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The Story of Joseph: True Strength Is Shown in Restraint, Not Using Power Over Others
A Torah scroll. Photo: RabbiSacks.org.
You may be surprised to hear that the first novel ever written, The Tale of Genji, wasn’t European, or even Western, but Japanese. It was composed more than a thousand years ago by a quirky lady in the imperial court of Japan, Murasaki Shikibu, a woman with an uncanny eye for human weakness and emotional nuance.
I’ve been reading it recently, in preparation for an upcoming visit to Japan, and it is surprisingly modern in its portrayal of the characters. I had been bracing myself for stiffly described royal shenanigans and melodramatic intrigue, but that isn’t what this book is at all.
The Tale of Genji is highly readable, portraying the life of a minor royal, Genji, who, despite being deliberately sidelined in the imperial succession, wields enormous behind-the-scenes influence: socially, politically, and emotionally. His presence opens doors, his favor reshapes lives, and his disapproval can quietly undo people. In time, he rises to become Honorary Retired Emperor (Daijō Tennō), but long before that, his power is almost unrivaled.
Imperial Japan of the early Middle Ages was a world where status determined everything, and a careless word or fleeting encounter could alter a life in the most unexpected ways. More importantly, the most powerful figures were not always the emperor or his heirs, but court notables like Genji, who ran the court’s affairs like chess grandmasters.
One of the most unsettling relationships in the book is Genji’s long and complicated bond with Lady Murasaki, whom he first encounters as a child and later raises within his household. He oversees her education, shapes her tastes, and becomes the unquestioned center of her emotional universe.
Genji is keenly aware that the imbalance in their relationship grants him enormous power over Lady Murasaki’s inner life, and at crucial moments, he restrains himself, hesitating to dictate her future or to press his authority in ways that would leave her entirely without agency.
These pauses really matter. They do not erase the asymmetry of the relationship, nor do they free Lady Murasaki from dependence, but they do limit the harm that his overwhelming dominance might otherwise inflict on the course of her life.
A similar pattern appears later in the novel, when Genji reaches the height of his political influence and effectively controls the machinery of court life. His patronage determines appointments, and his presence subtly distorts the balance of power around him. Increasingly conscious of this, Genji begins to withdraw from the center of political life.
The retreat is gradual and motivated by many factors, but it is both deliberate and voluntary. By stepping back, he reduces the extent to which his personal influence dominates the system. Court rivalries do not disappear, but they lose both their urgency and spite, and the political order becomes less tightly centered on a single figure. Genji comes to understand that power, when held in check, is less corrosive than when it is relentlessly exercised.
The reason Genji is such a compelling figure is that he never feels like a literary device or a moral symbol. Clearly modeled on a court patrician of the era in which the book was written — perhaps a composite of several historical figures whose names are now lost — he emerges as a fully dimensional human being: gifted, cultured, and often admirable, but also inconsistent, self-indulgent, and prone to misjudgment.
What is attractive about Genji is not his moral perfection, but his relatability. He understands, sometimes with painful clarity, that his actions ripple outward, shaping lives long after the moment has passed. He reflects, hesitates, withdraws, and more than occasionally restrains himself — not because he must, but because he senses the weight of what he does.
And what makes reading The Tale of Genji particularly intriguing is how familiar the narrative feels to anyone steeped in the narratives of the Hebrew Bible. Time and again, we encounter the same dynamic: a figure of immense influence operating just below the throne, shaping outcomes while remaining formally subordinate to the king.
Examples from the Hebrew Bible, such as Joseph in Egypt, David navigating the court of Saul, the volatile triangle of Haman, Esther, and Mordechai under Achashverosh, and Daniel in the courts of Nebuchadnezzar, Belshazzar, and Darius, illustrate this theme. In each case, real power is not ultimately exercised by the crowned monarch but by those who understand how proximity to authority can quietly determine the fate of nations and individuals alike.
And particularly as we read the closing portions of Bereishit, the parallels between Genji and Joseph become increasingly striking. Like Genji, Joseph operates at the heart of a royal court, navigating the palace of Pharaoh and controlling the affairs of Egypt while carefully shaping the outcome of his relationship with those most vulnerable to his power — his brothers.
Joseph is not the formal ruler of the realm, but he is the man who effectively runs it. His control over Egypt — and over the fate of everyone in his orbit — is absolute. What distinguishes Joseph is his acute awareness of that power. He does not stumble into influence or discover its consequences by accident. From the outset, he understands that every move he makes will affect the lives of others.
And so, even as he deliberately orchestrates events and manipulates circumstances to bring about the outcome he seeks, he remains strikingly intentional and sensitive about how that power is exercised — determined that his extraordinary authority should never cross the line into abuse.
The Malbim in his commentary on Parshat Vayigash notes that Joseph’s first instinct at the climactic moment he reveals his identity to his brothers is not to announce who he is in the presence of others. He sends everyone out of the room, stripping himself — very deliberately — of the public trappings of power. The revelation is not staged as a triumph or as a vindictive reckoning, but as an intimate act of repair.
By removing the court, Joseph ensures that his brothers are not confronted like criminals in a spectacle of humiliation, but as family members standing before a long-lost brother who has forgiven them. It is a breathtaking act of moral self-restraint: the conscious refusal to allow power to turn vulnerability into disgrace.
In his commentary, Rav Hirsch repeatedly emphasizes that Joseph never confused political authority with moral authority. He may govern Egypt, but he refuses to govern his brothers’ souls through fear or domination.
It is against this backdrop that Genji’s restraint feels so familiar. He, too, seems to sense the danger of unchecked influence, which is why he attempts — imperfectly and often too late — to step back when power threatens to overwhelm the dignity of those whose lives he affects.
The difference, however, is telling: where Genji only gradually discovers the moral cost of dominance, Joseph instinctively anticipates it, acting decisively to ensure that his authority becomes a tool for repair rather than a weapon that harms.
Power always reveals more than it conceals. The question is not whether we will ever find ourselves in positions of influence, but how alert we are to what that influence can do to others. The Tale of Genji shows how easily power can drift into damage, even in the hands of a reflective and sensitive person.
Joseph shows us something rarer and far more demanding: the discipline to anticipate that danger, and to restrain oneself before any harm is done.
In telling the story of Joseph’s behavior toward his brothers, the Torah teaches that the measure of a person is never found in outcomes alone, but in how carefully human dignity — and one’s own integrity — are preserved as we pursue them. Remember: true strength is shown through restraint, not domination.
The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.
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New Cooking Show Competition ‘The Great Bubby Cook-Off’ Celebrates Jewish Food, Family Recipes
The four contestants on “The Great Bubby Cook-Off.” Photo: Manischewitz
An original cooking show competition that celebrates Jewish home cooking and family recipes premiered Friday on Kosher.com.
The four finalists on “The Great Bubby Cook-Off,” presented by the famous Jewish food brand Manischewitz, include a “bubby” from Delray Beach, Florida, and another from Manhattan, New York, and two contestants from Flushing, New York, and West Hartford, Connecticut, who were competing with “bubby-inspired recipes.”
The contestants were selected to compete on the show following a nationwide casting call. Home cooks submitted videos of themselves preparing their favorite Jewish dishes, including family recipes passed down through generations and personal twists on classic dishes. After online voting that was open to the public, four finalists were chosen to advance to a live cook-off in New York City in November.
The winner, to be revealed exclusively on the show, will be crowned “Bubby 2025” and receive a $5,000 cash prize, a featured appearance on the Manischewitz Food Truck as it tours the New York City area, and other prizes. The show is hosted by chef and cookbook author Naomi Nachman.
“‘The Great Bubby Cook-Off’ celebrates exactly what Kosher.com is all about — honoring tradition while inspiring a new generation of home cooks,” said Goldy Guttman, director of Kosher.com, in a released statement. “These bubby recipes carry stories, memories, and culture, and bringing them to life on screen allows us to share the heart of Jewish home cooking with audiences everywhere.”
“‘The Great Bubby Cook-Off’ is about so much more than cooking,” added Shani Seidman, chief marketing officer of Manischewitz. “It’s about honoring the women who shaped our traditions, our tables, and our memories — and celebrating the dishes that bring families together.”
More episodes of “The Great Bubby Cook-Off” will be announced throughout 2026. The show is free to watch, and an additional episode is under consideration that will include a behind-the-scenes look into the competition and judging, according to Manischewitz.
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On Instagram, ‘Rabbinic Fit Check’ is a look book for Jewish clergy
Rabbi Rafi Ellenson was getting ready for a full day of rabbinic duties in September when he jokingly asked a colleague, “What do I wear that’s appropriate both for religious school and a shiva?”
After some light-hearted deliberation, Ellenson, who works as an assistant rabbi for Congregation Shir Hadash, a Reform synagogue in Los Gatos, California, said they realized his wardrobe dilemma might deserve a spotlight on social media.
“We were like, oh, this would be a really fun idea for an Instagram account,” said Ellenson. It would show what rabbis are wearing and “the absurd things they have to do every day, dressing for 20,000 occasions and for 50,000 people.”
For help turning his idea into reality, Ellenson called Rabbi Arielle Stein, an assistant rabbi at Congregation Rodeph Sholom, a Reform synagogue on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, whom he had met in Jerusalem in 2019.
After some deliberation, the pair created Rabbinic Fit Check, an Instagram account billed as “a style diary for the rabbinate and beyond.”
“We’re trying to show diversity of rabbis, diversity of genders, diversity of expression,” said Ellenson. “There’s no one model, and there’s no one model in the real world, so we don’t want to feature only one model on the account.”
So far, Rabbinic Fit Check has featured 57 rabbis, clergy members and students from a range of denominations and garnered over 1,300 followers. The outfits range from cozy sweaters and “sensible” office wear to zebra-print skirts and a fashion-forward Delfina Balda pant suit.
“It’s nice to see that rabbis look like more than just that old oil painting of someone in a black coat,” said Rabbi Allison Poirier of the Conservative synagogue Temple Aliyah in Needham, Massachusetts. “It’s nice to see that we’re out here as new people, as colorful people of all ages and shapes and sizes, which I think in the world I work in, most people know, but it’s just nice to uplift that.”
Indeed, a new national study of the American rabbinate released last month by the Atra Center for Rabbinic Innovation found that 51% of the rabbinical students surveyed identified as LGBTQ+. According to the Atra report, 58% of rabbis surveyed identify as women, 30% as men, and 12% as nonbinary.
But the diversification of the rabbinate has also underscored a broader trend, with rabbis more often taking on an engaged, hands-on role rather than the old model of the “sage on the stage.”
Stein, who had already gone viral for her rabbinic style videos on social media and was featured in Vogue last month for her videos on clergy-friendly shoe choices, said the pair’s Instagram account has also come to serve another purpose: showing the rabbinate in a more intimate light.
“I think especially for our generation of rabbis, we’re real people, these are important ways that people can connect with us and build trust and understanding,” said Stein. “We’re not pretending that we’re somebody at work and somebody at home.”
Rabbinic Fit Check posted its inaugural outfits from Stein and Ellenson in mid-October. The pair then reached out to their colleagues for submissions, and users soon asked to be featured.
Poirier said that she had been drawn to post her style (J. Crew blazer, Birdy Grey dress, her sister’s thrifted sweater) because of the account’s “diversity and also the light-heartedness,” which she said offered a contrast to reality.
“Everything is so, so heavy right now, and a lot of our day is rightly dealing with some of the heaviness, and it’s nice to just have something that also uplifts rabbis as fun, joyful people, kind of expressing ourselves in this cute, silly way,” said Poirier.
“Rabbis are kind of in the zeitgeist in a lot of different ways, and there’s a lot to say about that both positive and negative, and certainly we’re tapping into some of that,” said Ellenson. “But I think we’re approaching an angle of we’re humans who have these cool jobs, and we want to show parts of ourselves through our clothing and express ourselves more fully and completely, and not bifurcate these two segments of our lives.”
Einav Rabinovitch-Fox, a professor at Case Western Reserve University who wrote a history of women’s fashion, said that she viewed the Rabbinic Fit Check account as part of a “new phenomenon” in which the public image of the rabbinate was shifting. She pointed to Nobody Wants This, the Netflix show starring heartthrob Adam Brody as a young Los Angeles rabbi that first aired in September 2024. The Amazon series Transparent, Extrapolations on Apple TV+ and the 2023 film You Are So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah all featured what Hey Alma, JTA’s sister site, called “hot rabbis.”
“It’s kind of like a sign of our times,” said Rabinovitch-Fox. “Not all of them are like Adam Brody, but I think it’s a depiction of a trend, and I think that Instagram account is part of it, like, ‘oh, look, Judaism is cool.’”
Rabbi Jamie Field, the director of education at Beth El Temple Center, a Reform synagogue in Belmont, Massachusetts, was featured on Rabbinic Fit Check shortly before her appearance on the Netflix show Squid Game: The Challenge. She said it was a “really beautiful that there is an increase in rabbinic visibility.”
“We have a really sacred responsibility to show that rabbis are real people, and that we are engaged and part of the world and being responsible for being part of that conversation, not just witnessing it through Netflix shows about rabbis,” said Field.
While Rabinovitch-Fox said religion does not always “celebrate the individual,” she added that “fashion is a really a great and simple way to make your own statement.”
“People want to find somehow to relate, and I think with this Instagram generation, fashion is something that is important to people, so it’s just another way to relate to that,” said Rabinovitch-Fox. “If you can talk with your rabbi about style, you have a cool rabbi.”
Rabbi Andrea London, the leader of Beth Emet The Free Synagogue, a Reform congregation in Evanston, Illinois, said she submitted a photo of herself and Cantor Natalie Young on Parashat Noah after Ellenson, who is a family friend, mentioned it to her in conversation. For her cameo, she wore a white button-down shirt with a gold necklace and slacks.
London, who was ordained in 1996, said that she had submitted the photo to offer the account “a little diversity of age.” She recalled that early in her career, “as a woman, you wouldn’t dare to be on the bimah without a skirt.”
“One of the things that was annoying in the rabbinate was that people would comment on my clothing a lot, and it was just tiresome and men didn’t get that,” said London. “And now, I think Rabbinic Fit Check is trying to turn it on its head, like let’s have fun with it as opposed to seeing this as somehow discriminatory or sexist in any way.”
So far, Ellenson and Stein said the response to the account from their congregants and colleagues had been positive. Looking ahead, Ellenson said they hoped to feature leaders from other faiths.
“I think it’s about joy, showcasing diversity, showcasing the personal, and showcasing that all of these pieces can be a part of cultivating rabbinic and cantorial and clerical work,” said Ellenson. “We can bring ourselves into the work, and that makes the work better when we’re being ourselves with our communities.”
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
The post On Instagram, ‘Rabbinic Fit Check’ is a look book for Jewish clergy appeared first on The Forward.
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UNRWA vs. UNHCR: How the UN Created a Permanent Refugee Class
Palestinians pass by the gate of an UNRWA-run school in Nablus in the West Bank. Photo: Reuters/Abed Omar Qusini.
For more than 70 years, the United Nations has administered two refugee systems operating under the same flag but guided by fundamentally different moral compasses. One system exists to end refugeehood. The other exists to preserve it.
The contrast between the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA) is not a technical footnote in international policy. It is one of the central reasons the Israeli-Palestinian conflict remains frozen in place.
The events of October 7 brutally exposed what many have warned about for decades: UNRWA is no longer a humanitarian agency in any meaningful sense. It is a political instrument that has helped entrench radicalization, prolong suffering, and ultimately enable war.
UNHCR, established in 1950, was designed with a clear mission: provide temporary protection and pursue durable solutions. Its success is measured by how many refugees stop being refugees.
Over the decades, UNHCR has helped tens of millions of people rebuild their lives; Europeans after World War II, Vietnamese people, Balkan refugees, Rwandans, Syrians, Afghans, and most recently Ukrainians. Resettlement, integration, and naturalization are not failures under UNHCR’s framework; they are the goal.
UNRWA, created a year earlier for a single refugee population, operates on the opposite logic. Its mandate does not aim to resolve refugeehood but to maintain it indefinitely.
Palestinians are the only group in the world whose refugee status is automatically inherited, generation after generation, regardless of citizenship, residence, or living conditions.
The numbers tell the story. Roughly 700,000 Arabs were displaced during the 1948 war launched by Arab states against the newly declared State of Israel. Today, UNRWA claims nearly six million Palestinian refugees. Refugee populations are supposed to shrink as lives stabilize. This one grows exponentially. That is not humanitarian failure, it is institutional design.
This design has consequences. When refugeehood becomes an inherited political identity rather than a temporary legal status, grievance replaces hope. Dependency replaces empowerment. Conflict becomes a resource to be managed rather than a tragedy to be ended.
UNRWA’s budget, influence, and relevance depend on the persistence of the conflict. Peace would render it obsolete. Integration would reduce its scope. Resolution would end its mandate.
Nowhere is this more evident than in education. UNRWA operates hundreds of schools, shaping the worldview of generations of Palestinian children. Education should be a bridge to coexistence.
Instead, repeated investigations and reports have documented curricula that erase Israel from maps, glorify “martyrdom,” deny Jewish historical ties to the land, and frame violence as both justified and inevitable. Antisemitic tropes and conspiracy theories have surfaced again and again. This is not accidental oversight. It is tolerated, minimized, and excused as “context.”
The moral collapse of this system was laid bare after October 7. In the aftermath of Hamas’ massacre of Israeli civilians, evidence emerged that UNRWA employees were directly involved in the attack. Others were found to have celebrated the killings. Weapons were discovered in or near UNRWA facilities. Terror tunnels were uncovered beneath UNRWA schools. Hostages were reportedly hidden or moved through civilian areas linked to UNRWA infrastructure. This was not infiltration from the outside. It was contamination from within.
If UNHCR staff had participated in mass murder or aided a terrorist organization, the agency would have been dismantled immediately. Yet UNRWA survived on explanations, damage control, and the insistence that the problem lay with a few individuals rather than a compromised system. That argument no longer holds.
The tragedy is that Palestinians themselves have paid the highest price for this failure. UNRWA did not prepare Gazans for self-governance or peace. Hamas prepared Palestinians for war, and UNRWA looked away.
October 7 was not an aberration. It was the inevitable result of a system that monetized suffering and normalized extremism for decades.
The solution is not complicated, but it requires moral clarity. Palestinians deserve the same humanitarian standards applied to every other refugee population on earth. That means ending UNRWA’s exceptional status and transferring responsibility to UNHCR. It means redefining refugeehood as a temporary condition, not a hereditary identity. It means de-radicalizing education, dismantling terror infrastructure, and replacing grievance with opportunity.
One world cannot operate two refugee systems and still claim moral credibility. One system resolves crises. The other perpetuates them.
If the international community truly cares about peace, dignity, and human rights, both Israeli and Palestinian, it must finally acknowledge that UNRWA is part of the problem, not the solution.
Sabine Sterk is CEO of the foundation, “Time To Stand Up For Israel.”