Archive for Beshallach

Beshallach: A Dark and Stormy Night

Copyright 2023 Neal Joseph Loevinger

The first Torah portion in February, Beshallach, has an image made famous in illustrated Haggadot, Hollywood movies, even children’s craft projects. Who can forget the dramatic scene from movies like The Ten Commandments or The Prince Of Egypt, showing Moshe (whether animated or embodied by an over-the-top Charlton Heston), raising his arms in front of the astonished but frightened Israelites while the sea parts in front of them like a reverse tsunami? 

The image of Moshe splitting the sea all at once, like cleaving wood, is wonderful cinema, but, alas, Biblically incorrect. Read the verse closely and you’ll see where Hollywood departs from the text of the Torah: 

The pillar of cloud shifted from in front of them and took up a place behind them, and it came between the army of the Egyptians and the army of Israel. Thus there was the cloud with the darkness, and it cast a spell upon the night, so that the one could not come near the other all through the night.

Then Moses held out his arm over the sea and the Holy One drove back the sea with a strong east wind all that night, and turned the sea into dry ground. The waters were split, and the Israelites went into the sea on dry ground. . . (Exodus 14:19-22)

Notice the difference between the movies and the text? The Torah says that two things happened: there was a cloud of darkness upon the Egyptians all night, and during that time, an east wind blew upon the sea, driving it apart. Some rabbinic commentators say that the east wind dried out the seabed so the Israelites could cross, but the nuance here is that the moment of final escape from Egypt wasn’t actually a moment: it took an entire night of darkness and winds. 

The darkness seems like a replay of the 9th of the ten plagues prior to the Exodus (cf. 10:21), which can be understood as a moral condition as much as a supernatural event. Back in Exodus 10, we are told the plague of darkness lasted for three days, during which time people could not see each other. In other words, a society built upon oppression is one in which human beings cannot see each other in their full humanity. Not only are the oppressed not seen as fully human, but those who oppress deny their own souls, which are formed for compassion and which are defiled by exploiting another. 

So too, here at the edge of the sea, the Egyptian army is encased in a moral darkness, unable to draw close to one another, because an army bent on subjecting innocents has already denied the humanity in themselves. The full night of darkness, like the three days of darkness during the Plagues, has another purpose: it gives the Egyptians a chance to reflect, repent and choose a better course. The hours of gloom and east wind at the edge of the sea is God’s final plea to Pharaoh and his soldiers: stop now, think about it, don’t do this. We too often have opportunities to stop ourselves when on the wrong path, but like Pharaoh, plunge forward recklessly. 

The Sages noticed in verse 14:21 that the Torah doesn’t say “the waters of the sea” were split, but simply, “the waters,” and take this as hint that all the waters of the world, in cisterns and jugs and ponds, split along with the waters of the sea. Why would they offer such an unusual and unlikely interpretation? 

Because the crossing of the Sea of Reeds was a world-changing event, not just a pivot point of Jewish history. At this moment, the idea was reified that people are made in the Divine Image, with inherent dignity, and not to be oppressed as chattel. The Israelites moved forward with the radical idea that God is on the side of the oppressed, for justice, and not on the side of the slave-masters, for power. With the crossing of the sea, every brutalized population gained hope, and the seeds were planted for a new and revolutionary religious ethic of compassion, justice, and mercy. We’re far from that vision, but it leads us forward, then and now. 

(A version of this commentary will appear in the February Voice, the monthly paper of the Jewish Federation of Dutchess County.)

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Beshallach: the Art of our Ancestors

Copyright 2012 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach

As Pharaoh drew near, the Israelites caught sight of the Egyptians advancing upon them. Greatly frightened, the Israelites cried out to the Lord. . . . .(Shemot/ Exodus 14:10)

Good afternoon!

This week we read the climax of the Exodus story: the Israelites leave Egypt but are pursued by Pharaoh’s army, which drowns in the Sea of Reeds after it has been split to allow Israel safe passage on foot.

As the Egyptian Army approaches, the people see the pursuers, become frightened, and “cry out to God,” as in the verse above. While perusing the commentators, I noticed a comment by Rashi that practically leaped off the page, begging for further exploration. (I’m still amazed I never really noticed this before.) Explaining the phrase “cried out,” Rashi says “they grasped the art of their ancestors” [tafsu omanut avotam] and goes on to reference the idea that Avraham, Yitzhak and Yaakov each instituted or demonstrated various prayers or aspects of our liturgy.

I understand why Rashi might want  to link the people’s prayer to the prayers of the patriarchs; doing so reinforces the idea that the people were saved at least in part because of the merit of those ancestors and promises made to them. Yet the word omanut, which means art or craft, is a very interesting word to apply to “crying out,” especially since it is related to the word emunah, which means belief, which in turn is related to the common phrase amen, which means something like “I believe that.”

I can also understand calling liturgical prayer an “art,” in the sense that it involves intellect, skill and emotions- to master traditional Hebrew prayers takes some practice but also requires a personal, spiritual commitment, much like art requires both technical skill and emotional expression. Yet the “crying out” at the shore of the sea is precisely not a liturgical, fixed prayer, but a spontaneous expression. So perhaps Rashi is hinting that this, too, is a kind of skill or discipline passed along from generation to generation by our ancestors; even to know when and how to cry out requires spiritual openness and a sense that we are worthy of doing so.

I love the idea that prayer is the “art of our ancestors;” it conveys a sense not of obligation or fixed disciplines- though those too are aspects of Jewish prayer- but instead a sense of discovery, creativity, openness, vulnerability, honesty, and expression of our deepest truths. That kind of prayer can come out of “crying out,” but can also arise from gratitude, wonder, and love. We have been given a precious gift by our those who came before; the challenge is to make their art our own.

Shabbat Shalom,


P.S.- Happy Tu B’Shvat to one and all!

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Beshallach: All the Brothers

Copyright 2012 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach 

Dear Friends: 

This week the story of the exodus from Egypt reaches its climax, with the miracle at the sea and the great song in response. As the Israelites leave bondage in great haste, the Torah notes a small detail: 

“And Moses took with him the bones of Joseph, who had exacted an oath from the children of Israel, saying, ‘God will be sure to take notice of you: then you shall carry up my bones from here with you.’ ” (Shmot/ Exodus 13:19) 

I’ve written about this passage before, but not for a long time, so it’s time to revisit this verse, especially in light of a comment by Rashi that I didn’t consider prior to this year’s Torah reading cycle. First, please note, Moshe was probably not understood to be carrying a coffin, but an ossuary, a small box. Second, Moshe’s retrieval of the bones is the fulfillment of an oath made back in Bereshit 50: when Yosef was dying, he made his brothers swear to bring his bones up out of Egypt when the God redeemed them. 

Now onto something Rashi noticed and I didn’t: there is a slight difference between the report of that promise in this week’s Torah portion and where it is originally found in Bereshit 50. That’s the small phrase at the end of the verse quoted above: “with you.” The reason this little difference makes a difference is that Rashi assumes that the brothers weren’t going to be the ones to carry Yosef’s bones out of Egypt- their descendants would. According to Rashi, Yosef made them swear that they’d make their children swear to give Yosef a proper burial- and thus, “with you” (plural) means “your descendants will carry my bones out of Egypt along with all of your bones.” 

This completely changes our understanding of the verse. Rather than praising only Moshe for a singular act of filial piety, Rashi seems to believe that while Moshe carried Yosef’s bones, all the Israelites were involved in the rescue of the bones of their ancestors, bringing them out of Egypt towards repatriation in the Land of Israel. Not only does this understanding ascribe greater merit to the people as a whole, it also gives us an image of what it means to move forward on our journey: we cannot take just a piece of our history with us, but rather inevitably bring all of it. 

The image of the Israelites carrying the bones of the ancestors with them on their Exodus suggests to me that even when someone is going through a great transformation, they carry with them a legacy: of ancestors good and not-so-good, of deeds both loving and banal, of community and language and customs and hurts and strengths and all the rest of what makes us human. We can’t only carry Yosef with us- the proud and insightful leader- but we also carry Shimon, the zealot, and Reuven, whose failures of leadership and morality earned him rebuke from his father’s deathbed, and all the rest of the brothers and tribes. 

To be a people is to acknowledge that we are bound together with others across history and into a common destiny; to be thus bound, one to another, requires moral courage, because as much as we’d sometimes like to, we can’t leave any Jew outside the bounds of our community. That’s why all the bones of all the brothers came up from Egypt- because to be a people means to leave nobody behind. In our synagogues, schools, charitable institutions and defense organizations, we must try as best we can to be radically inclusive, to bring everybody in, to find a place for anybody who wants one. That, too, is a legacy of the Exodus; Yosef’s plea still calls us to action. 

Shabbat Shalom, 


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Beshallach: Battle and Fasting

Copyright 2011 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach

“Yehoshua did as Moshe told him and fought with Amalek, while Moshe, Aharon, and Hur went up to the top of the hill . . . . ”
(Shmot/Exodus 17:10)

Good afternoon, one and all. It’s a long and rich parsha this week, beginning with the Israelites crossing the Sea of Reeds, continuing with Moshe and Miriam leading the people in praise and dance on the other side, taking a detour into grumbling and conflict, and finishing on a somber note, with the nation of Amalek attacking the Israelites as they journey towards Sinai.

Yehoshua, Moshe’s second in command, leads the people in battle with Amalek, but Moshe himself, along with two others, ascends a hill above the battlefield to watch and pray. Our friend Rashi draws a halachic point from the verse quoted above; he says that the example of Moshe, Aharon and Hur going to the hill above the battlefield teaches that on a fast day, we have three people who lead the congregation in prayer, as the people were fasting that day.

Now, fasting during a battle doesn’t make much sense from the standpoint of physical strength and endurance, so we are meant to understand that there is an introspective and spiritual aspect to the battle with Amalek which is also important. The ancient rabbis see all the conflict and accusation in chapters 16 and 17 as setting the stage for Amalek to attack, either as a punishment or simply by dividing and weakening the people.

This does not, in any way, exonerate Amalek for their evil deed. Rather, the point of this midrash is that two things can be true at once:

1) Evil people do bad things and must be held responsible; Amalek must be fought.

2) Conflict and catastrophe are opportunities for reflection and introspection in order to atone for any part in making it possible for evil people to do terrible things. Fasting is one traditonal Jewish way of engaging in this reflection and atonement; hence Rashi making a connection between fasting and fighting with Amalek.

The past week has been a sad and difficult week in the United States; a sitting Congresswoman is fighting for her life after being shot, along with many others, in a senseless act of shocking brutality, which took the lives of young and old alike. President Obama, in his speech a few days later, used Biblical imagery to make essentially the same point that Rashi does: that justice and introspection are complementary responses to violence of word and deed. We must hold people accountable for their actions, and we must look within ourselves to ask how we, as individuals and as a community, may have contributed to allowing bad things to happen.

A third way of articulating this idea is something Heschel said in his book The Prophets: few are guilty, but all are responsible. That sense of responsibility, for self and others, is truly the foundation of a morally serious life.

Shabbat Shalom,


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Beshallach: Daily Liberation

Copyright Neal Joseph Loevinger 2010

Torah Portion Beshallach: Shmot/ Exodus 13:17-17:16

In Beshallach, the Israelites cross the Sea to safety, but after celebrating redemption, grumbling and dissension sets in. Amalek attacks the stragglers and the journey to Sinai begins.

Good afternoon! This week we have one of the clearest and most famous connections between the Torah and the siddur [prayerbook], in a quote from the Song of the Sea, which Moshe sings on the far shore of the Sea of Reeds after cruel Pharaoh’s army is destroyed while chasing the Israelites:

“Who is like You, O Lord, among the celestials;
Who is like You, majestic in holiness,
Awesome in splendor, working wonders!”  (Shmot 15:11)

Even those who go to synagogue only occasionally may remember these verses, recited after the Shma [declaration of Divine Unity} and before the Amidah [standing prayer] every morning and every evening:

Mi chamocha b’elim Adonai?
Mi chamocha, nedar b’kodesh . . . .

This quote is attached to a blessing which calls God the “redeemer” of Israel, and which not only recalls the great redemption from Egypt but also call for a new redemption:

“Rock of Israel! Arise to Israel’s aid! Remember Yehudah and Israel as You have promised, One Who redeems us. . . ”

It’s perfectly obvious from the siddur, or the Passover seder, or our holiday liturgies that the Exodus from Egypt is seen not only as the paradigmatic redemption but also one that prefigures an even greater miracle in the future- we recall the Exodus not to be nostalgic but as an act of radical (I might even say audacious) hope. Yet the grammar of the prayerbook is interesting: it calls God “redeemer” not only in the past tense, but in the present tense [go’alenu] as if the Exodus is happening right now.

Which, of course, it is.

We sing a piece of the Song of the Sea (and in many congregations, the whole thing) every day because every day, within each of us, redemption from Pharaoh is an ongoing possibility. Pharaoh wasn’t just a wicked king way back when- Pharaoh represents that aspect of human nature which treats others as mere means to self-centered ends, which sees humans only in terms of power, control, economics and institutional imperatives, rather than spiritual beings, manifestations of the Divine Image. The very job of Judaism is to overcome Pharaoh every day when we meet each other in right relationship, characterized by the fundamental attributes of hesed [loving-kindness] and tzedek [justice].

So it makes sense to recall the Song of the Sea every day, because every day is a potential liberation from the inner Pharaoh. Yet- to invoke Paul Harvey- don’t forget the rest of the story: after the joy of the miracle came the hard path of making a community and starting across the wilderness. That’s why we remember the Exodus twice daily: because we constantly have to do the work of leading ourselves away from Pharaoh, and towards Sinai, and every day we sing for joy in the opportunity to do so.

Shabbat Shalom,


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Beshallach: Awakening the Spirit

Copyright 2011 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach

We have just enough time to sneak in a
little bit of Torah study before Shabbat, and a good thing, too,
because the haftarah this week is the longest one of the year, in the
Ashkenazi liturgical tradition.

The Torah portion, Beshallach, concludes the story of the Exodus with
the crossing of the Sea of Reeds and a great song of gratitude once
the Israelites have reached the other side. In the haftarah, Devorah,
a prophet and judge, gives instructions to her general Barak to defeat
the enemy general Sisera. Sisera’s army is routed, he flees to the
tent of Yael, who lures him into a deadly trap, and once again a great
redemption song is offered by the leader of a grateful nation, in this
case Devorah herself. Because of the Song at the Sea and its related
haftarah, this Shabbat is actually called “Shabbat Shirah,” or the
Sabbath of Song.

The song of Devorah is considered by many scholars to be older than
the story which precedes it; it’s not hard to imagine that victory
songs were part of the ancient culture of tribal and national
leadership. There are other examples of exultant poems in the Bible,
including poems of gratitude from figures as diverse as Hanna and King
David. (Remember, in Hebrew, “shir” means both poem and song.)
Devorah’s song is poetry, but it’s also about war- she, like Moshe in
our Torah portion, is grateful to God that her people has been spared,
and the enemy has not.

Yet one line from Devorah’s poem has made its way from victory in war
to the peace of Shabbat:

” Awake, awake, O Devorah!
Awake, awake, strike up the chant!” (Shoftim/ Judges 5:12)

This line: “uri, uri, Devorah, uri, uri, daberi shir,” which literally
means “arise [or awake], Devorah, arise, my words of song,” was used
in the fifth verse of the famous Shabbat hymn “Lecha Dodi”:

“Uri uri shir daberi , Kavod Ado-nai alayich niglah. . . .”

Perhaps for poetic reasons, the author of Lecha Dodi switched the
words “daberi shir” to “shir daberi,” but the intent, as far as I can
tell, is the same: “arise, arise, the song of my words, let the glory
of God be upon you and revealed. . . ”

Lecha Dodi is also about redemption, in the classic Jewish
understanding: that one day we will be returned from exile and free
and peaceful in the Land of Israel. In the meantime, we only have a
little “taste” of redemption, in the peace of Shabbat. Yet Shabbat
doesn’t happen automatically: we have to awaken our consciousness to
embrace a day of gratitude, of reflection, of connection to others, to
God, and to our own deepest self. Just as an ancient victory could not
be taken for granted- one had to arouse oneself to a state of great
gratitude and praise- so too Shabbat slips from our awareness without
conscious and deliberate acknowledgment.

The songs of our soul don’t just happen by accident- we may be graced
by inspiration but we also choose the circumstances under which our
spirits are most likely to be opened wide. If we want to scale the
spiritual heights, we have to awaken our hearts and let them arise anew.

Shabbat Shalom,


P.S.- Some of my thinking for this commentary was sparked by this
week’s chapter in The Women’s Haftarah Commentary, edited by my
teacher and friend Rabbi Elyse Goldstein. You can check it out on
Google books- then go buy one!

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Beshallach: Being in Place

Copyright 2011 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach

This week’s Torah portion is Beshallach, which tells of the escape from Egypt, the crossing of the
Sea of Reeds, and the miracle of manna in the wilderness. The manna is
a miraculous food that the Israelites gather each day, but they are
told that on the sixth day they’ll gather enough for the sixth and
seventh, thus obviating the need to collect the manna on Shabbat, the
seventh day.

However, as will surprise few readers of this commentary, sometimes
the Israelites just won’t listen and have to find things out the hard

“Yet some of the people went out on the seventh day to gather, but
they found nothing. And the Lord said to Moses, ‘How long will you men
refuse to obey My commandments and My teachings? Mark that the Lord
has given you the sabbath; therefore God gives you two days’ food on
the sixth day. Let everyone remain where he is: let no one leave his
place on the seventh day.’ ” (Shmot/Exodus 16:27-29)

This passage is one of the few places in the Torah where Shabbat
practices are explicitly defined. In this case, we learn that one
aspect of Shabbat is not “going out from your place,” which is
understood by the ancient rabbis to mean that we should not go more
than a certain distance (a little less than a mile) from the town or
village or city or other inhabited place where we are on Shabbat. In
other words, somebody in a big city like Los Angeles or Toronto could
walk a few miles to visit a friend within the city, but somebody in a
small town might not be permitted to walk a mile outside of town to
visit their friend who lives out in the woods. [Please note: walking
and carrying things are two different issues, we’re only talking about
walking here.]

So the next question might be (actually, I can hear someone thinking
it out there): why is it OK on Shabbat, the day of rest, to walk miles
within the city but not OK to walk about 20 minutes outside the city
to visit someone in the nice green outdoors?

On the one hand, it’s a question of history: in ancient days, even big
cities weren’t miles and miles across like a modern metropolis, so we
should probably understand the intention of “staying in our places” as
not going from one city or town to another, that is, not setting out
on a journey.

Yet we can also understand the “Shabbat boundary” [techum Shabbat] as
a reminder to pay attention to the nature of the earth we’re standing
on during the 25 hours of Shabbat- it’s a kind of mindfulness of place
which refrains from the restlessness and excitement of needing to go
somewhere different. If you’re in the country, stay within a mile or
so of where you are; if you’re in the city, don’t leave your community
to go on a long trek across the fields or roads.

The practice of Shabbat teaches us not to need what we don’t have at
hand on Friday afternoon, including the need to be anywhere other than
where we are (excluding emergencies, of course.) With all the rushing
around the average North American does, it’s a tremendous spiritual
discipline to be relatively still for 25 hours- and only through
staying “in our places” can we truly notice, appreciate, and feel
blessed by the people and environment around us.

Shabbat Shalom,


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Beshallach/Shabbat Shirah: Leaders of Song

Copyright 2011 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach

Winter has arrived but the Israelites are leaving- Mitzrayim/Egypt, that is, in this week’s Torah
portion, Beshallach. (Also called Shabbat Shirah, or the Shabbat of
Song, for reasons which will shortly be obvious.) The Israelites go in
a hurry but soon find themselves stuck with the Sea of Reeds in front
of them and Pharaoh’s army behind them. The waters part, the
Israelites cross, and the Egyptian army is drowned when they pursue
after the fleeing slaves. Afterwards, both Moshe and his big sister
Miriam sing songs of praise to God for the great miracle of liberation:

“Then Miriam the prophetess, Aharon’s sister, took a timbrel in her
hand, and all the women went out after her in dance with timbrels. And
Miriam chanted for them:

‘Sing to the Lord, for The Almighty has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and driver God has hurled into the sea.’ ” (Shmot/ Exodus

Miriam’s song is short but its expression is interesting. The Hebrew
says “va’ta’an l’hem,” literally, she “answered to them,” but meaning
“called out to them” or as the JPS translates it, “chanted for them.”

Our medieval friend Rashi brings an earlier midrash to explain that
both Moshe and Miriam chanted the songs out loud and the people
repeated it back to them, “answering” the leader with the words of the
song. Picking up on this, the contemporary rabbinic scholar Adin
Steinsaltz, in his book Biblical Images, suggests that because Miriam
led the women in communal chanting and song, it proves her status as a
leader of the people in her own right.

To me, it’s obvious that Miriam is prominent among the Israelites, but
what’s more interesting about this line of interpretation is its
metaphor of leadership: the leader brings the people to song, brings
out their voice and helps them articulate their words of celebration
and hope. I love the image of Miriam and Moshe composing verses and
the people chanting them in response, for it suggests that Miriam and
Moshe were worthy to be leaders precisely because of their ability and
willingness to be creative and freely expressive with the people.

This, in turn, helps bring out the pent-up emotions waiting to be
expressed after years of oppression. Miriam’s leadership consisted not
of commands but of finding her voice so that she may help others bring
out their own. Seen this way, leadership can be understood as
consciously seeking to nurture the human potential of one’s
organization or community, and is practiced not only by great
prophets, but by ordinary humans who bring forth in others the song

Shabbat Shalom,


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Beshallach: Splitting the Sea, All Over the World

Copyright 2011 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach

This week we’re reading about Divine providence, which may or may not
correspond to the fact that I’m writing to you from city of
Providence. (Some questions are too deep for me.) Parshat Beshallach
is the grand finale of the Exodus narrative- the Israelites march
free, Pharoah’s army is drowned, and Moshe and Miriam lead the people
in joyous song. The image of the “splitting of the sea,” so that the
Israelites could escape the pursuing army, is well known, and retold
in many forms:

“And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and the Lord led the
sea with the strong east wind all night, and God made the sea into
dry land and the waters split.” (Shemot/ Exodus 14:21)

Rashi brings an interesting midrash to bear on the final detail of
the verse above- it hinges on the fact that “mayim,” or “water,” is a
collective noun in the plural form. Thus, it can mean a little water
or lots of water, an ambiguity which Rashi interprets in a surprising

” ‘and the waters split’.. . . . All the water in the world.” (Rashi,
quoting an earlier text.)

Huh? Why would Rashi say that some creek in Mongolia or a pond in
Topeka also “split” along with the Sea of Reeds? I see two
possibilities. First, if “all the waters in the world” split, then
obviously the miracle was that much greater, and if you’re going to
praise God for a great miracle, it might as well be the biggest one
you could imagine.

That’s a more literal understanding of Rashi’s comment, but I’d like
to suggest a second, more metaphorical understanding. Perhaps Rashi
is hinting that the Exodus story- a story in which the God of all
humankind stands firmly with on side of the weak and oppressed- is
not only about God’s relationship with the people Israel, but is
universal, applicable to any situation where there is injustice and
suffering. In the Exodus narrative, God “split the sea” so the
Israelites could find safety and freedom, but “all the waters in the
world”- that is, all the places where people feel blocked in and
unfree- can be crossed over where there is faith and courage and
willingness to be God’s partner in overthrowing injustice.

That, to me, is the larger meaning of the miracle: not that the laws
of physics were suspended, but the generalities of history, wherein
the strong prey on the weak, were overturned by a God who cares about
human dignity and freedom. The book of Exodus relates this deeper
truth in the form of a story about our ancestors, but Rashi reminds
us that justice is never found in one place only- it’s all over the
world, or it is incomplete.

Shabbat Shalom,


PS- as usual, the first link leads to a page where you can find a
summary of the parsha and further commentary, and the second link
leads to the text itself.

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Beshallach: Faith in the Journey

Copyright 2011 Neal Joseph Loevinger

Torah Portion: Beshallach

Shalom from sunny Los Angeles! As I’ve been travelling from Boston to
St. Louis to Los Angeles and soon to San Diego, reading about our
ancestor’s journeys seems especially appropriate.

In this week’s Torah portion, Beshallach, the Israelites leave Egypt,
and are taken the “long way round” in order to avoid some difficult
areas. Unfortunately, the Sea of Reeds lies between them and safety,
and Pharoah’s army is in hot pursuit. The sea splits and the
Israelites cross on dry land, leaving the army trapped behind them,
but this doesn’t end their troubles; now they’re in the desert with
no water.

So we read in Exodus 15:22-27 (abridged below), after the salvation
at the sea:

“Moses led Israel away from the Red Sea, and they went out into the
desert of Shur; they walked for three days in the desert but did not
find water. They came to Marah, but they could not drink water from
Marah because it was bitter; therefore, it was named Marah. The
people complained against Moses, saying, What shall we drink? So he
cried out to the Lord, and the Lord instructed him concerning a piece
of wood, which he cast into the water, and the water became sweet.
There God gave them a statute and an ordinance . . . . They came to
Elim, and there were twelve water fountains and seventy palms, and
they encamped there by the water.”

Now, on the one hand, if you’re thirsty, you want water right at that
moment, and that’s perfectly understandable. However, many
commentators have seen in this passage a certain lack of faith on the
part of the Israelites- could they really have witnessed all the
plagues and the splitting of the sea and believed that God would then
abandon them to die in the desert?

One 19th century European commentator, known as the “Chafetz Chaim,”
from the title of his most famous book, also notes that the oasis of
Elim was just beyond Marah, the place where the Israelites
complained “bitterly” about not having water. (“Marah” means “bitter”
in Hebrew, like “maror,” or bitter herbs.)

Here’s what the Chafetz Chaim had to say:

“They came to Elim directly from Marah, and Elim was but a short
distance from Marah. Thus, when they complained to Moshe about the
bitter water, there was fresh water almost under their noses. Had
they not complained, but travelled a little further, they would have
found water. However, that is the way people are; they have no
patience, and like to complain.” (Taken from “Torah Gems,” an
anthology of Hasidic commentary.)

This insight of the Chafetz Chaim helps us understand better what
kind of faith the Israelites had, or didn’t have. Faith, to my mind,
is not necessarily a matter of what you believe, or don’t believe;
it’s not just an intellectual matter. Faith is also putting one foot
in front of another when you don’t always know where you’re going.
Faith is an energizing attitude towards life itself, which propels us
forward with courage in the face of difficulty.

That’s the kind of faith the Israelites needed; the faith to keep
going, to keep walking forward, even if they were thirsty, because
the oasis was just a little ways ahead. So often, the “water”- or the
love, forgiveness, wisdom, peace, and other blessings- are “right
under our noses,” if we just keep ourselves going forward on the

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Neal

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