My teacher, Julius Lester, was appalled. "Joseph was not a brat," he stated.
It was the 1980's, and I had met Julius at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, where (as a graduate student) I'd taken his course Blacks and Jews: A Study in Comparative Oppressions.
But we were not in the classroom: we were at the synagogue where I taught, and he sometimes led services, and we were in the middle of the Torah discussion--sometime about this time of year. The Torah portion was part of the Joseph saga.
I never found out why Julius was so outraged at my statement about Joseph. Was it pure piety? Joseph was a man who could resist seduction by Potiphar's wife, who could interpret dreams and give all the credit for the interpretation to God. He could rise from prison to the palace, save the land of Egypt from starvation, rescue his family, and forgive them for having sold him into slavery. How could a man like that be less than a saint (or as we would say, a tzaddik)?
I don't know if that's why Julius was shocked at me. But here's why I thought Joseph was a brat.
The obnoxious little brother
Joseph's mother, Rachel, was the woman his father fell in love with and worked seven years to marry. The other women his father married were an afterthought. His father gave him the coat of many colors, a sign that Joseph was his designated heir.
The brat in power
A different way of understanding Joseph
Just this week, however, I learned a different way of looking at Joseph, one that makes me feel more sympathetic to him. (I give all the credit to participants in Rabbi Ruti Regan's #ParshaChat on Twitter.)
What if, instead of feeling superior as a child, Joseph just felt singled out?
It could not have been easy, being the youngest brother (because his mother had not yet given birth to Benjamin), and the half-brother of all these grown men, and being put on a pedestal by his father. Even if he sensed he had some kind of destiny awaiting him, he could not ignore the way it made his brothers hate him, right there, right then.
What if telling his dreams was not oblivious, not a power play, but a plea for understanding?
It's not just Dad who thinks I'm special, he might be saying. It's not just me putting on airs. Look, there's a sign from God that I have a role to play. Can you please stop blaming me now?
But they can't. They throw him into a pit. Then, they sell him as a slave.
What Joseph learns, and what he never grasps
If this interpretation is right, it would explain why, in Egypt, Joseph takes care to attribute his dream-interpretations to God and not to himself. Raising yourself in other people's eyes is a dangerous business!
If this interpretation is correct, it would explain why Joseph takes an Egyptian name and an Egyptian wife and tries to forget the painful scenes with his family. He did everything he knew how to do to keep his father's love without incurring his brothers' hatred, and nothing worked. Now, as second to Pharaoh, he is competent and powerful.
If this interpretation holds water, it also contains new insights into why Joseph apparently torments his brothers when they come looking for food during a famine. Joseph may be testing them, to see if they've changed, but at the same time he is learning that he has changed, too. He has learned that other people have feelings too (especially Judah, who reveals his love for their father and his guilt for the way they treated Joseph in an eloquent speech).
And he has learned there is an alternative to dominating or being dominated--and that is forgiveness.
Sadly, Joseph seems to have learned about forgiveness and love only in relation to his own family. He still wields power over the enslaved Egyptians in a way that foreshadows how the Egyptians will eventually exploit the enslaved Israelites.
So, he is not entirely a brat, entirely a tzaddik, or entirely a reformed character who has learned from experience. Joseph is a complicated human being. That may be why, thousands of years later, we still read and reinterpret his story.
1 comment:
A wonderful final thought from Tali Adler:
We forget, usually, that the end of Bereishit is a surprise ending.
So used to the fact that all twelve sons and their descendants are included in the Jewish nation, we forget that that wasn't always necessarily part of the plan--that the inclusion of all children is something new and unexpected.
We forget that, if we read closely, it's not clear until the very last verses that that is the plan at all. We forget that Yaakov only says to Yosef and his sons that they will return to the land. We ignore the fact that only Yosef's bracha, among all the sons, has the elements of the covenantal bracha: mention of ancestors, invocation of God's name. Yaakov leaves Yosef's brothers with beautiful blessings, but it's only to Yosef that he passes on the blessing that God gave to Avraham and Yitzchak before him.
At the moment of Yaakov's death, we, as readers, should expect that only Yosef will be the builder of the promised nation. His brothers should fall off the map with promises of their own, like Yishmael and Esav before them.
But that's not what happens.
That's not what happens, because Yosef is a dreamer. It's not what happens because Yosef, whose genius saved Egypt from starvation, understands how to take from years and places of plenty and share with years and places of famine. It's not what happens, because Yosef sees his father choosing between his own two sons, and it was bad in his eyes.
And so, in his final moments, Yosef makes a choice, and shares the secret: God will redeem you, and you will return to the land. There are unspoken words: God will redeem you, because I am choosing to share my blessing. God will redeem you, because the cycle of chosen and unchosen sons ends with me. God will redeem you, because I am the same Yosef who, all those years ago, sought my brothers.
Bereishit, which began with ruptures between human beings and God and between brothers, ends with a covenant that is given from God to man, and then shared, through deliberate choice, between brothers. The question "Am I my brother's keeper" is answered with a deliberate yes--and that is how a nation is built.
This, perhaps, is the message of Bereishit: to be a Jew is not only to choose and to be chosen by God, but to decide, even when it seems impossible, to choose your brothers as well.
To be a Jew is to believe, in this world of too much scarcity, that there is enough--enough blessing, enough love--to be shared.
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