Although it is not explicitly mentioned in the text, Yosef apparently asked the brothers whether or not their father was alive when they first arrived in Egypt. The brothers, however, twice make mention of this discussion. The first time appears in last week’s Torah portion, Miketz, in response to Yaakov’s bewilderment that they would risk Binyamin’s life by mentioning him to the Egyptian viceroy:
And Israel said, “Why did you hurt me by telling the man that you have another brother?”
And they said: “The man peppered us with questions regarding us and our birthplace, saying, ‘Is your father still alive? Do you have a brother?’ and we answered him accordingly. Could we possibly have known that he would say, ‘Bring your brother down’?” (Gen. 43:6-7).
The second time appears at the beginning of our own Torah portion, Vayigash. This time, only Yehuda speaks, while he tries to convince the Egyptian viceroy of the importance of sending Binyamin back to his father. “And when he sees that the boy is no longer, he will die!” (Gen. 44:31). Interestingly, Yehuda reports Yosef’s original question as to their father’s wellbeing in a slightly different form this time.
“My master asked his servants, ‘Do you have a father or brother?’ (44:19).
The difference is striking. The first time that we hear of this question, the brothers reported that the viceroy said, “Is your father still alive? Do you have a brother?” This time, however, Yehuda uses the same phrasing for both: “Do you have a father or brother?”
Additionally, Yehuda’s version is very strange. Asking someone whether they have a brother is perfectly reasonable. Asking whether their father is still alive is also reasonable. However, asking someone whether they have a father at all is not a reasonable question. Fathers may be close or far, well or sick, alive or deceased; but everyone has one, whatever the status of their relationship. Just what is the meaning of this question?
This is not my question. This is a question that Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik cited in the name of his childhood teacher, a chabad chassid. As reported in Rabbi Aaron Rakeffet-Rothkoff’s stupendous must-read of a work, The Rav: The World of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, p. 151-2 (vol.1):
“Then he said to me: What kind of question did Joseph ask his brothers, ha-yesh lachem av? Do you have a father? Of course they had a father, everybody has a father. The only person who had no father was the first man of creation, Adam. But anyone who is born into this world has a father. What kind of a question was it?”
Rabbi Soloveitchik’s melamed answered his own question:
“Joseph did not intend to ask his brothers about avos deisgalyim. I later discovered that this was a Chabad term for parenthood, fatherhood which is open, visible. He was asking them about avos deiscasin, about the mysterious fatherhood or parenthood, the hidden and invisible fatherhood. In modern idiom, he meant to express the idea that Joseph was inquiring about existential parenthood, not biological parenthood. Joseph, the melamed concluded, was anxious to know whether they felt themselves committed to their roots, to their origins. Were they origin conscious? Are you, Joseph asked the brothers, rooted in your father? Do you look upon him the way the branches, or the blossoms, look upon the roots of the tree? Do you look upon your father as the feeder, as the foundation of your existence? Do you look upon him as the provider and sustainer of your existence? Or are you a band of rootless shepherds who forget their makor, their origin, and travel and wander from place to place, from pasture to pasture?”
That is to say, each report reveals a different aspect of Yosef’s question to the brothers, for apparently, whatever his words, he expressed more than one meaning. The first aspect of his question was straightforward. He wished to know if his father was still alive. The second aspect was deeper and was not about their father as much as it was about the brothers. Yosef was asking if they viewed themselves as links in a chain, parties to tradition, dwarves on the shoulders of giants. Or, perhaps, were they independent, in need of no one, living only within a self generated context and according to a self-generated philosophy? Were they islands, floating in cultural and spiritual seas of their own picking and choosing?
We live in a time when this question has particular resonance. We live in a time when to declare ourselves rooted in the past is countercultural, even difficult for people to understand. It is not an obvious role to play in our culture. Instead, we are often educated – in so many direct and indirect ways – to seek independent fulfillment and happiness.
There is much to appreciate in this philosophy. It derives from some of the great philosophers of the last few hundred years who paved the way for basic necessities that we need and appreciate. For instance, the belief that people should be viewed as independent is what allows us to vote, worship as we see fit, and make unpopular decisions without being penalized by the state. These are things we should be grateful for, and the authors of these ideas, be it Locke or Russel or Rawls, offer us much to think about and learn from. Yet, it remains the case that the child who does not see himself as rooted in his parents, teachers, and community will likely lose his connection with G-d and His Torah. To be Jewish means to be a part of a great chain that links us back to G-d via Sinai; to be wholly independent means to break ourselves off of that chain, ending our part in that story.
Chances are that if you are reading this article, you are not in danger of abdicating your role in our nation’s story and future. This is something to be appreciative of, given how counter cultural this can be and how few people receive a strong Jewish education in a healthy and strong Jewish environment. Still, we cannot deny – or at least so it seems to me – that it is increasingly difficult to pass on a sense of fealty and rootedness to the next generation of Jews.
If this is true, then we must immediately sit down and become creative about how to pass on not just the intellectual and social tools to live as a Jew but also the deep rooted emotional and spiritual ardor that living fully as Jew requires.
Some things are basic: living in a Jewish community, attending a vibrant shul, sending children to day school. But these are not going to do the trick. Our tradition teaches that every Jew has a mitzvah that they attach to (Shabbat 118b; Netziv to Deut. 29:9), but have we considered which mitzvot our own family members most naturally cherish? Have we made time to study Torah with each of the people we value the most? Have we expressly and verbally told them what we think is most important and why? Did we demonstrate that our faithful life improves our character and that this is something they should pursue?
It will not be easy for us to remain rooted as a people. Our long history – and certainly our American one – is full of many more cases of assimilation than allegiance. If we wish to remain exceptional to this rule, we will have to continue working very hard for it.
