Have you ever imagined starting a completely different life? Not just adopting a new name or new habits, but stepping into a role that severs you from everything you once were?
Joseph did not choose such a prospect; it was forced upon him. Sold by his brothers, accused by his Egyptian master Potiphar’s wife, entombed in a dungeon, cut off from home and hope, he found himself living a life he never sought and could never have predicted.
Whatever aspirations he once held—those youthful visions he dreamed in his father’s house—must have felt painfully distant. In those dreams his brothers’ sheaves bowed to his, and later the sun, moon, and stars honored him. They were not vague promises of success but signs of a future in which his gifts would matter, enabling him to guide and sustain his family. Now, abandoned and alone, there was every reason for that former self to fade into memory.
Yet, in the face of total rejection, Joseph made a choice I’m not sure any of us can take for granted—the choice not to become someone else. In Egypt he receives a new name, Tzofnat-Pane’ach, and with it the trappings of a new self. But he refuses to let that imposed identity redefine him. He remains Yosef.
His refusal to become someone else begins with the name he never let go of. When Joseph was born—her first child after years of infertility—Rachel exclaimed, “God has taken away my disgrace.” Seforno, the fifteenth-century Italian commentator, explains that her disgrace came from seeing her sister Leah bear child after child while her own prayers went unanswered. Joseph’s very name is rooted in that event: his birth reversed years of anguish and transformed Rachel’s sense of abandonment into joy. Joseph’s identity begins with this movement from suffering to dignity, and that movement becomes the defining arc of his life.
His inner identity soon meets an outer test. Pharaoh also dreams and senses that histhe visions reveal something real. When his court sages cannot help him, the butler recalls a na’ar Ivri—a Hebrew youth—who can interpret dreams. The term Ivri literally means “from the other side,” and it carries far more depth than the simple English word “other.” It signals a life lived across a cultural, moral, and spiritual boundary—someone who stands on the far side of the prevailing world and inhabits a different story.
The butler uses the label to diminish Joseph, to remind Pharaoh that this gifted interpreter is still, fundamentally, the outsider. What fascinates me is that Joseph never tries to shed that designation. He walks into the palace as an Ivri and presents himself to Pharaoh as the bearer of a divine message that flows from that very identity. Beneath Egyptian clothing and Egyptian speech, he remains anchored in the faith, memory, and moral world of his ancestors.
That struggle—the tension between participating in the wider world and remaining steadfast in Jewish distinctiveness—did not end with Joseph. Centuries later, the Jews under Antiochus IV, the Greek ruler in the Hanukkah story, faced a parallel threat. The regime did not seek to destroy the Jewish people, only Jewish life. Many Jews surrendered their practices and blended into the dominant culture. The pressure to stop being Ivri, to stop standing across the boundary, resurfaced. And once again, only some resisted.
This is what makes the term Ivri so resonant: it names what it means to carry a God-given mission in a world that often sees difference as a threat. Rabbi Sacks put it perfectly: “Judaism’s great contribution to humanity was to show that one can be other and still be fully human, fully dignified, and fully loved by God.” Joseph embodies that truth long before the Maccabees fight for it.
Those who refused to yield to Antiochus gave us Hanukkah. It is not simply a winter celebration; it is a question. Will we safeguard the commitments that make us who we are, even when the surrounding culture pressures us to let them go?
When we think about what defines us, what rises to the surface? For Joseph, it was the spiritual inheritance he never abandoned even when he was utterly alone. For us, it may be Torah, Shabbat, prayer, chesed (acts of kindness), community, or something else. Lighting Hanukkah candles is easy; knowing which practices we treasure enough to defend is much harder. I often ask my family: What parts of Judaism would you fight to keep, and why?
Jewish history shows that abandoning Jewish distinctiveness has never ended antisemitism. Rabbi Sacks observed that “non-Jews respect Jews who respect Judaism, and they are embarrassed by Jews who are embarrassed by Judaism.” Strength and dignity come from rootedness.
In our own time, Rabbi Sacks exemplified the rare ability to live fully within the wider world while remaining unwaveringly committed to Jewish covenantal life. He often wrote that identity is not merely inherited but narrated—shaped by the stories we retell and the memories we keep alive. Telling our national story is how we remain an am Ivri—just as Joseph and the Maccabees once did—willing to stand “on the other side” when our values demand it across centuries. To be an Ivri is to stand where God asks us to stand, even when the world stands elsewhere. That choice is our inheritance and our task in every generation.
Rabbi Benjy Rickman is Rabbi of the Yeshurun Shul, Manchester. Previously he was Head of Kodesh at King David High School Manchester for 19 years. He is known for his extensive contributions to Jewish education and community building.
Rabbi Rickman also serves as the Mizrachi Rav in Manchester. Additionally he is a Rabbi Sacks Scholar and delivers weekly classes on the writings of Rabbi Sacks. He is a trustee for the mental health charity JAMH and serves as their rabbinic consultant. He has a wealth of experience broadcasting on local and national BBC radio and television.
This essay was written as part of our collaboration with The Rabbi Sacks Legacy Sacks Scholars.
