For the soon-to-be-released Rabbi Sacks podcast, which I’ve been working on over the past year, I had the privilege of interviewing Daniel Lubetzky. Daniel, the founder of KIND snack bars, a renowned entrepreneur, and a judge on Shark Tank, is one of the most genuine, warm, and inspiring individuals I’ve encountered. During our conversation, he shared the remarkable story of his father, a Holocaust survivor from Dachau concentration camp. His father’s survival, he told me, was thanks to an unusual act of kindness from a German soldier who secretly slipped him a piece of bread every day.
Daniel credits this story with shaping the person he is today: someone whose life’s mission is to build bridges between people and infuse kindness into the world. He smiled as he recounted an ongoing family debate: his sisters often tell him he talks too much about that German soldier. "Why focus on the exception," they ask, "when so many others were cruel and murderous?" But Daniel’s answer is simple: Our father choose to tell that story. For him, it’s not just about what happened—it’s about what we choose to remember and the lens through which we see the world. His father’s story of survival is a testament to the power of kindness, even in the darkest times, and it’s a story that continues to inspire Daniel’s work—and all who hear it.
We are all stories. We are all narratives. We also all choose the narrative we articulate. The biggest question is what story are we going to tell? What narrative are we going to choose to be part of?
Radical postmodernism claims everything is narrative, leaving no givens, only subjective choice. But this view distorts reality. Certain aspects of life—our birth, DNA, family, and mortality—are unchangeable. Rabbi Soloveitchik calls these conditions of "fate," aspects of existence we must accept. Yet Judaism rejects a fatalistic outlook. Central to Halakha and Jewish thought is the freedom to shape our own destiny. As Rabbi Soloveitchik teaches, our task is to “turn fate into destiny—transforming passive existence into active, wilful, and purposeful life.” But how? How do we break generational patterns, escape psychological prisons, and reshape our story without losing connection to our roots? How do we forgive others—and ourselves—while preserving our sense of self? How do we reclaim agency and reframe reality to create a life of meaning?
Two biblical characters we’ve encountered in recent weeks exemplify the power to reframe their narrative and transform fate into destiny: Yosef and Yehuda.
Family patterns and narratives seem fixed—Yaakov remains "Yaakov," forever on the heel. Yosef, the favoured son, begins as a self-absorbed youth, seeing only his reflection in the mirror. But life forces change. Thrown into a pit, sold as a slave, and imprisoned, Yosef transforms from a passive victim into an active agent of his destiny. He turns outward, truly seeing others, and discerns the Divine footprints woven into his own life story. In the ancient world, the idea of a "rags to riches" story was unheard of, yet Yosef achieves this transformation. How? By reframing his reality. He is deeply attuned to others, as seen when he notices the baker and butler’s distress in prison, prompting them to share their dreams. Yosef is not merely a dream interpreter; he reinterprets his own reality. He envisions it differently, understanding that the conditions we are born into do not define the conditions we can create. This ability to reimagine and reshape reality is something he not only lives but teaches—eventually sharing this perspective with the entire Egyptian nation.
Yehuda senses that his father loves the sons of Rachel more than those of Leah, and this imbalance shapes his actions. After the loss of his two sons due to their own failings, he abandons his daughter-in-law Tamar to her father’s house, neglecting his responsibility to her. Yehuda remains trapped in a self-centered mindset, focused only on his legacy and his sons. But then, through Tamar’s bold intervention, Yehuda experiences an awakening. He is forced to reframe his reality, breaking free from his narcissistic perspective to recognize the existence of the "other." He begins to see that beyond his own story, there are countless other narratives—interwoven and interconnected. To truly understand ourselves, Yehuda learns, we must first learn to see others.
Yosef and Yehuda, more than any other characters in Genesis, embody the transition from fate to destiny—the ability to reframe life’s narratives. They show us how to tell a story that honors familial ties and given conditions while also embracing agency, freedom, and the pursuit of destiny.
This week's parsha captures Yehuda's transformation as he delivers a speech that reframes the family narrative and breaks the chains of fate. By doing so, he not only redeems his brothers but also offers Yosef the chance to reclaim his past, his family, and his identity.
In one of the most poignant moments in Genesis, Yehuda retells their family story—not through the jealous eyes of an older brother but with the empathy of a son and sibling who deeply understands his father’s pain. He recognizes that Yaakov’s love for Yosef stems not from favoritism but from the profound losses Yaakov endured. “For how can I go back to my father unless the boy is with me? Let me not witness the woe that would overtake my father!” (44:34).
This perspective shift fosters compassion and unity, as Yehuda sees beyond his own grievances to the web of emotions and history that shapes their family. Yosef, moved by Yehuda’s reframing, responds in kind. When he reveals himself, he transforms the narrative further:
“Do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you” (45:5).
Yosef’s words absolve blame and invite reconciliation, blending Divine intervention with human agency. Together, Yehuda and Yosef demonstrate how reframing our stories can turn fate into destiny, opening the path to forgiveness and healing.
Yehuda becomes the tribe of kingship, embodying the ability to rule not just over others but over oneself. To lead, one must first take control of their destiny, aware of the forces shaping their life and the narratives they pass on. As Rav Soloveitchik writes: “Destiny bestows on a man a new status in God’s world. It bestows on man a royal crown, and he becomes God’s partner in the work of creation.” Yehuda is crowned with the mantle of Jewish destiny, representing a nation in its land—autonomous, proactive, and the chief authors of its story.
Yosef, in contrast, lives outside his family’s matrix, immersed in a foreign culture with every opportunity to abandon his past. Even as his sons’ names reflect this tension (Menashe - forgetting, Efraim – being fruiful) but Yosef refuses to relinquish his identity. Instead, he integrates his past into his present, enabling him to stand apart from his surroundings and offer a unique perspective. By carrying the story of his past with him, Yosef gains the imaginative power to reframe narratives—his own tragedy, the story of Egypt, and the fractured tale of his family. This rooted yet visionary perspective gives him the strength to write the next chapter, transforming fate into destiny.
The story of Chanukah is a story we have learned to tell—and retell—in many ways. The Rabbis in the Talmud focus on the miracle of the oil, a symbol of Divine providence. Those who penned the Al HaNisim liturgy emphasize the miracle of the battle, a triumph of faith and courage. Josephus, in his writings, offers a thoroughly human account, intertwining triumph with tragedy. Step into a secular kindergarten in Israel, and you'll hear a vastly different version of the Chanukah story than you would in a religious one.
So, where do we place our focus? On God’s salvation? Human strength? Or both? Can we hold the messiness of human history in one hand and a metaphysical, Divine plan in the other? Can we see the miraculous in the mundane, the Divine in the everyday?
Telling stories is central to our identity. The way we tell them shapes the kind of people we become and the kind of nation we aspire to be.
I wonder how we will tell the story of the war we are living through now. Will we manage to hold both dimensions in our narrative? Will we tell a story that captures the triumphs and the tragedies, the resilience and the pain, the growth amidst incomprehensible loss?
There are people in Israel today who are already telling this story—I have mentioned them before—the modern Israeli musicians. Listen to them, seek them out. They are weaving these contradictory strands into a complex web of beauty, helping us integrate this moment into our long, tumultuous history. They are defining this chapter for us, giving voice to our experience.
As Rabbi Sacks writes in Radical Then, Radical Now: “I am a Jew because, knowing the story of my people, I hear the call to write the next chapter.”
We all come from somewhere, and we are all heading somewhere. When we tell our story, we must remain deeply rooted in our past but also acutely conscious of our future. Often, it is not just what story we tell, but how we tell it that defines us.
Shabbat Shalom.
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