By Yochanan Gordon
Egyptian bondage, whose redemption we are now celebrating, did not begin with an autocratic decree but rather with the sale of Yosef HaTzaddik into Mitzrayim. There is a mysterious quality to Yosef’s personality that the Torah highlights repeatedly, demanding our attention.
Despite years of alienation and betrayal by his own brothers, Yosef remained emotionally whole. Time and again, during the encounters that would ultimately lead to the brothers’ reunification, Yosef could not hold back his tears. At one pivotal moment, just before revealing his identity to his brothers, he asks all non-family members to leave the room. Alone with his brothers, the Torah tells us Yosef wept so loudly that all of Egypt could hear.
If anyone had the right to become numb, to shut down emotionally, it was Yosef. Abandoned in a pit by his own flesh and blood, sold again and again, and imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, he could have become hard and cold. But instead, Yosef retained his vision, his charisma, his leadership, and, most importantly, his emotional sensitivity. He not only felt his own suffering but remained open enough to empathize deeply with others.
Among the many details we recount during the story of our national bondage and redemption, this one is often overlooked. Yet, because the sale of Yosef was the root of our descent into Egypt, perhaps Yosef’s emotional resilience can be seen as a key to our redemption as well.
Indeed, when the narrative of our national redemption begins after 210 years in Egypt, it is the word vayitz’aku—“and they cried out”—that signals a crack in the walls of exile. That cry was not just a plea for physical relief. It was an emotional eruption, a spiritual outpouring that reached the heavens and began the process of liberation.
As we sit around our beautifully adorned tables this Pesach, recounting the story of our redemption, we must remember that this is not just a memory of a past we did not witness—it is a lived experience, and a hope for a redemption yet to come.
The elusive question remains: What is needed to bring it about?
A story is told of a poor Russian Jewish couple living under harsh and oppressive conditions. One day, the husband came home beaming. “I just heard that Moshiach is coming soon and will take us to Eretz Yisrael!” he exclaimed.
His wife paused, furrowed her brow, and with a mix of incredulity and resignation, asked, “Nu, and our tzaros—our troubles—will we take them with us or leave them here?”
“Of course we’ll leave them behind,” he said.
She replied, “In that case, let Moshiach take our tzaros to Eretz Yisrael, and we’ll stay here in peace.”
It’s gallows humor, but there’s a sobering truth buried in her cynicism.
Every day, we pray for redemption. Es tzemach Dovid avd’cha meheira satzmiach… V’lYerushalayim ircha b’rachamim tashuv… V’sechezenah eineinu b’shuvcha l’tzion b’rachamim. These are not just poetic phrases; they are the lifeblood of a people who have endured millennia of exile, famine, pogroms, Holocaust, and every kind of tragedy—both personal and communal.
This year, special prayers have been composed for inclusion in our Sedarim, particularly during “Shfoch Chamascha,” to remember the plight of our hostages—not just in our hearts but on our lips. And we will. We will mention them and pray that the night does not end until they are reunited with their families. But we must also acknowledge the emotional toll that generations of Jewish suffering have taken.
Deep within the Russian woman’s tragic cynicism lies a profound truth. Redemption is not just about escaping our problems. If it were, then yes—let Moshiach take the tzaros and let us live in peace. But redemption is about something deeper.
Often, we’re so overwhelmed by our hardships that we forget the bigger picture. At its core, every one of our struggles stems from the same root: the inability for G-d to fully express Himself in this world. It’s bitterly ironic that the center of our current hardship is in Jerusalem—the city destined to be the seat of G-d’s glory—which has become so embroiled in conflict that many can no longer imagine it as a place of Divine peace.
But perhaps, as in the days of Egypt, what is needed is a deep, penetrating cry—a cry not over personal loss or national pain, but a cry on behalf of the Shechinah. A cry that says, despite our alienation, like Yosef HaTzaddik, we remain capable of feeling. We feel the suffering of a world that cannot see its Creator clearly. We long for His presence. And we will not be numb.
This year, let Vayei’anchu and Vayitz’aku not be a retelling, but an outcry. Let our cry be like the shofaron Rosh Hashanah—simple, pure, unstoppable. Let it not end until it gives way to the shofar of Moshiach.
And when we open the door for Eliyahu Hanavi, let him not appear as a stranger in disguise. Let him be unmistakably the bearer of the greatest news we’ve ever heard:
Moshiach is here.
Yochanan Gordon can be reached at ygordon5t@gmail.com. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.
