When We Become Estranged

Vayeshev and the Family Covenant

Note: Apologies for the late Substack email! I've been deeply immersed in the last stage of what I hope will be a seminal report on Sephardic and Mizrahi Jews in the US, which I’m excited to share with you in 2025. Thank you for your patience in the meantime!

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Being a Jew means belonging to a family.

A few years ago, in a left-leaning space where strict COVID policies were the norm, a friend pulled me aside and whispered, “I heard you have relatives on the right who don’t exactly follow all this.” She then admitted her boyfriend’s family was similar and asked for advice.

The moment amused me—I pictured quiet gossip about my family's ideological diversity in a sea of seemingly aligned relationships. But it also highlighted how deeply politics has infiltrated American life, making family differences feel almost taboo.

My answer was simple: before focusing on tactics, it’s essential to first prioritize a commitment to family as our guiding north star. To apply this, of course, is far more complicated, and I don’t mean to downplay the challenges. But it’s worth reflecting on this question: do we prioritize family over ideology?

This tension is reflected in this week’s Torah portion, Vayeshev. Jacob has lived as a refugee, been deceived by his father-in-law, wrestled with an angel, and endured the trauma of his daughter’s rape. With no more external adversaries, Jacob hopes to find peace at last.

But, as so often happens, Jacob fails to see that the greatest threats aren’t external—they come from within. His blatant favoritism toward Joseph alienates his other sons. Joseph, in turn, fuels the tension by boasting about grandiose dreams of ruling over his brothers. Consumed by hatred, the brothers betray both Joseph and their father. They first plot to kill Joseph, then "compromise" by throwing him into a pit, ultimately selling him into slavery.

Like many, I’ve often read this story empathizing with Joseph’s pain. But viewing the Bible only through the lens of the “good” characters blinds us to the deeply human impulses we all share.

This year, I stepped into the brothers’ shoes. Their actions, while extreme, began to make sense. They were never taught to see family as sacred to the covenant.

Consider their inheritance: their great-grandfather Abraham disowned his son Ishmael. Their grandmother Rebecca encouraged one son to deceitfully take his brother’s blessing. Their father Jacob lived in fear of his twin. For them, the Jewish covenant wasn’t rooted in family—it was about committing to God’s mission. Anyone unwilling to accept the covenant was cast out. Perhaps this is why they felt justified in disposing of a brother whose dreams implied he wanted people to bow to him instead of God.

What they didn’t know—but we do—is that they were the first Jewish siblings called to embody the most advanced form of the Jewish covenant—one that places family as a first principle. In this covenant, every brother has a place: the awkward Reuben, weighed down by the responsibilities of the firstborn; the hot-tempered Shimon; and even the immature, self-important Joseph. This idea—that family lies at the heart of our mission, that to be a Jew is to belong to a family and see each member as integral to our existence—becomes the spiritual DNA of the Jewish people.

Jacob’s sons took time to learn this, yet paradoxically, it was Joseph—the one who suffered the most at their hands—who mastered it. In a few weeks, we will read how, despite their betrayal, Joseph chose reconciliation, embodying a vision of Judaism that endures. He forgave his brothers, prioritized fraternal bonds, and proved himself not only as Joseph the righteous, loyal to the God of Jacob, but also as Joseph the brother, unwavering in his commitment to family.

Joseph’s example goes even further. He shows us how to prioritize family not out of crisis, but from commitment.

In times of suffering, the covenant of family instinctively rises to the forefront—we’ve felt this firsthand. Since October 7, as our people in Israel endure unceasing war and antisemitism surges worldwide, our response has been immediate: to draw close and reconnect with ancient bonds.

But holding onto fractious family is far harder when times are good. Harder, but not impossible. Joseph shows us it can be done. As the all-powerful viceroy of Egypt, he could have turned away, leaving his past and his brothers as distant memories buried beneath his success. Yet Joseph chose to help his brothers—not out of necessity or crisis, but from an unshakable commitment to the covenant of family. This was not merely a powerful man showing mercy, but a brother choosing love over estrangement, unity over division.

Joseph's example is urgently needed today. In the West, cultural narratives have reframed Judaism primarily as a religion, sidelining its essence as a people—an extended family. As early as the 1970s, political scientist Charles Liebman observed American Jews shifting from an ethnic and familial identity toward a religious one.

This history highlights a risk for the current resurgence of familial connection that we American Jews have experienced over the past year. Our deepened commitment to one another—to our brothers and sisters in Israel and to Jews around the world—could remain a fleeting response to crisis rather than a lasting dedication to our covenantal identity as a people. Without intentional rededication, this renewed closeness may fade as the crises that ignited it subside.

Joseph reminds us that no matter how estranged we may feel, we can always choose to relearn what our covenant calls us to do. We are a family—not just in moments of crisis, but through deliberate, everyday choices to nurture and sustain our bonds, even when no external force compels us. We, as American Jews, can choose to live as the family our covenant calls us to be.