The Torah informs us that Joseph’s goal was to see if his brothers would behave toward Benjamin the way they behaved toward him. When he saw that they would not he revealed himself to them.

It is interesting to note that throughout Jewish history, our leaders were not the first born. They were individuals who earned their roles as leaders. That is the secret of success.

Leadership Is Earned, Not Inherited

In this week’s parashah, we’re dealing with complex and painful family dynamics. Reuven assumes he is the leader of the brothers—but it becomes clear that he is not.

Reuven proposes putting Yosef into the pit, planning to return later and save him. His intentions may have been good, but leadership is judged by results, not intentions. While he is absent, the real leader emerges: Yehudah. Yehudah sees a caravan approaching and says, “Why should we kill our brother and gain nothing? Let us sell him into slavery.” The brothers listen to him. That tells us everything.

Reuven believes he is the leader, yet the brothers neither respect him nor follow him. Yehudah, on the other hand, is respected—and leadership naturally follows respect. This is a critical Torah lesson: leadership is not determined by birth order or entitlement.

The Torah repeatedly rejects the idea that status is automatic. David HaMelech was the youngest of his brothers, yet he became king. Shlomo was not the firstborn. Moshe was not the firstborn. Again and again, the Torah teaches that merit—not pedigree—determines leadership.

The Torah is fundamentally merit-based. You earn your position; you are not entitled to it. Being a “nepo baby” gets you nowhere in the Torah worldview. Great parents do not guarantee great children. Wealth, power, or lineage mean nothing without responsibility and character.

We see this throughout history as well. America is full of “rags to riches to rags” stories—one generation builds, the next squanders, because they were never taught how to earn or sustain what they inherited.

There’s a famous story about President Calvin Coolidge. His son once worked on a tobacco farm in Ohio. Another worker said to him, “If my father were president, I wouldn’t be working here.” Coolidge’s son replied, “If your father were Calvin Coolidge, you would.” That’s Torah values in action.

And history gives us darker examples too. Suleiman the Magnificent was one of the greatest Ottoman sultans. His son? Selim II—known to history as Selim the Drunk. Greatness is not hereditary.

The message is clear: who your father is does not determine who you will be. Leadership, respect, and greatness must be earned. The Torah does not reward entitlement—it rewards responsibility.

That’s something worth thinking about.

Jacob’s favoritism towards Joseph sets off a chain of events. The other brothers are jealous of Joseph and plot against him. This is a strong lesson to parents to show all their children their love equally.

This week marks a major transition in Sefer Bereishit. Until now, Yaakov has been the central figure. Starting this parashah, he steps into the background. He is still present, but the Torah shifts its focus to the next generation—his sons.

And it begins with one of the greatest mistakes a parent can make: favoritism.

Yaakov openly favors Yosef. He gives him the ketonet passim—often translated as a “coat of many colors,” but more accurately, a long-sleeved, ornamental garment. Yosef’s brothers are shepherds; they work with their hands. You don’t wear long sleeves to do manual labor. This coat wasn’t just clothing—it was a statement: I’m different. I’m above you.

When Yosef arrives wearing that coat and then tells his brothers about dreams in which they bow to him, it only deepens their resentment. At this stage, Yosef is immature—spoiled, even—lording his favored status over his brothers.

And then Yaakov makes another baffling decision: he sends Yosef alone to check on his brothers, fully aware of the tension. How could he not sense their anger?

The result is tragic but formative. Yosef is sold into slavery and sent to Egypt—not as punishment, but as preparation. There, through suffering and responsibility, he will learn what true leadership really means.

Running parallel to Yosef’s story is Yehuda’s. Yehuda is a “good-time” guy, impulsive and self-confident. It takes Tamar—and a painful confrontation—to bring him down to earth. Together, these two narratives show different paths toward growth, accountability, and leadership.

On a personal note, this parashah has special meaning for me. Fifty-three years ago, during infantry basic training in the IDF, our drill instructor stopped us in the Emek and asked, “Do you know what happened here?”
“This is where Yosef was sold by his brothers.”

Anyone who’s been through basic training knows most of it becomes a blur—but that moment stayed with me. Standing there as a young soldier, realizing that my connection to this land goes back to Yosef and his brothers—that was unforgettable.

And that brings us to the core lesson of the parashah:

If you have children, do not show favoritism.
Love them all equally. Treat them all with dignity.
Otherwise, you risk replaying the tragedy that began with Yosef.

Something to think about.

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According to the Ari (Rabbi Yitzhak Luria) Rachel is not buried in Rachel’s Tomb. But because so many people have prayed there over the centuries her spirit hovers over it. It is a case when holiness is created by people.

The Death and Burial of Rachel Imeinu

In this week’s parashah, we encounter the moving account of the death of Rachel Imeinu. Unlike the other Avot and Imahot, Rachel is not buried in the Me‘arat HaMachpelah in Hevron, but rather on the road near Beit Lechem, at what we know today as Kever Rachel. This raises several profound questions.

First, why was Rachel not buried together with the Patriarchs and Matriarchs?

One explanation offered by the commentators is deeply sensitive to human emotion. Yaakov understood the lifelong pain that Leah endured—feeling unloved and living in the shadow of her sister. Although Yaakov loved Leah, his love for Rachel was different and more visible. Yaakov therefore chose to be buried beside Leah, not Rachel, as a way of healing Leah’s pain for eternity and affirming her dignity.

A second question arises: is Rachel actually buried at Kever Rachel at all?

There is a tradition—cited by some authorities—that Rachel may not physically be buried there. When asked why this was not publicly emphasized, the response was striking: so many Jews have prayed there with sincerity that it is as though she truly is there.

This idea is illustrated by a modern parallel. After 1967, Israeli archaeologists conducted extensive studies on what is traditionally called King David’s Tomb. Using every available scientific method, they concluded that no one is buried there. When one of the researchers told his father—who prayed there daily—the father replied, “Your studies are wrong.” When pressed, he explained: How could it be that generations of Jews poured out their hearts there if David were not present in some way?

This teaches a powerful concept:
There are two kinds of holiness:

• Holiness from above, such as Mount Sinai, where God descended to humanity
• Holiness from below, created when human devotion sanctifies a place

Even if a site lacks physical remains, human prayer can invest it with real kedushah. Thus, when one prays at Kever Rachel, Rachel is truly present—in spirit, in memory, and in influence.

Finally, there is a profound national reason for Rachel’s burial location. Rachel is buried along the route taken by the Jewish people during the Babylonian exile. The prophet Yirmiyahu describes Rachel weeping for her children as they pass her grave. According to the Midrash, when God was angered by Israel’s sins, Rachel interceded:

“I allowed my sister to marry my husband and did not protest. If I could overcome my jealousy, surely You can overcome Your anger.”

Moved by her selflessness, God was appeased and promised that her children would return to their land.

Rachel, therefore, is not only a mother who died young—she is the eternal mother of hope, standing on the road of exile and whispering consolation and return.

There is much to reflect on in the death of Rachel Imeinu—about love, sacrifice, holiness, and redemption.

Yehuda had to learn humility before he could become the leader of the family. This happens when he is confronted by Tamar & admits that he is the father of her unborn twins.

This week’s parasha weaves together two intertwined stories: Yosef and Yehuda. At first glance they seem separate, but together they explore a profound challenge of leadership and moral responsibility—particularly around temptation, power, and accountability.

Yosef is sold into slavery and rises quickly in Potiphar’s house. He is capable, trustworthy, and—importantly—good-looking. Potiphar’s wife repeatedly tries to seduce him, but Yosef refuses, declaring that he cannot betray either his master or God. When rejected, she falsely accuses him, and Yosef is thrown into prison. Yosef’s greatness here is self-control—the strength to say no, even when no one is watching and the cost is severe.

Alongside this story is Yehuda and Tamar. Tamar is denied justice when Yehuda withholds his third son from marrying her. Realizing that Yehuda is the leader of the family—and that her future lies within it—she disguises herself, and Yehuda unknowingly fathers her child. When Tamar is accused and brought before Yehuda for judgment, she quietly presents his staff and seal and says, “The man to whom these belong is the father.”

This is Yehuda’s defining moment. He could have denied everything. Instead, he publicly admits, “She is more righteous than I.” With that admission, Yehuda earns true leadership. From Tamar comes Peretz, ancestor of King David—and ultimately the messianic line.

The contrast is striking:

• Yosef masters temptation.
• Yehuda masters responsibility.

Leadership isn’t perfection—it’s honesty.

We see this echoed later in history. Alexander Hamilton, when accused of financial corruption, chose instead to admit to a personal moral failure, fully aware it would damage him politically. Yet history remembers him for his integrity. More recently, a congressman admitted to a past affair while protecting the privacy of those involved—and voters respected his humility and reelected him.

The Torah teaches us that leaders are not defined by never failing, but by owning their failures. Humility, accountability, and moral courage are what make someone worthy to lead.

Something to think about.

The Torah states that the pit that Joseph was thrown into had no water. The Midrash states that it had snakes & Scorpions. This teaches us that without Torah (symbolized here by water) you will end up with snakes & scorpions.

That’s a rich and meaningful reflection — beautifully showing how midrash, story, and even cultural history all weave together into a single lesson about Torah and spiritual life.

Here’s a quick summary and some elaboration on the main ideas you touched on:

1. Yosef in the Pit — “The Pit Was Empty, There Was No Water” (Bereishit 37:24)
The Torah’s detail that “the pit was empty, there was no water” seems unnecessary unless it teaches something deeper. The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 84:16, Rashi brings it as well) says:

“There was no water in it — but there were snakes and scorpions.”

This teaches that spiritual emptiness never stays empty. When there isn’t mayim (symbol of Torah), other things — symbolized by snakes and scorpions — inevitably fill the void. It’s a powerful lesson about the human soul and about societies in general: if we don’t fill ourselves with Torah values, with meaning and holiness, then something else — often dangerous or destructive — takes its place.

2. The Idea of Filling the Void — Bais Yaakov and “Our Sto”
You connected this to the historical example of the Beis Yaakov movement, when teaching Torah to girls was controversial. The rabbinic response, often attributed to figures like the Chafetz Chaim, was “Better our sto than their sto” — meaning, better that Jewish girls gain their worldview (hashkafah) from Torah sources than from worldly or secular philosophies. Again, if Torah doesn’t fill the void, something else will.

3. The Golem Story and Jewish “Science Fiction”
Your connection to the Golem of Prague story and Rabbi Dr. Schneur Leiman’s research is also insightful. The 19th-century version of the Golem legend seems to have been written to engage Jewish youth who were increasingly drawn to secular European science fiction — Jules Verne, Mary Shelley, and so on. So the author created a kind of Jewish fantasy literature to re-inspire interest in Judaism. Once more, even storytelling becomes a tool for filling the “void” with something positive and connected to Torah, rather than letting outside influences take over.

4. The Takeaway
The image of the pit — empty of water, full of snakes — becomes a metaphor for our inner spiritual lives and education. If we don’t consciously fill our minds and environments with Torah — moral clarity, faith, acts of kindness — then confusion, cynicism, or harmful ideas can creep in.

It’s not about closing ourselves off from the world; it’s about grounding ourselves so that when we engage with it, we do so from a place of Torah, purpose, and discernment.

You ended with a wonderful line:

“We can look at the world always, but remember the basis of our knowledge has to be what’s in the Torah.”

Exactly — that balance between engaging the world and staying anchored in Torah wisdom is the message of Yosef’s pit.

Just as Potiphar’s wife accused Joseph of the crime she wanted to commit, so too, with our enemies, they accuse us of the crimes they want to commit against us.

In this week’s parashah, we follow the story of Yosef: sold into slavery, rising to prominence in the house of Potiphar, and then falsely accused by Potiphar’s wife after he refuses her advances. When Yosef will not do what she desires, she accuses him of attempting the very sin she intended. As a result, Yosef is thrown into prison.

This pattern should feel disturbingly familiar. We see it repeated in the world today. Hamas openly declares its intention to destroy the Jewish people, committing rape, murder, and brutality—yet afterward accuses Israel of the very crimes it itself commits, despite Israel having neither the intention nor the culture to do such things. This is not accidental; it is projection. People who are willing to commit atrocities assume others will do the same, because that is how their minds work.

I once heard an account from World War II about American intelligence interrogations. Nazis, accustomed to torture, would break quickly—not because Americans tortured them, but because they assumed they would. Their own moral corruption shaped their expectations. As we know, the most powerful torture chamber is the human mind.

This is the lesson of Yosef. Potiphar’s wife accuses him of what she wanted to do. Our enemies accuse us of what they seek to do. The Torah teaches us to be clear-eyed: those who wish to destroy us will lie, manipulate, and accuse us of their own intentions. It is something to think about—and something to remember.

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In this week’s Torah portion Joseph is raised from the prison to be the viceroy of Egypt. At no time does he deny is Judaism. That is the lesson that we should be proud of our heritage.

When we last left Yosef, he was sitting in an Egyptian prison. He had helped the cupbearer interpret his dream and asked only one thing in return: remember me. Yet the Torah tells us, “The chief cupbearer did not remember Yosef; he forgot him”—for two full years.

How could that be? Yosef literally saved this man’s life. But the answer is painfully simple and deeply human: most people are concerned primarily with themselves. Once the cupbearer was restored to his position and back in Pharaoh’s good graces, Yosef no longer mattered to him.

There is another layer here. When Yosef identifies himself, he says, “I am a Hebrew, from the land of the Hebrews.” That is a strange way to answer—but an important one. Yosef openly identifies as a Jew. The cupbearer doesn’t care about justice or gratitude; he cares only about his own standing with Pharaoh. Yosef, the Hebrew prisoner, is expendable.

This teaches an enduring lesson for us as Jews. We may have friends in the world who appear to support us—but often they do so for their own reasons, not because it is morally right. There are exceptions, but they are rare. We should never confuse convenience with loyalty.

There is a famous story about Jeane Kirkpatrick, the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations under President Ronald Reagan. While visiting Israel, she was asked, “What do we have to do to get the world to like us?” She replied, “Commit suicide—but I don’t recommend it. There’s no future in it.”

The point is sharp and uncomfortable: if Jews chase the love of the world, we will never achieve it. But if we do what we must do—with self-respect and moral clarity—we will earn respect, even if not affection.

Yosef had to learn this lesson. Ultimately, he understood that everything comes from God, not from human favors. Only when the cupbearer needed Yosef—when Pharaoh was disturbed by his dreams—did he suddenly “remember” him.

And significantly, when the Torah later begins the Book of Exodus, it tells us that a new Pharaoh arose “who did not know Yosef.” The commentators debate whether this was literally a new Pharaoh or the same one who chose to forget what Egypt owed Yosef and the Jewish people. Either way, the message is the same: gratitude is fragile, especially when Jews rely on it.

It is no coincidence that Parashat Miketz always falls during Chanukah. Chanukah is not primarily about a war against the Greeks. The Hebrew text is very precise: it speaks of the Mityavnim—the Hellenized Jews, the assimilationists. The real battle was internal: would Judaism remain Judaism, or dissolve into Greek culture?

Yosef faced that same test. After years in prison, he emerged mature and spiritually aware, ready to stand before Pharaoh openly as a Jew, without compromise. The Chashmonaim did the same—fighting not just for survival, but for Jewish identity and spiritual integrity.

That is the shared message of Miketz and Chanukah:
Do not seek approval.
Do not rely on favors.
Stand with self-respect, faith, and clarity—and let the outcome rest in God’s hands.

Something to think about.

Joseph asks the cup bearer to remember him to Pharaoh. The cup bearer forgets about him. This teaches us that, while we have to make all preparations to succeed, we have to remember that it is God who will redeem us in the end.

This week’s parsha ends with the story of Yosef and the dreams of Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker. They come to Yosef troubled, and they somehow sense that he can interpret dreams. Yosef tells the baker that in three days he will be executed, and the cupbearer that in three days he will be restored to his position.

Yosef asks only one thing of the cupbearer: “When things go well for you, remember me to Pharaoh.” But the Torah emphasizes that the cupbearer promptly forgets him.

There’s an interesting detail here. Chazal note that Pharaoh would hold his goblet resting in the palm of his hand. Many Jews have a custom to hold the Kiddush cup this way on Shabbat—because Shabbat is the day when we are like royalty. Why does the Torah bother to tell us such a detail? Perhaps to remind us that even small moments in Torah contain hints meant to elevate our lives.

But back to the cupbearer: when he finally remembers Yosef in next week’s parsha, he refers to him dismissively: “A Hebrew boy, a slave…” Rashi says this teaches us that even when a wicked person tries to do good, he does it in a degrading manner.

Yosef had done everything he could to create his own salvation. He interpreted the dream correctly, built a relationship, and made a request. He did the hishtadlut, the human effort. But in the end, salvation didn’t come from the cupbearer at all—it came two years later, directly from God.

And that’s the lesson:
We prepare. We plan. We train. Soldiers drill. Doctors practice. We put in effort. But ultimately, the results are in God’s hands. We are obligated to act—but never to assume we control the outcome.

There’s a story from the great earthquake in Safed in 1837. A rabbi leading Mincha had a sudden premonition and motioned for everyone to flee the synagogue moments before it collapsed. Everyone survived. Only the rabbi himself suffered a broken arm from falling debris.

When asked why he alone was injured, he explained:
“God was giving me a message. If I believed there was danger enough to tell others to leave, I should have left as well. You don’t rely on miracles. Do the right thing—and trust God with the results.”

That captures our message perfectly.
We must take action—but we must also remember that the outcome rests entirely with Hashem.

Something to think about as we head into Shabbat.

When Esau and Jacob meet after many years, Esau invites Jacob to be with him. Jacob does not. He knows that Esau is bad and will be detrimental to his family. To keep the peace between them he goes his own way. He had to build a wall between himself and his brother.