For others, the city is their familiar place. The rhythm of traffic, apartments, and life going on 24 hours a day is their comfort zone.
It’s the difference between ‘Thank God I’m a country boy’ and ‘A New York state of mind’.
The challenge is we may become so used to one way of living, we could not imagine another.
The same is true for our ancestors in Egypt – for generations they live and work as slaves, surviving day to day, if they are able to survive at all. And despite the tales of our Sages that praise our ancestors for their small rebellions against Pharaoh’s control, we can imagine they live in fear – that fear becomes their normal place, slavery their expected fate, and hope – a commodity they dare not contemplate.
And then, God ordains the first Passover, Pesach Mitzrayim – even before we leave Egypt, we observe what becomes the Seder we celebrated last night and again tonight. In the moments prior to when our ancestors sit down to the meal, once they’ve spread the lamb’s blood on the door, God instructs them, “Do not leave your homes until the morning.”
God promises to protect our ancestors, but at the same time they must stay indoors – literally indoors, not even standing one toe’s length beyond the door frame.
It appears we are protected but only under specific circumstances. Like Cinderella, the power of protection has limits – She cannot stay out past midnight, the Israelites must stay inside.
Isaac Abravanel notices this situation – especially the fact that the Israelites are so filled with fear, that despite God’s promise to protect them, they are concerned about staying home. Abravanel suggests they are worried lest the Egyptians, feeling sore and perhaps vengeful over the 10thplague, will break into their homes and kill them.
God tells them they are not safe in the street – as Rashi explains, the destruction out in Egypt cannot distinguish between those who are good and those who are evil. And they feel they are potentially also unsafe in their own homes.
Abravanel explains God offers reassurance by saying the Maschit, the destroyer, will not enter their homes.
But the fear remains.
And this fear arises from their status in Egypt but also because their residences are unknown to them as safe places.
The country person likely would feel similarly anxious in the city, wondering at the hordes of people and whether it’s safe in an apartment surrounded on all sides by people they may not know unlike their familiar country town.
The city person likely would feel anxious in the wide open country, possibly with no neighbors anywhere close by, no 24/7 stores to retreat to when the night makes unfamiliar sounds.
We find a situation here that is uncomfortable for our ancestors – they are stuck, vulnerable, on edge, ready to leave Egypt but unable to leave yet.
As reassuring as the Haggadah is – that liberation and redemption were real – our parshah this morning reminds us never to lose that discomfort, that sense of wondering what is next since we just do not know what’s about to happen.
If we get too comfortable at home, we risk getting used to one way of living and not even wanting to go out. The ability to stream entertainment and order everything to our homes is very real now for us.
If, on the other hand, we leave home behind, remain wanderers, boldly on our own, relying only on our own strength and own perspectives, then we risk never seeing the world through the eyes of others, gently over time.
Somewhere between the city and country, somewhere between the wilderness and the settled land of Israel is where we will become one people and God’s partner – somewhere in the vulnerable and exposed middle-space where nothing but the invisible God of the Universe speaks is where we discover that freedom and that identity whose name we inherited long before – Yisra’el – the ones who both listen to and challenge God to reveal more truth today than we knew yesterday.
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