Beshalach 2018/5778: How do we leave Egypt?

You may have heard this story, it may be a true story, that Chaim was lost in the desert, desperately searching for water.  He came upon a lone building, which turned out to be a store.  He asked the owner, ‘Please, I need water, help me, I’m dying of thirst!’  The owner responded, ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, as you can see, I only sell men’s ties.  No water here. But there is an inn about 40 miles away.  Go there and they can help you.

The next day, late in the afternoon, the store owner saw Chaim dragging himself toward the shop.  ‘I see you came back’, the owner said.  Chaim responded, ‘Yes, I came back, they wouldn’t let me in without a tie.’

Our dress, our body language, our words, all combine to set the tone for us when we step forward into the world.

What tone, what message do our ancestors send to the world when they cross the Reed Sea to freedom as we will read today?

We think about this question today on Shabbat Shirah, the Shabbat we celebrate crossing the Sea and finally going free from Egypt. 

Today, January 27, is also International Holocaust Remembrance day – a day the United Nations established to remember the 6 million.  January 27 is the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau. 

And so today we also remember the day the last prisoners were set free from the camp, the gate opened, like the parting of the water for our ancestors.  As we remember the few who survived, we honor the memories of all those who did not, the same way many Israelites died in Egypt before they could witness liberation.

How do our ancestors leave Egypt?

One story, the Passover story we tell every spring, describes the way we leave at night, packing our things be’chi’pazon, quickly, in haste, so that we leave before Pharaoh may change his mind – again.

The other story is the one we read today:

וַיְחַזֵּ֣ק יְהֹוָ֗ה אֶת־לֵ֤ב פַּרְעֹה֙ מֶ֣לֶךְ מִצְרַ֔יִם וַיִּרְדֹּ֕ף אַחֲרֵ֖י בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וּבְנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל יֹצְאִ֖ים בְּיָ֥ד רָמָֽה׃ 

The LORD stiffened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, and he gave chase to the Israelites. As the Israelites were departing defiantly,

We leave ‘beyad ramah’, with a ‘high-hand’, translated here as ‘defiantly’, perhaps in comparison to the first leaving, the night time escape.  Here we are, in broad daylight, former slaves walking with heads held high, even as Pharaoh’s chariots approach.

But there is a spectrum of perspective on these two words and what they mean about how we present ourselves in that moment.

Rashi suggests we are daring, bold, to walk ahead in this way.

Ibn Ezra suggests we are moving slowly, confidently, not in the way of people who are trying to escape unnoticed.  Just the opposite, there’s something brewing here that Pharaoh himself will need to witness.

Chizkuni explains we’re leaving ‘totally confident’, with no worries about anything but the journey ahead.

Rabbi Yakov Tzvi Mecklenburg (Haktav v’Hakabalah) emphasizes we are singing on our way out, not preparing for war – we’ve finally found that our faith in God gives us confidence and hope.

The Rashbam cautions us, that our confidence, rejoicing and hope are short-lived.  We leave beyad ramah only until the people notice the Egyptians approaching, and then, the mood changes.

The Chasidic master, the Bal Shem Tov, once said, you can try to run away from your problems, but you will turn around and see your problems following right behind you.

I try to imagine the happiness, the uplift of walking out free into the wilderness and the utter fear of seeing the six-hundred chariots, symbols of Pharaoh’s power, his best soldiers.

But perhaps it is not only Pharaoh who’s coming after the Israelites – the chariots represent the power of Egypt that’s ruled over them for generations, and, try as they might to appear defiant, confident, and joyful, there is a recognition that you can take the Israelite out of Egypt, but it’s going to be much harder to take Egypt out of each Israelite.

They are in a moment of transition, vulnerable and exposed, and so I imagine their expressions to be neutral, more upright than when they were carrying bricks, but uncertain of the future now, of what their lives will be like, uncertain of what God will ask of them.

This moment is similar to a moment in the great film Chariots of Fire about Jewish athelete and gold medal winning sprinter Harold Abrahams.  After he wins the gold, his teammate comes right up to him, full of energy, in the locker room to congratulate him, but Abrahams is solemn and quiet.  The achievement is sinking in, he’s all of a sudden got to think about what will happen next.

We’ve all been in transitions moments like our ancestors experience at the sea.  When we might expect to be yad ramah, standing up tall, but we’re feeling in-between – who are we in this moment?  Have we changed?  Are we ready to face the next challenge or has the previous one drained us? 

Today, Shabbat Shirah, is a day to internalize the song of the sea, to make our ancestors’ celebrations a reminder that their joy is ours, their hope is ours, but also their reality check is ours too – the Rabbis themselves recognized the truth of this reality-check, when the Egyptians are drowning under the waves, the angels want to sing praises to God, the Redeemer, but God rebukes them saying, ‘How can you sing when my creatures are dying.’(Megillah 10b, Sanhedrin 39a) 

But still we sing – and walk forward into the wilderness, together, supporting each other, giving each other strength.