VaYeishev: The Ugly Present

The Matching Gift

Hershel Goldman, a wealthy man, had just married off his son. The local rabbi, ever the dignified scholar, sent a congratulatory letter—eloquent, poetic, and written in exquisite calligraphy. The letter extolled the virtues of the bride and groom, praised the nobility of their families, and wished them many blessings for the future.

There was just one small hitch. The rabbi, in his haste, had forgotten to procure a decent piece of parchment for his grand letter. Instead, he wrote it on a scrappy, crumpled piece of paper—creased, frayed at the edges, probably salvaged from some forgotten desk drawer (or, let’s be honest, the wastebasket).

Hershel, upon receiving it, frowned. A gift so grand, wrapped so poorly? It rankled. But he held his tongue. It was his son’s wedding, after all. No need to spoil the joy.

Later, when the festivities were over, Hershel devised his revenge. He sent a gift to the rabbi—a basket laden with the finest fruits and richest cakes. The kind of spread that would make anyone’s mouth water. But rather than a tasteful presentation, he placed it in a battered bowl, covered it with a soiled napkin, and enlisted a scruffy street urchin to deliver it.

When the rabbi received the curious package, he was puzzled. He turned the bowl over, examined the napkin with scholarly precision, and gave a "humph" upon seeing the treasures inside.

A few days later, when the rabbi met Hershel, he asked, "Tell me, why send me such a splendid gift wrapped in such miserable rags?"

Hershel spread his hands with a smile. "Why not?" he said. "You sent me a beautiful gift in an ugly vessel. I simply returned the favor."

 

Judah and Tamar

The story of Judah and Tamar is, to put it mildly, an unusual way to introduce the lineage of King David—and, by extension, the future Messiah. One might have expected something grander. A royal match. A dignified courtship. Something with a little decorum. Instead, we get a tale that, if adapted for the stage, would leave the audience shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

The Midrash poignantly describes the scene:

"The tribes were occupied with selling Joseph. Jacob was occupied with his sackcloth and fasting, and Judah was occupied with taking a wife. And God? He was busy creating the light of the Messiah."

The entire episode is, frankly, strange. If God had already chosen Judah to be the ancestor of the Messiah, why not arrange it with a little more dignity? Instead, we’re met with subterfuge, disguises, and a situation that, let’s be honest, would be hard to explain to the neighbors.

Measure for Measure

The Midrash teaches us that Joseph’s descent into Egypt wasn’t an accident. It was part of the “profound counsel” of God’s covenant with Abraham, the Brit Bein HaBetarim. “They will enslave and persecute them,” God had promised, setting in motion the creation of the Jewish people.

There were many ways God could have brought Joseph to Egypt. The brothers, driven by jealousy and a desire to disprove Joseph’s dreams, became unwitting instruments of God’s plan. The outcome—the family's descent into Egypt and their preservation from famine—was ultimately for the best. But the means by which it happened? Betrayal, deceit, and lies to their father. It was, to put it mildly, a deeply human failure.

And here’s where the Midrash imparts an insightful lesson. The affair of Tamar was an example of middah k’negged middah—measure for measure. Judah, who had used a goat to deceive his father about Joseph’s disappearance, now found himself deceived by Tamar with the same object—a goat. “Do you recognize this?” she asked him, mirroring the very words Judah had used with his father.

In the end, Judah’s punishment was one of poetic justice. God’s plan for the redemption of Israel and the coming of the Mashiach was set in motion—but it came in a form far from glorious. The promise was kept, but the vessel through which it was delivered was tarnished, reflecting the same traits that Judah had embodied in his dealings with his brother: deception, shame, and moral compromise.

(Adapted from Mishlei Yaakov, pp. 73-74)