S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT MIKETZ

By Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei

            The Gemara in Masekhet Megila (16b-17a) views the twenty-two years which Yaakov spent grieving over his son, Yosef, whom he thought had died, as a punishment for the twenty-two years he spent away from his parents.  Yosef was seventeen years old when he was sold as a slave (37:2), and thirteen years later, at the age of thirty, he was released from prison and appointed vizier (41:46).  This appointment was followed by seven years of plenty, and two years later – after the first two years of drought (45:6) – Yaakov came to Egypt and reunited with his son, after twenty-two years of not seeing him.  This total parallels the period Yaakov spent away from home – twenty years with Lavan (31:41), and two years in Sukkot and Beit-El (as the Gemara records from tradition).  The Gemara adds that Yaakov spent fourteen years studying in the yeshiva of Shem and Ever, but he was not punished for these years, because, in the Gemara’s words, “Torah study is greater than honoring parents.”  The mitzva of Torah learning overrides the obligation to honor one’s parents, and thus Yaakov was justified in spending fourteen years away from home learning.  He was therefore punished only for the other twenty-two years.

            The Arukh Ha-shulchan (Y.D. 240:36) notes the halakhic implications of the Gemara’s discussion:

Therefore, if one wishes to go learn in a different city, he may go without his father and mother’s permission.  It would seem from here that if one goes for a different mitzva, he requires his father and mother’s permission.  And although when this is necessary for one’s livelihood he certainly does not have to receive permission, nevertheless, for a mitzva, one must receive permission, for “one who is involved in a mitzva is exempt from another mitzva – so how can one abandon the mitzva of honoring [parents] and take on a different mitzva?

The fact that the Gemara gives special dispensation for one who studies Torah at the expense of honoring parents indicates that one may not leave his parents against their wishes for other pursuits.  The reason, the Arukh Ha-shulchan explains, is that one cannot absolve himself of a mitzva that he currently bears – the obligation to honor parents – to assume another mitzva.  However, the Arukh Ha-shulchan writes, one may leave his parents’ town against their wishes if this is necessary for earning a livelihood.  The Arukh Ha-shulchan does not provide a source or rationale for this ruling, and it is likely that it is intuitive and self-evident that parents are not entitled to interfere with their child’s pursuit of a respectable livelihood.

            Of course, this entire discussion assumes that the mitzva of kibbud av va-eim (honoring parents) requires one to live with or near his parents if they so desire (except in the cases mentioned above).  This requirement is indeed mentioned in several other sources, including the likkutim section of the Sefer Maharil (90).  Rav Shalom of Austreich is cited there as commenting, “A person should always live in the place of his parents.”  Rav Shalom adds that this is the only reason why he remained in the city where he lived, rather than moving.  Thus, at least according to some authorities, even grown children should live near their parents if their parents so desire, unless they must live elsewhere for the sake of a livelihood or for Torah education.

Sunday

            We read in Parashat Miketz of the arrival of Yosef’s brothers in Egypt to purchase grain.  Yosef, whom the brothers did not recognize, accused them of coming to spy the country, and ordered one brother, Shimon, to be imprisoned while the others return home and bring the youngest brother, Binyamin, back to Egypt.  The brothers immediately made the connection between their current situation – where one brother was taken from them – and the crime they had committed against Yosef: “They said one to another, ‘Indeed, we are guilty on account of our brother, that we saw his distress as he pleaded to us, but we did not hear him – this is why this trouble has befallen us!’” (42:21).

Reuven then replied to his brothers, “Did I not tell you, saying, ‘Do not mistreat the child,’ but you did not listen?  And now a reckoning is made for his blood!”  At this moment of “reckoning,” when the brothers saw before their very eyes their crime coming back to haunt them, Reuven felt vindicated; the stance he took on that fateful day in Dotan was now proven correct.  And he wanted to ensure that his brothers acknowledged and made note of it.  He says, “Did I not tell you?” – or, in contemporary parlance, “I told you so!”

Saying “I told you so” is destructive and hurtful on many levels.  For one thing, it simply reinforces the feelings of shame and remorse felt by the other party, pouring salt on their raw emotional wounds.  The result is, in many cases, just more tension and animosity, and hardly even will the response be an honest and polite, “I’m sorry, you were right and I was wrong.”  Moreover, “I told you so” diverts attention from the present and future, and focuses the conversation on the past, which can no longer be changed.  What should have occupied Reuven’s mind at this difficult moment was not self-vindication, but rather charting the best course of action to deal with the unexpectedly harsh circumstances that he and his brothers confronted.  But he instead resorted to petty competition, showing his brothers that he was right and they were wrong.

But perhaps worst of all, “I told you so” often has the effect of adding stress to an already tense situation.  Usually, the response of “I told you so” relates to an argument between parties concerning a complex and difficult issue or circumstance that they faced, and which they sought to handle in different ways.  After a decision is reached and it is later determined to have been the wrong choice, the parties face a problem that must be addressed.  They are already tense, anxious and upset.  An arrogant, triumphant “I told you so” magnifies the aggravation and frustration manifold, making a difficult situation intolerable.

Later in Parashat Miketz, we find another comment made in a moment of frustration that only added to the stress of the situation.  After the nine brothers returned to Canaan and informed Yaakov of the Egyptian vizier’s demand that they bring Binyamin to Egypt, Yaakov refused to allow Binyamin to go.  Later, when the family’s provisions were depleted, the brothers again implored Yaakov to allow them to bring Binyamin to Egypt and purchase the direly-needed food provisions.  Desperate and forlorn, Yaakov exclaimed, “Why have you done me evil by telling the man that you had another brother?” (43:6).  Yaakov pointed an accusing finger at his sons, who – he thought – volunteered the information that they had a younger brother, whom the vizier then demanded that they bring to Egypt, thus causing the current crisis.

The Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 91) criticizes Yaakov for making this angry remark: “Our patriarch Yaakov would never speak a purposeless word [davar shel batala] – except here.”  The Sages viewed this remark as a “purposeless” comment, one which had no constructive value, and was blurted simply as an expression of grief and frustration.

Difficult predicaments require coolheaded, rational thinking and strategizing.  The comments made by Reuven and Yaakov were raw expressions of emotions which – though readily understandable in light of the stressful circumstances they confronted – exacerbated the stress and tension, rather than contributing toward the search for a solution.  Specifically in situations of complex and difficult predicaments, when tensions are high and emotions are boiling, we must avoid “devarim shel batala,” emotional outbursts that agitate, rather than help calm, the people involved.

Monday

            Parashat Miketz begins by describing Pharaoh’s unusual dreams, for which he desperately sought a satisfying interpretation.  The Torah writes that Pharaoh first saw seven robust cows that grazed “ba-achu” (41:2).  Most commentators interpret this word as a reference to a meadow.  Targum Onkelos, for example, translates the word as “be-achva” (“in the meadow”).  The Ramban, however, raises the possibility of explaining this term to mean “together.”  The seven cows stood in a large area of pasture and were thus able to graze comfortably all together.

            This also appears to be the interpretation followed by a number of Midrashic texts, which noted the symbolic significance of this particular aspect of Pharaoh’s dream.  The Tanchuma Yashan (Miketz 3) comments, “When good years arrive, people become brothers to one another.”  We similarly read in Bereishit Rabba (89), “At the time when the years are prosperous, people become brothers to each other.”  According to these sources, the word “ba-achu” is derived from the familiar word ach (brother), and refers to a sense of friendship and “fraternity” that existed among the robust cows in Pharaoh’s dream.  This quality symbolized the aura of friendship, cooperation and sharing that characterizes periods of peace and prosperity – such as the seven years of plenty which the seven large cows in the king’s dream represented.

            Conversely, Chazal detected in the Torah’s description of the second set of cows – the lean, emaciated cows which foretold the years of food shortage – an allusion to the tension and tight fists that characterize years of economic hardship.  The Torah introduces the seven lean cows with the term “parot acheirot” (“other cows” – 41:3), regarding which the Midrash (Tanchuma Yashan, ibid.) comments, “When bad years arrive, people become ‘others’ [strangers] to their fellows… What are ‘acheirot’?  They see each other and turn their faces away from them.”  The term “acheirot” is viewed here as a subtle expression of emotional distance and alienation.  During times of financial crisis, people are preoccupied with their own needs, seeking provisions for themselves and their families, such that they cannot give attention to other people.

            This aspect of the years of shortage is elaborated upon further by the Midrash Ha-gadol:

At the time when calamity befalls the earth, all people become “others” and foreigners to one another.  How?  A person comes from a distant place and enters the city.  His friend sits in the street, and when he sees him, he turns his face behind him and pretends as though he does not see him and he never met him.  What caused this?  The hunger and calamity in the world.

In periods of prosperity people enjoy the luxury and serenity to foster and maintain social relationships.  But in times of shortage, people’s money, time and attention are all exclusively focused on obtaining their bare necessities.  They do not have the ability or the interest to share their lives with others, as they are compelled to obsessively restrict themselves to their bare physical survival.

            It is interesting to note that Chazal found an allusion to this aspect of financial hardship specifically here, in reference to the drought that struck during Yosef’s time.  In a certain sense, Yosef achieved the precise opposite result during this period of shortage – he succeeded in bringing all countries in the region together.  Yosef stored countless stockpiles of grain during the years of plenty, such that Egypt was the only country with provisions during the seven-year drought.  As the Torah describes, all the surrounding nations came to Egypt to purchase provisions.  While ordinarily shortage has the effect of the “other,” of people withdrawing into themselves and ignoring everybody around them, the drought in Yosef’s time had the effect of bringing all the nations together to Egypt.  Yosef created a reality where a food shortage would yield the precise opposite result than that which we would have expected; instead of causing nations to separate from one another, he brought them together.

            Financial hardship is likely to cause people to ignore one another – but it can also have the opposite effect of bringing people together.  In such periods, empathetic people share what they have even if they have little, and wise people work together to pool resources and develop effective strategies for handling the crisis and weathering the storm.  Even in times depicted by the seven lean cows, it is possible for people to “graze” together, to establish and enhance relationships and join forces to find solutions.

Tuesday

            The Torah in Parashat Miketz tells of the drought that struck Egypt and the surrounding nations.  Egypt was the only country with grain, as it had stored surplus provisions during the previous years of prosperity.  People from around the region came to Egypt to purchase grain, and eventually even Yaakov, who lived in Canaan, sent his sons to Egypt to buy provisions.

            When Yaakov sent his sons, he introduced his request by saying, “Lama titra’u” (42:1).  Rav Saadia Gaon explains this to mean, “Why are you lazy?”  Yaakov was criticizing his sons for not taking the initiative to travel to Egypt to purchase provisions.  Most commentators, however, explain the word “titra’u” as relating to the verb r.a.h., which means “see.”  The Rashbam writes that Yaakov asked his sons, “Why are you pretending that we have food?”  He scolded his sons for their passivity in the face of crisis, which made them appear as though they had what needed.

            More famously, however, the Gemara in Masekhet Ta’anit (10b), as Rashi cites, interprets this verse to mean that Yaakov and his family actually had sufficient food supplies.  According to the Gemara, Yaakov told his sons, “Do not show that you are satiated in front of Esav or in front of Yishmael, so that they will not be envious of you.”  Remarkably, Yaakov sent his sons to Egypt not because they needed food, but because they needed to appear as though they needed food.  Yaakov understood the fierce emotion of jealousy, and how these emotions could easily be triggered during a period of shortage if he and his family lived comfortably.  He therefore decided that the family must go through the trouble of importing food like everyone else, in order to avoid igniting the jealousy and hostility of their neighbors.

The Gemara infers a practical halakha from Yaakov’s decision, establishing that if a person accidentally ate during a public fast day, such that he is no longer bound by the fast, he must not appear comfortable and well-fed in public.  Just as Yaakov did not want to appear financially comfortable during a time of shortage, similarly, one who is not fasting should not appear well-fed among those who are fasting.  This halakha is codified in the Shulchan Arukh (O.C.574:3).  The Rama adds that even in private, one should not overly indulge in food and delicacies, even if he is absolved from the fast, out of respect for the general observance of a fast day.

            The Revid Ha-zahav (cited by Torah Sheleima) comments that this verse serves as the basis of another halakha, as well.  The Gemara in Masekhet Sanhedrin (29b) tells of a man who announced before several people that he owes money to two individuals, whom he named.  Those alleged creditors then approached the man and demanded that he give them the stated sum, but he refused.  The case came before Rav Nachman, who ruled in favor of the defendant.  He explained his ruling by establishing the rule that “adam asui she-lo le-hasbi’a et atzmo,” which means that people occasionally give the appearance of having less than they actually do in order to avoid arousing jealousy.  The man’s declaration that he owes money does not constitute a formal halakhic hoda’a (confession), on the basis of which the court can require him to pay, because it is entirely possible that it was said untruthfully, to mislead people into thinking that he is in debt.  This halakha is codified in the Shulchan Arukh (C.M. 81:14).  The Rama notes that this applies even if the defendant is poor and would never be perceived as wealthy.  Even such a person is believed if he claims that his confession was said in order to give people the impression that he has less than he really does.

In any event, according to the Revid Ha-zahav, this principle of “adam asui she-lo le-hasbi’a et atzmo” has its roots in Yaakov’s comment to his sons, “Lama titra’u,” which instructs that we must do what we can to avoid arousing other people’s jealousy.

            Unfortunately, the tendency among many people today is to follow the precise opposite approach, and to try to appear wealthier than one really is.  Too many people spend beyond their means, or find a way to appear well-off, in order to compete with and try to impress their peers.  Yaakov here teaches us that showing off wealth – even wealth that one actually has – evokes jealousy and resentment, not admiration and respect.  We must always ask ourselves, “Lama titra’u,” whether it is really in our best interest to make a public display of our material benefits, especially in the presence of those who are struggling.  And, as in Yaakov’s case, the answer will invariably be “no.”

Wednesday

            We read in Parashat Miketz that Yosef was released from prison and brought to Pharaoh for the purpose of suggesting an interpretation to the king’s mystifying dream.  The Gemara in Masekhet Rosh Hashanah (10b) comments that this event occurred on the day of Rosh Hashanah.

            The work Ar’a De-Rabbanan (336) reached a halakhic conclusion on the basis of the Gemara’s comment.  The Torah tells that Yosef shaved prior to his meeting with Pharaoh (41:14) – despite the fact that it was the holiday of Rosh Hashanah, when, of course, shaving is forbidden.  It is commonly assumed that the patriarchs – and Yaakov’s sons – observed the Torah’s laws, and we may thus reasonably assume that there was halakhic justification for Yosef’s shaving on Rosh Hashanah.  The Ar’a De-Rabbanan claimed that the requirement of kevod melekh – showing honor to a monarch, even a corrupt monarch like Pharaoh – constitutes a Biblical obligation.  And since halakha establishes that “asei docheh lo ta’aseh” – an affirmative Biblical command overrides a Biblical prohibition – one may violate Yom Tov for the purpose of showing respect to a king.  This, according to the Ar’a De-rabbanan, was the justification for Yosef’s shaving in preparation for his audience with Pharaoh.  The Ar’a De-Rabbanan thus concludes that it is permissible to sail on Shabbat beyond the boundaries of techum Shabbat (the maximum travel distance allowed on Shabbat) for the purpose of greeting a monarch.

            Rav Asher Zelig Weiss, in his Minchat Asher, rejects this line of reasoning for several reasons.  For one thing, we cannot reach practical halakhic conclusions on the basis of our patriarchs’ conduct before Matan Torah.  Even if we assume that Yosef observed the entire Torah, the terms and conditions of his observance do not necessarily correspond to normative halakhic guidelines established at the time of Matan Torah and by Chazal.  Additionally, even if the Ar’a De-Rabbanan is correct with respect to Yosef’s rationale allowing haircutting on Rosh Hashanah, it cannot be applied to Shabbat, when prohibited activity is punishable by karet.  An affirmative Biblical command does not override a prohibition punishable by karet, and thus we cannot allow violating Shabbat for the purpose of honoring a monarch, even if such honor indeed constitutes a Biblical obligation.  (We should note, however, that the Ar’a De-Rabbanan’s discussion concerned the prohibition of techum Shabbat, which differs from other Shabbat prohibitions and is not punishable by karet.)

            Furthermore, it is likely that Yosef did not cut his hair himself, and rather had Pharaoh’s servants cut his hair for him.  Indeed, as Rav Weiss cites, the Chatam Sofer (Torat Moshe, Parashat Miketz) explained this incident on the basis of the Behag’s ruling that one may ask a gentile to perform on Shabbat activity forbidden for a Jew if this is necessary for the purpose of a mitzva.  Yosef was allowed to ask the Egyptian barbers to cut his hair and beard for the purpose of the mitzva of appearing respectable before Pharaoh.

            Moreover, Tosafot (Shabbat 94b) classify haircutting under the category of melakha she-eina tzerikha le-gufa – an act that is not done for the purpose of the melakha in question.  The forbidden act of gozeiz (“shearing”) relates to detaching material from a surface because one needs the material.  When one cuts his hair, he does so for the sake of his appearance, not because he needs his hair.  Tosafot thus claim that haircutting falls under the category of melakha she-eina tzerikha le-gufa.  And, according to most authorities, a melakha she-eina tzerikha le-gufa is forbidden only by force of Rabbinic enactment.  Hence, even if we assume that Yosef refrained from actions forbidden by Chazal, he was allowed to cut his hair for the purpose of the mitzva of kevod malkhut.  (There are other Rishonim, however, who claim that haircutting is not considered a melakha she-eina tzerikha le-gufa, and this issue is subject to a debate between the Shakh and the Taz in Y.D. 198.)

            Finally, it seems reasonable to assume that Yosef would have been executed if he had appeared unkempt before the king.  The Moshav Zekeinim writes that Yosef was certainly permitted to cut his hair in the interest of saving his life, which, of course, overrides nearly all Torah prohibitions.

            For all these reasons, this incident does not provide any basis for allowing Shabbat or Yom Tov violations for the sake of giving honor to a king.

Thursday

            During the eight days of Chanukah, we add the Al Ha-nissim paragraph to the modim section of the amida prayer, and to the second berakha of birkat ha-mazon.  The Shulchan Arukh (O.C. 682:1) rules that if one forgot to add Al Ha-nissim to the amida or birkat ha-mazon, he does not repeat the prayer.  The Rama adds, however, that if a person realized his mistake before he completed birkat ha-mazon, he should recite in the “ha-rachaman” section of birkat ha-mazon the prayer, “Ha-rachaman hu ya’aseh lanu nissim ve-nifla’ot ke’shem she-asita la-avoteinu ba-yamim ha-heim ba-zman ha-zeh” (“The Merciful One shall perform miracles and wonders for us just as You performed for our ancestors in those days, in this season”).  He should then continue with the Al Ha-nissim text for Chanukah – “Biy’mei Matityahu ben Yochanan…”

            The Tevu’ot Shor disputed this ruling of the Rama, and wrote that one should not recite this prayer if he had forgotten to add Al Ha-nissim in birkat ha-mazon.  He notes the Mishna’s famous comment in Masekhet Berakhot (60a) that after one’s wife has conceived, he should not pray that the child should be male or female.  Such a prayer, the Mishna says, would constitute a “tefilat shav” (purposeless prayer), since the gender has already been determined.  The Gemara, in discussing the Mishna’s ruling, notes the Midrashic tradition that when Leah conceived her seventh child, the fetus was originally male, but God miraculously transformed the fetus into a female, who became Dina.  Why, then, it is inappropriate to pray for a child’s gender even after conception?  Why can’t one pray that God should transform the fetus’ gender, just as He transformed Dina?  The Gemara answers, “Ein mazkirin ma’aseh nissim,” meaning, we do not pray for supernatural occurrences.  We can pray to the Almighty to help us and fulfill our wishes within the framework of the natural order, but not by overturning the natural order.

            Accordingly, the Tevu’ot Shor contends, it would be inappropriate to pray that God should perform “miracles and wonders” as He performed for the Hasmoneans.  As the Gemara clearly indicates, we should not be praying for overt miracles.

            Rav Moshe Sternbuch, in his Mo’adim U-zmanim (vol. 2, p. 101), defends the Rama’s ruling.  He distinguishes between a general prayer for miraculous assistance, and a specific request for a particular miracle.  It is considered arrogant and brazen to petition God to perform a specific miracle, such as in the case of a fetus that has already been conceived.  One may, however, ask for God’s miraculous protection and assistance in a general sense.  Rav Sternbuch writes that most people, at some point or another, experience God’s special providence and protection, and thus it is not considered brazen to ask for this level of divine assistance.  The Gemara’s ruling applied only to a prayer dictating to God the specific kind of miraculous intervention that one seeks, which is inappropriate.

            Thus, there is nothing improper in reciting the prayer mentioned by the Rama, asking in a general sense that God perform miracles to assist and protect His nation.

Friday

            We read in Parashat Miketz of Yosef’s harsh treatment of his brothers when they arrived in Egypt to purchase grain.  Yosef, who now served as Egyptian vizier and was unrecognizable to his brothers, accused them of coming to spy, imprisoned Shimon, and ordered them to return home and bring him Binyamin, the youngest brother.  The brothers immediately drew an association between their current travails and the crime they had committed against Yosef, and recognized that they were now being punished for mistreating their brother.  Reuven then scolded the other brothers for having rejected his plea to leave Yosef alone, adding, “ve-gam damo hinei nidrash” (“and now, behold, a reckoning is made for his blood” – 42:22).

            Rashi, citing the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 91:8), notes the peculiar usage of the word “gam” in this verse.  The word “gam” generally means “also,” and is used in reference to something that is in addition to the primary subject.  Here, however, Reuven speaks only of Yosef’s blood for which the brothers are now being punished.  What, then, does he mean with the word “gam”?  According to the peshat (plain reading) of the text, as Rav Saadia Gaon explains, the word “gam” in this context should be understood to mean “now,” and Reuven thus notes that the punishment for the crime against Yosef was unfolding then, at that point, when the brothers were in Egypt.  The Midrash, however, as Rashi cites, suggests that Reuven alludes here to two “bloods” for which retribution was now being visited upon the brothers: “damo ve-gam dam ha-zakein” (“his blood – and also the blood of the old man [Yaakov]”).  Reuven noted that they were being punished for the pain they caused Yosef, and also for the pain caused to Yaakov throughout the years of bereavement.

            Rabbenu Yehuda Ha-chasid, in Sefer Ha-chasidim (659), infers a general rule from the Midrash’s comment concerning accountability for interpersonal offenses.  Namely, one who commits an offense against another individual is held liable not only for the distress caused to the victim, but also for the distress indirectly caused to others as a result of the crime.   In the simple case of physical harm, the victim’s injury will likely add extra stress and pressure to his family, as his ability to tend to his household responsibilities is hampered, and the family members may be required to take the time to care for him.  Likewise, the victim may be less productive at work, and may have to even miss work time because of his injury, thus putting a strain on his employer, coworkers and associates.  And, the ripple effect does not stop here.  The added pressure on the wife, for example, may interfere with her work outside the home, thus inconveniencing her place of employment.  And the disruption to the victim’s employer could adversely affect the business’ clients, and so on.

            The Midrash thus seeks to alert us to the far-reaching effects of the way we treat other people.  An offense committed against another individual is a crime committed against his family and many others, as well.  But the converse is also true.  By helping a person, we also help those around him who benefit from his good spirits and well-being.  The kindness we perform for those around us, and the seemingly small contributions that we each make in our private and professional lives, can yield a far more significant and far-reaching impact than we could have imagined.

            The kindling of the Chanukah lights outside one’s home, where they shine onto the public domain to publicize the Chanukah miracle, is symbolic of the ability of every Jewish home to “illuminate” its surroundings, the community, and, indeed, the entire world.  What makes light so special is the fact that even a small flame can triumph over a large swath of darkness – which is precisely why candle lighting is the most appropriate commemoration of the Hasmonean victory over the Selucid Greeks (in addition, of course, to the miracle of the menora in the Temple).  The candles burning brightly onto the street in front of our homes symbolize the power invested in each and every household to make a difference, to have an impact, to make a significant contribution to the world.  Even if we feel no more significant than a tiny flame, we are capable of penetrating the darkness and making the world a better place.