Judah, son of Leah (Part I)

The instinct to keep the shameful details of my story hidden was very strong. On some level, the decision to reveal the truth was (and is) a mystery to me. Certainly, there are moments when I wish people didn’t know; there are those who criticize and cast scorn, but even in receiving the contempt of critical curmudgeons I cannot deny there is some mysterious way in which the Author converts it into rich fellowship with Himself. Ultimately I doubt I had much of a choice regarding whether or not my story was going to be published, and as odd as it may seem I wholeheartedly agree with the exposure. I genuinely invite you to come and meet the One who will invariably tell you everything you’ve ever done.

I’ve been deeply insecure for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid I remember feeling chronically insufficient. At first I thought it was because I was the fourthborn son of my mom’s litter, and I always felt like I had to prove myself by competing with my older brothers. But as I got older I started to realize that things were a bit more complex …I still remember the day when my brother Reuben pointed out, “Don’t you see? Mom’s the ugly one! She’s the welfare wife! Haven’t you heard the story about how Grandpa duped dad on their wedding day!? Dad doesn’t love us! Our mom probably doesn’t even outrank his concubines!” It was a bitter realization, and that was the moment I made the conscious decision to protect myself with the armor of cynicism and resentment, and arm myself with the artillery of cold calculating pragmatism. Looking back, it’s clear that my brothers and I all harbored an acute sense of inadequacy, and we regularly attempted to compensate by teasing the sons of Bilhah and Zilpah. We’d say things like, “Gad is sad about his boyfriend’s dad.” Or we’d simply refer to Dan as “Dandelion” or “Dandy”. Of course all of this seems downright silly now, but seeing the impact of our provocations made us feel “in control”; and it took next-to-nothing to stir up conflict and drama in our dysfunctional, polygamy-permeated, family back in those days (what with mom and the other three mating partners constantly manipulating dad and competing with one another for status …it was a circus!).

As much as we despised and belittled Bilhah and Zilpah’s kids, we all joined forces to pour out our contempt upon Rachel’s kids (“the hated favorites”). I remember feeling a steady low-grade disdain for Benjamin, but I harbored a relentless and committed hatred for Joseph. I think Joseph would have been the most exceptionally deplored of the brothers no matter what, but our father’s favoritism absolutely guaranteed and amplified our animosity toward Joe. Our father’s favoritism of Joseph was nauseating (even he subtly admitted as much at times). I could give dozens of examples of times when preferential treatment of Joseph peaked my indignation, but those dreams of his were what really sealed his fate. I’m not sure we would’ve tolerated his holier-than-thou tattlings indefinitely, but when he started matter-of-factly reporting his dreams of preeminence even our dad reprimanded him. I think that was the moment we “justified” the plan that had been brewing in our hearts for years …If Joseph’s most smitten admirer was willing to acknowledge his infuriating “flaunting of flawlessness”, then certainly we (the unappreciated sons of second-rate wives) were entitled to a little vengeance…

Judah, son of Leah (Part II)

I suppose you could say I “went through the motions” as a shepherd. I did my duty, I showed up and performed my part, I did my time. That particular day we were near Shechem, and it will come as no surprise to anyone that my ambition was far more aligned with the commerce of that Canaanite city than the paltry life of a herdsman. My mind has always been bent toward business, and when Joe showed up to “police us” I wasn’t so much embittered toward him as I simply sized-up the situation and fairly quickly came to the commonsensical conclusion that we could easily be rid of an annoyance, while at the same time availing ourselves of some wealth (slavery has always been a lucrative market). I’m not trying to “justify myself”, I now rigorously admit that my thoughts and actions were reprehensible, but in an effort to explain the particular angle of my sin (and perhaps help the hard-hearted pragmatist gain a better sense of how he attempts to “justify his sin”); I always rationalized things by matter-of-factly observing that “I’ve never really been the resentful type …I’m simply a cold, calculating, pragmatist.”

I can’t say that I was morally bothered with the initial plan to kill Joseph, but my mind instantly began to discern the deficiencies of the plan economically speaking. For a moment I thought that the preliminary plan of thriftless homicide would be carried out before getting an opportunity to put my more fiscally sensitive approach into action. Thankfully Reuben bought me some time (…of course Reuben was just trying to regain ground with our dad after the whole “Bilhah debacle”; but this bonus time was invaluable to getting my plan ready for execution).

I was racking my brain to come up with a plan to hamstring Joseph in a way that wouldn’t have a drastic affect on the price I was hoping to fetch for him in Shechem or Dothan; but then the Ishmaelite caravan came along and everything naturally fell into place. Even Reuben had inexplicably, serendipitously, vanished …it seemed as if it was my manifest destiny! I simply pointed out the obvious facts: we profit nothing by killing Joseph, we could be rid of our brother AND gain something for ourselves at the same time (and the market for a man has quite literally come to us! …when you’ve been craving frozen dairy goodness, and then you hear the milky melody of the ice cream truck it must certainly be destiny!); and then I unleashed the pièce de résistance …I made my scheme seem ethically upright! – I pointed out that we could keep our hands unstained of our brothers blood, and by virtue of selling him to these slave traders we could mercifully spare a man’s life! It was truly some of my savviest work. I could not fathom the tidal wave of shame that would hit me in the days to follow…

Judah, son of Leah (Part III)

I had experienced episodes of shame before, but they never lingered long – never had my bouts been severe or sustained. It’s like when you’re sitting around a fire and an ember lands on your leg, there’s a singe but it dies, it dissipates; but this ember embedded and burned.

I don’t think anyone was shocked to see me go, but no one knew the darkness of soul that provoked my departure. I felt an intense desperation to escape the suffocating shame, and the most pragmatically promising solution (though admittedly shallow) was Hirah.

Hirah’s company always had an anesthetizing affect, and at the very least I knew he would keep me entertained for a couple of weeks. I really didn’t have a plan other than “try to forget.” On a few occasions I got asked, “How long are you here for?” and my mind would go blank. I remember giving convoluted answers, but I honestly cannot recall precisely what I might’ve said to people. It’s like a dream …you know you dreamt about something, but you can’t recollect the specifics. It was during one of these “dream sequences” that Shua and I hammered out the contract for his daughter. I certainly remember feeling enchanted with her that night (I am a man of chronic salacious moods), but the deal with Shua always had a ‘grandpa Laban’ aroma to it (maybe I’m just projecting the story of my mom and dad onto my soirée with this Canaanite family; but I never had any honest intention of committing to Shua’s daughter). In one sense it was certainly more than I bargained for, but on the other hand I can’t say that I assumed any real responsibility …by the time Shelah came along I wasn’t even around that much, I spent most of my time in Chezib.

As our boys got older I aimed all of my energy at making marriage arrangements for them. The goal of my life had become distraction …my chief end was preoccupation with anything other than being left alone with my own memories. I know it’s heartless, but the marriage arrangements had nothing to do with my affection for my sons (I regret this now, but as I look back I must admit it’s the truth) …I’ve always been good at brokering deals, and in those days I sought self-deification via negotiation. The Tamar – Er deal was some of my best work, and I entertained lofty notions of transcending my vault of self-contempt; but then I was confronted with the abrupt demise of both Er and Onan, and I retreated into an ensconced posture of self-preservation. I sent Tamar back to her father with the lie of Shelah becoming her third husband, and I resolved to be rid of her for the remainder of my days; but Tamar – as it turns out – would not only curb my ambition for amnesia, she would be my Kryptonite…

Judah, son of Leah (Part IV)

I think the word “desensitized” would sum up my life in those days. It was like I had anesthetized my soul. I knew that life among the Canaanites would be hazy, and after “The Joseph Transaction” I was desperate for a foggy environment where hiding happens naturally. I didn’t want to face the truth, I wanted to forget; and my insurance policy was Hirah. From the moment I met Hirah I knew I could rely on him to find fog and steer me into it. And like a good neighbor, Hirah was always there. When my wife died, it was a confounding moment, because I had never really taken stock of what I might miss about Shua’s daughter if she weren’t around; and I was now in danger of arriving at a clearing of sorts – where I might be confronted with clarity regarding my real vulnerabilities and desires. But then Hirah came to my rescue just in the nick of time, suggesting that we take a trip to Timnah for the sheep shearing. Honestly, if “The Day of Exposure” hadn’t happened I doubt I would’ve even remembered my night in Enaim. I did momentarily puzzle over the mysterious disappearance of the cult prostitute, and I had a fleeting sense of regret over losing the signet, cord, and staff; but Enaim is one of those places where you budget for such enigmas and deficits. On some level I was even a little relieved when Hirah returned without my pledge, believing I could leverage such an experience to advance my empire of amnesia …mysteries can be very useful for a man trying to keep things as muddled as possible; and of course a paradigm of chronic confusion is one of the pillars upon which a town like Enaim stands; it is an abyss of amnesia, for what happens in Enaim remains forever shrouded in mystery behind the prurient veil of Enaim.

When I heard the news of “Tamar’s immorality,” all my faculties for efficiency surged and swelled and took aim at resolving this long-standing, and rather pesky, problem. Similar to “The Joseph Predicament,” it seemed as if this obscene report about Tamar was serving me an answer to my dilemma on a silver platter! I had, for purely practical reasons, lied to Tamar about Shelah, but I hadn’t yet come up with a plan for how to be rid of this widow-maker. Now, in an instant, it all came into focus. Like everything else in my life, it never registered as “being anything personal,” it was simply a matter of pragmatic problem solving. This was my life’s work, my wheelhouse …I was the guy you’d call in to address problems, and point out solutions – no matter how harsh they seemed. I was the consummate “Candid, Cunning, Consultant,” and compassion was simply never compatible with such a “no-nonsense calling.” I decided that she was to be burned alive, and I threw myself into making the necessary arrangements…

Judah, son of Leah (Part V)

It was a surreal moment. A blend of incredulity, shame, and awe swept over me. The incriminating items were certainly mine. Any attempt to hide my ownership would’ve been like an identical twin trying to deny his relation to his brother. But the fact that it was Tamar holding the signet, cord, and staff was simultaneously shocking and captivating. I felt immense shame, and at the same time I had an irresistible inclination to commend Tamar for her shrewdness. It was amidst this concoction of emotion I uttered the admission, “She is more righteous than I, since I did not give her my son Shelah.”

The historical records rightly suggest that this was the turning point of my life. A one hundred and eighty degree change resulted from the impact of Tamar’s shrewdness and exposure of my evil. I had always carried a burden of guilt for the callous scheme I had conducted against my half brother; and I daily lugged a load of self-loathing all through my sojourn in Canaan. I now found myself repulsed by my past choices and life formulas, and also repulsed by my commitment to hide and harbor hatred of myself with some dim and deceitful hope of achieving atonement through penance.

The Maker confirmed that mercy was in fact the way forward (as opposed to what “makes sense”) in that He put twins in Tamar’s womb, and when the time of her labor came one of the boys put out a hand first (to which the midwife tied a scarlet thread); but then Zerah (the firstborn) drew back his hand and his brother (Perez) was permitted to go first. I remember our grandfather telling us stories of our first parents, and how they too had made wicked and treasonous choices, and the Maker’s response (though full of consequences) was not a declaration of condemnation, but rather a commendation to fix our eyes on the promise of a Firstborn Son who would come and shrewdly smash the head of evil and save us in accordance with His lavish mercy. This was the lesson – sacramentally bestowed upon me – in the arrival of my precious sons; though my contribution to their conception was evil, God made it into mercy. This is the merciful message of our Maker – the older shall commit Himself to serving the younger.

Judah, son of Leah (Part VI)

Mercy liberated me to remember. There was a vast hoard of history in the catacombs of my soul; a myriad of memories which I had pronounced dead and consigned to the realm of “forgetting.” But the business of burying shame proved tricky, because while you might achieve momentary amnesia, the memories are nevertheless still buried beneath your everyday life, haunting the illusion of your “wholesome” home. And not all the memories dispatched to the catacombs are ugly …I had sent a number of beautiful moments into the darkness of “forgetting” only to find my soul clamoring to reclaim them; but the reclaiming is impermisible because penance and comparison demand that joy be put to death, and the fear of the accuser incessantly threatens charges of fraudulence and failure.

But when Mercy made her abode with me, she unlocked the catacombs without any regard for the blackmail of the accuser, or the demons of shame. She boldly and benevolently took me beneath the floor boards of my “reputable respectable life,” and with her piercing yet soft lamp of truth showed me that there was no condemnation in my subterranean cemetery as I had supposed. I had avoided the catacombs of remembrance for decades, because I feared having to reckon with my criminal record (the crushing incrimination of my evil, and my memories of unearned joy), but instead what I found was honest references to my wretchedness with promises of resurrection! Mercy made me steward of a mystery …there was indeed death, but the hope against hope guarantee of resurrection eclipsed the curse, and commendation supplanted condemnation. The accuser was defeated by the superseding work of the Atoner & Advocate.

Even so, I discovered that this newfound freedom takes some getting used to. The liberty to look at the shameful scenes of my story isn’t like the crushing affliction of a criminal record, but it is nevertheless a solemn referencing of something weighty and raw. It’s a slow-going sort of thing, and a major facet of receiving Mercy’s liberty is thoroughly participating in the unhurried process of sifting, parsing, and imaginatively inhabiting the memories. I found the process to be like hiking a mountain range (there is simply no instant way to go about it …distance, elevation, altitude, terrain, weather, etc. make it an arduous process). But it is amidst the rigors we discover the deepest assurance of our Author’s affection, and in the thick of it all we acquire a taste for what’s truly substantial.

Without a doubt the highest peak in the entire range was “Mt. Joseph;” and something about slogging through those first few years of famine prompted me to seriously set my sights on summiting that formidable memory. Famine has a way of forcing a person to face hard truths, and it also has a way of producing perseverance through constant curiosity. For instance, when the famine compelled us to make our first food run to Egypt, there was certainly something curious about the mannerisms, and deeper appearance, of the regal administrative official we encountered. Though subtle, it was this sort of thing that often kept me moving on the memory of Mt. Joseph. And especially his words, “You shall not see my face unless your brother is with you,” triggered something fierce in me (making my moment of exposure with Tamar feel like a mere sand dune). For months afterwards, those words, “Unless your brother is with you,” hijacked my thoughts. When it became clear that the famine would linger, and a return trip to Egypt was inevitable, I resolved – while still trekking up the memory of Mt. Joseph – to substitute my life for Rachel’s second born. I’m not saying I knew for a fact that it would certainly come to that, but something in the countenance of that Egyptian lord convinced me that his adamance about our youngest brother was immutable. When I pledged myself to the safekeeping of Benjamin the memory of selling Joseph flashed like a bolt of lightening, and it was as if the very memory of that shameful moment forged in fire my commitment to be substitute for Ben. It was a reversal of my first timshel (thou mayest); I had resolutely sold Rachel’s firstborn into slavery, and now I resolutely pledged myself substitute for her second.