Why Are We Jews?

“Biblical stories are in our present — in the cheder [Easter
European elementary school] we cried when we learned of the sale of
Joseph — and we rejoiced in his ascendancy to power. There
was a freshness, a vigor, a nearness, which we felt in that drama.” — Rabbi
Joseph B. Soloveichik

Oh to be a fly on the wall of that great and dramatic
confrontation between Judah and Joseph. The scene: Twenty-two years after being
sold, Joseph, unbeknownst to his brothers, has ascended to become Egyptian
viceroy. Joseph frames his brothers by placing a royal goblet in Benjamin’s
sack. Joseph “graciously” offers to exonerate all the brothers — barring
Benjamin. Floating between feisty and fearful, Judah, the engineer of Joseph’s
sale, walks into the palace to confront a mercurial viceroy and delivers a
poignant message climaxing with a plea to free Benjamin:

“For how can I go up to my father if the youth [Benjamin] is
not with me lest I see the evil that will befall my father?” (44:34)

In the face of such courage, it is Joseph who crumbles —
breaking down into tears and ultimately divulging his identity. How deliciously
ironic that this man of control, a teenager in a foreign land who is able to
withstand Potiphar’s wife’s temptations and strong enough to remain hidden for more
than 22 years, capitulates to Judah.

Wherein lies the power of the Judah personality? Is this the
same Judah who initiates the sale of his brother and whose conduct in the Tamar
episode raises troubling questions? Equally remarkable is the haunting silence
of Judah’s siblings. Why is it Judah alone who stands tall in the face of the
hostile viceroy who wants to seize Benjamin? Are they not all certain of the
consequent early demise of their father Jacob?

Our Sages portray the development of the Judah personality.
A picture of transformation emerges. After initiating his brother’s sale, Judah
begins to contemplate the enormity of his actions and their effect on Jacob.
Shortly thereafter, he is thrust into crisis with his former daughter-in-law,
Tamar, who is pregnant with illegitimate twins.

Unlike his role in the Joseph saga, in this epic, Judah does
not hold all the cards. He is, after all, the unwitting father (if this story
seems puzzling — you might want to read it in its original). Tamar knows, but
refuses to vocally pinpoint Judah as the father of her children. Instead she
opts to merely present Judah with the evidence and ultimately forces him to
make a momentous decision. In the presence of his father and grandfather,
comments the Midrash, Judah is confronted with a massive internal crisis. Shall
he remain passive or admit that he sired the children? Will Judah choose
ephemeral ease over eternal excellence?Â

“Tzadka mimeni” (“She is more righteous than I”), Judah
declares. (38:26) Two words, no ambiguity and an uncompromising sense of truth.
Precisely here, our sages majestically declare, does Judah earn his Messianic
stripes. Judah has made mistakes in the past, but he is now willing to accept
responsibility. The metamorphosis is almost done. For if Judah is able to admit
responsibility it is only natural that when the crisis of Benjamin strikes that
Judah plays the lead role and proclaims: “Anochi e’ervenu” (“I will be his
guarantor.”) (43:9)

It is striking that Judah’s sense of responsibility now
transcends his own self and creates a sense of obligation to the other.
Ultimately, this proactive responsibility has a profound curative effect, as
the brothers are reunited and the family healed.

Often parents in their role as mediators in great sibling
struggles are privileged to hear various restatements of “it all started when
he hit me back” — an argument of impeccable logic. It is not all right for our
children to shirk blame. Sacred duty requires that we invest them with a sense
of accountability, however unpleasant or frightening that might be. In our
efforts to provide our children with everything, we may deprive them of the
great gift of responsibility, engendering in its stead a sense of entitlement.

For the past 2,000 years, our people have been called
Yehudim — or Jews — a derivative of the word Judah. We are not Yissachars,
Dans, nor are we even Josephs. Perhaps it is because God demands of us to take
responsibility for our flaws. Even as we do not control our circumstances, we
surely control the way we respond to them. This essential understanding forms
the basis of real spirituality. Once we acknowledge that we are accountable for
ourselves and indeed for our fellow human beings, we become emboldened to
unlock the grand potential stored within.

Good Shabbos. Â

Rabbi Asher Brander is the rabbi of Westwood Kehilla, founder of LINK (Los Angeles Intercommunity Kollel) and long-time teacher at Yeshiva University of Los Angeles High Schools.Â