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We humans have a complicated relationship with forgiveness. In pop psychology, forgiveness is very fashionable, touted as the key to personal well-being, the only way forward from the past into a fulfilling future. Let it go. Let bygones be bygones. It’s water under the bridge. Give peace a chance. Bury the hatchet. Close the chapter. Break the chain. Wipe the slate clean. Turn the page. Get over it, already. In popular culture on the other hand, we do love a good vendetta, and nothing makes for a more compelling narrative than the dramatic satisfaction of revenge. The Count of Monte Cristo. The Princess Bride. V for Vendetta. Kill Bill. Taken. I Know What You Did Last Summer. “My name is Inigo Montoya,” our culture seems to say, with relish. “You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

The Torah is no stranger to these conflicting urges. In some dramatic stories, we see God killing thousands of people as punishment for disobedience. We learn of God wiping entire cities off the map, even flooding the entire planet to destroy the wicked. Is this objective justice? Vengeance for a lack of respect? Sometimes, we see people playing God, such as when Simeon and Levi slaughter the men of a Canaanite city in revenge for the rape of their sister Dinah. While human revenge is not always rewarded in the Torah, it’s satisfying and understandable, right? The guilty must have known they had it coming, right?

This week’s portion, Vayigash, centers around Joseph, a seeming poster child for forgiveness. Even though his brothers had once stripped him down and thrown him into a pit, paving the way for Midianites to sell him into slavery, they now bow to him, begging for food, unaware that the great man standing before them is the brother they once sought to destroy. At this moment in the story, when Joseph holds all the power and his brothers’ lives are in his hands, he does what few would have the strength to do: he rejects the urge to take an eye for an eye. Rather than calling for them to be thrown in prison or ripping their youngest brother from them by force, he throws his arms around his brothers, embracing them and wailing loudly, eventually treating them as honored guests and welcoming them into the country that he now calls home.

A close reading of the text adds some much needed context to this incredible act of forgiveness: Joseph put his brothers to the test first. He does not throw himself around their necks at first sight.  Rather, he tricks them into returning with their youngest brother Benjamin, and then tests them to see if they would leave him behind in Egypt to save their own hides. It is only upon seeing Judah offer himself up in exchange for Benjamin that Joseph lets down his guard and forgives his brothers. Because they deserve it? Hardly. Because it is the right thing to do? It doesn’t seem so. Because he loves them, despite all that they have done to him? Perhaps. The clearest explanation for his choice to forgive them is provided by Joseph himself when he says, “It was to save lives that God sent me ahead of you.” While they may have learned their lesson and matured with time, the brothers are forgiven not for their own sakes or for Joseph’s personal closure, but because Joseph is looking to the greater purpose, mindful of how his choice impacts the future of an entire people. Joseph chooses love over vengeance, not just for personal redemption but for the collective healing of a fractured family and to secure the future of the children of Israel.

In some ways, the story of Joseph and his brothers serves as a beacon of hope, urging us to reconsider the narratives we celebrate and to recognize that, beyond the allure of revenge, lies the potential for profound healing and the mending of relationships that seemed irreparably broken. As we grapple with the complexities of forgiveness in our daily lives and modern world, Vayigash beckons us to choose a narrative that transcends the immediate satisfaction of retribution, offering a path toward a more compassionate and interconnected world—not because the guilty deserve it, but because it can bring us personal healing.  And the greater good depends upon it.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rebecca Abbate