Parashat Vayeshev – Honoring Father and Mother in a Situation of Danger

A gutn Shabbes!

Is a son permitted to honor his father when, by doing so, he puts himself in danger?

And why was it permitted for Yosef to go to Shechem and endanger himself for the sake of honoring his father?

The Question:

Is a son permitted to honor his father when, by doing so, he enters into danger?
And why was Yosef allowed to go to Shechem and endanger himself for the sake of honoring his father?

Explanation of the question:
In the parasha it is stated (Bereishit 37:13), “And Yisrael said to Yosef: ‘Are not your brothers pasturing in Shechem? Come, and I will send you to them.’ And he said to him: ‘Here I am (Hineni).’” Rashi writes: “‘Hineni’ is an expression of humility and alacrity. He hastened to fulfill his father’s command, even though he knew that his brothers hated him.”

The difficulty is: since he knew that his brothers hated him, why was he permitted to place himself in danger in order to fulfill the mitzvah of honoring his father? After all, all the mitzvot are set aside in the face of danger to life (pikuach nefesh), except for idolatry, sexual immorality, and murder. A person is forbidden to give up his life in order to fulfill the other mitzvot (except in the special case where a non‑Jew seeks to force him to abandon the faith; see all the details in Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah 157:1).

The Answer:

Many commentators have addressed this question and offered different explanations. We will mention here several of them: 

A. In the sefer Moshav Zekenim by the Baalei ha‑Tosafot it is explained that Shechem was a place of danger for the brothers, since they had killed all the inhabitants of the city at the time Dina was taken, and Yaakov wished to save them from that danger. For the sake of rescuing others from clear and present danger, a person is allowed to put himself into a situation of possible danger. [This ruling is not accepted according to all opinions.]

B. The Ktav Sofer explains that Yosef relied on his dream that he was destined to rule, and it was clear to him that he would not be put in mortal danger through this journey. Based on this, he explains the words of the brothers when Yosef came toward them (Bereishit 37:19–20): “They said one to another: ‘Behold, this dreamer is coming. Now then, come, let us kill him and throw him into one of the pits; and we will say, A wild beast devoured him; and we shall see what will become of his dreams.’” That is, the brothers understood that Yosef was coming to them because he relied on his dreams as truth, and therefore they said: let us see whether his dreams will be fulfilled and he will be saved from us. 

C. The Or HaChaim explains that Yaakov did not fear the brothers’ hatred because, as Chazal said (Pesachim 8a), “Those sent on a mitzvah mission are not harmed.” 
The sefer Shelal David (Zinzheim) follows this approach, but raises a difficulty: the Gemara (Pesachim 8a) states that in a place where harm is frequent and likely, this principle does not apply. Therefore he adds and explains that Yaakov understood that there was no clear danger here, but only a concern of danger, and in such a case the assurance that “those sent on a mitzvah mission are not harmed” does apply. 

In connection with the assurance of Chazal that “those sent on a mitzvah mission are not harmed,” we will add here a remarkable story, told by the one to whom it happened, the Gaon Rabbi Chaikel Milzkey zatzal, one of the great sages of Jerusalem.

Rabbi Leib Chasman zatzal had a yeshiva in the town of Stuchin, and three hundred students learned there. Then World War I broke out, and great chaos descended upon all aspects of life: the economic and commercial life was ruined, public services were disrupted, and the yeshiva met the same fate. All the students had to leave and travel home; many Jewish families in Stuchin also had to take up the wanderer’s staff and move elsewhere. Only three students remained in the yeshiva, and one of them was the young student Chaikel Milzkey.

Because of the war, army camps were moving from place to place, and it occurred that a large camp of Russian soldiers set itself up near the town of Stuchin. On the eve of a certain Yom Kippur, as Reb Chaikel was walking along one of the streets, a soldier in uniform approached him and whispered in his ear: “I see that you are a yeshiva boy, and I can rely on you.” And he said: “I am a Jew, and with me there are another seventeen Jewish soldiers serving in the nearby army camp. Last night I heard that tomorrow, in the very midst of Yom Kippur, the entire camp is scheduled to move to another place.” At that moment tears stood in the soldier’s eyes, and he continued: “You surely understand how many hardships and dangers we go through every day, and how much we all want to leave the army. But now, when we learned that on the holy day we will have to move with the camp and will not be able to pray and fulfill the mitzvot of the day, we decided that we can no longer endure it. So it occurred to us that in the great commotion of preparing for the departure, we could hide somewhere in town, and in the morning, when all the companies are busy marching out, no one will notice that we are missing, and we will be able to desert and escape.” “And what can I do?” asked Chaikel. “We need you to find us a secure hiding place, and we also need civilian clothes. Only then can we go out into the street without it being immediately obvious that we are deserters,” the soldier answered. 

Chaikel decided to help him and directed him to an abandoned synagogue that stood near the Jewish cemetery at the edge of town. He told him: “The women’s gallery in the synagogue is neglected and full of piles of dust; go up there and hide. Of course, don’t all go together; each of you should go up alone, in a way that does not attract attention. I will bring you civilian clothing there so that you can leave safely.” 
The young Chaikel immediately sprang into action, going around the town from house to house; from one person he got a suit, from another a hat. He ran about all day and did not even manage to eat the pre‑fast meal, until he had gathered all the clothing that was needed. 

The soldiers did their part with great care: they came each one separately, hid in the women’s gallery, and when Chaikel arrived with his bundle, they all hurried to change their clothes. After he had finished his share of the work, Chaikel wanted to return to town in order to pray in the synagogue the Kol Nidrei service. But the soldiers pleaded with him emotionally: “No, don’t leave us; we are afraid to stay here alone.” Chaikel’s compassion was aroused, and he decided to stay with them. However, a problem arose: they could not light any candles so as not to draw attention, and how could one pray under such conditions? Yet, for the sake of the mitzvah of saving lives, he decided to recite by heart those parts of the prayers that he knew. After the prayer he lay down to sleep there with the deserters. 

In the middle of the night they all awoke in panic: a great noise and cries filled the town. By listening carefully they understood that one of the soldiers, who was from Stuchin, had chosen not to come with all the others to the synagogue, but to hide in his parents’ home. Soldiers from the camp who passed by recognized him and came to search for him in the middle of the night; they arrested him and immediately sentenced him to death. Chaikel and the soldiers were terribly frightened and realized that they would now begin searching for the other deserters as well, and that a danger of death hovered over them all. 

Chaikel did not allow fear to paralyze him. He immediately got up and said: “First of all, we must erase our tracks to prevent the possibility of identifying those who are here. Therefore we must get rid of your uniforms.” The solution that came to his mind was to bury the uniforms in the nearby cemetery in one of the graves that had already been dug. The soldiers packed the heavy uniforms into three large bundles, and Chaikel slipped out quietly from the synagogue to the adjacent graves. Three times he went out in order to bury them. But as he was about to finish the task and was returning for the third time to the women’s gallery, he suddenly heard the sound of approaching horses’ hooves. 

Chaikel knew the ruthless soldiers and understood that there was no chance of coming out alive from such a danger. For a brief moment he looked around and found a small patch of woods where he tried to hide. He crouched and curled up as much as he could, and in the meantime began reciting Viduy (confession). The soldiers, who had spotted human footprints, started searching and within a short time reached him. In an instant a shower of bullets swept the whole area; dozens of bullets whistled over his head and on all sides, and only by a miracle did none of them strike him. After the shooting the Cossacks spread out in pairs, combed the area with lanterns, and in a few minutes found him hiding under a tree. 

Here another miracle occurred: instead of shooting him on the spot, the soldiers decided to bring him to the commander. The commander immediately burst out at him, shouting: “You are a spy! Who else walks around at three in the morning in such a place? There is no doubt. We will cut you into pieces!”

Chaikel, who had not lost his faith, turned to the commander and said: “I must explain to you why I am here.” The commander refused to listen and said: “What stories are you telling me? I already know these Jews with their excuses; I don’t want to hear.” 

But Chaikel continued to speak calmly and said: “Sir, commander, in any case I am in your hands; you can do with me as you wish. But I want you first to hear what happened.” The commander agreed to listen, and Chaikel said: “One of the women in our town lost a child today; the child died. The mother could not control her feelings — her soul was bound up with the soul of the child. She threw herself on the dead body and began to weep endlessly. When I saw this, I feared that if she would continue like this, she might die from grief. I concluded that we must save this woman, and there is only one way: to take the child’s body from the house and bring it to burial. But who would be willing at such a late hour of the night to take on such a task? And who would even be in such a place at that hour? Therefore I decided to bury the child myself.” 

Although Chaikel knew that he had no child’s body to show the commander, he thought to himself that by telling this he would gain time and create an opening for salvation. 

The commander refused to believe the story, but Chaikel convinced him that the child was buried in the nearby cemetery and that the commander could easily verify the truth of his words. After much argument, the commander agreed to enter the cemetery and see with his own eyes the child’s grave. “Come, show me the child,” said the commander, “but if it turns out that you lied, I will kill you immediately.” The commander mounted his horse and Chaikel trudged after him on foot. After a few steps the commander stopped again and threatened: “If you do not prove your story, I will tear you to pieces with this sword in my hand.” Thus they went on a few more steps. Suddenly the commander said: “I see that your words are true. You are a brave soldier and a good man; you risked your life in order to care for a broken‑hearted mother. I also have a mother who worries about me. You are free!” Immediately the commander called a soldier to take Chaikel back to town on his horse. The search for the deserter soldiers ceased, and by midday the whole town heard that the camp had left the area and the Jewish soldiers were saved. 

Rabbi Chaikel relates: “When my teacher and master, the Gaon Rabbi Leib Chasman, came up to Eretz Yisrael and stayed at the Vershavsky Hotel, I went up to see him, and in the course of our conversation I excitedly told him about the chain of miracles I had witnessed: that I was caught only after there were no uniforms left in my hands, about the bullets that did not hit me, about the soldiers who did not kill me, about the commander who, by a miraculous turn, was convinced and freed me, and about all the soldiers who came out alive. Rabbi Leib listened to the whole story until the end, and when I finished, he respectfully asked me: ‘Chaikel, have you finished what you wanted to say?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered. Then Rabbi Leib stretched out both his hands, took my hands, and said in a voice of wonder: ‘Why are you so astonished by your story? This is an explicit Gemara: “Those sent on a mitzvah mission are not harmed, neither on their way there nor on their way back.”’”