Words are the narrow bridge across the abyss between soul and soul, between two human beings, and between humanity and G-d

His brothers saw that their father loved him more than all his brothers, so they hated him and could not speak with him peaceably. (Bereishis 37:4)

R

abbi Yehonasan Eybeschutz points out the construction of this phrase: they could not speak with him. Completely unable.

Had the brothers been able to speak to Yosef, they might have told him of their anger at his talebearing, and of their distress at seeing the multicolored coat. They might have spoken frankly about their humiliation at the way their father favored Rochel over their mother Leah.  Yosef might have come to understand their feelings. It might have made him more modest or at least more thoughtful.

But they simply couldn’t bring themselves to speak. (Rabbi Jonathon Sacks, Covenant and Conversation)

“Arggh!! Ma!!” Loud wails sound from the boys’ room.

“Oof, Mommy!!” Stomping feet march to the kitchen to find me.

I don’t know about your home, but in ours, we sometimes have a hard time with being rodef shalom. We’re more into the rodef part….

Arbitrating altercations is part and parcel of a mommy’s job, but what often irked me is that I couldn’t even figure out what was going on. I’d arrive at the scene to find one child upset and another one smirking, but hey, how was I supposed to referee when no one would say a word?

So way back when I only had a few girls, I instituted a magic phrase. There’d be a wail, a thump, or a yell, and I’d pop in and remind them, “Say the magic words….”

“Please can you stop?” shrieked younger sister to older. And then everything had to stop. She’d said the magic words that would protect her against all harm. And older sister was not going to play around with the power of these magic words, because she knew she might need their effect tomorrow if younger sis would touch her homework….

As the Ramban writes, “Those who hate tend to hide their hate in their heart.”

Hate grows in silence. From their silence, the brothers plot to kill Yosef, then throw him in a pit and sell him into slavery. A terrible story that ended in Bnei Yisrael’s slavery in Mitzrayim.

Suffice it to say that with consistency and repetition, this magic intonation worked well and was even adopted by the male half of the family as they came of age. While my boys would prefer a good physical reminder, one sib to the next, they, too, respected the power of saying it in words, albeit at a higher decibel than their sisters.

“Please can you STOP!” they’d roar.

And stop they did.

The Gemara (Berachos 26b) says:  “Conversation is a form of prayer.” In opening ourselves up to another human, we’re preparing for the act of opening ourselves toward Hashem. Prayer is a conversation with G-d.

Conversation doesn’t, by itself, resolve conflict. The two conflicting people may still have clashing desires or competing claims. They may simply not like one another. There’s no law of predetermined harmony in humans. But conversation means that we recognize one another’s humanity, allowing us to see the other’s point of view. 

Judaism is about the G-d Who cannot be seen, Who can only be heard; about the G-d Who created the universe with words. The Sages were eloquent in speaking about the dangers of lashon hara, the power of evil speech to fracture relationships. But there’s evil silence as well as evil speech.

Words are the narrow bridge across the abyss between soul and soul, between two human beings, and between humanity and G-d. Opening conversations is a path to peace.

A recent incident drove home how far this lesson has come along in our family. I was babysitting my granddaughter while her mother was resting with their new baby. It was a rainy afternoon and Shloime was bored, looking for some action. Seeing his two-year-old niece dressing her dolls and feeding them, Shloime leaned over to one of the dollies and pulled its hair.

“Wah!!” wailed little one.

Smirk, escaped big boy.

A few minutes later a louder wail pierced the room. It was clear who was the culprit, but I wanted my granddaughter to understand she could fend for herself.

“Zeeskeit, you know what you could tell Shloime?” I asked, about to discuss the power of words.

But she beat me to it. “Yes! Shomy peas can you stop!”

Wow. Magic has become mesorah.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 923)