“For almost two years now the famine has gripped the land,” Joseph said, “and there will be five more years without a harvest. But God sent me ahead of you, and He made me a father to Pharaoh, master of his household and ruler over all Egypt. It’s important that you understand this. It wasn’t you but God who sent me here.”
The brothers stared, as if in a trance.
“Hurry back to our father,” Joseph continued, “and give him this message: ‘God has made me ruler over all Egypt. Come to me right away; you will live in the region of Goshen, and you will be near me, along with your children and grandchildren, your flocks and herds, and all your possessions. I will take care of you there, and I will make sure that you and your family have everything you need during the five years of famine that lie ahead.’”
They seemed to be coming out of their trance now; at least, some of them were nodding in agreement. Judah said, “We will tell him that, my lord.”
“You can see for yourselves now,” Joseph said, “and my brother Benjamin can see, that I really am Joseph. Tell Father about all the splendor that surrounds me, and tell him about everything you have seen, and bring him to me as quickly as you can.”
“Yes, my lord,” Judah said.
The food, Joseph thought—that was the most urgent matter. The families must be fed and brought to Goshen. Jacob would be shocked at the news, and incredulous, but he would come around when he was able to hear his sons’ account of the wonder of their meeting. He would see the magnificent gifts. And Goshen, after all, was not quite Egypt; it wasn’t Egypt in all its unalloyed, intimidating grandeur, and thus it would be easier for Jacob to accept. So when the famine was over, he would be living in a landscape similar to Canaan’s: lush meadows with plenty of water. The palace was just a day’s journey away, near enough so that they could see each other as often as they wished.
Then Joseph threw his arms around his brother Benjamin and wept, and Benjamin wept too.
A New Beginning
JOSEPH’S HEART WAS OVERFLOWING with love. It wasn’t only for Benjamin; it was for them all, all eleven of them.
This was how he had felt toward his brothers as a very young child, before the capacity to impose fixed judgments on the world had established itself in his mind. Now all their history had been wiped clean, and he felt renewed, purified, washed whiter than snow, as if his whole life with them had begun again from the beginning. These dear men, all of them, with their worn, confused, barely comprehending faces and the smell of fear on their skin: how beautiful they were, each one of them! He had to laugh—it was too ridiculous—at the way he in his youthful arrogance had seen them as coarse and stupid, a judgment that simply mirrored back his own coarseness and stupidity at the time, though it was easy to forgive himself, since he had been as innocent as they were, as ignorant of mental cause-and-effect. He had seen only their exteriors; he had never wanted, or been able, to understand who they were beneath the surface of his own perceptions.
He went from one to the other, looking into their eyes, clasping each one in his arms: Dear Judah. Dan. Naphtali, who had once been swift as a deer. Gad. Issachar. Those roughnecks Simeon and Levi. Asher. Zeb.
Reuben was the last brother he embraced, the eldest and tallest of them. His torso was as thick as a tree trunk. His eyes looked out from the depths of sadness. To Joseph, he too seemed beautiful.
Pharaoh Gives His Consent
WHEN THE NEWS ABOUT JOSEPH’S BROTHERS reached Pharaoh, he was pleased. Usually he would flick away any thought of filthy barbarian shepherds crossing the border into the Black Land. But Zaphnath-paneakh had been a savior to him and to all his people, and there was nothing Pharaoh wouldn’t do to please him. He had heaped him with wealth and honors, given him a brilliant jewel of a wife, and followed his advice as if Zaphnath-paneakh were a god descended from the heaven of heavens.
So when he heard the news that the brothers had come and that Zaphnath-paneakh had invited them and their father and their families to live in Goshen, Pharaoh immediately gave his consent. He was happy to see his viceroy reunited with the people he loved, barbarians though they were, and if Zaphnath-paneakh’s nose was able to endure their stink, more power to him. The rumor was that he had even wept in his brothers’ arms—an astonishing image that Pharaoh could hardly believe, since Zaphnath-paneakh was legendary for his sangfroid, even in circumstances of high tension. People said that he had spoken to the barbarians in their own tongue, a series of barks and snorts that, if one forced oneself to imagine a human voice speaking, sounded like a consumptive clearing his throat. Undoubtedly this was an act of mercy on Zaphnath-paneakh’s part, since he could easily have spared himself by calling on an interpreter. He was known for his exquisite manners, which put everyone at ease no matter what their social position might be, and he would shift his tone only in his dealings with the rich and powerful, though even with them his harshness took the form of elegant phrases that were as lethal as daggers.
Well, let the family come. Let them be happy together. How many of them could there be?
Back to Canaan
PHARAOH SENT JOSEPH A MESSAGE. The thin papyrus scroll was tied with a red ribbon and sealed in purple wax with the imperial scarab.
To our esteemed viceroy, Zaphnath-paneakh, Bearer of the Royal Seals, Pharaoh’s Father and Sole Companion, Overseer of the Granaries, First Royal Herald, and Right Hand of the Lord of the Two Lands: Tell your brothers to bring their father and their families here as soon as they can. We will provide them with everything they need. Tell them not to worry if they have to leave some of their belongings behind, because the best of Egypt is theirs.
Joseph gave them wagons and abundant supplies and, for his father, forty donkeys loaded with grain, bread, and food for his journey. To each of the brothers he gave an elaborate ornamented robe and a goatskin pouch of silver. At first he was tempted to give Benjamin five of the splendid robes and triple the amount of silver, but when he contemplated the thought, he had to smile at its foolishness.
Still Alive
IT WAS EVENING WHEN THE BROTHERS arrived in Canaan. Zebulun leaped off his donkey and ran to Jacob’s tent. “Father, Father!” he shouted. “Come outside. We have food for everyone, and wonderful news.”
Jacob got up and walked out with him. The other ten sons were crowded around the tent’s entrance.
“Joseph is still alive!” Simeon shouted, and there was a chorus of excited yeses.
“He’s alive! We have seen him!” said Asher.
“Not only that,” Judah said, taking Jacob’s hand and gently stroking it, “but he is ruler over all Egypt.”
“It’s true, Father,” Benjamin said.
Jacob stared at them as if they were madmen. What were they saying? It was impossible. How could the dead come back to life? Was this some kind of cruel joke? He remembered the other news, so many years before: the blood-soaked garment, the vision (it had never left him) of Joseph torn apart by a wild beast, that beautiful young body torn apart and devoured. How could that not be? Had it all been a dream? Was this a dream now, the story his sons were telling? Life becomes death; death doesn’t become life. Or does it? When the seed is buried in the ground, it turns into a green stalk. Ah, but the metaphor is false. The seed hadn’t been dead. It had just been dormant: life in a slower form.
Still, they said that Joseph was alive, that he was a great lord in Egypt, the great lord. Could it be true? They had recognized him; they had spoken to him. And all this magnificence—the ornamented robes, each as splendid as the coat he had once given to Joseph, the bags full of silver, the donkeys laden with grain—it had to come from somewhere, didn’t it? He could see it and touch it. It, at least, was not a dream.
Trust them, the inner voice said. His heart eased. It might be true. It was too much to hope for, but it might be true.
My son Joseph may still be alive, he thought in dazed wonderment. I will go see him before I die.
The Secret
THE
TEN BROTHERS COULDN’T BRING themselves to confess their crime. They had discussed it on the way to Canaan, on the second evening of their journey, exhaustively, fruitlessly, while Benjamin was asleep. None of them was able to face Jacob with the truth. They tried to imagine telling him, but it was too dreadful to contemplate.
Reuben said, “We could tell him that we just didn’t know, that we found the coat and thought a wild beast had eaten Joseph.”
“But Joseph will contradict that as soon as he talks with Father,” Dan said.
“Yes,” said Judah, “and a lie will only add to our guilt.”
So they decided to say nothing.
Benjamin, the concubines, and the grandchildren came to their own conclusion: that Joseph had been attacked by a lion or wolf but had miraculously survived and made his way to Egypt. The story was believable, and there were no obvious inconsistencies. So it became the family’s reality. Leah had her doubts, but she buried them under a rubble of evasions.
As for Jacob, it never occurred to him to question the story. Joseph had come back to life. That was all he cared about.
Nor, later on, did Joseph say anything to disabuse him. Jacob or Benjamin or one of the grandchildren might say, “When you were attacked by a wild beast…,” and Joseph would let it pass.
Occasionally, at first, he would catch a frightened look darting from one brother to another when someone made a comment like this, but the brothers quickly learned that their poor secret was safe with him.
To Goshen
THEY TOOK THEIR FATHER, LEAH, Bilhah, Zilpah, and their wives and children in the wagons that Pharaoh had sent them, and they traveled from Hebron to Goshen. The slaves were to follow, under the supervision of Issachar and Zebulun, bringing the flocks and herds with them.
Jacob was still in shock. He could feel a happiness dawning inside him, but it was as if he were watching it in a dream. Could he really dare to be happy? Leah sat beside him in the first wagon, holding his hand, encouraging him to trust what his sons had said. He knew, at least, that the threat of starvation was over. They were all fed now. The young grandchildren were bubbling with excitement at the adventure. Was he really on the way to Joseph? Would he be able to survive until they reached Egypt and not die of a bursting heart? Sometimes, as the wagon rattled along, he found himself talking to Rachel in his mind. Joseph is alive, dearest. We are going to see him, you and I. We are going to bow down before him, all of us—sun, moon, and stars, just as he said we would.
On the seventh day, Joseph rode out to meet them. When he saw his father, he leaped off his chariot and ran to him.
The old man looked like a fragment of his former self. He was terribly frail. Tears sprang to Joseph’s eyes as he stood before him, and as he embraced him he began to sob—deep, body-wrenching sobs that rose from the well of joy, which is also the well of sorrow.
Jacob sobbed too. This was the unhoped-for consummation. He was seeing his beloved son. It was enough. It was far more than enough. Even if he were to live for another hundred years, the rest of his life would be just an afterthought, of unnecessary grace.
Compassion
AS THEY SETTLED INTO THEIR NEW LIVES in Goshen, Joseph could see that the ten brothers were still struggling under the burden of their guilt. They seemed fearful, or at least cautious, around him. It was obvious that they were living in the torturous world of the inner judge, whom they couldn’t help imagining onto him, and also onto God. Because they weren’t able to forgive themselves, they thought that he hadn’t forgiven them, even though his words had presupposed it, even though his actions were filled with affection and largesse.
They had no idea who he was, and he didn’t expect them to. They could perceive him only through eyes clouded with guilt and fear. In Joseph’s world, they were all innocent, though guilty; in their world, they could have acted differently, and they had willfully chosen what was evil. In his world, he loved them; in their world, he despised them and was an expert dissembler, just waiting for their father to die before he inflicted some hideous punishment on them. Even Judah was trapped inside this overwhelming guilt. Joseph understood how painful it is to live in a mental world of good and evil, in which people consciously choose to think the thoughts that come into their minds and then consciously choose to believe those thoughts: a world in which God rewards and punishes people for actions that in reality they couldn’t help, because those actions were the direct effects of those beliefs.
After two months, the brothers went to see Joseph in his palace, leaving Jacob and Benjamin in Goshen. The steward led them to the Great Hall. Joseph saw that they were troubled, and he cleared the room of Egyptians.
Judah was again their spokesman. “We beg you to forgive us for what we did to you so many years ago,” he said. “We are truly sorry.” All of them murmured their agreement and prostrated themselves before him.
It was as he had suspected. But this request for forgiveness, while it showed how little the brothers understood, was also a very good sign. It meant that the process of redemption was continuing. He would have to be very gentle with them. He would speak to them as if they were children.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Am I God, who brings to pass everything that happens? Of course I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago. Besides, although you wanted to harm me, God brought good out of it. He meant to save many lives, as we see today. So don’t worry. I will continue to take care of you and your families, as I have up to now.”
He was using the clearest language he could think of, but it was as if he were trying to draw a three-dimensional figure in two dimensions. That God had taken what is evil and turned it to good was something the brothers’ minds would be able to grasp. But in reality, it wasn’t like that. Their deed had been unkind and painful, yes, to them all, but it wasn’t separable from the whole course of events, the complete pattern. When you isolated it, plucking it out of the flow of time, you falsified it. It had never existed by itself; it had never been a separate event apart from the dynamic whole. So how could you call it evil? In reality, God doesn’t see anything as evil. Everything happens according to His will, on earth as in heaven. For God, it is all very good, as He said on the sixth day of Creation.* Joseph knew from long experience that the mind finds its proper balance in that sixth-day awareness. From it, the mind moves into its Sabbath, the peace that passes all understanding.
How could the brothers, in their present state of guilt, begin to comprehend the deep gratitude he felt for everything, even for those hours (or was it days?) he had spent in the pit, bruised and thirsty and foul with his own excrement, and frightened out of his mind, out of his precious identity? But it was that experience that had led to this fulfillment, and if even one step along the way had been eliminated or changed, the way would have led somewhere else, somewhere less.
There was nothing in it that he would change. There was nothing in it that he could call evil—not the pit, not the prison, not slander, famine, destruction, death. It had, all of it, led to this moment.
Epilogue
SO JOSEPH SETTLED HIS FATHER and brothers in Goshen, providing everything necessary for their comfort. He visited his father as often as he could, and he was generous and affectionate with his brothers, caring for their wives and children and helping them in every crisis. Slowly they began to trust him.
Joseph remained in the good graces of Pharaoh and his successor until the end of his life, and he continued to benefit the whole country with his compassionate wisdom. The years came and went. Jacob died. Joseph’s sons had families of their own. The grandchildren became adults. Decades more went by. Joseph grew old, gracefully. He was able to continue working until the final two weeks of his life. Then his body began to shut down, and he took to his bed. He knew he was dying. Asenath knew it too.
All his adult life he had been living without a future, and it was no different now. His mind wasn’t tempted to leap ahead of itself, into thoughts of what might or might not happen aft
er the body died. Whatever state of existence or nonexistence followed, he trusted that it would be good. He didn’t question the intelligence that had created everything in the universe and had led him with such astonishing kindness to this culminating moment.
He was fond of his body. It had been a faithful companion, never complaining, even when he had given it the most rigorous tasks and pushed it to its limits. It had always done its best, like a well-trained horse or a dog that adores its master. It had served him well, and now, when it needed to stop living, he had no quarrel with it.
Nor would he be sorry to leave his identity behind. He had enjoyed it, this collection of thoughts and passions that people had called “Joseph” or “Meri-Amun” or “Zaphnath-paneakh.” More than enjoyed: he had great respect for it. It had known when to properly assert itself and when to step out of the way and give itself over to the unnamable. At those moments, there was not a trace of doing in it. It was a transparent vessel, an instrument, grateful to be used. But he was ready to leave this cherished identity behind now, along with the rest of his world, even his children, even his endlessly beloved Asenath. He had no regrets. There was nothing further he wished for, nothing he had left undone. Everything was coming to completion, like a long piece of music that has almost arrived at its final chord.
Joseph and the Way of Forgiveness Page 13
