Every human being is a mystery that never fully unfolds. Think, for a moment, about your own depths—how little about you actually makes it to the surface. How many of your desires, fears, quirks, and interests are subterranean, some known to a few, some known only to yourself, and a few hidden even from your own conscious thought. Like an eddy of water that the current passes by, the human soul has unplumbed depths that never fail to astonish, to delight, and to dismay.
Perhaps that’s why its possible for two people who have lived with each other for many, many years to nonetheless be able to do or to say something totally unexpected. Our capacity to surprise reflects the hidden layers of our personalities. Small wonder, then, that the berakhah, the blessing, which our tradition mandates upon seeing a crowd of people is one that praises God as the “hakham ha-razim, the one who knows secrets.”
The manifold layers of human personality is nothing new. It extends back to the earliest beginnings of humankind, and finds expression in our biblical heritage as well. In this week’s Torah portion, Joseph is one whose hidden depths drive an entire story. Recall that in his youth, his having been favored by his father led his brothers to consider killing him and ultimately to selling him to slavery. In Egypt, his faith in God resulted in his ability to interpret dreams, and granted him an audience with the Pharaoh. Finally that led to his being able to save all of Egypt from starvation during a terrible famine, and made Joseph the second most powerful man in all of Egypt. And it was at that point in his life, at the pinnacle of power and fame, that Joseph’s brothers appeared before him, although they were unaware of his true identity.
Imagine the razim, the secrets, of Joseph. On the surface he appeared to have everything—wife, children, wealth, power, and health. Who could know the secrets of his heart: his pining for his aged father, his desire for his brother’s love, his anger at how he had been treated, his regret for his own childhood arrogance. Perhaps it was that welter of hidden emotions that led him to devise the trap for his brothers. He planted a cup in Benjamin’s sack, forcing the brothers to expect that Benjamin would be imprisoned, perhaps even executed, and that they would have to go to their father and once again witness his pain and sorrow at discovering the loss of another child.
Only someone very wise and very deep could attempt to speak to the surface and the depth of Joseph’s heart. Speaking only to the surface risked ignoring the deeper causes that moved the surface. Addressing only the depths risked trivializing the very real threat of what appeared on the surface. The life of the young Benjamin was at stake, as was the life of the great Patriarch, Israel. That wise someone, who had himself experienced sorrow, loss, and suffering, was the brother, Judah.
And so, the Torah tells us, “Judah went up to his brother.” The rabbis of antiquity, careful readers of Torah, understood the verb “va-yiggash” to mean that he drew close to Joseph, not just physically, but by speaking to his depth.
Thinking of the encounter between Joseph and Judah, Midrash Bereshit Rabbah applies the Proverb “The designs in someone’s mind are deep waters, but a person of understanding can draw them out (20:5).” The midrash explains that “this may be compared to a deep well full of cold and excellent water, yet none could drink of it. Then came one who tied cord to cord and thread to thread, drew up its water and drank, whereupon all drew water in that way and drank from it. In the same way, Judah did not cease from answering Joseph word for word until he penetrated to his very heart.”
As the midrash portrays their encounter, Joseph had locked up all his pain, regret, shame, rage, and sorrow behind an impenetrable wall. No frontal assault could hope to release all his repressed feelings and grant him some peace, no superficial conversation could hope to handle his depths. Judah, made wise by his lifetime of living, made responsible by what had befallen him and his family, was able to speak to Joseph—patiently, slowly, and persistently. As layer upon layer was peeled back, Judah was able to gain sight of the hidden Joseph within, and was able to allow the true Joseph to come to the surface. Just as the one who gained access to the deep water made it possible for all who came later to drink, so Judah’s patient listening and his gentle encouragement allowed the true Joseph to surface and to remain on the surface.
Each of us can provide attentive listening and persistent questioning for those around us. All of us have our wounds, our secrets, our shame, sorrow, and our rage. Often those scars feel so threatening that we wrap ourselves behind them and trap ourselves within, even as we distance our friends and our families.
Judah allowed Joseph to emerge into the sunlight by giving him the most precious gift of all, the gift of soul. Through a willingness to truly listen, to truly care, and to truly be present, we too can give such a gift.
Shabbat shalom.