Parshat Vayigash makes for especially compelling Torah reading, particularly when we recall how it ends—with a reunion. At the outset, however, nothing is resolved. Joseph is still in Egypt, hidden in plain sight. His brothers have no idea who they are dealing with. Benjamin, Joseph’s beloved younger brother, is suddenly accused of theft when Joseph plants a silver cup in his bag. Everything is poised to unravel. You can almost imagine the scene as theater, watching Judah step forward, heart pounding, for one final clash of wills.
Judah, now emerging clearly as the family’s leader, approaches Joseph with a carefully constructed appeal. He recounts the family’s history and explains simply why Benjamin’s loss would be unbearable: “His father loves him.”
The phrase is striking. Commentators explain that Benjamin was Jacob’s last living link to Rachel, and that the attachment ran so deep that losing him would break Jacob entirely. Benjamin’s fate, more than that of any other brother, would be an unfathomable tragedy.
Judah’s argument rests on a simple but demanding claim: some relationships are irreplaceable. Rabbi Sacks articulated this insight succinctly: “For life to have personal meaning, there must be people who matter to us, and for whom we matter, unconditionally and non-substitutably” (The Dignity of Difference, p. 157). Without the family intact, Judah insists, life itself can lose its meaning.
This claim stands in sharp contrast to Egypt’s value system. Egypt prized power, hierarchy, and control. Meaning was measured in stability, productivity, and dominance—by whether the system functioned smoothly. The Hebrews, by contrast, understood that meaning is forged in the intimate, protective circle of family. It is there that loyalty and responsibility are first learned—not as abstractions, but through everyday acts of care and sacrifice.
That love, of course, is not simple. Families can nurture and frustrate, support and disappoint. Expectations go unmet, and values are often preached more than practiced. Anyone who has navigated family life over time knows how familiar this terrain is. Navigating these tensions demands patience and forgiveness—for others and for ourselves. And when family cannot fully provide that space, close friends can sometimes offer something similar: belonging and shared moral purpose.
It is precisely at this moment that Joseph’s piercing question—“Is my father still alive?”—takes on its full force. Joseph already knew the factual answer. Earlier in the encounter, the brothers had told him explicitly that their elderly father, Jacob, was still alive. The question is not a request for information. After more than twenty years of estrangement, it reveals Joseph’s longing—not just to confirm a biological fact, but to reach back toward a past he had never relinquished.
Some commentators hear the question as an implied rebuke: did you think about our father’s suffering when you sold me? How did he endure the grief you caused? The brothers’ stunned silence reflects their shame. But the question may also be simpler and more human. Joseph simply wants to know whether the person he loves most in the world is still alive. Its simplicity is what makes it both tragic and beautiful.
Significantly, Joseph does not ask “Is our father still alive?”, but “Is my father (avi) still alive?” The distinction is important. It points to the singular bond he shared with Jacob—a bond his brothers shattered, but one he never abandoned. Joseph is not demanding an explanation; he is expressing a deep longing for love and connection. As Rabbi Sacks writes, love “redeems us from the prison cell of the self,” rescuing us from the spiral of pride, despair, and nihilism that follows when such bonds are broken (The Great Partnership, p. 205).
Joseph was freed from a literal prison only to rise to power within an empire that was itself a kind of spiritual prison. Judah refuses to accept Egypt’s vision as ultimate. His bold, risky appeal asserts a different measure of meaning—one centered on loyalty, responsibility, and the refusal to abandon those who matter most, even when it would be easier to move on.
Only when Joseph hears that his family is finally prepared to protect what is most precious, even at great cost, can he reveal his identity. Only then can the long-delayed healing begin, and only then can Joseph finally receive the embrace of his father that he had been waiting for all along.
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.
