Fw: Dvar Torah from the Rosh HaYeshiva - Parshas Miketz– 5786

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From: "Rabbi Moshe Revah" <htcnews-htc.edu@shared1.ccsend.com>

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Sent: Fri, Dec 19, 2025 at 8:13 AM

Subject: Dvar Torah from the Rosh HaYeshiva - Parshas Miketz– 5786

Parshas Miketz – 5786

Dear Yeshiva Family: At the beginning of this week's parashah, we encounter a troubling detail in the story of Yosef. After correctly interpreting the dreams of the sar ha-mashkim (the royal butler) and the sar ha-ofim (the baker), Yosef asks the butler to remember him and mention him to Pharaoh so that he might be released from prison. Chazal tell us that because Yosef placed his trust in the butler rather than fully in Hashem, he was punished with an additional two years in prison. This raises a very basic and powerful question. Why was this considered a lack of bitachon, trust in Hashem? Are we not obligated to engage in hishtadlus, human effort? We are expected to go to work, to earn a livelihood, to pursue normal means of survival and success. If we see someone drowning, we are not meant to stand on the shore and say, "I trust Hashem," but rather to jump in and save them. Hashem created a world that functions through natural processes, and He expects us to act within them. So what, exactly, did Yosef do wrong? The Gedolim explain that the key lies not in whether one engages in hishtadlus, but in what kind of hishtadlus one chooses. Hashem indeed wants us to operate within the world in a normal, responsible way. Effort is required—but only effort that makes sense. When something is not working out, Hashem does not demand that we grasp at extreme or unrealistic measures. Hishtadlus must remain within the boundaries of what would be considered normal and reasonable under the circumstances. Hashem, of course, can save a person at any moment and in any way. Yosef did not need the butler to free him; Hashem could have taken him out of prison instantly. But Hashem's expectation is that we act naturally, not desperately. When a person crosses that line—when the effort reflects panic rather than calm trust—that itself signals a subtle breakdown in bitachon. Now place yourself in Yosef's situation. He was asking a fellow prisoner, someone with a criminal record, who did not have free access to Pharaoh (to speak) and had no guarantee of influence. To use a modern analogy: this would be like knowing a kitchen manager in the White House and assuming it would be reasonable to plead with him to secure a presidential pardon for another known criminal. That is not how the system works, and no rational person would view that as a normal path of action. Yosef's request, then, was not simply effort—it was effort that went beyond the bounds of what made sense. It reflected desperation, a sense of urgency bordering on panic, rather than quiet trust that Hashem would orchestrate his redemption in the proper time and manner. It was this overreaching hishtadlus that Chazal identify as problematic. The trick would be to constantly recognize how Hashem remains in absolute complete control of the world. The more we understand this the more these lessons are felt. True bitachon does not mean passivity—but it also does not look like frantic maneuvering. When our actions remain measured, sensible, and grounded, they reflect a deep inner confidence that Hashem is ultimately running the show. But then we see that Yosef clearly learned this lesson. When Yosef is finally taken out of prison and brought before Pharaoh, he is suddenly standing at the most critical moment of his life. Pharaoh recounts the dreams and says that Yosef has a reputation as a master interpreter. This is Yosef's opening. This could easily be his ticket to freedom, to status, perhaps even to an official position in the palace. One might have expected Yosef to lean into that perception—to present himself as indispensable. Instead, Yosef does the exact opposite. He immediately deflects all credit away from himself and says plainly that the interpretation does not come from him at all; it comes entirely from Hashem. Again, place yourself in Yosef's position. By saying this, Yosef was taking a tremendous risk. Pharaoh might have concluded that Yosef was of no unique value, that there was no reason to keep him around, and that he could just as easily be sent back to prison. From the standpoint of self-preservation, this was a dangerous move. From the standpoint of "hishtadlus," it might have seemed foolish. If Yosef were trying to maximize his chances, this was not the obvious play. But Yosef now understood something he had not fully grasped two years earlier. Hishtadlus is not about doing whatever helps us advance. It is about doing only what Hashem wants us to do within the framework of His world. When there is a choice between what appears to be effective and what is objectively right, the Torah demands that we choose what is right—without hesitation. If success requires compromising truth, integrity, or recognition of Hashem, then that "hishtadlus" is not hishtadlus at all. Yosef had learned that Hashem runs the world. If Hashem wanted him elevated, it would not come through self-promotion or strategic ambiguity. It would come through honesty, clarity, and faith. And therefore, when the opportunity arose to subtly take credit for something that was not his, Yosef would not hear of it. He instinctively returned the credit to where it belonged. This is the lesson Yosef internalized during those extra two years in prison. And it is a lesson deeply relevant to our own lives. Sometimes a person is faced with an opportunity that promises advancement, respect, or security—but only at the cost of blurred values. Perhaps it is an office event that is not appropriate, rationalized as "necessary networking." Perhaps it is overstating one's role, softening one's principles, or remaining silent when one should speak honestly, all in the name of career progress or social standing. The Torah teaches us that this is not legitimate hishtadlus. True hishtadlus never requires compromising what is right. If something is inappropriate, unethical, or dishonest, calling it "effort" does not make it acceptable. Hashem does not ask us to succeed at any price. He asks us to act correctly—and to trust that success, if it is meant to come, will come through that path. Yosef's greatness was not only that he survived hardship, but that he emerged from it transformed. He learned that calm faith, moral clarity, and unwavering acknowledgment of Hashem are not obstacles to success—they are the only path to it. Imagine a master chess player sitting at a table, surrounded by children. An absolute elite, someone who can win any game instantly if he wants to. The board is his. Every move is under his control. But instead of finishing the game in three moves, he does something else. He tells the children, "I want to see how you play. Make your moves. Think it through. Use your heads." Now here's the key point: the children are not deciding the outcome of the game. The master already knows how it will end. He could step in at any moment and conclude it. Their moves are not determining victory or defeat. What he is watching is how they play—whether they remain calm, whether they follow the rules, whether they panic when the board looks bad, or whether they try to cheat when they think it will help them. Some children, seeing a tough position, start grabbing at pieces, moving out of turn, or knocking over the board. They think, "If I don't do something drastic, I'll lose." But in doing so, they fail the test—not because they lost the game, but because they stopped playing the right way. Others continue to play properly. They think, they wait, they move within the rules, even when the position looks hopeless. And the master smiles—not because their move changed the outcome, but because they showed that they understood who was really in charge. Hashem runs the world that way. He could do everything Himself. He does not need our effort, our cleverness, or our maneuvering. And yet He places us into the game and says, "Now play." Not to determine the result, but to reveal our trust, our discipline, and our integrity. Yosef thought, for a moment, that he had to "help the game along." That if he did not push, plead, or grasp, he would remain stuck. And Hashem allowed him two more years to learn: the board is not yours. The outcome is not yours. Your role is only to make the right moves. And when Yosef finally stood before Pharaoh, he passed the test. He could have taken credit. He could have positioned himself as indispensable. He could have said just enough to keep himself relevant. But Yosef now understood: if the Master wants me to win, I will win by playing correctly—not by bending the rules. So Yosef calmly said, "It is not me. Hashem will answer." That sentence was Yosef's checkmate—not because it impressed Pharaoh, but because it showed absolute clarity about who was running the game. And that is the lesson for us. Hishtadlus is not about controlling outcomes. It is about playing our part correctly while trusting that Hashem, Who sees the whole board, will take care of the rest. Have an amazing Shabbos! Rabbi Moshe Revah Mrevah2@touro.edu HTC  Hebrew Theological College is a member of Touro University and a partner with the Jewish United Fund in serving our community

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