In this week’s Torah portion, Vayehi, the patriarch Jacob dies. When Joseph’s brothers learn of their father’s death, they become nervous: what if Joseph decides now to pay them back for all the ways they mistreated him? But Joseph says, “Have no fear. Am I a substitute for God? Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good.” (Genesis 50:20)
Joseph has been through the wringer: thrown in a pit, sold into slavery, cast into jail, even forgotten and abandoned there. But that’s not where he focuses his memory. By this point in his story, he has the sense that everything that befell him was for a reason: so that he would be in a position to rescue the children of Israel (and the nation of Egypt) from famine.
Joseph’s story is the classic example of “descent for the sake of ascent.” Our mystics understand this as a spiritual teaching: when we make mistakes we “fall away” from God or from our best selves, and that very falling can be what spurs us to try again and do better next time. Every mistake becomes an invitation to teshuvah. I love that.
But Joseph’s falling and rising are a bit more literal than that. Down into Egypt and into the dungeons; up to become Pharaoh’s right hand man. Everything seemingly bad that happens to him puts him in the place where he needs to be in order for something better to unfold. As it says in Mishlei (Proverbs 24:16), “Seven times the righteous person falls, and gets back up.”
(Or as the Buddhist proverb has it, “Fall down seven times, get up eight.”)
Though I don’t know if Joseph could have said “God intended it for good” to his brothers when he was still in tight straits. Even if one can look back and say, “it worked out for the best,” one might not feel that way in the moment. I also think “Something good might come out of this” is an attitude one can try to have, but is never a useful thing to say to someone who’s suffering.
The mishna teaches (Brakhot 9) that we should bless the bad things that happen to us, even as we bless the good ones. I don’t think this means, “Thank You God for the fire that just burned down my house.” It could mean something like the line from Japanese poet Mizuta Masahide (d. 1723), “My barn having burned down, I found I could see the moon.”
I first encountered that line of poetry when I was in college, and I thought it was beautiful. I still do. Though I have experienced enough loss that it lands differently with me now. I’ve learned that we can’t rush the transition from the experience of loss to personal growth or meaning-making. And sometimes we can’t find a way to make meaning; the loss goes too deep.
Maybe the idea of blessing the bad things hinges on a different understanding of l’hodot, which I usually render as “to thank.” Hat tip to my friend and colleague R. Sonja Keren Pilz, who brought this teaching forward for me this week as we met with others in Bayit’s Liturgical Arts Working Group to brainstorm toward an upcoming collaboration on gratitude.
She pointed out that the Hebrew word l’hodot with different prepositions after it can mean either to be grateful, or to admit and acknowledge. Sometimes we can genuinely feel grateful for where life has brought us. And sometimes we can’t reach gratitude. Sometimes the world feels broken and we can’t access that inward upwelling of thankfulness – it’s just not available to us.
That’s when the other definition of l’hodot comes into play. Maybe we don’t always need to be happy about whatever’s unfolding. There can be a kind of blessing simply in recognizing and naming what is. God, the world is literally on fire right now. God, our nation feels fragile and divided right now. I can’t thank God for those things, but I can acknowledge that they are true.
Authentic spiritual life asks us to be real, even when something difficult is happening. And once we make it to the other side, then maybe we can seek out some way to make meaning from our experiences, as Joseph did. For me, one of the purposes of spiritual practice is being able to feel – as we read of Joseph when he was in prison – that God* is “with us” even when life is hard.
(God* = whatever that word means to you today: God far above or deep within, or if that word doesn’t work for you, try Meaning or Justice or Truth…) Whatever may be unfolding, regular spiritual practice can help us remember that we’re not in this alone. We have that Presence our tradition names as God. And we have each other.
I don’t know how to make meaning from the horrifying wildfires we’ve witnessed this week from afar. There is nothing I can say that would make any of this ok. Psalm 92, the psalm for Shabbat, says tov l’hodot l’Adonai, “It is good to give thanks to God,” but that might ring hollow in a week with so much destruction and loss. So I’m leaning into the other meaning of l’hodot.
We can admit and acknowledge and recognize: this catastrophe is caused, and compounded, by climate crisis. It is intensified by human choices and policies. And therefore it is aleinu, it is upon us / it is our responsibility, to do everything in our power to shift those choices and policies, and to take care of our fellow human beings as best we can.
A Prayer During the Southern California Fires 2025
by Rabbi Nicole Guzik
Ribono shel Olam, Master of the Universe, protect those impacted by the devastating Southern California fires. Guide them towards shelter and safety. As family, friends, neighbors and fellow Angelenos experience physical and emotional loss, may we turn towards each other with open homes and open hearts.
God, spread a blanket of security over the firefighters and first responders that serve our community. Grant them strength and courage and may each one come home safely to those they love.
Let us be reminded of how to help one another. Holy One of Blessing, give us increased compassion and an abundance of kindness that we may extend our hands and hearts to those in need. As the prophet Elijah experienced, “There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by God’s power, but God was not in the wind. After the wind—an earthquake; but God was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake—fire; but God was not in the fire. And after the fire—a small, still voice.”
God’s small, still voice runs through each one of us. May God’s voice compel us to reach out to each other and find pathways that lead to hope and ultimately, peace for all in need. Amen.
This is the d’varling that Rabbi Rachel offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.)
