Joseph, part 1: Because of His Dreams

Hey, everyone. Justin here. Welcome to season eight. We are devoting this entire season to

one uninterrupted multi-part telling of the story of Joseph, and I'm delighted to take

this journey with you. Now, some of the initial ground that these first few episodes will

encompass, we covered a while back on the show, but we've painstakingly rewritten, re-nerrated,

and rescored it all for this season. I hope it blesses you.

And then one note, so that you're not distracted when you get to this point of the episode, I

wanted to let you know ahead of time that you might be surprised by a couple of details

in our telling of the story, specifically who sells Joseph. We have reasons, of course,

for the choices we've made. And if you're wondering what those reasons are, I'm sharing

them and some other really interesting things about this story in this week's edition of

the latest in email. I send out to quite a few of you every other week. If you're not on

that list, you can sign up for free at HolyGoStories.org or by clicking the link in the show notes.

And if you're listening to this after March 9th, 2026, you can head to the archives of

the latest and check out the issue from the week of March 9th.

All right. How about a story?

Why does it sometimes feel as though God is far away? When loss or sorrow or hardships slips

in like a thief, what can we conclude that our dreams of a protective father's love were

naive and childish, that he is nowhere near, that we are as we've always feared alone?

This is the story of a man living through the varied movements of a divine symphony.

The brisk, lively sonatas, the slow plotting adagios, the minuetes that call for dancing

and the thrilling, emphatic finale. It's good music if you can survive it. I'm Justin

Gerhardt. Welcome to HolyGoStories.

The old man works carefully in the lamp light. His feet hovering atop the trebles of

the loom, raising and lowering the shafts, bringing each into play like a conductor calling

various instruments to the fore. His eyes glisten as he surveys the emerging material

with pleasure, so many colors, dyes acquired at great cost, a dear price, for a dear son,

the dearest of his twelve boys.

Red like the color of a robin's breast, a pink of a spring sunrise, green you could

mistake for the Hebron Valley itself, purple like a king's robe. And all of these shades

here in one place as if they were a collection of Jacob's hopes and dreams tucked away in

this singular garment of his own design. Did his mother teach him how to weave during

all those hours he spent with her among the tenths, his brother outhunting? The sound

of her voice echoes perhaps. Remember my son, the most important thing is to keep consistent

tension on the yarn, too tight, and the whole thing will be twisted, too loose, and you'll

have a cloth that's flimsy. The right tension creates something beautiful and strong.

The loom clatters on in the night, a blur of wood and ropes obediently responding to Jacob's

inputs, feet falling and rising, hands tugging the beater and then sending the shuttle back

and forth across the warp fabric woven in the push and pull. It's the kind of work that

lets your mind wander. Jacob thinks perhaps of his own father, of his longing, all those

years to be seen by that man, loved as much as his brother. What he would have done for

Isaac to show him affection or approval like this, Jacob thinks of the day his beloved

Joseph was born, the son of his old age, the first born child of his most cherished and

long-bearer and wife, Rachel. He had other sons, of course, Lee's children, Billhaw's

children, Zilpaw's children, but Joseph and Benjamin, they're the only ones with their

mother's eyes. And with Rachel gone now, lost in childbirth, delivering Benjamin, he flashes

back to her fading smile as Benjamin lay crying with the umbilical cord draped across his

belly, those eyes could not be more precious to Jacob. How delighted he'd been that day

he held Joseph for the first time, an immediate preference. So that was what his father felt

when he looked at his brother, ESAW. Generational patterns can be hard to break. Slide of the

shuttle, push of the pedal, pull of the beater. Jacob thinks now perhaps about the report,

17-year-old Joseph brought back recently about his brother's performance as Heardsmann. It was

not favorable. Frustrating those boys' mediocrity. Why can't Jacob's other sons be more like Joseph?

Yes, he's chosen the right boy, brilliant, effervescent, and the son of beloved Rachel.

Time to abandon all pretense and crown him the functional firstborn with this robe,

a symbol of his love, promised that anyone who would harm Joseph will answer to Jacob. It will be

like a coat of armor, a father's protection against the aggressions of a cruel world. Who says

you can't protect your child from hardship? The others won't be happy, but they'll get over it,

surely. It looks ridiculous on you. A coat of many colors for a boy of many faults.

Let me borrow it, Joseph. I need to wipe off this cow dung I stepped in. Joseph ignores his

brothers as he walks past on his way to gather firewood. It's a beautiful day, and he will not let

his brothers ruin it. Suddenly he's flat on his face. Chuckles all around as Zebulin withdraws his

foot. Joseph gets up, staring back at all of them defiantly. Alongside the hatred in their eyes,

there is envy, hurt. He knew they'd despise this coat as soon as his father gave it to him,

undeniable evidence of his status as the favorite son. He's too young to navigate the

politics of toxic family dynamics well, and it often shows. But he's prayed about this surely,

about them. Almighty God, take away my brother's jealousy. Show me how to make them like me,

how to make them respect me. I feel lonely, God. You know I always keep going. Help me keep going.

He walks on, stopping every so often to grab a fallen branch, snapping off the weakest parts.

He's surely Joseph wants what all teenagers want, to exert control over his surroundings,

to act rather than just being acted upon. Perhaps he has a sense even that he's destined for power.

Is that just his father's partiality, conveying a sense of entitlement, or is it something else?

Joseph lies in bed that night, rehearsing the day, perhaps, the ridicule, his prayers,

the fox he saw at the creek, the way it looked at him, studying him as if it were sizing him up,

the way it startled when that kingfisher dove and troubled the water.

He drifts off to sleep just as he has more than 6,000 times before.

But this night is different. Tonight, Joseph dreams a dream more vivid than any other in his life.

He's out in the field with his brothers, and they're harvesting wheat. The air is housey, and the

sun low and golden, the sickle has been put to the stalks, and now the sons of Jacob are binding

the grain into sheaves. Each one of them, even little Benjamin, ties off a bundle and lays it on

the ground, 12 bundles and all. But then Joseph's sheath stands upright as if it's alive. His

brothers sheaves then come to life as well, but they gather around Joseph's. Then Joseph

stares in wonder as his brothers sheaves bow down to his own, reverent, humble, submissive,

then he's awake, blinking in the darkness. The image is flashing as he calls them back into his mind.

There's

bowed down

before mine. This was no ordinary dream. He knows, without knowing exactly how he knows,

this dream was from the Almighty.

Almost harvest time, Ruben says. Joseph watches his oldest brother glancing out from the fire

toward the fields beyond. Dusk has bloomed the sky, prompted the nightingales,

and given permission for the sons of Jacob to rest after a long day of shepherding.

Joseph looks around the circle while the flames cast light and shadow on his older brothers,

Dan, Gad, Issacar, Naftali, Zebulin, Asher, Levi, pragmatic Judah,

Balakos, Simeon, indecisive Ruben. The men laugh with each other, passing around dried meat and

town gossip. No one hands either to young Joseph. No matter, he has news of his own.

Listen to this dream I had. It doesn't take long to recount, but by the time he's finished,

the mood around the campfire is decidedly different.

annoyance, disdain, the pregnant silence.

But then one of them laughs. This starts the others laughing.

Is that your plan, Strypling? Are you really going to rain over us?

No, I don't know. He has a robe. Zebulin, get up. Give him your tree stump as a throne.

As someone go get some brambles and make him a crown, more derisive laughter.

Rule over us. The words are repeated as heads shake and loathing fills the air.

Joseph gets up perhaps and walks away. His cheeks red and his heart racing.

And perhaps he should have known it was not the right audience for this news.

Perhaps he should keep his dreams to himself.

But as he falls asleep that night, he sees more.

Joseph is standing outside. The Judean hills laid out around him like gentle waves.

It's the middle of the day. No, he looks up. Stars are shining like lanterns in the sky.

It must be nighttime. Wait, how can he see the sun and the stars at the same time?

One, two, three, four, five, eleven stars. And there's the moon. All of them shining beside the sun.

But they're moving now. Each celestial body shifting downward at speed as if the earth itself

were spinning on some radical new axis. They move first to mid-sky, then down to the horizon,

sunset, and moon rise and circumpolar star shine all at once. And then the horizon drops away

and the sun, the moon, and the eleven stars fall down somehow at his feet, bowing before Joseph

in cosmic obeisance. He wakes heart-lashing eyes wide with wonder, the same dream as before,

different, of course, but the same, surely the same, a message from the Almighty, a prophecy.

A prophecy? He has to tell someone, his father. And maybe,

maybe his brothers. Joseph knows it didn't go well last time, but they've had time to cool down.

And he's prayed that they need to know that he wasn't making the first dream up. This dream is proof.

Desires for vindication, for respect, for connection, for comeuppance, all jostle inside him.

He decides to tell them, all of them. He just needs the right opportunity.

Smoke rises as fire consumes the sacrifice. Y'all weigh in hails, smiles, exhales,

watches. Jacob's hands trembling with age gesture to his sons and their wives,

queuing them to sing. Joseph, as usual, perhaps offers fervid praise, oblivious to the sound of

his voice rising awkwardly above the others. The family bows to pray, and finally rises to leave.

Wait, Joseph says, a raised eyebrow on more than one brother. I had another dream.

If his siblings turn around to leave, Joseph stops them. I did, and this time the sun, moon,

and stars, eleven stars were bowing down to me. Anger, discussed even on the faces of Naftali and

Asher and Simeon and Judah and Dan all of them. Joseph looks to his father. The father who loves

him above all the others, seeking an oasis of validation in this desert of contempt.

But Jacob's face is vexed. It's too far, this dream business. He gave the boy the robe,

set to seal on his favor. Was that not enough? Is his clear preference not enough? Now,

the boy wants to rule, not just over his brothers, but his own father, absurd, outrageous, selfish.

What kind of dream is this that you have had? He says to Joseph, or your mother and brothers,

an eye going to come up and bow down to the ground before you? Joseph wills. But even so,

a thought comes to mind. If it was a supernatural dream, then it didn't come from me.

What can I do about the plans of God? As the days pass, Joseph cannot stop thinking about what

he saw those nights. What these things might mean. It will be a long time before it all becomes clear.

It's been quiet in Jacob's house the last couple of weeks, peaceful even. No yelling,

no passive aggressive infighting, no silent, but unignorable tension, a welcome respite.

After the second dream, things threatened to get out of hand, and so Joseph's father sent the

older sons to Sheikam with the flocks, 50 miles away, far enough, hopefully, to give them a

chance to cool off. But with each passing day, Joseph has seen his father's face grow heavier

with concern. Would my sons take the flocks for themselves? Settle in Sheikam and leave their old

man without help? Your brothers, Jacob says to Joseph, are pasturing the flocks at Sheikam.

You know this, Joseph nods. I'm sending you to them. I want you to see what they're up to.

I'm ready, Joseph replies. Surely Jacob counsels Joseph to keep his distance and just observe.

Surely Jacob knows that if his older sons find out Joseph has been sent a spy on them, things might

escalate. When Joseph arrives in Sheikam, his brothers are nowhere to be found. Has it happened?

Did they make off with my father's sheep? But as Joseph scans the horizon, he sees a man approaching.

Joseph moves toward him. What are you looking for? The man asks.

I'm looking for my brothers, the shepherds. They would have been here pasturing their flocks.

Did you see them? Can you tell me where they went?

They've moved on from here, the man says. I heard them say, let's go to dofen.

What are the chances that Joseph would encounter the very person who overheard

minimal, surely? What a serendipity. Miraculous almost.

Joseph sets out across the 15 miles of land stretching north from Sheikam to Dofen.

It's more dusty than usual, what with the recent lack of rainfall. Many of the sisters,

he's noticed, are empty. If someone fell in, there'd be no water near the surface to catch them.

Keep falling. When he approaches the town, Joseph sees hundreds of sheep grazing in the distance,

and one, two, three, ten shepherds keeping watch. Since they're keeping watch, however,

they spot Joseph. At the same time, he spots them. He's not hard to see, of course,

thanks to that robe he's always wearing. At this point, things accelerate rapidly.

One look at Joseph obviously sent by their father to check on them, and the brother's anger

starts to simmer. While Rubin is somewhere further off with one of the flocks,

one of his brothers sees Joseph and calls to the others, here comes the dreamer.

At this, the sons of Jacob convene the way men with a common enemy are want to do.

Whispering together, looking over their shoulders, their envy and bitterness conceive,

and give birth to a plan. Come on, let's kill him. Let's kill him and throw him into one of the

sisters around here. Who says it first? Is it Simeon, or Levi, the brothers whose murderous revenge

on the town of Sheikam eight years ago sent the rest of the family into a shocked state of horror?

Did the others balk when these words are spoken? Are they offered initially in jest?

If they are, they soon gain momentum amidst this miniature mob.

We can say that a vicious animal ate him, one of them brainstorms.

Joseph gets closer, it's clear his brothers have recognized him, and so he approaches directly

unaware of the plot being hatched. Yes, another times in, then we'll see what becomes of his dreams.

By this point, Rubin has joined the others, hearing their plan, he intercedes.

Let's not take his life. The others look at him as if to ask what side he's on,

and Rubin adds, don't shed blood, let's throw him into this pit out here in the wilderness,

but let's not beat him, kill him. The nine others think for a moment, a nod, death by starvation in a pit,

certainly not letting Joseph off the hook. Rubin, though, has a more

reasonable path in mind. Once their thirst for revenge has been slaked a bit, he thinks he can

circle back to the pit a couple of hours later, pull Joseph out and bring him home. His brothers

will thank him in the end. Joseph finally reaches them, curious perhaps at the attention fixed on him

as he draws near, but then as soon as he's within reach, he sees his brothers lunging at him,

grabbing the flapping edges of his robe, a flurry of fists grasping red, the color of their

pent-up rage, pink like their flushed cheeks, green you could mistake for unbridled envy,

purple like the robe that 1800 years from now will adorn the scourged Christ.

Joseph kicks and punches as they rip the robe off him and grab his flailing arms and legs,

they're older, stronger and there aren't too many of them. In the blur of skin and hair and sweat

and color, Joseph can feel himself being dragged. In moments his toes are balancing on the edge

of a black cavity, Joseph shoves his weight backward, but it's not enough. The sons of Israel

heaved their father's favorite child into the pit, his cries echoing in the blackness as he falls,

a dull thumb marking the nature of his descent.

Breathing heavy and wiping the dust from their clothes, Zebulin Levi, Judah, Dan,

Simeon and the others stand well atop their arrogant Zebulin, who's bowing now.

From below, Joseph hears them begin to walk away and yells, what, a plea, an indictment,

a curse, and perhaps all three in succession as it becomes apparent that they are not

turning around. In the darkness, the eleventh son of Jacob prays, surely to his God.

This is not what he dreamt about.

Ten brothers sit down for a meal, famished after a hard day's work.

They sit well out of earshot of the pit, of course, nothing ruins an appetite like one's brother

pleading for his life. The shepherds pass around the bread and the cheese, as they eat, they spot

something in the distance. Traders, Ishmaelites judging from the size of the caravan, on their way,

no doubt, from Gilead to Egypt. Ishmaelites, descendants of their grandfather Isaac's brother Ishmael,

a boy cast out of his father's camp, left for dead in wilderness, just several dozen miles from

here, in fact. He did not die, though, where it is Ishmael ended up in Egypt and raised 12 sons,

each of whom now leads a clan of his own. How does something like that happen? A reversal of that

magnitude. The camels of the Ishmaelites lumber along the dusty road, loaded down with wares,

frankincense, resin, and balsam, all mined from the hearts of northeastern trees, refined,

and now bound for incense, perfume, and medicine, in the land of Pharaoh. Ishmaelites imports,

shaping Egypt's worship, and romance, and wellness. Suddenly, as if inspired by amused,

Judah speaks up. What do we gain if we kill our brother and cover up his blood? Come,

let's sell him to the Ishmaelites, and not lay a hand on him, for he is our brother, our own flesh.

Judah's brothers are in an agreeable mood now that their bellies are full, and they nod,

one after another, considering their proposal. Avoid fracture side, and make some money on the

stripling. Not bad. But the Ishmaelites are not the only people on the road, and the brothers

take too long eating their lunch. A band of Midianites, also descendants of a son of Abraham,

are first to Joseph's sister, obscured perhaps by a hill or two between the pit and the spot where

Judah and the rest have been eating. Joseph's brothers haven't seen the Midianites, and as the band

of travelers passes by the sister, they hear someone shouting from within. Or perhaps they're

shocked when they stop here for a drink, only to find the whole void of water but occupied by

a boy. The Midianites then pull Joseph out, but not to liberate him. They tie him up and bring him

to the Ishmaelite traders. Joseph tries to argue, tries to bargain, then tries to run, but to

no avail. Battered now, he watches as they sell him for a couple of handfuls of silver.

The Ishmaelites load him up with the rest of their goods, and set off.

When Rubin shows up by himself to get Joseph out of the pit, the boy is gone, and the traders

are miles away. Eyes wide, he yelps, and drops to his knees.

Rubin horrified, tears his clothes in anguish. He runs back to his brother's shouting,

the boy is gone! What am I going to do? The men look at one another, startled no doubt at both

Rubin's surreptitious rescue attempt and Joseph's mysterious disappearance. It's now,

it seems that the sons of Jacob begin thinking about Jacob. They can't just return without Joseph,

and they certainly don't want the spectra of a lost, favorite son, haunting their father's

imagination. The possible return of Joseph would dominate their home even more than the presence

of Joseph always has. No, they must convince Jacob that Joseph is dead, gone forever. Give their

father closure. But in a way that removes any whisper of guilt from them, something that leads

their father to draw his own conclusions. Suddenly, someone has an idea.

Moments later one of them, Rubin or Judah maybe, is headed toward a colorful lump on the side

of the path. He grabs the robe they ripped from Joseph's shoulders and walks back to the others.

Meanwhile, another one or two head out into the bush, find a young goat and wrangle it to the

ground, securing its flailing legs. But why not just slaughter a sheep? They're surrounded by them,

of course, being shepherds and all. But perhaps that's the reason. Perhaps these shepherds can't

bear the thought of killing one of their sheep. Too valuable to beloved. You don't perpetrate

violence against a living breathing thing you love. In silence, the other's watch as one of them

pulls his knife across the animal's throat and another holds the rope beneath the warm,

spilling blood. Pink, green, purple, orange, blue, now painted a splattered red.

The father's favor, stolen, stained, stopped.

Hey, Justin here on behalf of the Hayes Fire Studios team. Thank you for listening.

And once again, welcome to season 8 of Holy Ghost Stories. I just want to take that in for a

second with you 8 seasons. Unbelievable. Hundreds of thousands of downloads,

amounting to hundreds of thousands of hours spent by people around the world encountering

Yahweh in his stories. And it just keeps going. All of this, of course, by the grace of God,

and thanks to listeners like you who give once or five times or every month to keep this work

going. We're five years in now. Thanks to our tribe of givers and I'm just so grateful.

If you have been listening for a while, you should join us. We could really use your help.

Any monthly gift matters, it's easy to donate at HolygoStories.org.

All right, finally, a shout out to the racking tours who lead our clan of monthly givers.

Patty, Dan and Jess, Joy, Jacob, Molly, Cory, Mitch, Steven, Easton, Alexia, Sean,

Epic, Ryan, Amanda, Susan, Carrie, Joy, David, Daniel, Deborah, Terry, Rachel, Travis,

Shannon, Cara, Dawn, Tiffany, Stephanie, Helen, Hildey, Susan, Whitney, Derek, Mindy,

Maddie, Eric, Brandy, Mark, Kimmy, Patrick, Liz, Stevens, Terry,

Nell, and Julie, Aaron, Jamie, Bill, and Trina, Jessica, Ken, Bethany, Sloan,

and Jamie. You're all my favorites. Thank you.

Holy Ghost Stories is a production of Hayes Fire Studios,

many scripted editing by J.L. Gerhardt, research, writing, narration,

and sound design by me, Justin Gerhardt. Till next time.