The story of the Steins

 The following is an account by Pessy Krausz of the story of two of our most senior members: Dr David Stein z'l, who sadly passed on only a few weeks ago, and his wife Miriam. We offer our thanks to the Stein family for helping Pessy put this together, and offer Miriam our warmest wishes for the future.

The inspiring story of Miriam Stein and Dr. David Stein z”l

Beware of fruit shop owners with discerning eyes and long beards—especially if they sit next to you in Shul. Some 70 years ago, one such ingenious fellow sat next to the father of eligible medical student David Stein. It’s said, "a nod's as good as a wink"—leading him to catch Dr. Gottlieb, father of lovely daughter, Miriam. And the rest is history. Unlikely as it was, even more so was the miracle of a match between the son of Polish immigrant parents and a daughter of parents of German origin.

 David was youngest of four brothers. His father’s story was one of a struggle to make it to the Goldene Medina, landing on Ellis Island in 1914 having left his wife and two sons, Paul and Joe in Der Heim’ Only two years later, having amassed sufficient funds, could he bring them over to join him in USA. There, despite economic struggles, the couple was blessed with two more sons: David’s brother Julie and last but not least, the hero of out profile, David!

 Miriam’s story was one of a life disrupted when Nazis came to power. A whisper from an acquaintance in the ear of Dr. Gottlieb in 1940 led to him urgently applying for and receiving a visa to leave Germany—but only to get to Cuba. Miriam’s mother, also a doctor, could not leave her elderly parents. Thus, when she was only eight years old, these disastrous events led to Miriam being sent, together with her brother, Fred, by Kindertransport to England.

 Initially Miriam and her adored elder brother, who eventually also became a doctor, were kept together in an orphanage. But Miriam was separated from him when he was sent to the southern seaside town of Margate and Miriam to a non-Jewish family in East of England’s Bedfordshire. She remembers how the family ate meals regularly – though she ate separately with other Kindertransport children whose meals were sent to them by the Kindertransport organisation.

 For the two years of this orderly life Miriam, their little star, was educated in Jewish classes provided for all children evacuated to her locality. Thus Miriam felt she was on familiar ground when finally she was lovingly re-united with her parents. A famous proverb meaning that a person's character and worth are defined by their behaviour, politeness, and conduct is “manners maketh man” to the extent that little Miriam wrote a touching thank you letter to which her host family responded in appreciation. Miriam has both letters to this day. To see them, click here.

 Eventually David’s mother and father’s elderly parents managed to leave Germany and the family was reunited in New York. His grandmother is remembered by both Miriam and her daughter Susie – who kindly joined us – as being very Yiddish in both their language and their mode of expression. For example, when saying See you next week after spending the Sabbath together, grandmother would respond with If I live that long! Still, Susie proudly possesses a glass set of translucent yellowy jug and glasses inherited from her which she re-produced in addition to family photographs as well as the one of her mother with this writer.

When the family relocated to the States, having family there, Miriam’s father—despite his previous qualification—had to retake State medical exams after which he opened his private practice. It’s said that an ill wind blows no-one any good: many of the younger doctors were called up just when the smallpox disease became rampant. It created a demand for serum which Miriam’s father was able to obtain. People who came to be vaccinated remained as patients, thus creating a thriving practice. All the while, Miriam’s mother was the home-maker, only later resuming her medical career as a dermatologist.

 Stemming from a family of doctors, Miriam made no exception to this rule by marrying David in 1955, even though he was still a medical student at the time. His prowess was remarkable. Neither he nor his brothers were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, but by dint of obtaining scholarships and working their way through college, they achieved every Yiddishe Momma’s dream. David’s oldest brother became an accountant, the next a lawyer, third a cardiologist and our David a very popular allergist. His winning smile, kindly eyes and gentle voice endeared him to all.

 On marrying, this young couple made sure they would share their Shabbatot equally between their parents. A series of sayings could illustrate this adoring young couple’s early beginnings. "You've made your bed, now lie in in", meaning you must accept the consequences of your choices. Furthermore, the saying "If two people are in love, they can sleep on the blade of a knife" is an aphorism attributed to the American author and nature writer Edward Hoagland. Pirkei Avot, on the other hand, focuses on the nature of love – specifically whether it is conditional or unconditional—rather than on physical circumstances.

 Miriam and David proved their devotion in both the letter and spirit of these sayings throughout years of unconditional love. Indeed, theirs proved to be a match made in heaven in more ways than one. When single, Miriam had been a blood bank technician. But after marrying she become David’s office manager. This demure, quietly spoken princess was responsible for the finances, and hiring and firing of staff who eventually joined David’s thriving practice.

This did not prevent the couple from raising three loving children who in turn realised every Jewish parents’ dream by becoming a doctor, a psychologist and lawyer! Neither did it prevent David from following his hobbies: learning Hebrew calligraphy and, above all, growing flowers and vegetables. So successful was he that, when they were youngsters, their trio would sell the vegetables while the flowers graced their Shabbat table.

 On retiring from his practice, David and Miriam realised another dream and made Aliya in 1995, following their children. For a while David continued working as an allergist and, on retiring volunteered as consultant in Da’at under the auspices of Yad Sarah – the leading volunteer-staffed organization in Israel, which provided compassionate health and home care services for the general public. For 10 years David devotedly participated in a team which responded to people who found no satisfactory solution to queries relating to medical matters—a project which sadly ended with the outbreak of Covid. Miriam was not idle either. For 20 years she volunteered for Melabev’s day care centre devoted to improving the quality of life for cognitively impaired adults. Miriam willingly gave a hand wherever one was needed. One was very much needed by a blind German-speaking patient who had no use of her hands. How she cherished Miriam’s sympathetic weekly German conversations!

Sadly, in his later years David became wheelchair-bound, but that did not stop him from having a cheerful chat whenever our paths crossed. Increasingly frail, David passed away some two weeks before my meeting with Miriam. As always, her petite figure with its upright posture belies her age. Indeed, she is a star in our Sunday morning chair Yoga group. Dressed immaculately, Miriam follows the moves with concentration. Our yoga teacher confirms that she has made considerable progress!

 Having made only blended food for David latterly, since the short painful time of his passing Miriam confided she has already returned somewhat to her love of baking and cooking. “Well,” she reminisced, “That’s what he would have wanted...and after our 70 years together, this is the way it is. We had a gift from Hashem.”

Raised by Choice, Not Just Climate: Vayechi 5786

This article was first published in Hanassi Highlights for parashat Vayechi, 1 January 2026.

The berachah we give our children each week comes from our parsha: “Yesimcha Elokim ke’Ephraim e’chiMenashe.” But why these two? What did Ephraim and Menashe embody that made them the model of Jewish blessing for all generations? And why does the Torah emphasize a reversal of order—Ephraim blessed before Menashe—just when we might have expected the family to have fully internalized the dangers of favouritism and division?

Rav Yaakov Kamenetzky zt”l offers a profound reframing. The berachah was not necessarily an affirmation that Ephraim and Menashe were more deserving, but rather a recognition that they were the ones who most needed it. They were the first generation born entirely outside the home of their ancestors, raised at the heart of Egyptian civilization rather than in the tent of Yaakov Avinu. Their lives force us to ask a question that would echo throughout Jewish history: What happens when Jewish identity is no longer inherited by atmosphere, but must be forged by effort?

Rav Kamenetzky saw in them the prototype of the Jew in exile—not the Jew who fails, but the Jew who succeeds, and in doing so, risks forgetting that exile is a passageway, not a destination. Menashe, whose name reflects forgetting, was still anchored in Yosef’s yearning for home, a child named for loss but raised in memory. Ephraim, however, whose name celebrates flourishing in galut, carried the subtler danger: that cultural success can create the illusion of cultural belonging. Prosperity can blur perspective more than persecution.

Even their names reflect the challenge. Rav Kamenetzky notes that the letter פ (pey) appears repeatedly in Egyptianized names of the era—Pharaoh, Potiphar, Tzafnat Pe’aneach, Puah. Ephraim’s name, he suggests, bore the phonetic fingerprint of Egypt. This was not a critique, but a diagnosis: Ephraim’s identity was more exposed, more blended, more tested—and therefore demanded reinforcement. Yaakov crossed his hands and reversed the order not to select a favourite, but to fortify the child carrying the greater cultural gravity.

Yaakov’s message was not nostalgic, but strategic. Remember who you are before you attempt to change the world. Flourish, but don’t forget the soil you grew from. Thrive outward, but remain tethered inward.

Yosef completes this mission. As his life draws to a close, he binds his descendants to history through oath, instructing them to carry his bones out of Egypt when redemption finally comes. The Jewish people would ultimately journey toward geulah accompanied by two Aronot: the Aron HaBrit, carrying Torah, and the Aron of Yosef, carrying mesorah—purpose moving ahead, identity reaching back.

Ephraim and Menashe teach us that exile begins not when Jews suffer, but when Jews forget. And redemption begins when we ensure we will remember—remember who we are, where we came from, and to where we are ultimately returning.

Shabbat Shalom!

Forgiveness, Unity, and the Architecture of Redemption

 In this post our member Rabbi Paul Bloom considers the fragile emotional state of Yaakov's family after his decease, and describes its route to reconciliation and the prospect for redemption.  

The Final Moral Vision of Sefer Bereishit

 The closing chapter of Sefer Bereishit brings us to a moment charged with fear, memory, and moral reckoning. Yaakov Avinu has died. He has been mourned, escorted with great honor from Egypt to Chevron, and buried in Ma’arat HaMachpelah. The family returns to Egypt—but the emotional equilibrium has shifted irrevocably.

 Yosef is no longer simply a brother. He is the all-powerful viceroy of the mightiest empire on earth. The brothers, stripped of the protective presence of their father, are suddenly terrified. As long as Yaakov lived, they believed that Yosef’s resentment—if it still existed—was held in check. Now, they fear, the reckoning may come.

 The Torah describes their anxiety (at Bereishit 50:15):

וַיִּרְאוּ אֲחֵי-יוֹסֵף, כִּי-מֵת אֲבִיהֶם, וַיֹּאמְרוּ, לוּ יִשְׂטְמֵנוּ יוֹסֵף; וְהָשֵׁב יָשִׁיב, לָנוּ, אֵת כָּל-הָרָעָה, אֲשֶׁר גָּמַלְנוּ אֹתוֹ 

When Yosef’s brothers saw that their father had died, they said: ‘Perhaps Yosef will bear hatred toward us and repay us for all the evil we inflicted upon him. 

Fear gives birth to a message. They send word to Yosef (Bereishit 50:16–17):

 וַיְצַוּוּ אֶל-יוֹסֵף לֵאמֹר אָבִיךָ צִוָּה, לִפְנֵי מוֹתוֹ לֵאמֹר

כֹּה-תֹאמְרוּ לְיוֹסֵף, אָנָּא שָׂא נָא פֶּשַׁע אַחֶיךָ וְחַטָּאתָם כִּי-רָעָה גְמָלוּךָ   

Your father commanded before his death, saying: ‘So shall you say to Yosef—please forgive the transgression of your brothers and their sin, for they caused you great harm.

 A “White Lie” — or a Deeper Truth?

Chazal, followed by Rashi, make a striking assertion. Yaakov never said this. Based on the Gemara (Yevamot 65b),  "A person is permitted to deviate from the truth for the sake of peace". According to this approach, the brothers altered the truth—not for personal gain, but to avert danger and preserve harmony.  Yosef himself would have known immediately that this message could not be literally true. He had never told his father what happened. The brothers had never told him either.

The Ramban emphasizes that Yaakov went to his grave without ever knowing of the sale of Yosef. One of the clearest proofs appears in Yaakov’s final blessings. He rebukes Shimon and Levi for the massacre of Shechem (Bereishit 49:5), yet he never mentions the attempted destruction of Yosef. Had Yaakov known, silence would have been impossible. Clearly, he never knew. But I would like to suggest a deeper reading—one in which the brothers’ message was not a lie at all.

 “Gather Together” — Yaakov’s True Final Command

 Before Yaakov begins blessing his sons individually, he summons them with charged language (Bereishit 49:1):

הֵאָסְפוּ וְאַגִּידָה לָכֶם, אֵת אֲשֶׁר-יִקְרָא אֶתְכֶם, בְּאַחֲרִית הַיָּמִים 

Gather yourselves, and I will tell you what will befall you at the end of days. 

Chazal explain that Yaakov sought to reveal the ultimate future—the trajectory of redemption—but this knowledge was withheld. The future is not meant to be predicted; it is meant to be created. Absolute foreknowledge would paralyze human freedom.

 Yet something essential was revealed. Yaakov continues (Bereishit 49:2):

 הִקָּבְצוּ וְשִׁמְעוּ, בְּנֵי יַעֲקֹב; וְשִׁמְעוּ, אֶל-יִשְׂרָאֵל אֲבִיכֶם 

Come together and listen, sons of Yaakov; listen to Israel, your father.

 The repeated call to gather—using two distinct Hebrew verbs—conveys a foundational truth: the future of Am Yisrael depends on unity. This, I suggest, is what the brothers meant when they said, *“Your father commanded us.”* Not that he uttered those precise words, but that he left them with an unmistakable mandate: Redemption requires unity.  Unity requires forgiveness.

Yosef’s Answer: Forgiveness as the Engine of History

 Yosef’s response confirms this reading (Bereishit 50:19–20):

 וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם יוֹסֵף, אַל-תִּירָאוּ:  כִּי הֲתַחַת אֱלֹהִים, אָנִי

וְאַתֶּם, חֲשַׁבְתֶּם עָלַי רָעָה; אֱלֹהִים, חֲשָׁבָהּ לְטֹבָה

Do not be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended evil against me—but God transformed it into good. Intentions still matter.

The brothers must answer to God for their moral failure. But history, Yosef teaches, is shaped by Divine purpose. Forgiveness is not denial of pain—it is commitment to the future.

Unity Without Uniformity

Yet a final question remains. If unity is so central, why does Yaakov emphasize difference? Why bless each son individually? Why assign each tribe a unique destiny? The Torah’s answer emerges later in the desert. The tribes encamp separately, each with its own banner, surrounding a single center (Bamidbar 2:2):

אִישׁ עַל-דִּגְלוֹ בְאֹתֹת לְבֵית אֲבֹתָם, יַחֲנוּ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל:  מִנֶּגֶד, סָבִיב לְאֹהֶל-מוֹעֵד יַחֲנוּ

Each person by his banner, with the signs of his father’s house, shall the children of Israel encamp—facing and surrounding the Tent of Meeting.

 Unity does not require sameness. Diversity flourishes when oriented toward a shared spiritual center.

 Twelve Windows, One Heaven

 The Zohar teaches that ideally a synagogue should contain twelve windows—corresponding to the twelve tribes. Each shevet’s prayers ascend through a different spiritual channel. Different nuschaot, different paths—but one destination. What unites us is not uniform practice, but shared faith.

 The Closing Message of Bereishit

 When the brothers say to Yosef (Bereishit 50:17):

אָנָּא שָׂא נָא פֶּשַׁע אַחֶיךָ וְחַטָּאתָם כִּי-רָעָה גְמָלוּךָ 

Please forgive the transgression of the servants of your father’s God,

 they reveal the deepest source of Jewish unity. Even when brotherhood alone is strained, we are bound by something deeper: we are servants of the God of Yaakov.

 Bereishit closes not merely with reconciliation, but with a blueprint for redemption: A people of distinct voices, united by faith, sustained by forgiveness, and committed to a shared destiny.

 That is the strength of Israel. And that is the path to geulah.

Between Siege and Silence: What the Fast of Tevet Teaches Us Now

Tomorrow is Asarah beTevet, the Fast of the Tenth of Tevet, which comes with an interesting story that I would like to share with you, writes our member Rabbi Paul Bloom.

The Four Fast Days – A Chronological Map of Destruction

Chazal instituted four fast days connected to the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. Each marks a different stage—not only historically, but spiritually.

Let’s lay them out chronologically:

1. Asarah beTevet – 10 Tevet
   This marks the beginning of the siege of Jerusalem by Nevuchadnezzar, king of Babylonia. Nothing was destroyed that day. No walls fell. No fire burned. But the process began.
2. Shivah Asar beTammuz –17 Tammuz
   This marks the breach of Jerusalem’s walls—by the Romans, during the Second Temple period.
3. Tishah beAv –  9 Av
   The destruction of both Temples:

○      The First Temple by Babylonia

○      The Second Temple by Rome

4. Tzom Gedaliah –3 Tishrei
   After the First Temple was destroyed, Nevuchadnezzar appointed Gedaliah ben Achikam, a Jewish governor, to rule the remnant in Eretz Yisrael. When Gedaliah was assassinated. As long as he lived, there was hope. His death ended that hope.

Notice something striking:

●      Asarah beTevet → First Temple

●      Shivah Asar beTammuz → Second Temple

●      Tishah beAv → Both Temples

●      Tzom Gedaliah → First Temple

Already, we see that destruction is not one moment—it is a process.

The Deeper Roots: These Tragedies Began Much Earlier

Chazal teach us that these fast days are not only about what happened historically—but about what caused it spiritually.

●      Tishah beAv traces back to the sin of the Meraglim, the spies. The Jewish people cried needlessly and lost faith in Hashem’s promise. Hashem said: You cried for nothing—this will become a day of eternal crying.

●      Shivah Asar beTammuz traces back to the Golden Calf. Moshe broke the Tablets on that very day. This was a failure of faith—and a flirtation with idolatry.

●      Asarah beTevet, according to later traditions, is connected to the sale of Yosef—baseless hatred between brothers.

So look at the pattern:

●      Golden Calf → lack of faith

●      Meraglim → despair and fear

●      Yosef’s sale → hatred and division

The Beit HaMikdash was destroyed later. But the causes were planted at the very birth of the nation.

What Does It Mean to Rebuild the Beit HaMikdash?

When 10 Tevet arrives, we are supposed to think about the Beit HaMikdash. But rebuilding the Temple does not mean climbing the Temple Mount and laying stones. Chazal are very clear: You build the Temple first in your heart.

When enough Jews create space for the Shechinah within themselves—when faith replaces fear, when humility replaces ego, when love replaces hatred—that’s when the Beit HaMikdash returns. The Temple is not just a building. It is the presence of Hashem in the world—felt, experienced, transformative.

October 7: Tragedy—and a Missed Opportunity

We cannot speak about destruction and rebuilding without mentioning October 7. It was a catastrophe, a wound that is still bleeding, a war we are still living through. And in some mysterious, irrational way, it also unleashed a global resurgence of antisemitism—precisely when compassion would have been the logical response. But if there was any silver lining, it was this: For a brief moment, we were unified.

Before October 7, Israeli society was dangerously fractured:

●      There was talk of civil war

●      Judicial reform was tearing the country apart

●      Reservists threatened not to report

●      Businesses were withdrawing capital.

Then came the tragedy—and suddenly we remembered who we are. We stood together.

But here is the painful truth. As the war dragged on, exhaustion set in. Old habits returned. The elastic band snapped back. And that may be the greatest tragedy of all. Suffering that transforms us redeems. But suffering that leaves us unchanged is suffering wasted.

If I went through October 7—and I am still exactly who I was on October 6—then something has gone terribly wrong.

A Strange Halachic Anomaly: Asarah beTevet and Shabbat

Here is something remarkable. Generally, we do not fast on Shabbat, or even on Friday—so we don’t enter Shabbat weak and deprived. Yet 10 Tevet can fall on Friday, and when it does, we fast straight into Shabbat. The Abudraham goes even further and says something astonishing: If 10 Tevet could fall on Shabbat, we would fast even then.

This is purely theoretical—it cannot happen due to the structure of the calendar. But why would the beginning of a siege override Shabbat, when even Tishah beAv does not? Why would the start be treated more severely than the destruction itself? There are several reasons, but let me present just two of them.

The phrase עֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑הב (on this very day) appears in the Torah for Yom Kippur (Vayikra 23:28)  and it is also applied to 10 Tevet in Ezekiel 24:2:

בֶּן־אָדָ֗ם כְּתֹוב־ לְךָ֙ אֶת־שֵׁ֣ם הַיּ֔וֹם אֶת־עֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה סָמַ֚ךְ מֶלֶךְ־בָּבֶל֙ אֶל־יְר֣וּשָׁלַ֔ם בְּעֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֥וֹם הַזֶּֽה

This references the start of the Babylonian siege, making both these fasts fixed to their specific dates, unlike other fasts which can be postponed if they fall on Shabbat. This connection means that the Tenth of Tevet, like Yom Kippur, must be observed on the actual day, emphasizing its unique stringency, as noted by commentators like the Abudraham.

A second reason might be that sometimes the beginning—the moment we fail to stop something—is more dangerous than the end.

Three Days of Silence: 8, 9, and 10 Tevet

Chazal record that some tzaddikim fasted not one day—but three: 8, 9 and 10 Tevet—and each for a different reason.

8 Tevet – The Torah in Greek

On this day, the translation of the Torah into Greek was completed—the Septuagint. Ptolemy II Philadelphus, the Greek Pharaoh of Egypt who reigned from 285–246 BCE, gathered 70 sages, placed them in separate rooms, and commanded them to translate the Torah. Miraculously, they all produced the same translation. Yet this was considered a tragedy. Why?

●      A translation can never capture the full depth of Torah

●      It opened the door to distortion and misuse

●      And perhaps most painfully—it meant Jews themselves needed translation

A crutch is a blessing—but it also means your legs are broken.

 9 Tevet – A Fast Whose Reason Is Hidden

The Gemara says something chilling: “There was a fast on the 9th of Tevet—but the reason was not revealed”. Three possible explanations are given:

1. The yahrzeit of Ezra HaSofer
   The spiritual architect of the Second Temple era, a second Moshe.
2. The Hebrew birthdate of Jesus
   Given the suffering Christianity inflicted on Jews, some tzaddikim fasted on that day and the reason was hidden—for survival.
3. The yahrzeit of Shimon Keifa (Simon Peter)
   According to a later Midrash, Peter was a righteous Jew who deliberately separated Christianity from Judaism—at the cost of his own Olam HaBa—to protect Am Yisrael.

This tradition is not authoritative—but it is profound. And perhaps that is why the reason was kept secret: because truth, when misunderstood, can be dangerous.

So What Do We Do Now?

We stand between:

●      Siege and silence

●      Faith and fear

●      Unity and division

The Beit HaMikdash can be rebuilt any day—except Shabbat. May it be rebuilt today, so this fast becomes a day of celebration.

And, if not—may this be the last fast we ever need, because we finally learned what destruction was trying to teach us.

Kaddish for a Troubled World

With today being Asarah beTevet, our universal kaddish day, our musical member Max Stern has shared with us a composition to match the mood of the moment, “Kaddish for a troubled world", for solo baritone and choir.

Writing about this work, Max explains:

Kaddish for a troubled world" relates to Kaddish both as a doxology in praise of the Creator and as a eulogy in mourning for the departed. This Kaddish speaks of a "day which is neither day and nor night." It is addressed to our world, to our own time, by the angels: Karev yom, karev yom asher hu lo yom velo laila.

The real question: Is mankind to live in a world of peace and brotherhood, love and concern for the other and finally come together at the dawn of a new era – the Messianic Age? Or is humanity destined to mourn a world moving into a dark night; unable to overcome age-old jealously, fear, and greed; misusing divine gifts, science and technology for perverse ends—the blessing of life destroyed?

You can listen to Kaddish for a Troubled World here.

From Revelation to Responsibility: Vayigash 5786

This piece was originally published in Hanassi Highlights on 25 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew (translated by ChatGPT) here.

From Revelation to Responsibility

This week we mark Asara b’Tevet—the fast commemorating the beginning of the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem. It is the first step in a slow, tightening process that ends in the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. A siege begins quietly, through mounting pressure. But spiritual collapse, the Torah shows us, often begins more quietly still—not with armies, but with fractures in our relationships.

Parshat Vayigash is a study in the opposite movement—not constriction, but revelation; not estrangement, but approach. Yehuda steps forward, speaks directly to power, and takes responsibility for his youngest brother. Yosef steps out from concealment and answers his brothers not with accusation, but with identity restored: “I am Yosef—is my father still alive?” (Bereishit 45:3).

Among the most powerful scenes leading into this moment occurs in last week’s parsha, when Yosef meets Binyamin. The Torah describes Yosef hurrying aside to cry, overwhelmed by compassion (Bereishit 43:30). Rashi, quoting Chazal, explains that these brothers’ tears were not only personal, but prophetic:

·       Yosef cried for the two Batei M
ikdash that would one day stand in Binyamin’s portion and be destroyed.

·       Binyamin cried for Mishkan Shiloh, destined for Yosef’s portion, which would also be destroyed.

The obvious question is why Chazal saw the need to distance Yosef and Binyamin’s tears from this direct encounter into visions of the future? Why not simply say that their tears were due to the long separation they had endured?

Rav Chaim Drukman zt”l explains that Chazal’s intent was not to displace the simple meaning—of course brothers weep when decades of absence collapse into a single embrace. Rather, they were illuminating a deeper question: What created a world in which brothers could be torn apart, and sacred homes could be torn down? What led to the tears? What led to the churban?

The answer goes back to the root of the fracture – when jealousy and hatred between the brothers first begins to emerge:

“lo yachlu dabro le-shalom—they could not speak to him in peace.” (Bereishit 37:4)

The tragedy began not with an invasion, but with a failure of speech, recognition, and responsibility. The sale of Yosef was not merely a family crisis—it was the prototype of a Jewish story that would tragically repeat itself throughout the ages.

The correction occurs in our parsha. Two decades after proposing the sale, Yehuda returns and this time does something entirely different. He becomes a model of arvut—personal responsibility for the welfare of his brother.

Asara b’Tevet reminds us how a siege begins. Vayigash reminds us how a nation heals—through the courage to speak, the willingness to step forward, and the refusal to let a brother face darkness alone.

In days of mounting pressure, we must choose which language to speak: the silence of fracture, or the speech of peace; the logic of distance, or the loyalty of responsibility.

May this week strengthen in us a renewed commitment to clarity, unity, and mutual responsibility, so that the chain of churban that once began in silence will, in our days, end in rebuilding.

Shabbat Shalom!

Drawing Water from the Depths: Yosef, Yehuda, and the Power That Reunites Am Yisrael

 This powerful piece by our member Rabbi Paul Bloom discerns a message from the past that we should take to our hearts for the future.

“Deep waters are counsel in the heart of a man, but a man of understanding will draw them out” (Mishlei 20:5).

Chazal explain that deep waters are a metaphor for a person facing an extremely profound problem—one upon which an enormous amount depends. Such a person does not merely need comfort; he needs counsel, wisdom, and a solution that can chart a way forward.

The Gemara identifies Yosef as the embodiment of this verse. Yosef represents the extraordinary power of mo’ach—of wisdom, insight, and strategic brilliance. He is not merely an interpreter of dreams; he is a problem-solver on a national and even civilizational scale. When Pharaoh dreams, Yosef does not stop at explaining the symbolism. He offers a comprehensive master plan: how to restructure the Egyptian economy, preserve grain for years without spoilage, and sustain an entire region through famine. Innovation, foresight, and practical genius flow from the deep waters of Yosef’s mind.

But now Yosef faces a challenge far greater than famine or economics. He must determine whether his fractured family—torn apart by jealousy, hatred, and the sale of a brother—can ever be reunited. Can Klal Yisrael come back together after such a moral catastrophe?

The verse in Mishlei continues: “But a man of understanding will draw it out.” To draw water (dalya) from deep wells requires strength, courage, and resolve. This is where Yehuda enters the story.

Two Forces Meet: Yosef and Yehuda

We now see two towering figures facing one another. Yosef possesses the amok—the depth, the brilliance, the master plan. Yehuda possesses the lev—the lion’s heart. He is the aryeh, the one with passion, responsibility, courage, and moral determination. Yehuda does something unprecedented. He declares: “I became a guarantor for this boy, for Binyamin. I laid my very life on the line for him. There is no reality in which I allow him to be taken.” No one in the Torah has ever spoken this way before. This is absolute arevut—total responsibility for another human being. Yehuda is not negotiating. He is not strategizing. He is offering himself.

And when Yosef hears this, everything changes. This is the moment Yosef has been waiting for. Chazal tell us that, once Yosef hears Yehuda’s words, “he could no longer restrain himself.” He reveals his identity. Until now, Yosef’s behavior had been utterly incomprehensible to the brothers. Why is this Egyptian ruler tormenting us? Why frame Binyamin for a crime he clearly did not commit? Why reopen old wounds?

The answer is that Yosef was not seeking revenge. On the contrary, he was full of forgiveness. But forgiveness alone could not rebuild Klal Yisrael. Yosef needed a key—and that key was hearing Yehuda say: We will never make the same mistake again. That is the essence of teshuva. As the Rambam teaches, true repentance is proven when a person encounters the same situation again and responds differently. Yehuda declares: we failed once, we regret it profoundly, and we will not fail again—at any cost.

At that moment, Yosef knows the family can be rebuilt.

The Fusion That Creates Redemption

The Zohar reveals something remarkable. Every morning in our tefillah, we say Shema Yisrael and immediately proceed to V’haya im shamoa. Halachically, we are forbidden to interrupt between them. Why? Because these are not merely two adjacent paragraphs. They represent two distinct spiritual forces that must fuse. Shema is intellectual reaffirmation—clarity of belief, understanding, vision. It is Yosef. V’haya is emotional engagement—standing before Hashem with desire, longing, responsibility, and asking for our needs. It is Yehuda.

The fusion of these two powers generates the spiritual “nuclear energy” of Klal Yisrael. Wisdom without heart is sterile. Passion without wisdom is dangerous. Redemption requires both. This fusion begins in Sefer Bereishit with the initial clash—and ultimate union—between Yosef and Yehuda. It is therefore no coincidence that the Beit HaMikdash was built on the border of Yehuda and Binyamin. Part stood in Yehuda’s territory, part in Binyamin’s. This bond—created through Yehuda’s guarantee for Binyamin—was never lost. It became the geographic and spiritual heart of the Jewish people.

Arevut in Our Time

We have witnessed this power in our own days. Over the past couple of years of suffering in Eretz Yisrael, we have seen Klal Yisrael come together with extraordinary arevut. People opening their homes, their wallets, and their hearts. Volunteers arriving simply to help.

So many people have come to Israel, but they did not tour. They volunteered. They lived in tents, worked agricultural fields under primitive conditions, and asked for nothing in return—except the chance to help their people. This is Yehuda’s legacy alive today.

Before this moment in the Torah, the family stood on the brink of permanent disintegration. But Yosef’s master plan was never about punishment. It was about creating the conditions for teshuva, responsibility, and unity. And once Yehuda stepped forward, Yosef drew the deep waters out—and the family was reborn.

Be a Shamash

With Chanukah  in the rear-view mirror, we need to understand the importance of the shamash. One might think it is merely a technical candle, but in truth it carries a profound lesson. The shamash lights all the other candles. It protects their sanctity. It exists not for itself, but to ignite others.

Each of us is called upon to be a shamash—to light others, to awaken arevut, to protect the holiness and unity of Klal Yisrael. That was the secret of the unity between Yosef and Yehuda. And that unity remains our greatest hope for the future.