Parashas VaYigash
7 Tevet 5769
January 3, 2009

Daf Yomi: Bava Kama 6

Guest Author:
Rabbi Moshe Taub

Young Israel of Greater Buffalo

 

 

 

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“THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A CYNIC, ONLY A FAILED OPTIMIST.”

Of all the illuminating and insightful midrashim found on Sefer Bereishis, there is none that is both as well known and troubling as the following comment brought by Rashi (45:29): “…but Yaakov did not fall on Joseph’s neck nor did he kiss him…because he recited, then, the Shema.”

By now most of us have heard the explanation given by Rav Menachem Mendel of Kotzk that Yaakov wanted to take this powerful, once-in-a-lifetime emotion and channel it to G-d.

However, on a very basic and human level, the question remains: why now? Indeed, Yosef himself was struck by his father’s actions, or lack thereof. The Ba’al HaAkeidah teaches that, upon seeing his father seemingly unmoved by this reaction, Yaakov wept even more.

What makes this question so perturbing is not just the inability to relate to such a lofty reflex; rather, when considering the subject, Yaakov, and his temperament, this action seems extremely out of place. Consider that Yaakov, upon meeting Rachel, was so overwhelmed with spiritual love that he kissed her; Yaakov, so enamored of his young son, of the potential and similarities to himself that the boy showed, that he, apparently reflexively, showed him more attention and gave him greater emotional love; Yaakov was never the proverbial distant, cold father, locked in his own world. Rather, Yaakov was open man, rebuking his children and wives when necessary and losing his closeness with G-d—nevuah (prophecy)—due to his endless sadness and mourning for his lost son Yosef. Yet, it is this same Yaakov who, we are told, was able to—and wanted to—ignore this reunion on an emotional level? It simply does not match the past 22 years of his sitting in sackcloth, nor with any other part of his life.

We are all products of our lives. Statements made by Talmudic rabbis always seem to match their experiences and, indeed, this is how many of the great commentators explain them. Yaakov, too, had to learn about loss in a very real and difficult way. It was precisely this same man who knew how to give himself over emotionally, who opened himself up to intense vulnerability and who, in turn, suffered profoundly when he experienced loss. After all these years of mourning, when he thought his son was dead, Yaakov caught himself and realized that he could no longer afford the emotional currency to continue giving of himself only to risk the pain of losing it all—as we see from his resistance to sending Binyamin away—and he realized that the one
love which is constant and can never be lost is G-d’s.

This was a lesson that he taught to Yosef, and to us, through the ages: that we can become viceroys of countries, raise beautiful children in America, but this is not home and, as history has shown, we could, lo aleinu, lose it all in an instant.

We read stories: Rabbi J.B. Soloveitchik writes that he cannot recall his father ever kissing him; we laugh at the coldness of Litvaks, never considering that, over years of European crusades and pogroms, our parents and theirs before them learned that all can vanish in a flash, so they guarded themselves and taught us as well that, until that great day, we can never attach ourselves to the point of no return. This is not to say never to love, to care and give; rather, it is what the Kotztker Rebbe was trying to say: love, but know that it is the love of G-d that protects this love.

The Dubna Maggid once gave a moshel: A king, frustrated with the prince’s inappropriate behavior, finally banishes him from the kingdom. The son lived on the outskirts of town for years, poor and lonely. One day, the king sent builders and contractors to meet with the prince. “We are here, by order of the king, to build you a home so that you can be warm and comfortable,” they said. The prince begins to weep. “Until now,” he explains, “I always had the hope that my father would take me back. Now that he is building me a home here, giving permanence to my exile, I know I will never be going back.”

Yaakov’s life represented galus. Yosef represented the seeds of Israel’s first exile. He had it all: fame, fortune, and a family. They embrace and Yosef thinks, “It does not get any better than this moment.” To Yaakov, however, it was different; they were in Egypt, the entire family of 70 souls was ripped from its homeland, and this reunion served as a reminder of what was missing and what could, in an instant, be lost. Yaakov was transmitting a message to Yosef and to us: whether it is Rabbi Akiva being executed or the thousands after him who died al Kiddush HaShem, we never truly lose anything; we always have the love of G-d. For this reason, they, too, perished with the Shema, those words articulated by Yaakov, on their lips.

My father always taught me to “never end a drasha on a depressing note”, but it is our current challenge that reminds us why we should be cautiously optimistic. We are zocheh to need Yaakov’s message in its truest sense: not in loss but in abundance, like Yosef. We, in this country, need this reminder not because of sadness, but rather to remind us of what we have—the gift of our time—and to view it through the prism of an eternal love.

Let us, too, say Shema, thinking of what we have and of how much greater this same love could be if it were celebrated in its home, Yerushalayim HaBenuyah.