Month: January 2026

The parasha Beshalach, known as Shabbat Shira, places the Song of the Sea at the heart of the story of the Exodus from Egypt. The parasha tells of the beginning of the Israelites' wanderings in the desert and of several miracles that occurred along the way under Moses' leadership: God brings down bread from heaven to feed the hungry people and gives them quail in the evening. Moses throws a piece of wood into the bitter waters and they become sweet. Moses strikes a rock and water, drinking water, comes out of it. Moses stands with his staff and his hands raised, and Israel defeats Amalek. And finally, the event of the splitting of the Red Sea, during which the Israelites crossed the sea and the Egyptians drowned. The people and Moses give thanks and praise to God for the obvious and supernatural miracle, inSong of the Sea, marking the end of slavery and the beginning of freedom.

The song does not end at a clear point. The Israelites are no longer slaves, but they are not yet a free people. Egypt is behind them, the Promised Land is still far away, and the desert stretches out before them. This is a moment between the old that is no longer and the new that has not yet taken shape. In this space, between a familiar past and an unknown future, song bursts forth.

The Torah describes that God does not lead the people by the short route. ..." And God did not lead them by the way of the land of the Philistines, for it was near; but God said, "Lestthe people might change their minds when they see war and return to Egypt. (Exodus 13:17). Rashi explains that returning to Egypt is dangerous; a people that has just been freed from slavery may be broken by an early encounter with war and ask to return. Freedom, then, is not just an external change of circumstances, but a process of conscious maturation. Sometimes the long road is the only road that leads to a future.

The moment before the sea is split is a moment of chaos: the sea ahead, Egypt behind, and the desert closing in on all sides. There is nowhere to run and no clear way forward. Maimonides describes the “chaos” as a state of desolation with no foothold, a state that arouses bewilderment and loss of direction. It is a moment when no solution is in sight and there is still no language for hope. Within this lack of foothold, the passage opens up—the sea splits, and the possibility of moving forward is revealed.

According to the Midrash, the Israelites were afraid to enter the sea, and only Nachshon ben Amminadav jumped in, and then the sea split. Therefore, there is a lesson here about faith. Faith and action precede miracles.

At the heart of the parashah stands one commandment, seemingly quiet but revolutionary: "This month shall be unto you the beginning of months.".

This is the first commandment given to the Jewish people as a nation. Not the exodus from Egypt, not a social law, not a moral imperative, but taking responsibility for time. This is not a random choice. It touches on the heart of the concept of freedom, and therefore also on the heart of the meaning of hope.

The Sages interpreted the words "This month shall be unto you" not merely as a technical commandment, but as a transfer of authority. Not "I define the time for you," but "you shall determine it." This is a profound and bold move: time passes from the hands of Heaven to the responsibility of man. From this arises a whole system of human responsibility: sanctifying the month, determining the calendar, passing on knowledge of the months to distant communities, constructing a calendar that takes pilgrims into account. It is a method that invites controversy, uncertainty, and arguments about authority, but insists on human freedom and choice. An early form of liberal thought.

There was an alternative, a solar calendar in which everything was predetermined. Orderly, predictable, and convenient, with almost no room for human decision-making. A calendar in which history "moves forward on its own." But the choice was not for convenience, but for a lunar calendar, human, dependent on testimony and decision-making. Less elegant and established, but requiring humans to take responsibility. This is the source of the deep connection between time and freedom: slavery is a situation in which time is predetermined for you; freedom is a situation in which you can, and above all are required to, choose and decide, even at the cost of imperfection.

In Egypt, the Israelites were slaves not only to Pharaoh, but also to time. They did not determine when the day began, when the week ended, or when reality changed. Time was the property of the ruling class. Therefore, just before leaving Egypt, they were told: if you want to be free, start by saying when the month begins. Start by saying: now.

The same position was powerfully articulated by the prophet of human freedom, the black pastor Martin Luther King, in his "I Have a Dream" speech. He repeated the call again and again: "Now is the time." He warned against moral procrastination, against the argument that "it is right, but not now." Time, he said, does not heal injustices. It is neutral. Only human action gives it moral direction.

In the parashah "Bo," the Israelites are commanded to sanctify the month while they are still in darkness. The plague of darkness is still here, Pharaoh has not yet truly released them, and the future is unclear. Nevertheless, they are required to begin to conduct themselves as a free people within the reality of slavery. Not to wait for "after," but to begin now.

In the Beit Midrash, whose theme this year is Shabbat, we discussed how the calendar itself is a human construct. There is no such thing as a "week" in nature, nor is there a "new moon." And that is precisely why it has power: humans draw a framework within time, and within it they choose meaning, commitment, and action. Without a framework, everything is postponed, smeared, and dissolved.

As the poet Yankele Rotblit said, "Don't say 'the day will come'—bring the day.".

So even today, faced with a sense of civil disintegration, it is easy to fall into a new kind of slavery: slavery to procrastination. "It's not the right time," "Let's wait," "Soon." But in the parashah "Ba," the Sages, Martin Luther King, all teach: "There are moments when waiting itself is an injustice.".

And the civil significance is clear:
The upcoming elections are not an abstract idea or a distant prospect. These are the most important elections in the history of the State of Israel. The time between now and election day is the most important civic resource we have.

And just as we knew to shout "Everyone—now!" because we knew that in human life, time means life, so too in elections there is a "now."

Now is the time to affiliate,
Now is the time to make an impact from within.,
Now is the time to talk to those who are still undecided.,
Now is the time to choose engagement over cynicism, action over despair.

Time is not neutral. It will not "do its thing." When we do nothing, it works in favor of those who already hold power. When we act, it can become a tool for change. As the members of Hadag Nahash say, it's time to wake up. Democracy doesn't disappear in a day, and it won't be saved in a day either. It depends on what we choose to do with the time we have.

Now!

The parashah Vaera is the second parashah in the Book of Exodus, the parashah in which Moses and Aaron begin negotiations with Pharaoh for the release of the Israelites from Egypt. The parashah opens with God's revelation to Moses and an explicit repetition of the promise God made to the patriarchs to give the Israelites the land of Canaan to dwell in. God also tells Moses that He hears the suffering and hardship of the Israelites and will therefore save them and bring them out of Egypt. This is a promise of redemption. In fact, this is the second time that God has appeared to Moses, appointing him as the leader who will redeem the people and making the same promise to him. The first time was at the burning bush. Why was a second time necessary? Because Moses' mission failed the first time. The first time Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh to ask him to release the people so they could sacrifice to God in the desert, Pharaoh refused and increased his burden on the people. And since the first time failed, it was necessary to repeat the same promise and the same appointment. I learn from this that we must persevere in our tasks and not despair if we do not succeed immediately.. Consistency and perseverance lead to success. But the big surprise comes when Moses and Aaron arrive with the news of redemption for the people. The text tells us that the people did not listen to Moses" words "because of their impatience and hard labor." They were so busy with their daily lives, with their current hardships, that they became indifferent to Moses' words because they had lost hope.

When I think of hope, the phrase "Hope dies last" comes to mind, which is an expression that originates from a quote by Nadav Goldstein He was murdered on October 7 in Kfar Aza along with his daughter Yam, and became a symbol of resilience and hope. His three children were kidnapped to Gaza, and when they were released from captivity after 51 days, his daughter Agam posted the sentence, "Hope dies last, right, Dad?" This sentence became a mantra for the family and the community, calling on them to rebuild their lives and their kibbutz after the attack; a mantra calling on them not to give up hope.

Later in the story, Moses and Aaron go to Pharaoh and ask again to let the people go to the desert for three days to sacrifice. Pharaoh refuses, and then the plagues begin. The parashah Vaera includes seven plagues: blood, frogs, lice, wild animals, pestilence, boils, and locusts, with Aaron actually performing the first two plagues of blood and frogs. And the Lord said to Moses Say to Aaron Take your staff and stretch out your hand over the waters of Egypt, over their rivers, over their streams, over their ponds, and over all their reservoirs of water, and there shall be blood.and there shall be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, upon the wood and upon the stone. And Moses and Aaron did so, as the Lord commanded, and he lifted up the rod and struck the water that was in the river, in the sight of Pharaoh and in the sight of his servants. his servants..."

(Exodus, 7:19-20)

The fact that Aaron, and not Moses, is the one who performs these plagues is related to "gratitude." According to commentators, Moses was saved as a child thanks to the Nile, and it is not fitting that Moses should strike it and turn it into blood. On the surface, it seems natural to recognize kindness, but in our daily lives we repeatedly struggle to see the good, to acknowledge invisible people and thank them, and we take kindness for granted. In my opinion, this is a lesson that is no less profound than the hope for a better future: even in the midst of a difficult struggle, and even when there is still no liberation in sight, there are things that we must not lose along the way. Recognizing the good is not a luxury of good days, but a foundation that sustains the spirit, especially in times of impatience and hard work.

Gratitude is perhaps one of the simplest and most profound acts that enable us to break out of apathy and not close our hearts to life's difficulties. In recent years, I have been trying very hard to increase my awareness of gratitude and appreciation. Not to take everything I have for granted, but to pause for a moment and recognize the good in it. One of the moments I really love about welcoming Shabbat at the Israeli House of Prayer is saying thanks for something that happened during the past week. I remember during the coronavirus pandemic, when I was having a really hard time with the lockdowns and the fear, I would go out for a walk and make a mental list of all the good things I have. I would give thanks for my legs, which I stand and walk on, thanks for the air I breathe, thanks for the sun that came out in my honor during my walk. Even in the last two years, which have been very difficult, I try to continue this practice and increase my gratitude; I try at least once a day to stop and give thanks for everything I have. Not because everything is good, but so as not to lose the ability to hear promise, even in times of impatience and hard work, even when redemption is still far away. Perhaps in this way, with small steps of gratitude, it is possible to keep hope alive. I recommend adopting this habit as a way of life.

Shabbat Shalom!

Shemot. The Book of Shemot (Exodus). A new story begins here. The Book of Exodus is completely different from the Book of Genesis. Until now, we have heard the stories of the patriarchs, read about personalities, families, and individuals. They were the heart of the story. In Genesis, God was the God of the family—present in person, speaking in dreams, but sometimes perceived as acting according to a grand and mysterious plan beyond our comprehension.

Here, already in the first verse, the focus shifts. We are talking about "the children of Israel," about a group. The transition is gradual but rapid, and the group becomes a collective: "And the children of Israel were fruitful and multiplied, and waxed exceeding mighty." The king of Egypt gives a name to this metamorphosis: he calls it "a people." This is the first time that Israel is referred to as a people.

"Behold, the people of Israel are numerous and powerful. Let us deal wisely with them, lest they multiply." (ibid., 10).

This is the first time Israel is referred to as a nation. From this point on, we no longer speak of a family, but of a nation. "The people of Israel" – contrary to the opening statement of the Declaration of Independence, we did not become a nation in the Land of Israel, but rather in exile. In our first exile: the Egyptian exile, which is also the only exile in the history of the Jewish people that took place entirely in one place – in the land of Goshen.

And Rabbi Abraham of Sochaczew says that it was good that it was so:

"In all the exiles, the Israelites were scattered in different places, only in the Egyptian exile were they all in one place, because all the exiles came after the giving of the Torah, and the Torah unites and brings together the Israelites despite their dispersion, but the Egyptian exile was before the giving of the Torah, and if they had been scattered in different places, they would not have been able to survive, God forbid."

But that is not the only difference. Not only does the human character change, but so does the character of God. In Exodus, we encounter a new kind of God: a God who hears, remembers, sees, and knows. This is a God who cares.

"""And God heard their groaning, and God remembered His covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. And God saw the children of Israel, and God knew them.שDeath, 25-23)

The idea that it is possible to influence God, to motivate Him to act through human cries, is not self-evident. It is an idea that contradicts the image of a distant God who has a plan that we cannot understand. The parashah tells us that God is "human" in the deepest sense—He has feelings and the potential to empathize with our suffering. The God of Exodus is indeed powerful in His appearances—fire, cloud, and special effects—but He is also a God who "cares."^, And it can be moved. And here arises the poignant question posed by Moses: If God cares so much and is capable of acting, why was the suffering necessary?

This is also the question Moses asks God at the burning bush, when he asks Him what His name is. He did not ask, "What is your first name?" or "How should I address you?" but rather, "What kind of God are you? Where have you been all this time?"

Rabbi Jacob Leiner, (the second Rebbe in the dynasty of the Izhbitz-Radzin Hasidic Rebbes) in his book House of Jacob, writes exactly that: Moses asks, "When I come to the Israelites to tell them that you are finally coming to redeem them, they will ask me: Where was God yesterday when the Egyptians filled their quota of bricks with my children? Where was God when they threw my son into the Nile the day before yesterday? How can they turn to you, and what will you answer when they ask where you have been until now?

And the well-known answer is not unequivocal. It is perhaps the most enigmatic answer in the Torah:

"And God said to Moses, "I will be what I will be; And he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I will be hath sent me unto you." (Exodus 3:14).

The enigmatic answer "I will be what I will be" as God's self-designation has given rise to countless interpretations. I would like to offer two interpretations that speak to my heart:

1. I will be whatever I will be – I can be anything, because I am everywhere and at all times, and there is no way to define me in existing terms, no way to pigeonhole me, because I am existence itself, constantly changing. My name is not a name but a verb, indicating constant change, elasticity, and elusiveness.

2. There are actually not one but two answers here: "I will be what I will be"; And "Thus shall you say to the children of Israel: I will be Send me to you." – The first name, "I will be what I will be," is my true name. That is, I will do what I can, but I cannot promise anything. It is very important to me, it is in my soul, I have promised, I have heard the cry, and I know that this is what must be done, but I cannot promise... I will be what I will be... I will try very hard... 

Of course, this is not enough for Moses. He knows that if he comes to the Israelites with such an ambiguous message, he has no chance of success; therefore, God corrects himself. Actually, he does not exactly correct himself, but rather tells Moses that he should present him to the Israelites not as "I will be what I will be" but as "I will be" – he will be there, come what may. Always present, always on guard... always with you... even though his real name is "I will be what I will be" – that is the divine reality. In fact, one could say that God and Moses are "working" on the Israelites. They know the truth, but it is a secret between them, because the people need hope, they need to believe that the Holy One will be there; and ultimately, both God and Moses understand that belief in the success of the mission of redemption is essential to its success, and that without it, they will not receive cooperation from the equally important factor – the people – who have just been created as such. He knows that "I will be what I will be" has no meaning without belief in "I will be." Therefore, it is not really a lie, but a kind of white lie.

The God reflected in this interpretation is a God with whom one can identify, a God who really wants to help but cannot always do so. This is a very human God. Such an image makes me want to resemble him in the human qualities that I myself attribute to him: he is friendly, accessible, caring, very emotional, and has the best of intentions.

Perhaps we can offer another interpretation of God's twofold answer to Moses's profound question. It may be that there is not one true answer for Moses and another, less difficult answer for the people; perhaps the true answer lies in a combination of the two answers. "I am," says God, "both "I will be what I will be" and "I will be."" "I will be what I will be" is the answer to the intellect, to the mind, the only possible answer when we try to confront our God with the imperfect reality in which we live. This is the complex philosophical answer. "I will be" is the answer to the heart, to emotion. The God of "I will be" offers us comfort and hope. There is no slip of the tongue or correction here. There are two elements here that are essential to human beings. There is an essential paradox here.

In difficult times such as these, we may need the God of "I will be" more than ever, but we recognize and understand, and cannot help but know that reality is complex, and all we can receive from God is "I will be what I will be": "I promise nothing... I will try very hard... What can I do? All in all, I am just God..."