Parshas Vayigash 5786
“You’re such a chassid!”
Unless we’re speaking with someone from Williamsburg with long, curly peyos, and have taken it upon ourselves to help reinforce his identity, the words feel awkwardly out of place.
Usually, we opt for “tzaddik”. And it happens all the time. Whenever someone goes out of their way to help, whenever we become the beneficiary of another’s kindness that rises above the call of duty. A child brings our slippers before a request is even made. A friend puts in a good word for you with their friend, your would-be employer. A coworker saves you the last splash of creamer in the breakroom fridge.
“You’re such a tzaddik!”
But I suggest we start a new trend. Don’t call them a tzaddik. Call them a chassid. And if they start pulling their white socks up over their pant legs, so be it.
In finally revealing himself to his brothers, Yosef calms their fears, insisting that not only does he bear no ill will against them, but that his descent to Mitzrayim was clearly an expression of the Divine Will. That Yosef was to be found in Egypt in advance of the oncoming famine, and through his fateful meeting with Pharaoh, he was able to prepare Egypt throughout the years of plenty, providing its citizens—indeed, the citizens of neighboring countries as well—with food when none was otherwise being produced.
It is this feature that serves as the focal point for a comparison made by the Daas Zekeinim in Parshas Noach. Piggybacking on the Midrash that notes a parallel between Noach and Yosef in that both saw a world reborn, the Daas Zekeinim comments further that in the instance of these two individuals, there was specific responsibility undertaken to ensure the viability of that new world. Humanity emerged from the Flood and Mitzrayim was spared from famine not as Noach and Yosef stood idly by, but as a function of their specific efforts in ensuring that it would be so.
Noach and Yosef share another commonality as well, the designation of “Tzaddik”. Noach is alone in the annals of the Chumash in being referred to by this title, as the Torah proclaims about him, “Noach ish tzaddik—Noach was a righteous man.” And, interestingly, it is only Yosef who, without explicit reference in the Chumash, is nonetheless referred to in our mesorah as Yosef HaTzaddik.
And although neither Yosef nor Noach was known to have left the last splash of creamer for a coworker’s coffee, surely both were worthy of this great honorific. Each went above and beyond in protecting those around him. Noach slaved away at crafting a boat of gargantuan dimensions and cared for every living being within. Yosef undertook a massive project of stockpiling grain, saving Egypt and ultimately his family.
Shkoyach, Tzaddik.
But, there’s a problem.
The 13th chapter of Mesilas Yesharim marks a major turning point in the sefer. In the beginning of that perek, in which the Ramchal begins to unpack the trait of perishus—the withdrawal from physical pleasure—the author explains that up until that point the conversation focused on all that was necessary for one to live simply as a tzaddik. From the 13th chapter on, however, the traits discussed would, once inculcated, be the makings of a chassid.
The Ramchal reiterates this point elsewhere as well, that while it is the chassid who goes above and beyond the strict letter of the law, the tzaddik merely abides by it. The first 12 chapters of Mesilas Yesharim are not for the one who wishes to transcend the realm of the obligatory, but rather for the person who wishes only to properly fulfill those obligations. Difficult though they may be to assimilate into one’s behavior, the middos discussed in those first 12 chapters are for the common man. The average person. The person who is obligated, it would seem, to become a tzaddik.
Indeed, the word itself suggests this very reality, even if in common parlance we tend to use it with a very different connotation. “Tzaddik” stems from the word “Tzedek,” or justice. When the Torah insists that “Tzedek tzedek tirdof—You shall greatly pursue justice,” it is not offering us an extra credit assignment. To do what is proper, upright, and just is the baseline duty of a moral person. This, then, is what it means to be a Tzaddik.
Your child may have an obligation to fetch you your slippers when directly asked, but not before you ever make the request. When he does so anyway, he’s not a “Tzaddik,” but a “Chasid.”
The fellow who by every right was entitled to the last bit of creamer but saved it for you anyway? Yup, he’s a Chassid, too. And even if you fully intend to continue calling him a Tzaddik, it’s important that we understand the difference.
Particularly when it comes to Noach and Yosef. Noach Ish Tzaddik and Yosef HaTzaddik. Why are these names given to two individuals who went to such immense lengths to provide for those around them? Surely their herculean efforts swept them far from the territory of tzidkus and into the realm of chassidus?
Perhaps not. Perhaps having been in position to help others, to save the world in some regard, actually obligated them to do so. That as impressive as their actions were, to have done otherwise would not only have been a failure to achieve all they possibly could, but to have fallen down on their basic responsibilities.
When Hashem informs Moshe that Betzalel is to serve as the chief artisan over the construction of the Mishkan, the appointment is referrred to in past tense. “Re’u karah Hashem—See that Hashem has already called.” (Shemos 35:30) Rav Moshe Feinstein notes how odd this phrasing is, considering that at no earlier point in the Torah do we find that Betzalel had been previously identified for this role. In what way had Betzalel already been called?
Rav Moshe explains that Betzalel had been called simply by being endowed with his supernal talent. That Betzalel had the ability to craft the various elements of the Mishkan meant that by definition he had been Divinely called to do so.
The ability to help, to do, to achieve, can itself create the obligation to do just that. That Yosef could spare the population from starvation meant that he was obligated to. That Noach could save his family and the earth’s animals from extinction meant that he was obligated to. Noach was not an Ish Chassid, he was an Ish Tzaddik. We remember him not as Yosef HaChassid, but as Yosef HaTzaddik.
Which is not to degrade either of these great men. Fulfilling one’s obligations is no small feat, particularly when those obligations are extraordinarily steep. But the difference between what amounts to obligation and what lays beyond is important when it comes to assessing our own obligations.
How often do we find ourselves saying—whether in our own minds or even aloud—that a given act is beyond us, that it’s not for regular people, but for “tzaddikim”? We may in fact be correct on the last point. That act of hachnassas orchim, or making a meal for someone in need, or sitting with a friend in need of advice—these may indeed be the stuff of tzidkus. Which is to say that they’re not extra credit, but part of our basic responsibilities. Though they may not neatly align with the checklist of our typical daily obligations, the fact that we are situated to provide the assistance, perhaps better than others, a failure to seize the opportunity may actually amount to a failure of fulfilling our responsibility.
Yosef assumed an awesome effort in saving the world from starvation. Yet the magnitude of that effort notwithstanding, he is not a chassid, but a tzaddik. A tzaddik is not the one who goes the extra mile, but who fulfills his mission faithfully, no matter how many miles it may take him. And the very ability to make the journey may actually be reason enough to demand it of ourselves.