Joseph's Calf

PERSONAL INSIGHTS: The Candle of G-d
An alternative to blowing out your birthday candles

A TELLING STORY: The Oath
The story of an honest man loath to swear to the truth

The Torah tells us that when Jacob moved his family to Egypt, where the Jewish people were to reside for more than two centuries, “he sent Judah ahead... to show the way.”[1] The Hebrew word lehorot (“to show the way”) literally means “to teach” and “to instruct,” prompting the Midrash to say that the purpose of Judah’s mission was “to establish a house of learning from which would be disseminated the teachings of Torah.”[2]

But Joseph was already in Egypt, and Jacob had already received word that Joseph’s twenty-two years away from home had not diminished his knowledge of and commitment to Torah.[3] And Joseph certainly had the authority and the means to establish the most magnificent yeshivah in the empire. Why did Jacob desire that Judah—a penniless emigrant who barely knows the language—be the one to establish the house of learning that was to serve the Jewish people in Egypt?

The children of Jacob were divided into two factions: on one side were ten of the twelve brothers, led by Judah; on the other, Joseph, whose differences with his brothers were the cause of much pain and strife in Jacob’s family.

The conflict between Joseph and his brothers ran deeper than a multicolored coat or a favorite son’s share of his father’s affections. It was a conflict between two world-views, between two approaches to life as a Jew in a pagan world.

Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were shepherds, as were Joseph’s brothers.[4] They chose this vocation because they found the life of the shepherd—a life of seclusion, communion with nature, and distance from the tumult and vanities of society—most conducive to their spiritual pursuits. Tending their sheep in the valleys and on the hills of Canaan, they could turn their backs on the mundane affairs of man, contemplate the majesty of the Creator, and serve Him with a clear mind and tranquil heart.[5]

Joseph was the exception. He was a man of the world, a “fortuitous achiever”[6] in business and politics. Sold into slavery, he was soon chief manager of his master’s affairs. Thrown into jail, he was soon a high-ranking member of the prison administration. He went on to become viceroy of Egypt, second only to Pharaoh in the most powerful nation on earth.

Yet none of this touched him. Slave, prisoner, ruler of millions, controller of an empire’s wealth—it made no difference: the same Joseph who had studied Torah at the feet of his father traversed the palaces and government halls of Egypt. His spiritual and moral self derived from within and was totally unaffected by his society, environment, or the occupation that claimed his involvement twenty-four hours a day.

The conflict between Joseph and his brothers was the conflict between a spiritual tradition and a new worldliness; between a community of shepherds and an entrepreneur. The brothers could not accept that a person can lead a worldly existence without becoming worldly; that a person can remain one with G-d while immersed in the affairs of the most depraved society on earth.

In this conflict, Joseph was to emerge the victor. The spiritual seclusion that characterized the first three generations of Jewish history was destined to end; Jacob and his family moved to Egypt, where the “smelting pit” of exile was to forge their descendants into the nation of Israel. As Joseph had foreseen in his dreams, his brother and his father bowed to him, prostrating their approach to his. Jacob had understood the significance of these dreams all along, and had awaited their fulfillment;[7] Joseph’s brothers, who found it more difficult to accept that the era of the shepherd was drawing to a close, fought him for twenty-two bitter years, until they, too, came to accept that the historical challenge of Israel was to be the challenge of living a spiritual life in a material environment.

Nevertheless, it was Judah, not Joseph, who was chosen by Jacob to establish the house of learning that was to serve as the source of Torah knowledge for the Israelites in Egypt.

The first three generations of Jewish life were not a “false start”: they were the foundation of all that was to follow. It was this foundation from which Joseph drew the strength to persevere in his faith and righteousness in an alien environment; it was this foundation upon which the entire edifice of Jewish history was to be constructed.

The Jew lives in a material world, but his roots are planted in the soil of unadulterated spirituality. In his daily life he must be a Joseph, but his education must be provided by a Judah.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Tevet 2, 5722 (December 9, 1961)[8]

"If a dead body shall be found ... fallen in the field, and it not be known who has slain him ... And the city that is closest to the body, the elders of that city shall take a calf that has never been put to work, that has never drawn in the yoke. And the elders of that city shall take the calf down to a rough ravine, which shall not be worked nor sown; and they shall decapitate the calf there in the ravine... And they shall proclaim: “Our hands have not spilled this blood; our eyes have not seen. O G-d, absolve Your nation Israel, whom You have redeemed ... may the blood be forgiven them...”

Deuteronomy 21:1-8

Our sages tell us that the law of eglah arufah (“the decapitated calf”) was the last law that Jacob and Joseph studied together[9] before Joseph went off to check up on his brothers and was lost to his father for twenty-two years.

When Joseph’s brothers returned from Egypt and told their father that Joseph was alive and is the ruler of Egypt, Jacob’s “heart rejected [the news], for he could not believe them.”[10] It was only when “they spoke to him the words that Joseph spoke to them” and showed him “the agalot that Joseph had sent,” that “the spirit of Jacob was revived” and he hurried to Egypt to see his beloved son.[11] What were “the words that Joseph spoke to them”? And what were the agalot he sent? The word agalot literally means “wagons.” But the wagons to carry Jacob and his family to Egypt were sent by Pharaoh,[12] not by Joseph; and why would the sight of some wagons revive the spirit of Jacob? The agalot, explain our sages, were an allusion to the eglah arufah: Joseph was reminding his father of the last Torah law they had studied together. Yes—said Jacob upon seeing the agalot—the viceroy of Egypt is my long-lost son, and he has not forgotten the Torah he has learned in his father’s home.[13]

We all acknowledge our responsibility for things that are in our control, for whatever occurs within our “jurisdiction.” But what about those things that are outside of our domain? Things over which we have no authority and only a limited influence?

This is the lesson of eglah arufah. The elders of the city nearest the murder must clarify that “our hands have not spilled this blood.” “Would it occur to anyone,” asks the Talmud, “that the elders of the beit-din are spillers of blood? But [the elders have to affirm that]... ‘We have not sent him off without provisions ... we have not sent him off without accompaniment.’”[14] The city elders are obviously responsible for everything that transpires within their jurisdiction. But the murder occurred “out in the field,” outside the domain of all the surrounding cities. Yet the city elders must proclaim their non-culpability, and then seek atonement and forgiveness for the deed.

This is the deeper significance of the message Joseph sent to Jacob. Father, he was saying, I have not forgotten the law of eglah arufah. True, I have been exiled from the sacred environment of your home to depraved Egypt. But I have not sent off my soul to this spiritual no-man’s-land without provisions and accompaniment. I have not abandoned it to a spiritual death with the justification that “this is outside of my domain. I have no way of dealing with this.” After twenty-two years of slavery, imprisonment and political power, I am the same Joseph who left your home on the day that we studied the laws of eglah arufah.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Tevet 5, 5747 (January 6, 1987)[15]

The Candle of G-d

by Neria Cohen

“Ner Hashem nishmas adam” –“ The soul of man is the candle of G-d.”[16]

At the genesis of mankind, G-d breathed life into us, blowing from His innermost being into ours. With that breath - that divinely human life force - we are not meant to blow out candles, we are not meant to blow out souls, but to bless them.

It was the first birthday party that my not yet two-year-old niece, Galya, had ever attended. All the children gathered round the table and watched in excitement and awe as the candles on the birthday cake were lit.

“One, Two, Three,” and everyone puffed out their cheeks ready to blow while Galya encircled the flames three times with her arms and covered her eyes to bless the candles as she does every Friday night. Galya looked up amazed and confused to find the others puffing and blowing as the flames danced and slanted trying in vain to cleave to the wick.

“NO BLOWING,” says Galya’s mother whenever she sneaks little blows at her Shabbos candles. Even though everyone else cheered at the blowing out of the candles, when Galya looked over at her mother smiling and beaming with pride, she knew that her not blowing, that her blessing, was a perfect moment for all time.

“The soul of man is the candle of G-d.” Placed down here in this less than lit up world, our soul is meant to shine outward - out of our eyes, mouth and ears – a Temple with windows, not to let light in but to allow it to shine out. With your arms, your emotions, encircle the flame three times blessing the world, your family and yourself. Draw it in and let it shine out. Not just inspiration, but light.

In one of the narrow lanes of the Jerusalem neighborhood of “Beth Israel” stands a large, handsomely built synagogue. For a hundred years, a marble plaque affixed to its north wall has borne the legend:

“For everlasting remembrance in the House of G-d. This synagogue has been erected by the generosity of a donor, whose name shall remain hidden and concealed, who contributed the sum of 110 napoleons of gold.”

For many years, it was presumed that the funds were provided by one of the wealthy citizens of Jerusalem who wished, through anonymity, to preserve his good deed from the taint of pride. Few knew the true identity of the donor and the story behind his donation.

Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Porush was a man of modest means, though large sums of money passed through his hands. He was the secretary of one of the “kollel” societies which supported the poor Jews of Jerusalem with funds collected for that purpose throughout the Diaspora. Rabbi Shlomo was responsible for the sustenance of several hundred families whose support had been pledged by the Jewish community of Minsk and its environs in White Russia.

One year, as Passover approached, the arrival of funds was delayed. Rabbi Shlomo knew that the money would be forthcoming, but in the meantime, the families for whom he was responsible had to be provided with matzot, wine and other festival needs. He therefore turned to a neighbor of his, Reb Faivish Stoller, a carpenter who worked hard all his life and had managed to put aside a considerable sum. Faivish agreed to loan him his life-savings—200 napoleons of gold—until he could be repaid with the money arriving shortly from abroad.

Soon after Passover, the long-awaited messenger arrived from Minsk. The purse he brought contained only 110 napoleons, but an accompanying letter promised that the remainder was on the way. Rabbi Shlomo lost no time in bringing the money to his neighbor.

Several weeks later, the rest of the money arrived. But when Rabbi Shlomo brought the 90 gold coins to Reb Faivish, a most unpleasant surprise awaited him. The elderly carpenter, whose memory had begun to fail him, had lost all recollection of the first payment and was adamant in his insistence that he had received nothing of the 200 napoleons owed.

No written contract recorded the loan or the payment, for the two men had had absolute trust in each other. Now they had no recourse but to present their case before the bet-din (rabbinical court) of the venerated chief rabbi of Jerusalem, Rabbi Shmuel Salant.

From a halachic standpoint, this was a textbook case: the borrower admits the loan, but claims that a partial payment has been made, which the lender denies. This is a classic example of modeh b’miktzat (“one who partially admits” an otherwise insupportable claim); in such a case, the burden of proof rests with the lender, but the borrower must take a “biblical oath” in affirmation of his argument.

Upon hearing the verdict of the bet-din, Rabbi Shlomo turned pale. Never in his life did he imagine that he would be required to take an oath in court, never mind a “biblical oath” performed upon a Torah scroll! He begged to be given several days to think over the matter.

When the bet-din reconvened, Rabbi Shlomo announced that he was prepared to pay the disputed 110 napoleons out of his own pocket rather than take an oath. He only asked that he be given a few weeks to raise the money. Faivish Stoller agreed, and it appeared that the matter had been settled. But Rabbi Shmuel Salant would not allow this arrangement. “I’m sorry,” he said to Rabbi Shlomo, “but this is not a private matter that can be settled between the litigants. It involves communal funds. As one who is entrusted with charity moneys, your honesty must be beyond reproach. Unless it is decisively established that the money was paid as you claim, people will talk. I therefore insist that you take the oath.”

Again Rabbi Shlomo requested, and was granted, a short respite. For three days he fasted, wept and recited psalms. On the fourth day he came before the bet-din and swore that he had paid 110 napoleons to Faivish Stoller.

Shortly thereafter, Rabbi Shlomo put up his modest home for sale. To his family he explained that he had intended to sell the house in order to avoid taking the oath, and now he did not want to benefit from money he had “saved” by swearing on a Torah scroll. To the proceeds of the sale he added almost all of his savings to make the sum of 110 napoleons, which he presented to a committee that was raising money to build a new synagogue. His only stipulation was that no mention be made of the source of the money.

Several months later, Faivish Stoller appeared in the small apartment to which Rabbi Shlomo had moved after the sale of his home. Without a word, he placed on Rabbi Shlomo’s table a purse containing 110 napoleons of gold, which he had uncovered in a drawer in his workshop.

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

This issue is dedicated in honor of the second birthday of Galya Mushka bas Aviva Esther, 10 Teves, 5761