 | It's not my fault. Why should I take responsibility for any part of it? We're all prone to say so. Yet our penchant to claim rightness has spiritual and practical limits. Our acts and omissions ripple out far beyond their space and time, and Jewishly we claim collective responsibility for much seemingly beyond ourselves. Just ask the guy whom Jews are named for. |
By Rabbi David Evan Markus
Vayigash 5785 (2025)
Click here for last week's Dvar Torah on this portion, "The Meaning of Life."
"Why should I take responsibility? It's not my fault!"
We've all said it in one form or another. Sometimes what animates us is a sense of right justice: only those responsible should bear responsibility. Sometimes what animates us is equity: if others won't take responsibility, then why should I? Sometimes what animates us is unconscious self-defense against looking inward.
Yet often we're more responsible than we imagine. Judaism insists that, ultimately, we're all in it together. It's true year-round, though we explicitly say so mainly on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur: Avinu Malkeinu, we did so and so. Avinu Malkeinu, we didn't act when rightness should have compelled us. Each of our actions and inactions ripples out far beyond just us.
This week's Torah portion lays this groundwork, through the bravery and changed heart of Yehudah, one of patriarch Yaakov's children. In Torah's majestic narrative of Joseph's journey from dreamer to slave to prisoner to vizier, Yehudah offers a profound lesson for us all about how even a single moment of taking responsibility can change the world.
The backstory: A younger Joseph's dreams of superiority so angered his elder brothers that they conspired to kill him. Instead, eldest son Reuven convinced them to put Joseph in a pit so Reuven could return Joseph to their father (Genesis 37:21-22). From there, however, Yehudah, took the lead in selling Joseph into slavery. (Genesis 37:26-29). Thus began Joseph's saga, betrayed by his brothers.
Much later, Joseph becomes vizier of Egypt. Famine sweeps the Mideast, Joseph saves Egypt by storing abundant food supplies, the brothers go to Egypt in search of food, and they grovel to the vizier not knowing who he really is. Joseph tests his brothers to see if they changed. Joseph gives them sacks of food but hides a golden goblet in youngest son Benjamin's sack. Joseph then "discovered" the "theft" (Genesis 44:1-17).
Knowing that their father would die in grief for young Benjamin, Yehudah asks the vizier to hold him responsible instead of Benjamin (Genesis 44:18-34).
Yehudah was innocent of theft but took responsibility. Yehudah was not, however, innocent. It was Yehudah who had sold Joseph into slavery, sparking Joseph's need to test his brothers. The immediate situation maybe wasn't Yehudah's doing, yet ultimately his actions long ago rippled far beyond their space and time.
It was Yehudah's act of showing up and taking responsibility that changed everything. It's why Joseph revealed himself to his brothers, brought Yaakov and the entire family to Egypt, and cared for them throughout the famine. If not for that, there'd be no Israelites in Egypt. If not for that, a new Pharaoh who didn't know Joseph couldn't enslave the Israelites. If not for that, there'd be Moses, no liberation, no exodus, no redemption, no Sinai, no Torah, no "us."
Yehudah, in turn, became the source name of Yehudim – literally, Jews. The Jewish people are named for Yehudah and his tribe. Yes, Yehudah did Joseph a grievous wrong, yet we would not exist but for Yehudah and his initiative to take responsibility. But for him, Western monotheism would not exist.
Can we summon the courage to look inward for the possibility that maybe we have amends to make, responsibility to take, ways to ripple positively beyond our own space and time? Can we consider that sometimes rightness and justice aren't necessarily self-serving? After all, as my dear friend R. Mike Moskowitz teaches, true justice isn't about just us.
I close with a poem by another Yehudah. Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai wrote this 1962 poem about the Jewish call to show up and take responsibility, to help redeem the world:
Vayigash 5785 (2025)
Click here for last week's Dvar Torah on this portion, "The Meaning of Life."
"Why should I take responsibility? It's not my fault!"
We've all said it in one form or another. Sometimes what animates us is a sense of right justice: only those responsible should bear responsibility. Sometimes what animates us is equity: if others won't take responsibility, then why should I? Sometimes what animates us is unconscious self-defense against looking inward.
Yet often we're more responsible than we imagine. Judaism insists that, ultimately, we're all in it together. It's true year-round, though we explicitly say so mainly on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur: Avinu Malkeinu, we did so and so. Avinu Malkeinu, we didn't act when rightness should have compelled us. Each of our actions and inactions ripples out far beyond just us.
This week's Torah portion lays this groundwork, through the bravery and changed heart of Yehudah, one of patriarch Yaakov's children. In Torah's majestic narrative of Joseph's journey from dreamer to slave to prisoner to vizier, Yehudah offers a profound lesson for us all about how even a single moment of taking responsibility can change the world.
The backstory: A younger Joseph's dreams of superiority so angered his elder brothers that they conspired to kill him. Instead, eldest son Reuven convinced them to put Joseph in a pit so Reuven could return Joseph to their father (Genesis 37:21-22). From there, however, Yehudah, took the lead in selling Joseph into slavery. (Genesis 37:26-29). Thus began Joseph's saga, betrayed by his brothers.
Much later, Joseph becomes vizier of Egypt. Famine sweeps the Mideast, Joseph saves Egypt by storing abundant food supplies, the brothers go to Egypt in search of food, and they grovel to the vizier not knowing who he really is. Joseph tests his brothers to see if they changed. Joseph gives them sacks of food but hides a golden goblet in youngest son Benjamin's sack. Joseph then "discovered" the "theft" (Genesis 44:1-17).
Knowing that their father would die in grief for young Benjamin, Yehudah asks the vizier to hold him responsible instead of Benjamin (Genesis 44:18-34).
Yehudah was innocent of theft but took responsibility. Yehudah was not, however, innocent. It was Yehudah who had sold Joseph into slavery, sparking Joseph's need to test his brothers. The immediate situation maybe wasn't Yehudah's doing, yet ultimately his actions long ago rippled far beyond their space and time.
It was Yehudah's act of showing up and taking responsibility that changed everything. It's why Joseph revealed himself to his brothers, brought Yaakov and the entire family to Egypt, and cared for them throughout the famine. If not for that, there'd be no Israelites in Egypt. If not for that, a new Pharaoh who didn't know Joseph couldn't enslave the Israelites. If not for that, there'd be Moses, no liberation, no exodus, no redemption, no Sinai, no Torah, no "us."
Yehudah, in turn, became the source name of Yehudim – literally, Jews. The Jewish people are named for Yehudah and his tribe. Yes, Yehudah did Joseph a grievous wrong, yet we would not exist but for Yehudah and his initiative to take responsibility. But for him, Western monotheism would not exist.
Can we summon the courage to look inward for the possibility that maybe we have amends to make, responsibility to take, ways to ripple positively beyond our own space and time? Can we consider that sometimes rightness and justice aren't necessarily self-serving? After all, as my dear friend R. Mike Moskowitz teaches, true justice isn't about just us.
I close with a poem by another Yehudah. Israeli poet Yehudah Amichai wrote this 1962 poem about the Jewish call to show up and take responsibility, to help redeem the world:
| מִן הַמָּקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ אָנוּ צוֹדְקִים לֹא יִצְמְחוּ לְעוֹלָם פְּרָחִים בָּאָבִיב הַמָּקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ אָנוּ צוֹדְקִים הוּא רָמוּס וְקָשֶׁה כְּמוֹ חָצֵר אֲבָל סְפֵקוֹת וְאַהֲבוֹת עוֹשִׂים אֶת הָעוֹלָם לְתָחוּחַ כְּמוֹ חֲפַרְפֶּרֶת, כְּמוֹ חָרִישׁ וּלְחִישָׁה תִּשָּׁמַע בַּמָּקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ הָיָה הַבַּיִת אֲשֶׁר נֶחְרַב | From the place where we are right Flowers will never grow In the spring. The place where we are right Is hard and trampled Like a yard. But doubts and loves Dig up the world Like a mole, a plow. And a whisper will be heard in the place Where the ruined House once stood. |
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