Parashat Va’Era

Plaut p. 382

Source Sheet by Yair Robinson

 We are a long way away from the Passover Seder. We have that whole Purim thing to do first, with all its joy–and right now, do I feel that need for joy! But I am already starting to think ahead to that holiday, z’man cheiruteinu, the time of our freedom, and especially to our congregational seder, which has actually come up in conversation a few times this past week. I love our seder; I love how we not only serve our congregants but the greater community, welcoming in all those who need a place to go to celebrate the holiday. For those who have attended, you know I tend to do the seder pretty straightforwardly; I do not embellish a lot, and I tend to skip the suggested or alternative texts in the Haggadah we use, with one exception. There is one creative reading I like to use, part of the maggid, or the storytelling portion of the seder. As we recount the story of our people’s oppression we come to the verse from Exodus, “And God saw the Children of Israel, and God knew.” The reading asks the question: what did God know? In a way, the reading is asking the question we might ask: Why, fundamentally, did God wait so long to redeem Israel? Why wait at all, and let Israel suffer?

The reading, in it is very 1970s way (complete with brown text), suggests that what God knew was that our liberation, our ability to embrace freedom from oppression and service to God was dependent on our refusal to become inured to the degradation of our experience. “And God knew…When the Israelites had grown accustomed to their tasks, when the Hebrews began to labor without complaint…as long as there was no prospect of freedom, God knew the Israelites would not awaken to the bitterness of bondage…For the worst slavery of Egypt is when we learn to endure it…” And God knew.

It’s a powerful idea and one that stops us in our tracks, or at least it should: that injustice and oppression are not merely functions of the oppressor, but also the tolerance of the oppressed, that servitude and inequality is a byproduct of our inability to imagine anything else; a lack of moral imagination on all our parts.

God returns to this idea in this moment in Exodus. Here, God reveals the divine self to Moses, explaining that God had appeared previously as El Shaddai to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, but they did not know God as Adonai, not until this moment, and that God has heard Israel’s cry, and will redeem Israel with an outstretched hand and signs and portents and wonders. Again, we are challenged by the question–why now? Because of the na’akah, the groan, the outcry of Israel. Because of Israel’s willingness to lament, and object, and on some level, resist their oppression, even in their own minds. And it is not just that God says that Adonai will make life more bearable; it is that God will take Israel out of Egypt entirely, to another land, one promised to ancestors who might already seem like myths and legends.

I raise this idea after a week of emotional whiplash: the devastating fires in California, the redemption of three of our hostage girls, ransomed by freeing murderers and cutthroats, the inauguration and the number of actions taken in just a few short days that are meant to take one’s breath away; that whole TikTok thing, sound and fury signifying nothing; the inaugurations closer to home, as we rejoice in our Delaware elected officials, and our Governor’s gala celebration marred by leaflets passed out to those in line claiming that Governor Meyer is a supporter of Genocide because he supports Israel. It is enough to leave one whipsawed and paralyzed, exhausted, and defeated. And we might feel that raising our voices against the injustice we see is a waste of time and effort; that no one is listening anyway.

But here is Torah telling us that, when Israel cried out, perhaps the Egyptians were not listening, but God was. Our speaking out against oppression is not wasted breath, not empty words, even if it does not move the perpetrator. It would be nice, but fundamentally, they are not the audience. Rather, we are calling each other: to act where we can, to listen deeply to the voices of those who suffer, to acknowledge and resist all that we see that is wrong in the world. Our cry, our na’akah, is not in vain so long as we raise it with the intent of refusing to become accustomed to the injustice we see and refusing to let anyone else become accustomed either. So long as we hear, God hears. So long as we know, God knows. And so we may find ourselves coming to a place of redemption. Kein Yehi Ratzon.