The story of the exodus never ceases to intrigue us. The parting of the sea captures our imagination. But I suspect that what captivates us is not the historical story itself. There was a time when trying to prove the historicity of biblical accounts was very much in vogue. It was important that the story of the Exodus be traceable to a particular Pharaonic dynasty, or that the plagues reflect the historical memory of some ancient event preserved in the national consciousness.
But proving an historical source does not make the story exciting. Historicizing our myths does not make them more relevant. It is not the truth of history that excites us, but the mythic nature of the story that gives it meaning in our lives.
The story of the exodus continues to delight us because its themes not only report events in our past, they also reflect the reality of our present. They tell us something about ourselves. The stories of the Bible embody eternal truths that are far more important than historical facts.
What are the main themes of the exodus?
We see the folly of a ruler who holds on to the reins of power even when the horses are galloping toward the abyss, slaves who are reluctant to be freed, free people who are unwilling to take responsibility for their own lives, who are incapable of optimism, who cannot see the possibilities of a better future, and who blame their leaders for the hard responsibilities of independence. We see a determined leader who pushes his faithful subjects to a senseless death, and a man of vision who drags unwilling people to an undesired freedom.
The Bible says: “Vayasa moshe et yisrael miyam suf”. That is often translated as “Then Moses led Israel onward,” but the JPS translation follows the Midrash in opting for a more literal understanding of the verb vayasa. “Then Moses caused Israel to set out.” Moses did not merely lead them. The verb implies that he transported them. According to the Midrash, he dragged them kicking and screaming from the shores of the Sea of Reeds.
We can take these themes and apply them to our lives, our experiences, our community, society, and leadership. It is tempting to draw specific analogies, it is tempting, but if I do so, I deprive each of you of the opportunity to make your own midrash. We can each make our favourite villain into Pharaoh. He isn’t necessarily the villain I choose in my personal midrash. That is what makes the story so attractive, and continues to keep it so relevant. Pharaoh can be the villain we choose for ourselves, and our choice gives the story special, personal meaning. We can each think of ourselves as Moses. But, of course, there is a lesson to be learned by considering the possibility that it is the other way around.
I am not advocating a step in the direction of moral relativity. I am not suggesting that we try to step into Pharaoh’s shoes in order to understand how he may have felt, or why he acted as he did. What I am suggesting is that it is sometimes worthwhile that we each consider the possibility that we are not the heroes of our story.
We have a natural tendency to identify ourselves with the heroes. It causes us to be a little smug, on the one hand, but on the other hand, it also causes us to try to seek excuses for the hero’s behaviour. We find ourselves uncomfortable with some of the hero’s choices and actions. Maybe Moses shouldn’t have been so short tempered. Maybe he should have shown more patience. At moments like that, it may be worthwhile for us to consider the possibility that we are not Moses, but the recalcitrant Children of Israel. Maybe we will then have a better idea of why Moses got so angry, and we will stop making excuses for ourselves. Maybe then, instead of making excuses, our changed perspective will give us the courage to take responsibility for our own behaviour and for our own destiny.
Moses spends forty years dragging the people of Israel to freedom. For forty years he apologizes for them. For forty years he leads them to where they do not wish to go. In the end, of course, they never get there. Moses was able to get Israel ejected from Egypt, he succeeded in pushing them to the brink of freedom, but he could not make them cross the line. Crossing that line is not a physical act that can be forced. It is the result of a change in our state of mind. It is a choice. The Children of Israel could not imagine themselves crossing that line. They could not change the way they saw themselves.
At the parting of the sea, Israel sees God and believes. That is not a choice. That is inevitable. When you witness the sea parting before your very eyes, seeing is believing. At the Red Sea, Israel is forced to believe, just as they were forced to leave Egypt, and just as they will be forced to leave the banks of the sea. In cognitive theory there is a saying: Don’t say I’ll believe it when I see it, say I’ll see it when I believe it. The ability to achieve a goal derives from our belief in our ability to reach it. In order to move forward, you have to be able to see the possibility of a future, and that requires belief. Israel is incapable of that kind of belief.
The truth of that old saw of cognitive theory was brought home to me recently in a very odd way. The beit midrash at the Schechter Institute was being used for a lecture, and so we had to move the minyan to the library. Now, I’ve been using that library for years. But only when I stood up to pray there did I notice that there is an eternal light over the bookshelf on the far wall, facing the Old City of Jerusalem. It was always there, and I had often looked in that direction. I must have seen the lamp, but I never perceived it as a ner tamid – an eternal light – until I faced that direction in prayer. The change in perspective was caused entirely by my change of attitude as I began to pray. I was not alone. I turned to the person next to me and pointed to the ner tamid. He, too, said he had never noticed it before, and that he was surprised to suddenly see it there when he began to pray.
Until that moment, it was just a light fixture. A change in attitude somehow transformed it into what it had always been, or what it always had the potential to become. We prayed, and then we saw.
If you understand that, then you can understand that when the Children of Israel stood on the shores of the sea, all they could see before them was a desert. Moses didn’t see a desert. Moses saw freedom, and he saw the Land of Israel. The people he was dragging along could not see the Land of Israel even when they stood on the banks of the Jordan. And so, Moses could not lead them there.
“And when Israel saw the wondrous power which the Lord had wielded against the Egyptians, the people feared the Lord, and they had faith in the Lord and His servant Moses.” Then they sang.
Israel saw and then believed and then sang. That is not a compliment; it is a condemnation.
If we want to achieve, if we want to improve ourselves, our congregation, our society, and our world, then we must change our approach. If we want to see change, perhaps first we should sing.
Avinoam Sharon
© 2007 Avinoam Sharon
