”Vayigash”: “And he approached”. And so we too, trembling, approach, our salvation. As Yehuda approaches, full of fear, chutzpah, pleading, anger, and frustration at the unwarranted pain, and, above all, with a sense of imperative that overrides all else, so we too approach our final relief. And just as Yosef reveals himself and shows the brothers that there really was no real fear, no true enslavement, so too we will be redeemed and shown how all of the exiles and the turmoil, the pain and the suffering were not really there at all. All of our struggles were – are - really just the pathway G-d had laid out for our growth and ultimate redemption. This is one lesson - the lesson – some Chassidic masters, mostly those from the Ishbitz tradition, teach us from this parasha. Is it truly so simple?
How many times have we seen it in our own lives, or our friends’ lives, or the lives of anyone around us? The relationship - friendship, engagement, marriage- that broke up so devastatingly, and yet that break-up was the only way to reach a truer relationship. The potential plan that, by never coming to fruition, managed to deeply highlight for us our true path. The family that split apart only to enable each member to go more deeply into himself and ultimately create a more whole family. To the point where Hazal tell us that holy people live greater lives in their death than when they were physically alive. Death itself is only the deepest servant of life. As they say in the frum world: its bashert. Everything is bashert. Meant to be.
And yet I always ask myself: even if G-d is in everything, even if it is all meant, still, people have pain. And the pain doesn’t always seem to disappear even when the meaning is revealed. Wars may bring us to deeper and more profound expressions of peace, but the agony of killing, of death, remains. Perhaps the future redemption will be so overwhelming that we will truly forget all of the negativity, all of the pain. It may be true that pain and suffering make us deeper, broader people. Yet Rebbe Pinchas of Koretz asks “why in my silent prayer to G-d, when no one can hear but me and G-d, do I say ‘Forgive us our Father, for we have sinned’? Because I need to ask G-d to forgive G-d’s own part in my sin, for how can I do anything in this world without G-d?”
I must tell you that deep down I personally believe in the Ishbitz’s understanding. My Rebbe, Rebbe Nachman, also understood Yehuda’s cry: “you caused us to come to this juncture” to be directed towards G-d. But he adds that it must be said as a prayer, a hope, a plea. Because, truly, we don’t know, not one hundred percent. And even those who do must have compassion on the blind ones walking in darkness, until they too see the great light.
But to me the real message of this story is the intensity of Yehuda. Whether the world is truly whole and the only thing missing is revelation, or whether we desperately await an act of redemption to heal this broken world, the thing we need most is someone who cares so intensely. We need people who care so deeply about their brothers and sisters, about their people, about the whole world, that they are willing to step forward, to approach, to make a chutzpadik act of love and faith. People who are willing to cry out from the depths of their souls: “let me take the burden on myself!”
Please G-d, let me be one of those people. Please let me be a real Yehudi, a real Jew.
Rav Raz Hartman
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Rav Raz Hartman, born to Israeli parents, grew up in Southern California. He was attending U.S.C., majoring in Music Peformance, when he met Rav Natan Greenberg. That meeting eventually result in Raz's coming to the Bat Ayin Yeshiva, where he studied for six years and was given Semichah in 2003. He is married to Leah, and they live, with their three children, in Nachla'ot, Jerusalem. Raz serves as Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Simchat Shlomo, and founder of the v'Ani Tefillah minyan. He has produced several albums of Jewish music. |