A brief codicil to the story of Jacob/Israel’s death and burial displays how deeply suspicion and fear had intruded themselves into the cells and sinews of Israel’s earliest generations:
Realizing that their father was dead, Joseph’s brothers said, ‘What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back in full for all the wrong that we did to him?’
Joseph wept when his brothers approached him with their ugly negotiation about becoming his slaves if only Joseph would swear off the sad tradition of blood vengeance. After all they had been through, it seems to grieve this half-Hebrew, half-Egyptian head of state to learn that his brothers still did not consider him to be one of them.
The sad little arrangement the brothers presented to Joseph as coming from their own deceased father—where is the reverence?—elicits this remarkable response:
But Joseph said to them, ‘Do not be afraid! Am I in the place of God? Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today. So have no fear; I myself will provide for you and your little ones.’ In this way he reassured them, speaking kindly to them.
The work of God turns the hearts of family members in unequal measure. Joseph, willing to torment those brothers who had sold him into slavery when they first appeared before him as beggars, now seems to be the brother who has most internalized that justice and mercy that are common to YHWH and the aspiration of those who live near him.
There is little overt narrative in this section of Torah, only pregnant insinuation.
The sons of Jacob are on the cusp of transformation into a nation whose presence will threaten the very Egypt of which Joseph has in famine time become a savior.
The final scene of this generative act is full of fear and forgiveness. Israel—and we—are writ small in the mix.
Canter Bridge 
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