Do you know that smell when something’s new? Or fresh? There’s a joy in those “new” smells, whether it’s that newborn baby smell, the smell of spring, or the smell of a new car or a new pair of shoes. Our sense of smell is powerful, and it pleases the senses to experience a fresh, clean, new smell.

While the new smell fades, new clothes in particular often hold a special significance the first few times we wear them. Can you remember the first time you wore a favorite item? Was it cozy? Shiny? Our Torah portion this week, Parshat Vayeshev, is centered around a new item of clothing.

This week we read about the coat of many colors that Jacob gives to his son, Joseph. This coat brings about anything but a blessing for Joseph (and Jacob). It is because of this coat and the favoritism that it represents that Joseph is sold by his brothers into slavery in Egypt and why Jacob sits in mourning for his favored son. What do you think Joseph might have felt just before all this upheaval? What was the joy he felt receiving such a beautiful garment? 

We often try to extend this moment of newness by saying something like “Use it in good health.” It’s a little like a prayer or a blessing that the moment of gratitude will only continue.

To that end, we are reminded by our tradition to recite the Shehecheyanu prayer each time we wear a new garment. Specifically, it’s something of worth and value, not just new socks. 

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה, יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ, מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְּמָנוּ וְהִגִּיעָנוּ לַזְּמַן הַזֶּה

How does taking a pause when you use something for the first time add intention or meaning to the moment? 

Last year we reached perhaps one of my least favorite parenting milestones. It’s the one where your child moves beyond the “I tricked you” phase, full of silliness and laughter, and into the more deceptive phase, where it’s much harder to tell if they’re telling the truth. And as a bonus challenge for us, one of our children has a much better poker face than the other one.

These little deceits aren’t dangerous, and we sort of knew to expect this next phase, but it’s still troubling in its own way, and it led me to wonder why deception is so common into adulthood. From embellishing a resume to fake social media profiles, deception is everywhere in one form or another. Why do we misrepresent ourselves? Why do we purposefully mislead? 

Falsities go back well before the age of modern convenience. In particular, there are at least three acts of deception in this week’s Torah portion alone. Parshat Vayeshev is in the thick of the Joseph story, and Joseph has two dreams that he shares with his brothers, both of which make them angry. The brothers decide to sell Joseph into slavery, and their father Jacob mourns the loss of his favorite son. After this, the story takes a turn to focus on Joseph’s brother Judah and the betrayal of Tamar before turning back to Joseph’s life in Egypt, which ultimately lands him in jail.

In fact, there’s quite a bit of lying in the Torah. It’s fascinating that for a tradition that holds honesty in such high regard (the prohibition against false witness is in the Ten Commandments) we can point to so many examples of deceit. Even God lied to Abraham in reporting how Sarah reacted when the angels told her she was going to have a baby in her old age.

The difference is the purpose of the lie. What makes the various instances of deception we see in this week’s portion wrong is their intent to cause harm, rather than their intent to create peace. Our rabbinic sages came up with a principle for white lies told for the sake of peace: mutar le-shanot mipnei ha-shalom. Telling untruths (or literally “changing the facts”) is permitted for the sake of peace. We will even see the difference clearly in another lie Joseph’s brothers tell later in Genesis after Jacob’s death, but it’s a lie in an effort to maintain shalom bayit.

What, then, is at the heart of a deception that is meant to cause harm or help one party get ahead? I suggest it’s an act of desperation, however small, that somehow appeases a sense of belonging that has been lost or unfulfilled. When we feel we’ve been wronged or excluded or treated unfairly, it’s easy to grasp at anything, including a lie. If this is truly the case, then the way to prevent deception is not through preaching honesty, but by preaching justice.

I’m the oldest child in my family; my sister is around seven and half years younger. My husband Duncan is also the oldest of his siblings. There’s a lot of research into what it means to be the oldest child (and, for that matter, what it means to be the youngest or in the middle). However, if you’re an oldest child, you don’t need the research to know that being the oldest is hard work. First, your parents are brand new at parenting. They’re clueless when it comes to raising children themselves. Even the most prepared parents have never actually done this before, so the first child is sometimes jokingly referred to as the “practice child.” Oldest children have to wear down the strict rules of the parents, they’ve got to endure the solo attention, and they’re often the ones who have to help care for younger siblings. No easy task.

I’m an example of this myself. When I reached babysitting age, my parents thought it would be great to leave me home with my sister instead of paying someone else to watch us. It turns out it was a not so great idea. Instead of it being the economical choice, they ended up paying (bribing) me to watch my sister and paying (bribing) my sister to listen to me. This happened exactly once before they realized it was cheaper for them to hire a babysitter for my sister and let me just go babysit someone else’s kids for the night.

The struggles of the oldest child are very real, and we see them clearly in our Torah portion this week, Parshat Vayeshev. Vayeshev is in the thick of the Joseph story. Joseph has two dreams that he shares with his brothers, both of which make them angry with him. The brothers go out to the fields, Joseph finds them, the brothers decide to sell him, and father Jacob mourns the loss of his favorite son. After this, the story takes a turn to focus on Joseph’s brother Judah and the betrayal of Tamar, before turning back to Joseph’s life in Egypt, which ultimately lands him in jail.

Put yourself in the position of Joseph’s older siblings. What are they to do when their bratty baby brother is rubbing it in their faces how awesome he is, how their dad’s favoritism makes him special, and how his imaginative play accentuates his “golden child” status? Like typical older siblings, the group comes up with a plan to torment him, although their plan of tricking him, leaving him in a pit, and walking away to let him fend for himself is considerably worse and a lot more dangerous than your average teasing. 

And then there’s Reuben, the oldest child. No matter what his younger siblings decide to do, he knows that ultimately, as the oldest, he’ll be held responsible for all their actions. At the same time, Joseph isn’t just younger; he’s also a first born, the first born of Jacob’s favorite wife. This is rivalry on top of rivalry. To Reuben’s credit, he tries to talk his brothers out of their evil plan, but he also knows that they’re going to move forward no matter what he says. He tries to make the best decision he can in a place where he knows no matter what, he’ll be blamed.

Parshat Vayeshev is our yearly reminder about the responsibility we have toward each other, especially family members. Rueben straddles the line: he neither stopped his brothers, nor participated fully in the trickery. In the end, he’s still the one who had to own up to it and tell their father. 

Life is filled with hard choices and tough situations, whether you’re the oldest, the youngest, or somewhere in the middle. The lesson this week is about the way we respond, and how we don’t just sit (yashev), but instead stand up for those who matter to us most.

Could I have done more? It’s one of those questions you ask yourself in moments of tragedy. It’s difficult to know which piece of advice, which kind word, which heroic gesture will make a difference, or if any of them will. So we’re often left with this feeling that there must have been more we could have done. We could have taken even more steps to prepare for this natural disaster. We could have seen more signs that this person was in need or in pain. We could have donated to just one more charitable cause.

Our Torah portion this week, Parshat Vayeshev, taps into this unique type of self-critique. We find ourselves in the thick of the Joseph story. Joseph has two dreams that he shares with his brothers, both of which make them angry with him. The brothers go out to pasture, Joseph finds them, the brothers decide to sell him, and father Jacob mourns for his “favorite son.” After this the story takes a turn to focus on Joseph’s brother Judah and the betrayal of Tamar before turning back to Joseph’s life in Egypt, which ultimately lands him in jail.

You may be familiar with how the brothers scheme against Joseph. However, Reuben, the eldest son, has a complicated role here. As Jacob’s first-born, Reuben must have known he would be held responsible for whatever happened to Joseph, yet Joseph was the first-born of Jacob’s favorite wife Rachel, and that likely set up Joseph and Reuben as chief rivals. We know Reuben doesn’t want to kill Joseph, like his brothers, and in fact he tries to step in and save him. And when he presumes that his interfering has been in vain because it appears that Joseph has died anyway, Reuben despairs. 

Reuben mourns Joseph and possibly feels he didn’t do enough to save him. We don’t find out until later that it’s because of this turn of events that Joseph is able to become a great leader in Egypt and eventually saves his family. The S’fat Emet, a late 19^th century Polish commentator, shares “Often, we despair that the good deeds we have done have made no difference, when in fact they have made a great difference.”

Parshat Vayeshev and Reuben’s actions remind us that grand gestures and small acts have the same power in changing the trajectory of any situation. I’m not suggesting that all tragedies have to have a silver lining or that we shouldn’t feel sorrow or regret. What I’m suggesting is that ultimately time and perspective will win out. Was there more Reuben could have done in the moment? Perhaps. Looking at individual actions, it’s easy to dwell on mistakes and assume “too little too late.” In reality, though, each little contribution, no matter how big or small, can make a difference.