chanukah is here, it is worth revisiting a story many Jews think they know well—but which, in truth, exists in two very different versions. One is almost entirely absent from Jewish liturgy; the other is the one that shaped our festival for more than two millennia. To understand this transformation, we begin with a surprising historical fact: the story of Chanukah is not recorded in Tanakh. 

I. What Didn’t Make It Into the Bible 

The Tanakh—was canonized by a group of Sages during the Second Temple era. They decided which books were “in” and which were “out.” Some books that nearly didn’t make it in include Kohelet, whose existential gloom troubled the rabbis, and Esther, which some feared might provoke antisemitism. Conversely, some works that might have seemed obvious candidates did not enter the canon. 

Among these were I Maccabees and II Maccabees—the two principal sources of the historical Chanukah story. These books do appear in Catholic Bibles, but not in ours. Why not? We will return to that question. First, what do these books actually say? 

II. The Chanukah Story According to the Books of Maccabees 

If you read I Maccabees, you find

• ·       A detailed narrative of military triumph.  
• ·       The decrees of Antiochus IV Epiphanes, who banned Jewish religious practice and desecrated the Temple.
• ·       The revolt led by Mattathias and his sons—most famously Judah the Maccabee.
• ·       The defeat of the Seleucid Empire, one of the greatest military powers of the ancient world.
• ·       The purification and rededication of the Temple.
• ·       The establishment of an eight-day celebration.

It is a stirring account of courage against overwhelming odds. But one thing is missing.

 There is no mention—none at all—of the miracle of the oil.

II Maccabees, meanwhile, explains the eight days differently: that year, the Jews had been unable to celebrate Sukkot in Tishrei because of war and defilement. Therefore they celebrated a delayed Sukkot in Kislev—an eight-day festival marking the Temple’s rededication. 

In the entire Apocrypha, no oil miracle appears. 

III. The Earliest Rabbinic Source: Suddenly, the Oil Miracle 

The first text to mention the miracle is Megillat Ta’anit, an ancient scroll listing days on which fasting is forbidden because of national joy. There we read: 

When the Greeks entered the Temple, they defiled all the oil. When the Hasmoneans prevailed, they found only one cruse sealed by the Kohen Gadol enough for one day. A miracle occurred and it burned for eight days. The next year, they established an eight-day festival of praise and thanksgiving. 

Here, remarkably, the great military victory is reduced to a single subordinate clause.

The spotlight has shifted. The emphasis is no longer on military triumph but on the miracle of the light. What happened? 

IV. Why the Books of Maccabees Were Excluded 

History offers an answer. After the Maccabees won their independence, they founded a ruling dynasty—the Hasmonean kings. At first heroic, over time they became: 

•       Politically overreaching: They made themselves both kings and high priests—violating the ancient Jewish principle of separating religious and political authority.
•        Culturally Hellenized: Ironically, the very people who fought Greek domination gradually adopted many Greek practices.

 The rabbis were deeply troubled. A dynasty that began with purity and faithfulness ended with corruption, internecine conflict, and assimilation. Within a century of independence, Roman general Pompei marched into Jerusalem (63 BCE), and Jewish sovereignty ended. For the Sages, the military victory—once glorious—had become tainted. They refused to canonize the self-written chronicle of rulers who ultimately strayed from Torah values. Thus I and II Maccabees remained outside Tanakh. 

V. The Destruction of the Temple and the Attempt to Abolish Chanukah 

Fast forward to the year 70 CE, when Rome destroyed the Temple. Some rabbis argued that Chanukah should be abolished.  Chanukah commemorates rededicating the Temple, but now the Temple lay in ruins.  Would celebrating its rededication not be painfully ironic? In the town of Lod, a public fast was even declared on Chanukah, effectively canceling the holiday. Two great Sages—Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Yehoshua—rushed to protest. They publicly violated the fast (by bathing and taking haircuts) to demonstrate that the decree was invalid. And Chanukah was saved. But why? Because by then, the Jewish people no longer saw Chanukah as primarily a military celebration tied to the Temple’s physical fate. Its meaning had shifted. 

VI. From Military Victory to Cultural and Spiritual Triumph 

The rabbis realized that Chanukah contained two victories: 

• The Military Victory. This was a brave but short-lived period of political independence, lasting less than 100 years. 
• The Cultural-Spiritual Victory. This was a victory of Jewish identity, Torah values, and stubborn spiritual light over the seductive brilliance of Hellenistic culture. 

The Greeks were extraordinary: masters of art, philosophy, mathematics, athletics, architecture. Their culture shaped Western civilization. But Judaism was something different: verbal rather than visual, spiritual rather than physical, ethical rather than aesthetic. Chanukah became a celebration of Jewish distinctiveness—the refusal to disappear into the surrounding culture. Once the military victory faded from relevance, the miracle of the oil emerged as the perfect symbol: a single flame of Jewish identity that refused to be extinguished. 

VII. What Makes Chanukah Unique 

Chanukah is the only Jewish festival: 

•       That is recorded in extensive non-Jewish historical sources, because it marked the beginning of the Greek Empire’s decline and Rome’s rise.
•       That survived because its essence transformed from political to spiritual meaning.
•       Whose central miracle is not in the earliest sources—but became the core of the holiday for millennia.

 VIII. The Enduring Message 

The Hasmonean military victory lasted less than a century. But the spiritual victory has lasted over two thousand years. Empires rise and fall; cultures flourish and decline. But the tiny light of Jewish faith—often fragile, often challenged—endures beyond all historical turbulence. Chanukah teaches us that the real battle is not on the battlefield but in the realm of the soul: 

•  To remain who we are.
•  To resist cultural erasure.
•  To embrace our mission even when the world pulls us elsewhere.
•  To keep the flame burning. 

And that flame—against all odds—still shines today.

Jewish ‘rock’ music: Maoz Tzur

"Maoz Tzur" (מָעוֹז צוּר) is probably the best-known and most frequently sung of our festive piyyutim. It is an integral and memorable part of our nightly ceremony for lighting the chanukiyah. The words are believed to have been written in the 13th century in the Ashkenazi Jewish communities of the Rhineland valley, in the aftermath of violence from the Crusades and blood libels. 

The author of the lyrics is anonymous, but the original Hebrew text includes an acrostic of the name Mordechai in the first five stanzas (there are six in total, of which the last is a later addition). As for the tune, it is widely believed to be based on a German folk tune or battle song from the 15th or 16th century.

To hear a version of “Maoz Tzur” for women’s voices, arranged by none other than our member Max Stern, click here.

Refusing to Give Up: Vayeshev 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg was originally published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.

Parashat Vayeshev opens with a note of hope: Yaakov finally believed he had reached a point of calm after a lifetime of struggle. After wrestling with Esav, surviving Lavan, and enduring the trauma of Dinah, surely now he had earned a measure of peace.

But Chazal tell us otherwise: “Bikesh Yaakov leishev b’shalvah—kafatz alav rogzó shel Yosef.” Just when Yaakov longed for tranquillity, the anguish of Yosef’s disappearance fell upon him. Shattered by his sons’ report and the blood-stained coat they presented, Yaakov enters a prolonged and unrelenting mourning. His children rise to comfort him, yet the Torah records: “Vayema’en lehitnachem”—he refused to be comforted.

Why? Other great figures experience devastating loss yet eventually find strength to move forward. The Torah tells us explicitly how Avraham arose after grieving for Sarah. What made Yaakov’s grief different?

The Midrash, cited by Rashi, teaches that consolation is granted only when death is final. Since Yosef was still alive, Yaakov felt an inexplicable inability to accept comfort. But the Netivot Shalom adds a striking layer: Yaakov sensed that Yosef was alive—but what tormented him was not Yosef’s physical state. It was the fear that Yosef, alone in a foreign land, surrounded by moral darkness and spiritual danger, might lose himself. Would the Yosef who grew up in Yaakov’s home still exist? And so “vayema’en”—he refused to give up on his son. He prayed, he hoped, he believed.

That same rare word appears a second time in our parasha. When Yosef faces relentless temptation in Egypt, he too refuses (“vayema’en”). Rav Soloveitchik notes that this word is marked in the Torah with a shalshelet, a musical note shaped like a chain. Yosef remembered he was part of a chain—of his father, his people, his destiny. The Gemara tells us that in that moment he saw his father’s image. Remembering that Yaakov had never given up on him gave him the strength not to give up on himself.

This is the story of Jewish history. Through darkness, dispersion, persecution, and the pressures of modernity, we have refused – refused to surrender our identity, our mission and our faith. Because our ancestors believed in us, and because HaKadosh Baruch Hu believes in us still.

The candles that we light on Chanukah represent this stubborn refusal. The pirsum hanes of these special days is the fact that, no matter how strong the winds outside, those tiny flames will always endure.

Shabbat Shalom and Chanukah Same’ach, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Human Error, Divine Purpose, and Yosef’s Mysterious Mission

An exploration of Parashat Vayeishev by Rabbi Paul Bloom.

Parashat Vayeishev opens with one of the most perplexing decisions in Sefer Bereishit: Yaakov sends Yosef—alone, on foot—on a dangerous journey from Chevron to Shechem. Even in our day, the area is known for its volatility; certainly, in the ancient world, such a trek carried great risk. Yet unlike Eliezer, who traveled with ten camels and a protective escort, Yosef receives no assistance, no animals, and no clear mission beyond the vague instruction:

“לֶךְ־נָא רְאֵה אֶת־שְׁלוֹם אַחֶיך”

“Go now, see how your brothers are faring…” (Bereishit 37:14)

What was Yaakov thinking? How could he send the son he loved most into such danger seemingly for nothing?

This decision becomes the opening movement in a parashah filled with human mistakes—misjudgments by Yaakov, Yosef, the brothers, and even Yehudah. And yet, beneath the surface of these errors, there lies an unmistakable divine orchestration guiding the Jewish people toward its destiny.

Chevron as a Code Word

The Torah states that Yaakov sent Yosef “מֵעֵמֶק חֶבְרוֹן”—“from the Valley of Chevron.” But, as Rashi notes, Chevron sits on a mountain, not in a valley. Chazal interpret this as a remez, a signal: Chevron here alludes to the deep, ancient prophecy rooted in the city—the Brit Bein HaBesarim, where Hashem declared:

גֵר יִהְיֶה זַרְעֲךָ ... וַעֲבָדוּם, וְעִנּוּ אֹתָם

“Your descendants will be strangers… they will be enslaved and oppressed.” (Bereishit 15:13)

Thus Yosef’s mission “from Chevron” is not simply geographic; it is prophetic. It is the moment the ancient decree of exile begins to unfold.

The Anonymous Man Who Finds Yosef

On the way, Yosef becomes lost: וַיִּמְצָאֵהוּ אִיש — “A man found him” (Bereishit 37:15).

The Torah’s phrasing is striking: not that Yosef found a man, but that a man found him. Chazal identify this ish as מלאך גבריאל. This seemingly incidental encounter becomes the fulcrum of Jewish history. Instead of giving up and returning home after failing to find his brothers in Shechem, Yosef is redirected by this heavenly messenger. The angel asks him: מַה־תְּבַקֵּש (“What do you seek?”) This is not merely a request for information. As the Malbim explains, bakashah in Hebrew refers not to a need but to an ultimate aspiration. This question is existential: “What do you truly seek in life? What is your mission?” Yosef answers with remarkable vulnerability and sincerity: אֶת אַחַי אָנֹכִי מְבַקֵּש (“I seek my brothers”, Bereishit 37:16).

Despite their hostility, despite the pain of being rejected, Yosef’s deepest yearning is for connection and unity. In this moment, we glimpse Yosef’s essence.

Human Error Filling the Parashah

Vayeishev is a tapestry of human mistakes:

Yaakov’s errors:

●      He displays open favoritism: וְיִשְׂרָאֵל אָהַב אֶת־יוֹסֵף מִכָּל־בָּנָיו (Bereishit 37:3)

●      He gives Yosef the כְּתֹנֶת פַּסִּים, a distinct garment marking him as different.

Yosef’s errors:

●      He recounts his dreams of dominance without sensitivity.

●      He seems unaware of how his behavior affects his brothers.

The brothers’ errors:

●      They misjudge Yosef’s intentions.

●      Jealousy blinds them to the bonds of brotherhood.

Yehudah’s errors:

●      His involvement in selling Yosef.

●      His misjudgment of Tamar, later admitted with the words צָדְקָה מִמֶּנִּי (Bereishit 38:26).

No other parashah contains such a concentration of missteps by so many central figures. Yet the Ramban reminds us, citing Mishlei 19:21:

רַבּוֹת מַחֲשָׁבוֹת בְּלֶב-אִישׁ וַעֲצַת יְהוָה, הִיא תָקוּם

"Man proposes many thoughts, but the counsel of Hashem is what prevails.”

Through flawed human decisions, Hashem guides the story toward its destined outcome: Yosef will descend to Egypt, rise to power, and prepare the way for the Jewish people’s survival.

“Saru Mizeh” — A Warning from the Angel

When Yosef asks where his brothers have gone, the angel replies: נָסְעוּ מִזֶּה (“They have traveled away from here”, Bereishit 37:17). Rashi interprets this as meaning סרו מן האחוה — They have turned away from brotherhood. The angel’s words carry a chilling double meaning: the physical direction and the spiritual rupture.

Yosef’s Moral Tests

Yosef faces two defining spiritual tests in this parashah:

1. The Test of Purpose —מַה־תְּבַקֵּש

He responds with his true mission: “I seek my brothers”.  His heart yearns for unity even when others push him away.

2. The Test of Temptation — Aishet Potiphar

Yosef refuses with the unforgettable words: וְאֵיךְ אֶעֱשֶׂה הָרָעָה הַגְּדוֹלָה הַזֹּאת וְחָטָאתִי לֵאלֹהִים
 (“How can I do this great evil and sin against God?”, Bereishit 39:9). He invokes both ethics (betraying Potiphar) and spirituality (sinning against Hashem). This dual consciousness is what earns him the title יוסף הצדיק.

The Larger Theme: Divine Providence in Human Error

Despite all the mistakes made by Yaakov, Yosef, the brothers, and Yehuda, the parasha demonstrates a profound theological truth:

●      Human beings make flawed decisions.

●      Our judgment is limited.

●      Our plans often go astray.

And yet—

Hashem’s hidden providence guides every step.

Missteps themselves become tools of redemption. Yosef’s sale leads to his rise in Egypt. Yehuda’s failure with Tamar leads to the birth of Peretz, the ancestor of King David.

The message is not that mistakes are unimportant, but that they can be transformed into instruments of divine purpose.

Conclusion: “Mah Tevakesh?” — The Question of Life

Parashat Vayeishev centers around a single, piercing question: מַה־תְּבַקֵּש— What do you seek? This is the question every human being must face.

Yosef’s answer —אֶת אַחַי אָנֹכִי מְבַקֵּש — reveals a soul striving for unity, purpose, and moral clarity.  Even in the midst of mistakes and misunderstandings, Yosef’s inner compass points true.

And so it is with us: We strive, we falter, we rise again — but beneath all human frailty, אֲצַת ה' הִיא תָקוּם — the plan of Hashem endures.

Topsy turvy

This week's parashah invites us to ask challenging questions as to why we sometimes appear to be rewarded for our misdeeds or punished for our good ones. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger investigates.

Viewed simplistically, our religion is binary: blessings are good, curses are bad. Mitzvot are good, sins are bad. Morality is good and immorality is bad. As Moshe reminds us time and time again throughout Sefer Devarim, we should choose life. The choice is obvious since the path is clear – it’s black and white.

Life however is full of grey tones and the Torah itself, at least as literally written, at times represents a confusing guide. Men who are the foundations of our faith are depicted in dubious or compromising situations. There is, at the very least, ambiguity regarding Reuven’s actions with Bilhah. Shimshon’s behavior put the nation at risk. Eli HaKohen’s sons’ treatment of women was less than exemplary. Both David and Shlomo faced Divine punishment because of their conduct with women.

There is no need to highlight other examples. Suffice it to say, passion and desire are powerful human emotions.  We cannot understand what Hashem expects from us, how to serve him or who we are without understanding these complex drives.

In Parashat Vayeshev we encounter two of the greatest figures in Jewish history facing what most would consider extremely compromising moral choices. For each, the outcome is different. The respective consequences are counterintuitive. Thus, in the micro, it is difficult to understand how to interpret the moral lesson, at least on the surface.

These are familiar narratives. Out of guilt for selling Yosef, Yehudah exiles himself, then marries and has children. As events unfold, his first two sons each marry the same woman, Tamar. They die childless, leaving a third younger son.  Yehudah sends her away to delay yibum. Years go by, she sees that she has been abandoned, so she decides to dress as a harlot to seduce Yehudah. She succeeds and gets pregnant.

Drama unfolds as she is accused of infidelity by Yehudah, who actually demands she be executed), but she is saved when he admits his culpability after she produces, among other things, the items he left with her as security for payment. In the end she gives birth to twins, one of which is the ancestor of the Davidic line (and hence the Mashiach). Bottom line, he knowingly interacts with a harlot and the result seems to be the greatest of rewards!

Simultaneously, Yosef begins servitude in Egypt. After a period of years facing harsh conditions, he rises to a position of responsibility in the home of an Egyptian nobleman. Unfortunately for him, the nobleman’s wife becomes interested in him. She repeatly attempts to seduce him numerous times, culminating in an incident where she manipulates events to make a very aggressive effort to entice him.  As he refuses and runs out, she grabs his garment and uses it as evidence of her claim that he attempted to sexually assault her. He is imprisoned for several years before he is released to interpret Pharoh’s dreams and as a result promoted to viceroy.

Yehudah succumbs to his baser nature and is enticed by a harlot. The consequence he faces is… a set of newborn twins, one of which is the progenitor of a royal dynasty and the ultimate redeemer.

Yosef is a Tzadik.  He endures suffering because time after time he resists temptation, ultimately at great peril—yet he pays a significant price. While, perhaps, there was a short-term benefit (he becomes viceroy of Egypt), effectively this benefited his father and brothers almost as much as it did him. Moreover, he certainly does not have the same historical importance (yes, there will be a Mashiach ben Yosef, but his role seems limited in function and is rather ambiguous).

Yehudah, the one who made the immoral choice (actually two, if you include the sale of Yosef) comes out the big winner. Where is the fairness?  What does this teach about morality? Topsy, turvy. V’nehafoch hu!

Perhaps the key to the answer is a word or concept that characterizes Yehudah more than any other. A quick word association with him would likely yield terms like: leader, majesty, spokesman, warrior, or (as his mother proclaimed) praise to Hashem. However, perhaps the most accurate word is “arev” or “eravon” – a guarantor or security. When someon

e defaults on a loan he received or on a loan he agreed to guarantee, when there is a default, then the borrower can collect from the security (eravon) given by the borrower or from the guarantor (arev).

When Yehudah negotiated with Tamar but did not have the fee (two goats) she asked for an “eravon” – and he inquired: “what is the ‘eravon’ I should give you?” (Gen 35:17-18). It was that very security that saved her when Yehudah was willing to admit that he acted immorally and accepted responsibility for his poor moral choice in engaging with her. Likewise, when confronting Yosef to plead for the release of Binyamin, his main argument—and the one that succeeded—was that he committed to Yaakov that he would be the arev for him (Gen. 44:32). Effectively, Yehudah was again accepting responsibility for his earlier immoral choice (in this instance, selling Yosef).

Yosef was good. Black and white. If he saw an iniquity, if he thought his brothers sinned, he would report it – even if they would hate him. Likewise, when faced with a seduction, he would not succumb, regardless of the consequence. This is certainly meritorious. But this is how he was hard-wired. He is a Tzadik.

However, life is grey.  For the rest of us (at least most of us) it is complex and confusing, Like Yehudah we fall, sometimes in extreme and calamitous ways. Knowing this, Yehudah is the paradigm for finding our way back to the path of morality and service of Hashem after we fail.  We are security for something precious. That might be for our family values (Yaakov for Yehudah), to our underlying sense of honor and responsibility (Yehudah’s need to fulfill his commitment – even in the face of shame), most certainly to the teachings of the Torah, to our neshamot and to the version of ourselves we strive to be.

Another word related to the root of Yehudah is to be modeh, to admit or acknowledge.  Yehudah was able to look inward and acknowledge his actions and to take responsibility.  He could then take the appropriate corrective action. We are not perfect. We are not expected to be tzadikim. We simply must be able to acknowledge who we are and what we do so we can turn things around.

Fear, Faith, and the Courage to Walk Forward: Vayishlach 5786

 This item was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, 4 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew via AI translation here.

As Yaakov Avinu prepares to meet his brother after 20 long years, he is engulfed by uncertainty. He had fled when Esav’s anger was still burning, and now he must face him again—without knowing how Esav will respond, or whether the old desire for revenge still lingers. Yaakov faces the unknown.

The Torah describes his emotional state with raw honesty: “וַיִּירָא יַעֲקֹב מְאֹד וַיֵּצֶר לוֹ – Yaakov was very afraid and distressed.” Fear, anxiety, and uncertainty are not abstract concepts here; they are lived, felt experiences. And they resonate deeply with us today

But there is a major question. If anyone should not have been afraid, surely it was Yaakov. Hashem had already promised him, more than once, that He would guard him, return him safely, and never abandon him. So why the fear? Why the distress?

Chazal and the Rishonim offer several explanations. Rashi (based on Gemara Berachot) suggests “שמא יגרום החטא” – Yaakov was concerned that perhaps he had sinned and was no longer worthy of the promise. The Ibn Ezra adds that perhaps he feared not for himself but for his family; Hashem had guaranteed his safety, but not theirs.

But the Abarbanel boldly rejects all of this. His reading is remarkably simple and profoundly human. Yaakov was afraid because going into a potential war is frightening. Divine promises do not erase human emotion. Emunah does not override the heart.

According to the Abarbanel, Yaakov’s fear is not a sign of weak faith. It is the opposite:
His faith is what allowed him to act despite his fear. He still prays. He still strategises. He still prepares. Faith does not remove uncertainty—it gives us the courage to navigate uncertainty.

This is a transformative idea, especially in the world we inhabit today. Over the past years we have been repeatedly reminded that life is far less predictable than we once imagined. We have lived with sirens and shifting realities. The sense of certainty we once took for granted feels shattered.

Modern psychology tells us that one of the greatest drivers of anxiety is not danger, but the intolerance of uncertainty. Our instinct is to try to control everything, predict everything, know everything.

But Parashat Vayishlach offers a different path. We are allowed to feel fear. We are allowed to feel unsettled. That is part of being human. But we do not let fear decide our next step. Like Yaakov, we move forward - with caution, with preparation, and with faith that we do not walk alone.

As we face an unpredictable world, may we draw strength from Yaakov  Avinu’s example and find the courage not necessarily to be unafraid—but to keep walking even when we are.

Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg