Life is not sweetened by bitterness. Don’t you think? It’s tough to be simultaneously grudgeful and joyful, holding on to spite and resentment, while also living life with levity, joy, and ease. Still, letting go—when you’ve been wronged—is not the easiest thing to do. Last week I wrote about the story of Joseph toward the end of the book of Genesis, and how his older brothers sold him to a host of traveling slave-traders in order to rid him from their family. If there were an occasion to hold a permanent grudge, Joseph had it. But I want to track how his life continues on—from that moment of being discarded and dehumanized by his brothers—until decades later when they meet again. And I want to look to see if there is anything we can borrow from Joseph’s life, in order to live our own lives with greater freedom. Here’s how the story continues. Joseph ultimately gets sold, by the traveling slave-traders, to Potiphar, a high ranking official in the Egyptian government, and he begins his work as a slave in Potiphar’s household. In the course of time Joseph proves himself reliable and deft, and rises to a place of prominence. Potiphar appoints him as primary steward of his whole household. But before too long Joseph finds himself in a compromising situation where Potiphar’s wife tries to seduce Joseph into taking her to bed. She persists on several occasions. He refuses and refuses and refuses, and finally, on one occasion she grabs at his cloak imploring him, and he flees from her, slipping out of his cloak, leaving it in her hands, running away in his underwear. Which did not look good. And Potiphar’s wife took advantage of the moment to punish Joseph for breaking her heart. She claims he assaulted her, and she has Joseph thrown into prison. This is the second time he finds himself stripped of a garment and tossed into a pit. In the course of time, even in prison, Joseph proves himself reliable and deft, and rises to prominence. The prison administrator appoints Joseph as primary steward of all of the other prisoners. It’s in that role that he meets two men who had been in the service of Pharaoh, the Egyptian king, and who had fallen out of Pharaoh’s pleasure. One was the Cupbearer. The other was the Baker. They each have a vivid dream one night, and wake up troubled. Joseph, caring for their well-being, asks if he can support them, and offers to channel God and solve the riddle of their dreams. The Cupbearer’s dream is fortuitous. He will be reinstated in his role at the foot of the throne, in the confidence of the king. But the Baker’s dream is foreboding. He will be executed in gnarly fashion. Joseph asks the lucky Cupbearer to remember him once reinstated in Pharoah’s service. Everything happens as Joseph says it will. But if you know anything about fables such as this, you won’t be surprised that the Cupbearer forgets. Until, some years later, Pharoah has a dream that troubles him, and troubles all those around him. Then the Cupbearer remembers Joseph, and he remembers Joseph’s ability to divine the meanings of dreams. And he tells Pharaoh about Joseph. So Pharaoh summons Joseph, and tells him about his dream. The one with the seven fleshy cows and the seven gaunt cows and how the gaunt cows eat the fleshy cows. And he tells Joseph of his dream. The one with the seven fruitful stalks of wheat and the seven decimated stalks of wheat, and how the decimated stalks consume the fruitful stalks. Joseph—partnering again with God—upon hearing these dreams tells Pharoah that his dreams mean there will be seven years of plentiful harvest in all the land, and that following those seven years of plenty there will be an additional seven years of drought and hardship and famine. Pharaoh is so impressed with Joseph’s skill and clarity and composure that he says: “Well then, you better get to work on making a plan to see us all through this impending calamity.” And that’s exactly what Joseph does, rising again to prominence, this time as steward of all of Egypt. The seven years of plenty come, and Joseph oversees the process of stocking the realm’s pantries, so that they are well prepared when the famine sets in. Meanwhile, over in Canaan, Jacob, who we know from his wrestling match with God and his new name, Israel—the same man who, once upon a time, gave a beloved child a special garment, and lost that child (so he thinks)—Jacob who is still mourning the loss of his son Joseph, apparently didn’t get the memo. He didn’t stockpile provisions for his family. Jacob and his 11 remaining sons and their families are getting hungry. So he sends his 10 oldest sons to Egypt, the same ones who sold Joseph into slavery decades ago. They head to Egypt where there are provisions to spare, so that they can buy food, bring it home, and survive. When they arrive they are brought before Joseph. Joseph recognizes them, and being in their presence moves him to tears. But they do not recognize him, and he does not reveal himself. Joseph toys with them, like a cat with a mouse. Who can blame him? There are tactics involved, but suffice it to say that ultimately he holds one of the brothers hostage, sends the rest home (with food and, incidentally, the silver that they brought to pay for that food). And he orders them to bring back their youngest brother, Benjamin, who is the only other son of Joseph’s mother. Upon their return home to Canaan when the older brothers tell their father, Jacob, of this Egyptian leader’s request, Jacob does not allow it. He can’t bear the thought of the possibility of losing another favorite son. Until, that is, they all get hungry again. On the brink of perishing one way or another, Jacob comes around and allows all of the brothers—including Benjamin—to travel back to Egypt to purchase more food, so that they can survive. When they arrive, Joseph (still in disguise) receives the brothers, releases the one held hostage, and meets Benjamin. The bible tells us that Joseph’s feelings overwhelmed him. The literal Hebrew interpretation is: “His mercy burned hot.” Joseph wept. But not in their presence. He’s not done toying with them yet. He uses more tactics to frame the youngest, Benjamin, with ostensibly stealing Joseph’s special cup. And then he says that he’s going to keep Benjamin in bondage as a result. The brothers freak out, and Judah, as the brothers’ spokesperson, implores this unruly Egyptian ruler, whom he still doesn’t realize he once upon a time sold into slavery: “Keep me instead! Don’t take Benjamin. If you take Benjamin it’ll be the end of our father.” Right about then is when Joseph loses his composure. He wails. Finally, Joseph reveals himself to his brothers as their brother. He tells them who he is. He tells them not to be troubled, that God had a plan in this whole ordeal all along. They’re dumbstruck. The story says that, “Joseph gave his voice in weeping.” His mercy caught up with him, and he found his way to forgiveness. As I reflect on this story, I wonder whether Joseph hadn’t already found his way to forgiveness, years prior to this final reconciliation? I wonder whether Joseph would have been truly free to give himself to the work of divining dreams and managing climate catastrophe, if he had been harboring his resentments those many years? The story doesn’t tell us exactly, but this is clearly a great tale of forgiveness. It doesn’t tell us exactly how to forgive, but it does show us what becomes possible when we forgive. Joseph has a justifiable grievance. Who would judge him for carrying resentment to his grave? Yet along the way he finds it within himself, somehow, to forgive his brothers—which sets the stage for reconciliation. Have you read the book, Just Mercy? Or seen the movie? The one about the legal efforts of attorney, Brian Stevenson, to help the poor, incarcerated, and condemned? One of his clients, Anthony Ray Hinton, wrongly convicted of double murder, spent 28 years imprisoned. Stevenson and his colleagues worked for years to get him released. On the night before his release, Hinton recounts to Stevenson: “I made an important decision. I’ve decided I have to forgive them for what they did to me… I can’t hate them. If I walk out of here hating them, they’ll still have me in prison because hatred is a kind of prison.” As Stevenson says: “Our unwillingness to forgive creates a constraint on our hearts, on our spirit... without forgiveness, without compassion, without a desire to create space for those who’ve harmed us to recover, we don’t ever recover ourselves.” Hinton’s insights echo Nelson Mandela’s upon his release from 27 years of imprisonment for opposing apartheid in South Africa: “As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison”. These are powerful insights from men who earned the wisdom to offer them. Still, all of this raises a question for me: What comes of those who perpetrate harm? This is a sharp question any time. Sharpened especially these days as we witness innocent men and women killed in the streets by governmental authorities. I mean: Johan Sebastian Guerrero. Lorenzo Salgado Araujo. Renee Nicole Good. Alex Pretti. And others whose names may be less familiar to us, but no less representative of the sanctioned violence in our streets.* What comes of those who perpetrate harm? This is a hard question, because justice often hides behind the fears and resentments of those in power. And power often protects the status quo of continuous harm. As a collective we are responsible for holding perpetrators of harm accountable for their actions and behaviors. This is why we organize and protest and act out our visions for justice. And—because these two things can be true at the same time—even as we commit ourselves to t
