Vanishing Point
Losing Coats and Finding Selves in Vayeshev
When Reuben returned to the pit and saw that Joseph was not in the pit, he rent his clothes. Returning to his brothers, he said, “The boy is gone! Now, what am I to do?” (Genesis 37:29-30)
[Yehuda] inquired of the people of that town, “Where is the cult prostitute, the one at Enaim, by the road?” But they said, “There has been no prostitute here.” (Genesis 38:21)
When the great prophet, Jacob, is presented a blood-dipped tunic, he immediately falls into a state of grief. It never crosses his mind that his sons have conspired against their hated half-brother. Jacob never thinks to question his sons’ motives, even though the Torah emphasizes how much they hate Joseph. Is Jacob such a naïf? Addressing this possibility, a Midrash offers that the brothers made a pact to conceal their treachery from their father, and, crucially, compelled God to join in their pact. Jacob is unable to see the obvious because God is in on the deception. But in another sense, Jacob is right to grieve the loss of his boy, for what has been taken from him is not Joseph’s life, but Joseph’s boyhood. Joseph the youth is destined to become Joseph the vizier. How does a child become an adult? It’s a metamorphosis. And the only clue we have for it is a bloody garment, the residue of some magic trick. Joseph was never a child: he was a great man trapped in the body of a little boy.
The story of Joseph, which begins this week with Parashat Vayeshev (Gen. 37:1-40:23) is about disappearance and identity. Reuben walks away from the pit where the brothers have left Joseph, and, upon return, finds the boy is not there. The literal reason is that he’s been sold into slavery, but the existential reason is that there never was a boy to begin with. The great Joseph of the future was simply dressing up, pretending to be the annoying little kid brother. Even the details of Joseph’s descent into slavery are strange. The Torah hiccups about Joseph being sold to Ishmaelites, no, Midianites. Rashi says Joseph was traded twice, first to the Ishmaelites and then to the Midianites while Ibn Ezra says he was traded once, the Ishamelites and Midianites being two names for the same group. The mechanics of Joseph’s actual descent don’t add up.
The theme of returning to a familiar place or person, only to find them vanished, recurs in the story of Yehuda and Tamar, also in this week’s parasha. Just as Yehuda was mistaken to think Tamar was a prostitute, the brothers were mistaken to think Joseph was the person they hated. Joseph and Tamar will not be held to other people’s projections; their power is in breaking the illusions others have about them, though it will take Joseph longer to do this.
Jacob is presented a tunic. Yehuda is presented a tunic. Both are their own clothes. Yet in Jacob’s case, the presentation conceals the truth and in Yehuda’s, it reveals it. In Yehuda’s case, the presentation of his own clothing awakens him to his own sense of responsibility. In Jacob’s, it defeats him. Jacob will have many verses left until he dies, but he loses his vitality as soon as he “learns” of Joseph’s death. After all, Joseph is called “ben zekunim”—the child of his old age. The striking epithet has garnered a handful of classical interpretations, from the literal (Jacob had him when he was old) to the anthropological (he doted on Joseph because Joseph was his helping-hand, “ben zekunim” being a kind of title or role). I prefer to read it this way: Joseph was the child who made his dad age, who turned his father from a man of promise and hope to one waiting out his days. It was not Joseph the boy who did this; rather, the text takes a holistic view. What we need to know about Joseph is that his drama causes Jacob’s decline.
The colorful tunic which Jacob gifts Joseph is an icon of mimetic rivalry. Its desirability derives from its scarcity, representing Jacob’s scarce love. Tragically, but inevitably, it is at once an object of love and hate, blessing and curse. There is no modest way to wear a garment whose meaning and intent is to demonstrate preferential treatment. Yet Yehuda’s garment, by contrast—the one presented to him by Tamar—is ordinary. The ironic juxtaposition of the two garments is stark. The ostentatious garment causes division and leads to self-deception; the regular one brings healing, learning, and contrition. The coat of many colors is a decoy, because it is fundamentally about status. The return of Yehuda’s coat brings insight, because it is fundamentally about soulful encounter.
But that’s not quite right. Both garments are about status. Without Yehuda’s garment, Tamar can make no appeal. Her possession of this garment transforms her legal identity from a prostitute or cast away into a rightful claimant. Rather, in the case of the coat of many colors, it is a status that is conferred on Joseph, as an inheritance. Joseph has not properly earned the garment. It is an object of decadence. In Yehuda’s case, it is Tamar’s and Yehuda’s willingness to risk their lives, emotionally, at least, in a struggle for recognition, that makes the coat meaningful. It is a garment of striving.
When Joseph is accused of forcing himself on Potiphar’s wife, his garment will serve as “proof” of his evil. Yet, as in the parallel case of the k’tonet passim, we err when we extrapolate too much reality from too little data. The dazzle of a great coat or a great headline hides the complexity and dimensionality of the people underneath. In both cases, where the garment is, Joseph is not, and where Joseph is, the garment is not. In Yehuda’s case, the garment and the man are united. The clothing can speak only because the person wearing it has accepted the burden of what it says.
It is so tempting to want the coat of many colors, instead of the ordinary garment of Yehuda. But beside the jealousy that it invites, the coat of many colors is disadvantaged by its being an affect. It takes us away from the beautiful person wearing it; it also makes us think the life of the one wearing it is a breeze. The coat of many colors is the false, histrionic life of the Instagram Vacation Selfie, making others feel bad about themselves, while self-deceiving oneself about how one’s own life really is. Even the gesture of Potiphar’s wife, clutching at Joseph’s garment, may be read in this way. If I can’t have the man, I can at least post about my “experience” with him. As David Foster Wallace describes in his short story “Good Old Neon,” a person can be so disassociated that he spends his whole life living for what others might think of him. The k’tonet passim is the garment we all want, but for the wrong reasons.
The reason we want false goods, the reason we prefer social symbols of happiness to a genuine, but private joy, is that we do not love ourselves, do not know ourselves to be loved. Without love as a foundation we seek a simulation of it in the “Hollywood” version, emulating what we think love is by studying the gestures of celebrity actors. From Augustine to Rousseau, countless thinkers have noted the way in which we prefer pride, a form of distorted love, to something deeper and more nourishing.
But Joseph is gone. Because the real Joseph isn’t the one who is good looking; isn’t the one who is great at dream interpretation; isn’t the one whom his father thinks is the child of his old age. Joseph—whose name means to add and to gather—won’t be found with the “More, more, more” mentality, even though he is abundant and prosperous. Joseph is not the sum of his qualities. Joseph is a being who is free, a being so free no pit can hold him, no jail can stop him. Joseph is so free, descent into slavery makes him stronger. Sometimes, our wonderful features let us hide from ourselves and others. But the greatest achievement we can make, and the one made by our ancestors when they refused to conflate themselves with their clothing, was “I am Joseph.” “I am Yehuda.” “It’s me.” “Here I am.”
Etz Hasadeh is a Center for Existential Torah Study.
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