Parshas Beshalach: Miracles in the Mundane

Song is both the product of inspiration and a means by which one inspires others. We glorify songs because of how they make us feel, because they are built of language and sound that moves our soul. This duality of being both the product and the cause of inspiration is a fascinating aspect of the shira we refer to as As Yashir that is recorded in Chapter 15 of Shemos.

Az Yashir is the song that Moshe and Bnei Yisrael sang after their salvation at the Yam Suf (the Sea of Reeds). One can only imagine the adrenaline that fueled the emotions of the Israelites as they turned back and saw not only that behind them was a large body of water even though they themselves were totally dry, but that on the far side from where they had come Pharaoh lay wasted among his destroyed cavalries. The night had truly been one of miracles; and yet, it is interesting to note, the shiraseems to begin with the seemingly least miraculous aspect of the night – horse and rider thrown into the sea.

In celebrating the miraculousness of their survival, one might expect the Israelites to have immediately lauded the sea splitting beneath their feet or even its crashing back down upon their pursuers, but horse and rider thrown into the sea seems the most mundane part of the miraculous night. Of course, it was the last step in the destruction of the Egyptian kingdom, once the most powerful nation in the world, but the water of the sea creating walls with paths of dry land still seems to overshadow it.

Perhaps, however, the seemingly supernatural miracle was just too much for Bnei Yisrael to process. Also, of all the happenings of the night, seeing the destruction of the cavalry was the final act, and so remained that which was foremost in their minds.

Az Yashir, is also a song for the future. Based on the unique grammar of the words “Az yashir Moshe u’vnei Yisrael…Ashira la’Hashem – Then Moshe and the Children of Israel will sing…I shall sing.” It is understood that the shira is also a song that will be sung in the future. If that is the case, what might we be able to learn from this verse praising Hashem for hurling horse and rider into the sea? This question might even be strengthened by the fact that we no longer live in an era of cavalry, so even imaging a cataclysmic was – God forbid – we don’t imagine horses and riders. Therefore, we must find in this a different understanding.

Moshe’s shira started with the most immediate miracle, even if it was the most mundane, because the gratitude and the amazement would be universal, it was so fresh and so powerful in their memories. The actual splitting of the Sea was awesome – and thus perhaps too overwhelming for some people to process. By starting with the miracle that followed the dictates of nature (horses and armed riders in the middle of a sea have little chance of survival – disregarding how they got into that sea), Moshe was leading the greatest whole of the people with him to be inspired. Thus he declared and they repeated: I will sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously; Horse and rider He has hurled into the sea. The Lord is my strength and might; He is become my deliverance. This is my God and I will enshrine Him; The God of my father, and I will exalt Him.”

Past or future, supernatural or mundane, God is in everything and it is our job, as individuals and as a nation, to see the miracles in the mundane and to praise their true source.

Parshas Bo: History and the Future

 Anyone who pays attention to the weekly Torah portions will tell you that the overall text of the Torah is a mosaic of recorded history, genealogical records, and the giving of the law. What many may not have noticed was when the transition from history tome to guidebook begins and the lesson one can learn from it.

This week’s parsha, Parshas Bo, famously contains the first commandment given to the entire Jewish people – the commandment of Rosh Chodesh. As significant as that commandment was – in its historic place, in the important weight Rosh Chodesh plays in Jewish life – it is a surprisingly brief commandment. It is one simple pasuk: “This month shall be for you the beginning of the months, it shall be for you the first of the months of the year” (Shemos 12:1).

Looking at the commandment of Rosh Chodesh, particularly in contrast to the next verses which delineate the time frame of the taking of the lamb and the slaughtering of that lamb for the night that would become Pesach, it might seem that the purpose of telling them that this shall be the counting of a new month is only to mark time for the upcoming mitzvot and miracles. For the Israelites in Mitzrayim, however, this was perhaps a more wonderous command. The mitzvah of Rosh Chodesh given at this time was not simply about setting up a calendar. It was a foundation for envisioning a future. Not an easy thing to do coming out of slavery.

The next set of verses are very specific commandments for the moment, for the time of leaving Mitzrayim. These are the commandments to buy the lamb, to examine it, to slaughter it and mark the lintels with its blood, etc. But they are followed by a long set of verses that discuss the first commandment of a holiday, of a day on which no work shall be done, when one’s leavening has been taken from one’s house, and when there is a week-long celebration. The Israelites had not yet even made their matza. They believed freedom was coming, but they were still slaves. Why are these instructions here, especially as they are repeated later several times?

The fact is that these commandments are not wholey part of the law book of Torah but part of the history book. These verses are a recording of the words Hashem gave Moshe to inspire the Israelites to hope. Take the lamb, follow these special instructions, and know that in time to come your children will commemorate your actions with this festival following these laws. The revelation of the mitzvot of Chag Hamatzot is of similar value as the revelation of the mitzvah of Rosh Chodesh. They are declarations of the future, reassurances that there is purpose to their actions.

The narrative then continues with Makkos Bachuros, death of the firstborn, and Pharaoh and the Egyptian people finally telling the Israelites to leave. After that night, after those who held forth in faith, are evicted from Mitzrayim, finally set free, their travails are far from over. But following the same fashion of providing eternal laws as an assurance of the future, Hashem adds further rules to who may or may not eat from future Pesach offerings. These rules, which apply to alienated people, slaves, sojourners, hired labour, and prostelytes (12:43-48), make little sense when told to the just freed Israelites who have barely gotten themselves out of Mitzrayim and can certainly not think of how they will bring the Pascal offering on this same night the next year. Realistically, Hashem should have given these details the next year, at the approach of their second Pesach, but here again Hashem is giving them a sense of hope for the future… someday you will have people dwelling amongst you who can’t eat the Pesach lamb, and someday you will have people who are not from your family but whom you shall embrace as if they have always been of Bnei Yisrael.

Perek 12 concludes: “It happened on that very day; Hashem took the Children of Israel out of the land of Egypt, in their legions” (12:51). This is a statement of narrative conclusion, and indeed, the next section begins with a series of commandments that close out the Parsha. The transition is over. From here on out, the “storyline” of the Torah is woven between segments of law and the details of the Mishkan.

The significance of this transition is one each person must determine for themselves. However, one might say that the fact that the beginning of the Torah’s law book begins as part of the narrative is a poignant reminder that Bnei Yisrael is not a people simply because we share a common history but because our laws, our Torah, is our constant reassurance of our future.

No Monolithic Evil (Parshas Va'era)

 In a recent conversation, I was asked how I could possibly affiliate with a particular political party. While I understood where the question was coming from, my honest response, was that I was more __x__ than __y__, and I couldn’t – wouldn’t – be dishonest about that. But distinctions are a hard thing in society. It often leads to an assumption that one group must be ascendant over the other(s). Once an attitude of  “us versus them” forms, people begin to assume a belief (or at least the sentiment) that the them is bad or evil. It is interesting to notice, therefore, that much of this week’s Torah reading, Parshas Va’era, involves a very “black and white” type of group-building. And from this we can learn both the reasons that this can be necessary, and, at the same time, why such extreme thinking can blinding.

 

The dynamic of us-them is the heart of the story of the Exodus. The Egyptians enslaved the Israelites and set them into a life of oppression partially because they feared this small group who refused to give up their unique identity. When Moshe came to Egypt with the Divine assignment of freeing Bnei Yisrael, he had to enforce a clear distinction, which Hashem made clear through exactly who was affected by the makkos (plagues). When Pharaoh seems not to be understanding how much his obstinacy is hurting his people, Hashem even instructs Moshe to spell it out for him: “I will make a [deliberate] distinction between my people and your people” (Shemos 8:19).

 

Sometimes “us versus them” is necessary. This statement alone, under the mores of modern society, is probably making some people grow uncomfortable. When we speak about Moshe and the Exodus from Egypt we are talking about another age, about a time when Hashem, the Creator of the Universe and Ultimate Judge, showed clear signs to distinguish between nations. This is why the Torah could include a commandment to wipe out Amaleck, but our sages can tell later generations that we no longer have the ability to recognize, with certainty, who Amaleck is. Even a hint of bringing such dire judgement into one’s conversations today is uncomfortable because we have all been carefully trained on how to not judge others.  Most people I know have, at one time or another, uttered a statement of their being opposed to labelling others. This is, of course, a good thing because almost no individual fits into a perfect box of definitions and many labels come with unfair judgements of good or bad.

 

While we speak of this value of not judging to our friends and neighbors, each of us has to think how we as individuals and we as different communities are actually handling the fact that society is full of interwoven groups and types. Sadly, too often the message is given that such distinctions mean WE are good and THEY are bad.  Really, however, such broad terms hide the truth. Bnei Yisrael may be the Chosen Nation, but each individual member of the Jewish people is unique, and it is their independent actions that determine if they are good or bad. And just as this is so for our people, it is so for all other nations.

 

 

Hashem guided Moshe in his speech and in his actions as he set the makkos upon the Egyptian people. We must learn something different from Parshas Va’era. It would be easy to take a broad brush and state that all the MItzri,the Egyptians, were evil, and many have done so. The Mitzri, however, were also a nation of individuals. They had an exceedingly evil leader, yes. They had necromancers and advisors who encouraged evil, yes. But they also had an entire population of people who were not stuck in one box. The proof of this is even in Shemos 9, on the eve of the plague of hail, the Torah states: “Whoever among the servants of Pharaoh feared Hashem’s word brought their slaves and livestock indoors to safety; but those who did not fear Hashem left their slaves and livestock in the fields” (9:20-21).

 

The Mitzrim were not one giant mass of evil-minded people set on destroying Bnei Yisrael. Some chose to believe in and fear Hashem. Others, those referred to in 9:21, chose deliberately – the commentaries tell us – to ignore the Divine warning. And, I would image, there were a whole lot of Mitzrim who fell somewhere in-between.

 

“Us Versus Them,” broad definitions of the characters of other groupings, and, at the same time, a general fear of labelling true evil, are all issues that our societies are dealing with today. When we stop and look at Parshas Va’era, perhaps we can be reminded that most groups are not monolithic. True evil does, sadly, exist in this world, but (as far as I know) none of us have the Divine guidance that Moshe was given when he stood before Pharaoh. Our jobs are to look to ourselves and make certain that in every situation we can fall into the people of Shemos 9:20, they who feared Hashem’s word, and guide our actions thusly.

And Moshe Said (Parshas Shemos)

There are few more common words in the Torah then “Vayomer Moshe; And Moshe said.” It isn’t a phrase that stands out, and it is rarely a set of words that draws commentary. This is why, perhaps, there did not seem to be much written about Shemos 3:3’s beginning: “And Moshe said: ‘I must turn aside to look…’”

To understand why one might look for commentary on Vayomer Moshe, it is important to know the verses that come beforehand, or else one might think Moshe is in the middle of a dialogue with someone (which would make the question moot): “Now Moshe was shepherding the sheep of Yisro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian, and he drove the flock into the wilderness, and he came to Horeb, the Mountain of God. An angel of the Lord appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame, yet the bush was not consumed. And Moshe said, ‘I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn’t the bush burn up?’”

So who is Moshe talking to? He is alone on a mountain with a bunch of sheep. And we know he is alone because the Midrash famously explains that one of the reasons Moshe was chosen for leadership was that he went up onto this mountain chasing after a stray lamb, going out of his way to ensure the safety of the entire flock. So once again, to whom was he so politely explaining his decision to go look at the strange burning bush?

One could, perhaps, jump back to verse 3:2 and point to the presence of another sentient being. It clearly states that the angel of the Lord appeared to him. And yet, it seems, Moshe did not see this angel. Just because the angel appeared, just because the angel made itself visible, does not mean that it was seen. This is supported by the second half of verse 3:2, when the Torah appears to be narrating Moshe noticing and processing that there is a bush that was burning without being consumed.

This brings us back to the original question. Why isn’t verse 3:3 written in a more removed style? It might, perhaps, have made more sense had the verse been written: And Moshe turned to look at this great sight and wondered why the bush did not burn. Perhaps in this question we discover the true significance of the miracle at the sneh, the burning bush, that here we see how Moshe’s balance of neshama and goof, of spiritual and physical, was unique.

When Moshe says “I must turn aside to look…,” he is talking to himself. His intellect, the part of his brain tied to olam hazeh, is seeing a bush that refuses to burn. His neshama, his soul, is seeing the angel of Hashem. Moshe’s declaration of intent is, perhaps, a transcription of him going through the process of the neshama leading the goof (the spirit over the body). “And Moshe said…” Moshe’s spiritual side was actively guiding his physical self. It is perhaps telling that there is an etnachta, a trope that infers punctuation, at the end of the phrase “And I will go and see this great thing.” This etnachta separates the two sentences that are within the same verse: “Why doesn’t the bush burn up?” Perhaps the etnachta break is a means of indicating that the great thing was not the burning bush, but the angel of the Lord. Moshe’s brain could not yet process this, so he believed he was turning aside to look at the bush that did not burn, the miracle in the physical realm.

It is a well understood fact that the situation at the sneh was a major moment in Jewish history. It is the moment when Moshe accepted (begrudgingly) the job of redeeming the Jewish people. But perhaps the truly significant moment was when Moshe allowed his spiritual self to speak to his physical self, when he talked to himself so that his overpowering force of goof would find its own reason to wish to turn aside.

Conjecture such as this is, most interestingly, supported by the fourth verse of the perek: “And when Hashem saw that he had turned aside to look, Hashem called to him…” (3:4). When Hashem had confirmation that Moshe’s neshama could empower his goof, He immediately called out to him.

Moshe was the greatest prophet of all time. His ruchnias was able to actively redirect his gashmius, and therefore he was able to communicate with Hashem as no other could. And while most of us know that we are far from this madrega, this level, everything in Torah is recorded for us to strive toward. The angel appeared, Moshe gazed at the bush, and then Moshe went to examine it. There are times in each of our lives when we encounter something inexplicable – something even as mundane as a coincidence, as hashgacha pratis – and we gaze at it, but we fail to see what it actually is. The introduction of the burning bush is, perhaps, a subtle reminder for us to remember to stop an examine such events and find their true spiritual meaning.