At the emotion-laden moment when Yosef Hatzaddik reveals himself to his brothers, he utters the words, “Ani Yosef, ha’od avi chai? — I am Yosef, does my father yet live?” His brothers, the Torah continues, were “unable to respond to him because they were flustered with embarrassment,” whereupon Yosef asks them to draw near and tells them, “I am Yosef your brother whom you sold to Mitzrayim.”

What is Yosef adding with that second statement that he had not already just said? Also, why does he now refer to himself as “your brother” when he did not do so earlier? In Matamei Mordechai, I suggest an answer to both questions based on an insight I once heard from the Lakewood Mashgiach, Rav Mattisyahu Salomon, may he have a refuah sheleimah.

The Mashgiach quoted the words of the Rambam (Matnos Aniyim 10:2) on the imperative of giving tzedakah: “All Jews… are like brothers, as is stated, Banim atem laHashem Elokeichem, and if brothers will not be merciful to each other, who will be?” Why, he asked, did the Rambam choose not to cite any of the many pesukim in which Jews are described openly as brothers to each other and instead selected a pasuk in which we’re called sons of G-d but not brethren?

He explained that with this, the Rambam conveys an important principle: The brotherhood of Jews is founded solely in our shared status as children of the Divine based on our fealty to Him, and to the extent that our relationship with Him is impaired, so too is our brotherly bond undermined. We are sons first, and only then brothers. Precious and fundamental as Jewish unity is, it must be understood in its authentic sense and the source whence it springs.

In this light, we can understand why Yosef initially declines to call himself the brother of the shevatim. As the Beis HaLevi explains, the rhetorical question of “Is my father still living?” embodied a devastating critique of his brothers for subjecting their father to decades of agony over the perceived loss of his beloved son. To the extent they had ruptured their relationship with Yaakov, Yosef, too, did not see them as his brothers. Only when Yosef observes his brothers’ humiliation before him, signaling their anguish over how they had treated their father, does he draw them near and once again call himself their brother.

I was reminded of this idea — that national unity is built on a shared higher purpose — upon reading Rabbi Meir Soloveichik’s critical review in the September Commentary of Yoram Hazony’s new book, The Virtue of Nationalism. The reviewer, who leads Manhattan’s Congregation Shearith Israel, turns to Abraham Lincoln for an understanding of American nationalism and questions whether the version of nationalism Hazony presents “reflects the richness of Lincoln’s understanding not only of America — but of biblical Israel as well.”

Mr. Hazony contrasts two political philosophies: nationalism, under which nations control their own independent destinies and pursue their own interests, with imperialism, which seeks to unite mankind, as much as possible, under a single political regime, as seen in the internationalist tendencies of America and Europe of the last three decades. He sees the Bible as displaying a clear preference for nationalism, which is why the People to whom it was given was unique in eschewing the allure of empire, even at the height of national strength.

Although he concedes that in its extreme form, utopian pan-Europeanism is “in tension with the biblical approach,” Rabbi Soloveichik takes issue with Hazony on the nature of biblical nationalism and, by extension, its parallel in the American experience.

He begins by noting a striking phrase in Lincoln’s 1861 address to the New Jersey state legislature while on his way to his inauguration in Washington, D.C., in which the president-elect calls America an “almost chosen people” — “not chosen,” he writes, “but ‘almost chosen.’ Unlike European nations that saw themselves as superseding the Jewish people, America imitates Israel but does not replace it.” Lincoln understood, writes Rabbi Soloveichik , that

the original chosen nation, biblical Israel, was formed not merely for a national existence, but for something higher and greater, so that all families of the world would be blessed. America’s story is parallel to, and an imitation of, Israel’s. The story of the birth of the American founding is about more than “national independence”; it is about an “original idea” of liberty and equality, one that holds out “a great promise” for all the world. This imitation of Israel, for Lincoln, is the heart of American exceptionalism.

And if, indeed, America’s national character can only be understood by way of biblical Israel’s, then the latter’s genesis story is most instructive:

Israel becomes a nation through the covenant at Sinai; or rather, the Israelites’ union to one another takes place only through its pledging a loyalty to the G-d of Israel and to His Torah. All this is meant to remind Israel that once it enters the land, and takes on the trappings of a standard polity, it still has a calling higher than the state itself….

If there is a central political message for Israel throughout the Bible, it is this: For Israel to deserve independence, it must remember that it exists for a calling more important than independence itself. Israel’s story is thus not easy to compare to that of other nations.

This understanding of nationalism through a biblical lens, which in turn serves as a model for America’s own political self-perception, is no mere abstract philosophical notion. It has ramifications that are as relevant as today’s headlines and policy debates. Rabbi Soloveichik writes that for Jews,

loyalty to the Torah is above loyalty to the community, and when the two come into conflict, the former supersedes the latter, just as when loyalty to the Torah comes into conflict with familial bonds, the former supersedes the latter. [I]t is our hope that our children will come to understand that it is ultimately the Torah, not us, to which their most profound loyalty must adhere — and that their dedication to the Jewish nation should ultimately be an extension of their dedication to the Torah, not the reverse. If they do not come to revere Torah more than they revere us, we will have failed, both as parents and as Jews.

In a similar sense, for America, attachment to country and countrymen can indeed teach one to revere the sources of the founding. But ultimately we are called to learn that the American idea must be revered more than national self-interest, and that ultimately our loyalty to one another as Americans should be founded on loyalty to America’s founding ideas, not the other way around….

America’s biblically based understanding of its story, and of its role in the world, means that its covenantal ideals of liberty and equality impose on us at times a higher calling than mere self-interest. One can certainly be wary of entanglements overseas while still asserting that American power can, and at times should, be wielded to advance the principles of the American idea, which America considers a calling that extends beyond national self-interest itself.

Last week, I wrote that George W. Bush had read hundreds of books while in office. Those included no less than 14 biographies of Abraham Lincoln.

Another too-little-known fact about Mr. Bush: Last May, he received the Atlantic Council’s Distinguished International Leadership Award for his President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR) initiative, which has helped save millions of lives in Africa. That led writer Christian Caryl — a political opponent of Mr. Bush — to assert that he would “go down in history as the greatest humanitarian to have served” as president. In accepting the award, Mr. Bush explained, “In 2003, we decided that the greatest, wealthiest nation ever had a moral responsibility to intervene…. We recognized, too, that the United States had a national security imperative to act.”

After reading Rabbi Soloveichik’s essay, somehow I feel those two things — devouring those Lincoln biographies and founding the monumental PEPFAR that has done so much for so many humans beings, none of whom ever voted for him or might ever do anything for America — are not unrelated.

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 741. Eytan Kobre may be contacted directly at kobre@mishpacha.com