by Rabbi Jeffrey Miller
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed here are that of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Union for Traditional Judaism, unless otherwise indicated.
| Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight Someone’s thinking of me and loving me tonight Somewhere out there someone’s saying a prayer That we’ll find one another in that big somewhere out there And even though I know how very far apart we are It helps to think we might be wishin’ on the same bright star And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby It helps to think we’re sleeping underneath the same big sky Somewhere out there, if love can see us through |
Then we’ll be together somewhere out there Out where dreams come true And even though I know how very far apart we are It helps to think we might be wishin’ on the same bright star And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby It helps to think we’re sleeping underneath the same big sky Somewhere out there, if love can see us through Then we’ll be together somewhere out there Out where dreams come true |
From “American Tail”, sung by Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram
Two stories unfold almost simultaneously, far from one another, separated by geography and circumstance, yet their emotional currents run side by side. They move in quiet parallel, each illuminating the other. Together they form a split-screen portrait of a family in crisis. Each scene casts light on the other, revealing a family’s fracture from opposite ends of the world.
Yaakov Avinu stars in scene one as a grief-stricken father, crying over the once multicolored coat, now reduced to a crimson red burial shroud of sorts. The next scene focuses on Yosef, a frightened teenage boy, once a proud scion of royalty, now acclimating to life as a house slave. The boy is forced to flee the house where he toils, leaving behind his slave garment in the hands of his master’s wife.
The parallel scenes remind me of how Fievel Mousekewitz, forcibly separated from his family, looks out at the night sky and sings a melancholy song of a world that seems too big for such a small fella to traverse. In the movie, both singing characters are a world apart yet wishing on “the same bright star”, giving the audience a sense of hope that the distance will ultimately be bridged. And like the cartoon characters, Yaakov and Yoseph find themselves wishing upon the same bright star!
How do I know? Look closely at the narratives. Yaakov refuses to be comforted by his children and grandchildren after surmising that Yosef is dead. In Mitzrayim, Yosef refuses the improper advances of a married woman. In each story, the Torah uses the same, emphatic verb: וַיְמֵָאֵן. It is the bright star of a word that connects father and son.
A father emotes his refusal to let go of his grief. A son manifests his refusal to yield to temptation. The same word is chanted differently because the context and circumstances are so very different. But father and son are resolute in their refusal to seek temporary relief for enduring pain. The heroes are separated by distance and circumstance, yet they are united by a singular act of defiance, described by the same word: וַיְמֵָאֵן.[1]
The use of clothing is another connection in the scenes. Yaakov Avinu rends his outer tunic in an act of mourning, a custom that continues to this day. And he cradles the once majestic robe that was stripped from Yosef’s shoulders by jealous brothers. Yosef, who has been reduced to an object of lust, is stripped naked yet again, this time by an overly handsy mistress.
The garments are used as a visible prop in the stories to highlight the parallel griefs of father and son. And their shared refusal to be comforted becomes the bright, steady beacon that lets the reader sense that both are reaching toward the same distant light.
It is also a window into the contours of grief.
| Yaakov rent his garments and put sackcloth on his hips and mourned his son for many days. | וַיִּקְרַ֤ע יַעֲקֹב֙ שִׂמְלֹתָ֔יו וַיָּ֥שֶׂם שַׂ֖ק בְּמׇתְנָ֑יו וַיִּתְאַבֵּ֥ל עַל־בְּנ֖וֹ יָמִ֥ים רַבִּֽים׃ |
| All his sons and daughters rose up to comfort him, but he refused to be comforted and said, “For I will go to my grave mourning over my son.” And his father wept over him.[2] |
וַיָּקֻ֩מוּ֩ כׇל־בָּנָ֨יו וְכׇל־בְּנֹתָ֜יו לְנַחֲמ֗וֹ וַיְמָאֵן֙ לְהִתְנַחֵ֔ם וַיֹּ֕אמֶר כִּֽי־אֵרֵ֧ד אֶל־בְּנִ֛י אָבֵ֖ל שְׁאֹ֑לָה וַיֵּ֥בְךְּ אֹת֖וֹ אָבִֽיו׃
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When Yaakov’s children and grandchildren desperately try to console him, the Torah records: וַיְמָאֵן֙ לְהִתְנַחֵ֔ם, “he refuses to accept consolation.” He declares that he will descend to the grave in mourning for his son.
Yaakov’s children are worried (and let’s be honest, annoyed and guilt stricken) that their father is unwilling to move past his inconsolable grief. The children surely know that excessive mourning is calamitous.[3] They gave Yaakov some space to grieve, but are vexed that after “many days,” he is still unable to live life again.
How long was Yaakov’s grief before his family interceded? The Torah does not say. But it uses a phrase that hints at a twentieth-century scientific truth: time is relative. “Many days,” יָמִ֥ים רַבִּֽים. What was too long a time for the brothers was not nearly enough mourning for the bereft father.
Recall how time once flew by in the blink of an eye for Yaakov, as he labored for the hand of Rachel:
| Yaakov worked for Rachel for seven years and they seemed to him like just a few days in his love of her.[4] |
וַיַּעֲבֹ֧ד יַעֲקֹ֛ב בְּרָחֵ֖ל שֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֑ים וַיִּהְי֤וּ בְעֵינָיו֙ כְּיָמִ֣ים אֲחָדִ֔ים בְּאַהֲבָת֖וֹ אֹתָֽהּ׃
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Where once time flew by, it has now crawled to a stop for Yaakov even as the days continue to pass normally for the rest of the clan. Simply put, no amount of time would ease Yaakov’s pain. No collection of calendar pages would be enough to bring him peace and comfort.
The lesson is clear. Grief flows at a pace all its own. It cannot be hurried because the mind will not release what the heart has not yet processed. Healing does not follow a fixed schedule. It fluctuates. Attempts to move too quickly through mourning often backfire, since the only way past grief is through it, at the pace the soul can bear.
Halacha prescribes fixed mourning periods: Shiva, Shloshim, Avelut, Yahrzeit, Yizkor. Yet grief flows at its own pace, disconnected from the movement of the Earth around the Sun. Yaakov’s refusal to be comforted is therefore an affirmation of his truth. He will not settle for comfort that masks rather than mends.
Far away in Egypt, Yosef faces a different test. Potiphar’s wife offers him a moment of desire, a form of comfort that promises to soothe the loneliness of a young man betrayed by his brothers and cut off from his home.
Again the Torah says: “וַיְמָאֵ֓ן.”[5] Yosef refuses. He chooses long-term integrity over short-term pleasure. The offer of momentary desire is the kind of relief that erodes the soul. Yosef’s refusal shows that not every comfort is worthy of acceptance. Father and son both reject fleeting consolation, albeit of a different kind.
The Midrash deepens this connection. At the moment that Yosef is being seduced, he sees the image of his father in the window[6] and remembers that he may be a slave in Egypt, but he is Yosef, son of Yaakov Avinu.
The father refuses hollow consolation, and the son refuses hollow desire. Yaakov’s authenticity is the anchor that inspires Yosef.
And yes, stuck between these powerful stories, is a less noble third model. After the death of his wife, the Torah says of Yehudah, “וַיִּנָּ֣חֶם יְהוּדָ֗ה.”[7] Unlike his father and his younger half brother, Yehudah accepts momentary comfort in the arms of a woman he believes is a prostitute. He allows himself the kind of quick emotional easing that grief sometimes seeks. It is momentarily comforting, but it does not resolve his inner turmoil. And it cascades out of control, leading to a public reckoning with his daughter-in-law, Tamar. The scene is dramatic in that it forces Yehudah to make a profound reckoning.
As Tamar is being readied for the death penalty for a presumed sexual indiscretion, Yehudah must quickly decide whether he will own the truth with forthright honesty, or take the easy way out by allowing his secret to die with the pregnant woman. It is a binary choice. And no one would know if he took the easy way out and saved face.
Yehudah takes a deep breath and accepts full responsibility. ”צָֽדְקָ֣ה מִמֶּ֔נִּי,“ she is more righteous than I am,”[8] he admits.
Unlike Yosef, who finds strength in a vision of his father, Yehudah’s turning point has no such cue. There is no Midrash linking Yaakov to Yehudah’s decision. His confession arises from his own willingness to face truth and abandon the self-deception that once contributed to breaking his father’s heart. His confession is a return to the values of his father, a reversal of the selfishness that led to a deception so great that it broke Yaakov’s heart.
Yehudah’s proclamation “צָֽדְקָ֣ה מִמֶּ֔נִּי,“ she is more righteous than I am,” was a course correction, an act of Teshuvah. What had started out as a transitory reprieve from loneliness became the transformative moment in Jewish history.
Yehudah stands as the counterpoint to Yaakov and Yosef. Unlike his brother and father, he accepts the available comfort. In doing so, he discovers that shortcuts through grief often creates a mountain of consequences. In the end, Yehudah owns his role, confesses his foibles and restores Tamar’s dignity.
It is this act of courage that sparks the first kindling of the Davidic future, a shining star in the sky for all time.
Shabbat Shalom!
[1] Compare, Genesis 37:35 and 39:8.
[6] TB Sotah 36b ;see also Breshit Rabbah 87:7, Tanchuma Vayeishev 8:4.
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