Parshat Vayigash5 min read

Joseph Made Egypt Carry His Family Back Home

Abraham's tent rushed to serve strangers, Judah learned the cost of a half-finished rescue, and Joseph forced Egypt to promise his bones would leave.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Abraham Ran Before the Guests Could Ask
  2. Judah Saved Joseph Halfway and Paid the Full Price
  3. Joseph Played the Game Before Breaking It
  4. Jacob Saw His Son's Face in a Vision Before He Left
  5. Egypt Mourned Jacob for Seventy Days and Kept Its Promise

Abraham Ran Before the Guests Could Ask

Three strangers appeared at Abraham's tent in the heat of the day, and Abraham ran. He did not walk out slowly and assess their status. He did not call a servant and instruct the servant to call another servant. He ran to Sarah and told her to hurry. He ran to the herd himself and chose a calf. He pressed food into their hands before they had time to announce their hunger.

Bereshit Rabbah asked what the running meant. Hospitality performed slowly is not the same as hospitality performed with speed. The difference between walking and running to help someone is the difference between kindness as obligation and kindness as desire. Abraham ran because he wanted to reach the guest before the guest had to wait. The covenant he carried was first of all a covenant about what it meant to welcome a stranger, and welcome done at full speed is the only kind that fully counts.

Judah Saved Joseph Halfway and Paid the Full Price

When the brothers gathered around the pit where Joseph lay, it was Judah who spoke against killing him. He said: "what do we gain from killing our brother and covering his blood? Sell him," he said. "He is our brother, our flesh." The brothers listened. Joseph was pulled from the pit and sold to a passing caravan.

The rabbis did not praise this. Judah began a rescue and stopped it halfway. He saved Joseph from death and delivered him to slavery. A mitzvah started and abandoned, said the tradition, hangs on the one who started it like a debt. Judah would spend years not knowing what that debt looked like. He would lose two sons. He would come close to sending his third son after them. The cost of the incomplete rescue came due in installments, slowly, in ways he could not have predicted from the edge of the pit.

Joseph Played the Game Before Breaking It

When his brothers came to Egypt for grain and did not recognize him, Joseph did not reveal himself immediately. He played a long game. He spoke harshly. He accused them of being spies. He took Shimon as a hostage and sent the others home with grain and with their silver returned secretly to their sacks. He waited to see if Benjamin, his full brother, the last son of Rachel, would be brought down.

The rabbis understood this as a test, but also as grief performing itself before it could be released. Joseph had not seen his brothers for more than twenty years. He had been sold as a boy and had built a life in Egypt that required him to become someone else, to speak another language, to dress as an Egyptian, to rule as an Egyptian official. The game he played with his brothers was the game of a man who needed to know whether they were still the people who had thrown him into a pit, or whether they had become something different.

Jacob Saw His Son's Face in a Vision Before He Left

When Jacob heard that Joseph was alive and ruling Egypt, his heart froze. He could not believe it. Then the wagons Joseph had sent arrived, laden with gifts from Egypt, and his spirit revived. He said: "enough. Joseph my son is still alive. I will go and see him before I die."

At Beersheva, at the border of the promised land, God spoke to Jacob in the night: "do not be afraid of going down to Egypt, for I will make you a great nation there, and I will bring you back up." The rabbis heard in this not only reassurance but instruction. The descent into Egypt was permitted, endorsed, required. Jacob did not wander into exile. He stepped into it with God's word behind him. The family story was entering its next chapter, the one that would end with a sea crossing and a mountain and a revelation, but not yet. First, Egypt.

Egypt Mourned Jacob for Seventy Days and Kept Its Promise

When Jacob died in Egypt at the age of a hundred and forty-seven, all of Egypt mourned him for seventy days. Pharaoh gave Joseph permission to carry his father's body to the cave at Machpelah, and a great procession left Egypt: chariots, horsemen, a large company of officials and servants. Egypt buried a Hebrew patriarch in Canaan and returned.

Joseph made his brothers swear that when God remembered Israel and brought them up from this land, they would carry his bones with them. He was not asking for a tomb in Egypt. He was asking to leave when the family left. The oath bound the future. Four hundred years later, Moses carried that oath out of Egypt on the night of the Exodus, walking through a ruined empire with the bones of Joseph in a coffin under his arm, keeping the word that had been given at a deathbed in a foreign country.


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Bereshit Rabbah 48:12Bereshit Rabbah

I've been pondering just that as I was reading through Bereshit Rabbah, specifically section 48, which elaborates on a seemingly simple verse: (Genesis 18:6).

It reads, "Abraham hurried to the tent, to Sarah, and said: Quickly prepare three se’a of high quality flour, knead and make cakes." A se’a, by the way, is an ancient unit of measurement – a bit less than 8 liters, or about 2 gallons. Now, the Rabbis, in their infinite wisdom, explore this verse, and that's where things get really interesting.

Rabbi Evyatar, in a rather expansive interpretation, suggests that Sarah actually baked nine se’a of flour! Three for cakes, three for dumplings, and three for various pastries. But other Rabbis, perhaps feeling that nine se’a was a bit excessive, maintain that there were only three se’a in total – one for each type of baked good.

Here's where the story takes an unexpected turn. The verse says, "Knead and make cakes [ugot]". The Rabbis connect this word, ugot, to the cakes the Israelites baked when they left Egypt in haste during Passover. As it is written in (Exodus 12:39), "They baked the dough that they had taken out of Egypt into unleavened cakes [ugot]". So, this simple act of baking by Sarah hints to the onset of Passover.

And it gets even better. Rabbi Yona, quoting Rabbi Ḥama bar Ḥanina, makes a fascinating connection between Abraham's hospitality and the manna that sustained the Israelites in the desert. Remember the manna? That miraculous food that appeared each morning, a divine gift in the wilderness of Sin? (Which, by the way, Rabbi Yona clarifies is the same place as the wilderness of Alush, mentioned in (Numbers 33:1)3).

So, what was the link between Abraham's act and the manna? According to this midrash, the Israelites were privileged to eat manna in the wilderness because of Abraham’s act! Because of his hospitality, because he told Sarah to "knead [lushi] and make cakes." Abraham's kindness, his willingness to feed strangers (who, unbeknownst to him, were angels), became a source of sustenance for an entire nation, generations later. It's a powerful reminder that even the smallest acts of generosity can have far-reaching consequences, echoing through history. This is a common theme we see repeated in Legends of the Jews, as Ginzberg retells and expands on the ancient Rabbinic stories and traditions.

What does this mean for us today? Perhaps it's a call to be more mindful of our actions, to recognize the potential for good in every interaction. To understand that even a simple offer of food, a small act of kindness, can create ripples of blessing that extend far beyond what we can imagine. It certainly gives me pause and makes me reflect on the impact of our everyday choices.

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Bereshit Rabbah 85:3Bereshit Rabbah

We all have. But did you know that, according to some interpretations, leaving a mitzvah – a good deed or commandment – unfinished can have serious consequences?

Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon, quoting Rabbi Yochanan in Bereshit Rabbah, paints a stark picture: "Anyone who begins a mitzvah and does not complete it, buries his wife and his children." Heavy stuff. Where does this idea come from? The story of Judah and Joseph.

Remember when Joseph's brothers, driven by jealousy, were plotting against him? Judah suggested selling Joseph instead of killing him. As (Genesis 37:26) puts it, "Judah said to his brothers: What profit is it if we kill our brother and conceal his blood?" But Rabbi Yochanan, as quoted in Bereshit Rabbah, points out that Judah should have done more. He should have taken Joseph all the way home to their father, Jacob. Judah started a process – saving Joseph’s life – but didn't complete it. And, according to this teaching, that incompleteness led to tragedy: the loss of his wife and children.

There's another side to this coin. What happens when someone else finishes the mitzvah you started? Rav Huna, in the name of Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, offers a comforting thought: the credit goes to the one who completes it.

Think about Joseph's bones. (Exodus 13:19) tells us that Moses took Joseph's bones with him when the Israelites left Egypt. So why does (Joshua 24:32) say, "Joseph's bones, which the children of Israel took up"? Because Moses never made it into the Land of Israel. He started the mitzvah of bringing Joseph's remains to their final resting place, but the children of Israel – Joshua and the people – completed it. Therefore, the merit is attributed to them.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) illustrates this with a parable: Imagine robbers breaking into a wine cellar. They sample a fine jug of wine. The owner watches them and says, "May it be pleasant, enjoyable, and sweet for you. You drank the wine, now restore the jug to its place." Similarly, God says to the tribes, "You sold Joseph. Now, restore his bones to their place."

And there’s more to it. Joseph himself, in a subtle way, directed them. He instructed them to return him to the place from which they took him, asking, "Are your brothers not herding in Shekhem?" (Genesis 37:13). And that's precisely where the children of Israel buried Joseph's bones, as we read in (Joshua 24:32): "Joseph's bones, which the children of Israel took up from Egypt, they buried in Shekhem."

So, what does all of this mean for us? Maybe it's a reminder to finish what we start, especially when it comes to acts of kindness and good deeds. But it's also a message of hope. Even if we can't complete a mitzvah ourselves, someone else can step in and finish the job. And their act of completion brings healing and restoration, not just for themselves, but perhaps for all those involved, even retroactively. Perhaps, it's also a reminder that even from the darkest deeds, such as the selling of Joseph, good can ultimately come.

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Bereshit Rabbah 93:8Bereshit Rabbah

The scene is intense. Joseph, after years of separation and playing a cat-and-mouse game with his brothers, is about to reveal his true identity. But let’s back up a little. Remember, the brothers are in Egypt buying grain, and Judah is pleading with the powerful Egyptian official – who is secretly his brother Joseph – about the fate of Benjamin.

It all starts innocently enough. "My lord asked his servants, saying: Do you have a father or a brother?" (Genesis 44:19). But Judah, ever the fiery one, isn't buying it. He accuses Joseph (though he doesn't know it's Joseph yet!) of singling them out with malicious intent. "How many countries descended to Egypt to purchase food?" Judah demands, "But you did not ask this of any of them!" He suspects something is up, protesting, "Did we, perhaps, come to take our daughter, or are you planning to marry our sister? Nevertheless, we hid nothing from you."

Joseph, still testing them, retorts, "I see that you are a prattler. Is there among your brothers a prattler like you?" According to Tanhuma (Vayigash 5), Joseph even claimed to know through divination that Judah wasn't the eldest, making his outspokenness even more suspicious. Why is this brother doing all the talking? Judah explains it's because he became a guarantor for Benjamin.

Then, Joseph throws a real zinger. He accuses them of selling their brother into slavery, bringing anguish to their father, and then lying about it, saying, "Joseph was mauled!" (Genesis 37:33). Imagine the shock and guilt washing over Judah at that moment. When Judah heard this he screamed and cried in a loud voice because Joseph was not giving in to his demand to release Benjamin.

Judah, desperate, turns to drastic measures. He asks Naphtali to scout out the marketplaces of Egypt. Naphtali, known for his speed, reports back that there are twelve. Judah then declares he will destroy three of them, and each brother will take one, until "no man will be left among them" (I (Samuel 14:3)6). The brothers, however, try to reason with Judah. “Egypt is not like Shekhem,” they say, “If you destroy Egypt you will be destroying the entire world.”

This is the breaking point. Joseph, seeing his brothers are ready to unleash unimaginable destruction, can no longer contain himself. "Joseph could not restrain himself before all those standing before him, and he called: Remove every man from before me. No man stood with him when Joseph revealed himself to his brothers" (Genesis 45:1).

The drama is palpable. "He raised his voice in weeping; the Egyptians heard, and the house of Pharaoh heard" (Genesis 45:2). It wasn't a quiet sob, but a full-throated cry that echoed through the palace.

Then comes the moment of revelation: "Joseph said to his brothers: I am Joseph; does my father still live? And his brothers could not answer him because they were alarmed before him" (Genesis 45:3).

They are utterly speechless. Stunned. How could this be? The brother they betrayed, the brother they thought was dead, is standing before them, a powerful ruler in Egypt.

Joseph, perhaps sensing their fear and disbelief, tries again, "Joseph said to his brothers: Please approach me, and they approached. He said: I am Joseph your brother whom you sold to Egypt" (Genesis 45:4).

Bereshit Rabbah tells us that "at that moment, 'Joseph could not restrain himself' (Genesis 45:1)." He realizes he has to convince them, to prove his identity beyond any doubt. "Immediately, their souls departed," the text says, meaning they were completely overwhelmed, "as it is stated: 'His brothers could not [answer him because they were alarmed before him]' (Genesis 45:3)."

But they still didn't believe him until, according to this midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), he uncovered himself and showed them his circumcision. Only then, seeing the unmistakable mark of their shared heritage, did the reality truly sink in.

It’s a powerful image, isn’t it? The vulnerability of Joseph, the shock of his brothers, the weight of their past actions crashing down upon them. What would you do? What would you say? The silence of the brothers speaks volumes, doesn't it? It reminds us that sometimes, the most profound moments are those where words simply fail us, and all that's left is the raw, overwhelming truth.

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Bereshit Rabbah 94:6Bereshit Rabbah

It all begins with Jacob, now also known as Israel, standing at a crossroads. God speaks to him "in the visions of the night," a phrase that already sets a mystical tone. "Jacob, Jacob," God calls, a double calling that emphasizes the importance of what's about to be said. And Jacob replies, simply, "Here I am."

Then comes the crucial message: "I am God, the God of your father; do not fear to go down to Egypt, as I will make you a great nation there" (Genesis 46:3). It's a promise tinged with both comfort and unease. Egypt? The land of potential slavery and hardship? Yet, God assures him, “I will go down with you to Egypt and I will also take you up again and Joseph will place his hand over your eyes” (Genesis 46:4).

It expands on this promise. The midrash in Bereshit Rabbah quotes God as saying, “I am the God Beit El… and I will also take you up again” – you and all the righteous like you.” The text then considers the meaning of “And Joseph will place his hand over your eyes…” Rabbi Ḥagai, quoting Rabbi Yitzḥak, suggests this means that Joseph would take care of Jacob, providing for all his needs, sparing him from having to worry about his own livelihood. Another interpretation, offered by Yefeh To’ar, is that Joseph would close Jacob’s eyes after his death, implying that while God will eventually bring Jacob back to the Land of Israel, it won't be in his lifetime. A promise of future redemption, but not necessarily in the way one might expect. It's a theme we see echoed throughout Jewish tradition: delayed gratification, faith in the face of adversity, and the understanding that God's plan unfolds on a timeline that isn't always ours to comprehend.

Despite the uncertainties, Jacob trusts. "Jacob arose from Beersheba, and the sons of Israel conveyed Jacob their father, and their children, and their wives, in the wagons that Pharaoh sent to convey him" (Genesis 46:5). They gather their belongings, their livestock, all that they've acquired in the land of Canaan, and they journey to Egypt. “They took their livestock, and their property that they had acquired in the land of Canaan, and they came to Egypt: Jacob, and all his descendants with him” (Genesis 46:6). “His sons, and his sons’ sons with him, his daughters, and his sons’ daughters, and all his descendants, he brought with him to Egypt” (Genesis 46:7).

The text emphasizes the entirety of Jacob's family, his "descendants," joining him. But then, Rabbi Yehuda bar Ilai makes a subtle but significant point: "Daughters of sons are considered like sons. Sons of daughters are not considered like sons." This seemingly simple statement touches on the complex laws of Jewish lineage and inheritance, the idea that Jewish identity traditionally passes through the maternal line. It’s a reminder that even within these grand narratives, there are layers of legal and social considerations at play.

So, what do we take away from this brief glimpse into Bereshit Rabbah? It's a story about faith, about trusting in a divine promise even when the path ahead is unclear. It's about family, about the bonds that tie us together, and about the subtle nuances that shape our understanding of identity and belonging. And perhaps most importantly, it's a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there's always the promise of future redemption, a promise that echoes through the generations.

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Bereshit Rabbah 95:4Bereshit Rabbah

Take the story of Joseph and his brothers in Egypt.

In (Genesis 47:2), we read, "From among his brothers he took five men, and he presented them before Pharaoh." Okay, But the rabbis of old, in the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) Bereshit Rabbah, didn't think so. They zoomed in on the phrase "from among [miktze] his brothers." Miktze – it suggests a selection, a picking and choosing. But why this specific wording?

The Midrash asks, why does the verse state “from among [miktze] his brothers”? It's not just saying he picked five random guys. It's "to teach you that they were not mighty." The term katze, it explains, indicates those on the periphery, the relatively weak. So, who were these five chosen brothers? Reuben, Levi, Benjamin, Simeon, and Issachar.

Why would Joseph, the shrewd and powerful vizier of Egypt, present the least mighty of his brothers to Pharaoh? Bereshit Rabbah gives us a fascinating insight into Joseph's thinking: "It is because he knew each and every mighty one among his brothers, and he acted wisely." Joseph, ever the strategist, knew exactly what he was doing.

He reasoned, "If I present the mighty ones before Pharaoh, he will see them and make them his warriors." Can you picture it? A pharaoh, always on the lookout for strong soldiers, immediately impressed by, say, Judah's strength. Joseph wasn't about to risk his family being conscripted into the Egyptian army!

But how did Joseph know who was mighty and who wasn't? Here's where it gets really interesting. The Midrash connects it to Moses's blessing in Deuteronomy 33. Anyone whose name was repeated in that blessing was considered mighty. Judah, for example: "This is for Judah, and he said: Hear, Lord, the voice of Judah" (Deuteronomy 33:7). See the repetition? Naphtali, Asher, Dan, Zebulun, Gad – all of them get the double mention.

So, Joseph, knowing this tradition or perhaps having his own way of assessing strength, deliberately left those brothers out of the lineup for Pharaoh. Those whose names weren't repeated, the ones deemed "not mighty," were the ones he presented. The Midrash emphasizes, "It does not mention their names here because they were not mighty." It's a subtle, almost hidden, act of protection.

And then, the Midrash takes a turn, seemingly unrelated, but perhaps offering another layer of Joseph's shrewdness. "Joseph said: Give your livestock, and I will give you for your livestock, if silver has run out" (Genesis 47:16). The Midrash interprets this as Joseph saying, "Your horse is before me. You are exposed as a peeled onion."

What does that mean? Well, the commentary suggests Joseph is calling them out. They might claim poverty, but Joseph sees their horses. He knows they still have resources. This little addition suggests Joseph wasn't just protecting his family from conscription; he was also a savvy negotiator, aware of their true situation.

So, what do we take away from this deep dive into a single verse? It reminds us that even seemingly simple stories in the Torah are packed with layers of meaning, waiting to be uncovered. It shows us Joseph not just as a dreamer and a leader, but as a shrewd strategist, protecting his family in ways both obvious and subtle. And it highlights the brilliance of the rabbinic tradition, finding profound truths in the smallest details. Next time you read a familiar story, ask yourself: what's hiding just beneath the surface?

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Bereshit Rabbah 100:4Bereshit Rabbah

The verse in (Genesis 50:3) tells us, "Forty days were completed for him, as so are the days of embalming completed. Egypt wept for him for seventy days.” Then, just a verse later, (Genesis 50:4) states, "The days of his weeping passed, and Joseph spoke to Pharaoh’s household, saying: Please, if I have found favor in your eyes, please, speak in the ears of Pharaoh, saying…"

Notice that phrasing? "The days of his weeping passed." But compare that, the Rabbis point out, to (Deuteronomy 34:8), which speaks of Moses: "The days of weeping of the mourning of Moses concluded." What's the difference between "passed" and "concluded"? Is it just semantics?

Not according to the Sages. The explanation offered is surprisingly insightful. With Moses, because he didn't have a multitude of others weeping for him, the scripture uses the word "concluded." But with Jacob, because so many others – including, as the text hints, even the residents of Canaan – joined in mourning him as his body was carried to Canaan for burial, the scripture says "passed." It suggests that when grief is shared, when it’s a collective experience, it… well, it passes. It becomes part of the shared history, a communal sorrow that, while still felt, doesn’t weigh as heavily on any single individual. But when grief is solitary, when you're bearing the burden alone, it "concludes" only when the individual mourner reaches their own point of closure.

Isn’t that a profound observation about the nature of mourning?

The text then shifts its focus to Joseph. Why, after the mourning period, did Joseph speak to Pharaoh's household instead of directly to Pharaoh himself? The verse reads, "Joseph spoke [to Pharaoh’s household] – to whom did he say it? It was to the nursemaid, to appease the queen, and the queen would appease the king. Why did he himself not enter?"

Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin, citing Rabbi Shmuel, offers a clear reason: "Because a mourner may not enter the king’s palace." It's a matter of decorum, of understanding the appropriate boundaries between personal grief and royal protocol.

So, what are we left with? We have this beautiful, layered understanding of mourning, where the shared nature of grief influences its trajectory, and where even in the midst of powerful emotions, respect for social structures remains paramount. It makes you wonder, doesn't it, about the ways we process grief today, and the importance of community in helping us move forward.

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Bereshit Rabbah 100:11Bereshit Rabbah

It’s a theme that runs deep in Jewish tradition, and it surfaces in the story of Joseph, the favored son of Jacob, who rose to prominence in Egypt.

We find ourselves at the end of the Book of Genesis. Joseph is on his deathbed. (Genesis 50:25) tells us, "Joseph administered an oath to the children of Israel, saying: God will remember you, and you shall carry up my bones from here."

It’s a simple sentence, but packed with meaning. Joseph, even in his final moments, is thinking about the future, about the promise God made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – the promise of the land of Israel. He wants to be part of that future, even in death.

When Joseph says, "You shall carry up my bones from here," one might assume he meant right away. But Bereshit Rabbah, a classical rabbinic commentary on Genesis, asks a crucial question: When exactly should they take his bones? The answer, the commentary points out, lies in (Exodus 13:19): “[You shall bring my bones up from here] with you." That little phrase "with you" is key. It implies the bones would be brought up "when you ascend" – meaning, when the entire Israelite nation leaves Egypt.

But what about the other brothers, the heads of the tribes? Did Joseph only care about his own remains? According to Bereshit Rabbah, the phrase "with you" teaches us something more profound. It suggests that the Israelites took up the bones of all the tribes with them, not just Joseph's. It’s a beautiful idea, a evidence of the unity of the tribes even in death, and their shared destiny in the promised land.

The verse concludes in (Genesis 50:26), "Joseph died at the age of one hundred and ten years. They embalmed him, and he was placed in a coffin in Egypt." Who exactly embalmed him? The text just says "they embalmed him." Who are "they"?

Here, the Rabbis debate. Rabbi Pinḥas and Rabbi Yehuda, citing Rabbi Neḥemya, offer different opinions. Rabbi Yehuda suggests the physicians embalmed him, as was the custom in Egypt. But Rabbi Pinḥas has a different take. He says the tribes embalmed him. Bereshit Rabbah then connects this back to (Exodus 1:1): "These are the names of the children of Israel who came to Egypt." "They" – the ones who embalmed Joseph – are the very same children of Israel who came down to Egypt.

What’s so significant about this detail? It emphasizes the honor and respect the entire nation had for Joseph. It wasn’t just a professional service; it was a communal act of love and remembrance. It emphasizes the deep connection between Joseph and his people.

This whole passage, though seemingly about burial arrangements, is really about hope, memory, and the unbreakable bonds of community. Joseph's oath, and the actions taken by the Israelites generations later, remind us that even in exile, the dream of return can stay alive. And that sometimes, the smallest words – like "with you" – can carry the weight of generations.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What promises are we making today that will shape the future for those who come after us? And what acts of remembrance will bind us together as a community, even across time and distance?

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