Parshat Vayigash
Summary: Vayigash,” means “And he approached”. This is Yehudah approaching Yosef to plead for the release of Binyamin, offering himself as a slave to the Egyptian ruler in Binyamin’s stead. When he sees this demonstration of loyalty to one another, Yosef reveals his identity to the brothers. “I am Yosef,” he declares. “Is my father still alive?” The brothers are overcome by shame and remorse, but Yosef tells them that this is all part of God’s plan. The brothers rush back to Canaan with the news. Yaakov at first refuses to believe but eventually the whole family comes down. Yosef then collects all the wealth of Egypt by selling food and seed during the famine. Pharaoh gives Jacob’s family the county of Goshen, the children of Israel prosper in their Egyptian exile.
There is a moment in this week’s parsha that takes your breath away. Yehudah steps forward—vayigash, he draws near—and begins to plead for his brother Benjamin. And Yosef, who has orchestrated this entire drama, who has watched his brothers squirm and tested them and pushed them to the breaking point, suddenly cannot hold it together anymore.
“Hotzi’u kol ish me’alay—Send everyone out!” he cries. And then, alone with his brothers, he weeps so loudly that all of Egypt can hear him, and he says those words that have echoed through the generations: “Ani Yosef. Ha’od avi chai?—I am Yosef. Is my father still alive?”
We often focus on Yosef’s magnanimity in this moment, his famous declaration that “it was not you who sent me here, but God.” But I want us to look more carefully at the geography of forgiveness in this scene—the physical and emotional distance that must be crossed.
The parsha is called Vayigash—”and he drew near.” Yehudah draws near to Yosef. But what kind of nearness is this? Rashi tells us that Yehudah approached “for war, for appeasement, or for prayer.” All three at once. He comes close enough to fight, close enough to beg, close enough to pray. This is the uncomfortable proximity that forgiveness requires.
Yosef makes everyone leave the room. The Sfat Emet asks: Why? If Yosef wanted to show his brothers that he forgave them, why not proclaim it publicly, in front of his entire court? Wouldn’t that be the greater act of magnanimity?
But the Sfat Emet teaches us something profound: Real forgiveness happens in privacy. It happens when there are no witnesses to applaud our virtue, no audience to admire our nobility. Yosef clears the room because forgiveness is not a performance. It is an intimate act, almost as intimate as the original wound.
And notice – Yosef doesn’t wait for his brothers to apologize. They don’t even know they need to apologize to him! They think he’s the Egyptian viceroy. The words “salachti – I forgive you” never appear in the text. Instead, Yosef says: Ani Yosef. I am Yosef. I am still here. I am still your brother.
This is perhaps the deepest teaching about forgiveness in our parsha: Forgiveness is not about erasing the past. It’s about revealing who we still are to each other, despite the past.
Let me share with you a story from the Hasidic tradition:
Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev once had a terrible dispute with another rabbi in his community. The disagreement was bitter, and harsh words were exchanged. The two men stopped speaking to each other entirely.
Years passed. One Yom Kippur eve, just before Kol Nidre, Reb Levi Yitzchak stood before his congregation and said: “I cannot lead you in prayer tonight. There is a Jew in this town with whom I have been at odds, and I must seek reconciliation before I can stand before the Holy One.”
He walked through the streets to the other rabbi’s home and knocked on the door. When the rabbi answered, Reb Levi Yitzchak said: “I have come to ask your forgiveness.”
The other rabbi was shocked. “But Rebbe,” he said, “you were right in our argument! I was wrong. If anyone should apologize, it should be me!”
Reb Levi Yitzchak smiled. “Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps I was right, and perhaps you were wrong. But I will tell you what I have learned: There is a question that is more important than ‘Who was right?’—and that question is, “ווער וועט ערשטער ווידער ווערן אַ מענטש?”
“Ver vet ershter vider vern a mentsh?” ‘Who will be first to be human again?'” or Who will be the first to become a mentsch again?
Who will be first to be human again?
This is the question of Vayigash. Not who was right. Not even who should apologize first. But rather: Who will take the first step back toward relationship? Who will vayigash – draw near – across the chasm that betrayal has created?
Yosef takes that step. He reveals himself. And in that revelation, he makes reconciliation possible.
But notice what Yosef does after he reveals himself. The text tells us: ” He fell upon his brother Benjamin’s neck and wept.” And then: ” He kissed all his brothers and wept.” Only after the tears—only after the weeping—does it say: —And after this, his brothers spoke with him.”
The Hasidic master Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa teaches: Before words can flow, tears must flow first. Forgiveness begins not with explanations or justifications, but with the recognition of shared pain. Yosef weeps for what was lost—the years they could have been brothers, the father who mourned unnecessarily, the family that was torn apart. His brothers cannot speak until they, too, recognize what was lost. Tears create the common ground on which reconciliation can be built.
We live in a time when forgiveness seems almost countercultural. We are more practiced at call-out culture, at calling names to one another, at cancel culture, than at the culture of reconciliation. We are better at maintaining our walls than at building bridges. But Vayigash reminds us: Sometimes the holiest act is to clear the room, to create private space for the messy work of reconnection. Sometimes the bravest question is not “Who was right?” but “Who will be first to be human again?”
This doesn’t mean there are no real victims or that all wounds can be healed. Yosef’s slavery was real. The pit was real. The years of anguish were real. The text doesn’t erase any of that. But it does show us that even real wounds can become doorways to transformation, as long as one of the two parties is willing to draw near.
Redemption Vayigash tells us, begins with drawing near. It begins when someone takes the first step across the distance, when someone risks being a mentsch again.
May we all find the courage to draw near—vayigash—to those from whom we have been estranged. May we learn to clear the room of our own need to be right, so that we can discover who we still are to each other. And may we remember that sometimes the deepest truth we can speak is the simplest: Ani Yosef. I am still here. Ready to reconnect.
Shabbat Shalom.
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Shabbat morning
- Why do you think Yaakov does not believe his sons?
- What does it take, according to the text, for hm to believe?
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Bereshit Rabbah – “They went up from Egypt…. They told him, saying: Joseph is still alive…his heart was faint” – Rabbi Ḥiyya taught: What is the plight of the liar? Even if he says truthful matters, he is not believed.
The midrash speaks of Serah’s great beauty and wisdom: when Joseph was reunited with his brothers and sent them to the land of Canaan to bring his father Jacob to him in Egypt, he ordered them not to alarm their aged father. The brothers summoned Serah and asked her to sit before Jacob and play for him on the lyre, in this manner revealing to him that Joseph was still alive. Serah played well and sang gently: “Joseph my uncle did not die, he lives and rules all the land of Egypt.”
She played thus for Jacob two and three times, and he was pleased by what he heard. Joy filled his heart, the spirit of God rested on him, and he sensed the truth of her words. He bade her: “Continue to play for me, for you have heartened me with all that you said.” While he was speaking with her, his sons came to him with horses, chariots, and royal garments, with slaves running before them and told him: “[We bring] glad tidings, for Joseph still lives and he rules all the land of Egypt.” When Jacob saw all that Joseph had sent, he knew that they spoke truthfully. He was exceedingly happy and he said (Gen. 45:28): “[This is] enough [for me]! My son Joseph is still alive! I must go and see him before I die” (Sefer ha-Yashar, Vayigash, chap. 14).
== This is a midrash that brings alive names of women who just show up – Serach bat Asher is in the lists of coming down to Egypt and going back, 210 years later. So the blessing of Yaakov makes her live that long. But it is her own care and ability with granddad that brings the blessing upon her.
Another midrash says – the Shechinah had left Yaakov from the moment he had learned his son was dead. And now he received the news that it was not so, from Serach bat Asher, and the Shechinah came back.
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Next verse, cut from our triennial: Rav, says Yaakov – called here Yisrael – Israel said: Enough, Joseph my son is still alive; I will go and see him before I die” (Genesis 45:28).
“Israel said: Enough [rav]” – the power of my son Joseph is great [rav], as many troubles befell him, but still he remained in his righteousness much more than I did, as I sinned when I said: “My way is hidden from the Lord” (Isaiah 40:27). But I am certain that I have a portion in “how great is Your goodness” (Psalms 31:20)