Genesis The Truth that Sets us Apart

(Parashat Miketz Genesis 41:1-44:17)

A few weeks ago, I was in a meeting whose icebreaker question was, “What is your favorite night of Hanukkah.” Answers ranged from first to fourth to last, to questions about whether one lights like Hillel or Shammai (see Shabbat 21b). My favorite night is whatever night(s) that I can sit and take in the lights. Hanukkah lights have one sole purpose—to publicize the miracle of survival. While we are not supposed to benefit from the candles, they nonetheless draw our eyes towards their light and anchor everyone in their presence to the flame and each other. That is also what miracles do.

Parashat Miketz almost always falls during Hanukkah. And, looking for the miracles within the parashah seems at least thematically appropriate. We might consider Joseph’s ascension to the Egyptian throne a miracle: discarded by his brothers and thrown into jail by Pharoah, Joseph moves from being powerless to sitting in the seat of power. Joseph’s survival itself might be a miracle, too: how else might someone live through being thrown into a pit, sold to strangers, not to mention the experience of being objectified, and then jailed for it?

As cliche as it may seem, it is Joseph who was my first introduction to finding queerness in our holy texts. I can still remember learning that the midrash explains a textual anomaly by teaching that Joseph did his hair and wore makeup, an apparent betrayal of what we might have expected (see Rashi on Genesis 37:2). Add to that a beautiful coat and his daring to share his dreams of subverting the roles associated with sibling order, and Joseph does not conform to the roles prescribed to him as the youngest son or as a young man.

There is something a little trans about Joseph.

In the introduction to her book, Soul of the Stranger, Joy Ladin writes:

Everyone, transgender or not, has to decide what parts of ourselves we will and will not live. Each of us has to decide when we can’t and when we must sacrifice our individuality for the sake of our families and communities, when we have to be what others count on us to be, and when, like Jonah, we have to live the truths that set us apart from others and reveal to the world what we have only revealed to God. (page 7)

In Parashat Miketz, Joseph faces just the kind of crisis that Ladin describes in two different moments: first, when he is brought up from the dungeon and asked to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams, and again when he hears good news about his father and sees his brother Benjamin before him.

When Pharaoh asks Joseph if he can interpret dreams, Joseph responds, “Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.” (Gen 41:16) In giving credit to a singular God rather than claiming the power of a prophet or diviner, Joseph moves against the dominant Egyptian culture. Whether or not Joseph considers that his response might endanger him is not clear from the text, but what is clear is Joseph makes the choice to speak the truth of his experience, even if that will set him apart.

Later, Joseph is confronted by the news that his father is well and by the sight of his brother Benjamin standing in front of him. We learn that in response, ”Joseph hurried out, for he was overcome with feeling toward his brother and was on the verge of tears; he went into a room and wept there.” (Gen 43:30)

Joseph’s response to this confrontation is to cry and then return to acting as the person with power, detached from his brothers and, in fact, acting somewhat deceptively toward them rather than revealing his identity.

A few weeks ago, I stood outside the Supreme Court while inside, the court heard oral arguments in US v. Skrmetti. The question at the center of the case is: does Tennessee’s law banning transgender minors, categorically, from receiving gender-affirming medical care—in the form of puberty blockers or hormones therapy—make a classification based on sex? (For more on Skrmetti, listen to this TransLash Media podcast or read this post from LawDork.) The rally on the steps of the court was as uplifting as it was clear-eyed on the threat to trans youth, the trans community as a whole, and anyone who values autonomy in medical decision-making.

In addition to the Skrmetti case, this year 120 anti-trans bills have been filed for the 2025 legislative session—before 2025 even begins. Two weeks ago, in a rider to the National Defense Authorization Act, the Senate denied gender-affirming healthcare to the trans children of military service members. And last week, the current presidential administration withdrew a pending regulation that would have offered some protections to transgender athletes.

It is clear that the trans community is facing a similar crisis point as Jonah and Joseph—every day deciding whether or not to “live what makes us different.” For some, this is a matter of life and death; for others it is a matter of being whole or of hiding, crying in the shadows when we can.

Two days after I stood outside the Supreme Court, I found myself at the Stonewall National Monument. Standing by one of the places where the fight for trans justice gender liberation took root, I felt a mix of reverence and sadness. Standing there, I wanted to raise a glass to Miss Major and other trans ancestors and elders who remind me all the time that being human, that being queer, that being trans, that being me, is a miracle worth publicizing all the time. Especially this year.

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Rabbi Becky Silverstein `14 (he/him) believes in the power of community, Torah, and compassion to transform the world. He strives to build a Jewish community and world that encourages and allows everyone to live a life that reflects their inherent dignity. He is a graduate of the Rabbinical School of Hebrew College in Newton, MA.