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Running Away and Running Towards

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin One of the most important theological divides among Jewish thinkers hinges on the answer to the following question: When God first introduced Himself to the Jewish people at Mount Sinai, why did He say (20:2), “אָנֹכִי יְקֹוָק אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֲשֶׁר הוֹצֵאתִיךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם” – “I am Hashem your Lord, who took you out of Egypt”? Would it not have been more appropriate for God to introduce Himself as the Creator of heaven and earth?! Would that not have made a greater impression on the Jewish people, that they would know their God was not a “local” deity, restricted to one event and one people, but rather the universal God of all? Two great rabbis of the early 12th century, who were also good friends, debated this issue. R. Yehuda HaLevi believed that the revelation at Mt. Sinai was the necessary foundation for our entire belief in God, because it was a face-to-face encounter with the Divine, not just an intellectual proof to the existence of God. The Jewish people adhere to a belief in a God they experienced first-hand. This is why, when Hashem introduced Himself to Bnei Israel, He told them to believe in the God that you yourselves experienced (or, by extension, your ancestors), and not just in the God who is the logical Creator, but who no one, with their own eyes, witnessed creating.

Intellectual proof of God

The Ibn Ezra, on the other hand, suggested something completely contrary. He believed, like the Rambam, that an intellectual proof of God’s existence was actually the higher level of belief, because only someone provincial needs to be proven that something is true by being shown it with their own eyes. A truly sophisticated intellectual can internalize the truth of God without ever being shown a miracle. Ibn Ezra bisects the verse: the first part, “I am Y-H-V-H, your Lord,” is manifest to the thinking individual without any further demonstration. The second part, “who took you out of Egypt,” was only written for the uninitiated, more simplistic thinkers, who needed “proof” of God through witnessing the Exodus miracles themselves. Who is greater: He who believes without seeing the miracle, or he who believes because he has seen the miracle himself? This debate – belief based on intellect vs. belief based on personal experience of the Divine – has been a point of divide between great rabbinic thinkers ever since. There is another way of answering this question, which is provided by the Mekhilta midrash. The Rabbis state that when God appeared to the Jews in Egypt and at the Red Sea, He appeared as “a man of war,” a very strong deity, who was like a young, vigorous man leading his army into battle. But when Hashem appeared to the Jews at Mt. Sinai, He appeared to them as a wise and wizened elder. Lest anyone think that there were two deities – one, the strong warrior god of the Exodus, and two, the sage god of Mt. Sinai – Hashem dispelled that thought by introducing Himself as the very same God who took them out of Egypt. My guise may change, but it is still Me, “Anochi.”

A God of wisdom and might

This Midrash also helps us understand why the Torah introduces the events at Mt. Sinai with the words (19:1), “On the third month after the Jews left Egypt, on that very day, they came to the Sinai desert.” The Torah is making a direct correlation between the events of the Exodus and the giving of the Torah to reinforce this idea that it was the same God responsible for both events. It goes deeper. Consider that there are two ways to relate to a God who provides salvation. One is when someone is running away from a threat, and God comes and saves that person. The second is when a person is not in distress, and is not running away from anything. Rather, he or she feels that they need meaning and purpose, and so run towards the God who provides them with that sense of fulfillment and attachment to a Higher Power. God appeared to the Jews as a mighty warrior when we were leaving Egypt. He was our powerful God who could save us from our persecutors. But this God wasn’t offering us anything other than His might. At Mt. Sinai, however, God presented Himself as the wise old man, the source of wisdom from whom people seek counsel and purpose, and flock towards in order to have their lives count for something.

Saving us from assimilation

When Hashem said that He was the same God who took us out of Egypt, He was connecting the two guises, as if to say: If I am only that God who saved you from the darkness of the outside world, this is not enough. You need a reason to run toward Me even when nothing in your environment is hounding you. I am the source of goodness, not just the savior from badness. The respective imageries of the Exodus vs. Mt. Sinai are starkly different. At the Exodus, Hashem saved us from the water of the Red Sea. At Mt. Sinai Hashem wanted us to witness a fire atop the mountain (19:18). The Egyptians tried to “wash us away” by smothering us with their values. Hashem would not allow us to “dissolve” in their overpowering current, and saved us from succumbing to Egyptian assimilation. When He brought us to Mt. Sinai, He showed us that He was the fire, the source of light and warmth. It was as if to say: I would much prefer that instead of viewing me as the God who saves you from drowning, you view Me as the God to whom you are drawn because of the light that I bring to your lives.

Seeing, and not seeing the light of Torah

All too often, our motivation for being Jewish is because we point a finger to the outside world and recognize how truly messed up it is. Judaism brings us the consoling oasis of sanity amidst a “woke” world that has run amuck. That’s fine and good, but if our sole motivation for latching onto the Torah is because of the wasteland outside our community, then instead of running toward the light, we have instead merely run away from the darkness. Our motivation should not be based on the “tum’ah” (impurity) of the “goyishe velt,” but rather the inherent beauty of the Torah, despite our familiarity and integration with the outside world. This is why Moshe sent Yitro away before the giving of the Torah (18:27). The righteous Yitro greatly admired and worshipped the God who saved the Jews from the evils of Egypt, but failed to see the God who would be the bringer of the light of Torah to a nation who no longer faced any danger. It’s fine to point at all the problems in the world today; they’re all around us. But we’d do better if we instead focus upon all the timeless beauty, kindness, and wisdom contained within our Torah. If your primary motive for being Jewish is the fire-and-brimstone, gloom-and-doom stuff, it may be enough for you, but you haven’t yet seen the fire atop Mt. Sinai. May we always focus on the positive light contained within the Torah, and follow the beacon that leads to the ultimate Redemption, may we see it bb”a.

Glory Days and Boring Days

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin Think I'm going down to the well tonight, And I'm going to drink 'til I get my fill. And I hope when I get old I don't sit around thinking about it, But I probably will. Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture a little of the glory of, well, time slips away. And leaves you with nothing, mister, but boring stories of Glory Days -- Bruce Springsteen, 1984 We all look back at a time in our lives that were our “glory days.” It might have been during high school, university, or any other chapter when we were younger and more vital. Life was exciting, we were hungrier, we had more hair, and a very long, exciting, and successful future lay ahead. Then, as the years rolled by, we lost some of our mojo, our zest for living, and we learned to accept that perhaps our best years, our glory days, had already passed us by. There are many chapters of “glory days” for the Jewish people. The first iteration was right after the splitting of the Red Sea. Never before had there been such an exhilarating and intimate connection between human beings and the Almighty. Moshe led the nation into spontaneous song, and that song reverberates through the ages to every generation of our people. There have been many other iterations of glory days: Our initial arrival into Eretz Israel; the building of the Temples; our defeat of Haman, the Greeks, and other persecutors; and the founding of the State of Israel. Not every generation of Jewish history, however, has its glory days. In our millennia-long Exile, there have been many more dark days than glory days. The only thing that has sustained us during those dark epochs was looking back wistfully upon our glory days with the confidence that we would, one day, somehow, regain our glory days in the Messianic Age.

Understanding the meaning of being "chosen"

Right after we finished our “Az Yashir” song at the Sea, the Torah relates (15:22) that Bnei Israel traveled into the desert. They journeyed for three days without finding any water. They finally arrived at a body of water, but could not drink the water because it was bitter (15:23). Hashem instructed Moshe to throw a piece of wood into the water. Miraculously, the water became sweet (15:25). Our Sages teach that the particular wood that Moshe threw in the water actually had a bitter taste, and it was a thus a “miracle within a miracle,” in that the bitter waters became sweetened through something bitter. The simple import of the story is that Hashem was teaching the Jewish people, at this very incipient stage of their being the Chosen people, that one needs to place their trust in God; even when things look grim, Hashem is with you and will bring you salvation when you least expect it. But wasn’t that already the message of the splitting of the Red Sea – why is this secondary lesson necessary? Furthermore, why all the different parts of the story: No water for three days, then finding bitter water, and then having the water sweetened miraculously by something bitter. Why not just make it rain after three days? Rav Yaakov Lainer explained that the waterless three days of desert travel was a lesson to the Jewish people, one that needed to be imparted after the Red Sea miracle. Life has its glory days, but you also need to learn how to cope with the aftermath of those glory days, when life is fraught with suffering, challenges, and that most arduous part of life, the tedium of everyday living. It is impossible to maintain the spiritual high of singing “Az Yashir” on a daily basis; we must rather learn how to live a life of devotion to Hashem even when life is not filled with miracles and excitement. Travel in the desert of life, face its adversities and mundanities, and retain your faith even when your soul is not soaring with that sense of exhilaration and ultimate closeness with your Creator.

Finding purpose in bitterness

This was the added lesson of finding bitter water and sweetening it with bitter wood. Everyday life can be bitter. Sometimes, you cannot sweeten daily life by finding some new thrill or source of elation. The alleviation of bitter daily living is rather to appreciate that in that very bitter moment, when you feel estranged and uninspired, Hashem is with you and you are His beloved child. The fact that you are not experiencing some magic moment right now, but are instead feeling bored and distant from spirituality, means that Hashem wants you to live in this very mundane moment and be His beloved child, finding Him and praising Him despite the fact that there’s nothing new or exciting about today. In other words, “sweeten” the current bitterness by finding meaning and purpose in that bitterness. Take the bitter and add it to the bitter, and you will end up with the sweetness of knowing that no matter how mundane and removed you feel from Divinity, Hashem is always there with you. Golda Meir once said, “You'll never find a better sparring partner than adversity.” This does not just mean the adversity of difficult physical times; it includes the adversity of feeling spiritual emptiness because our glory days are behind us, and there is nothing fueling us to regain them. Embrace that emptiness and acknowledge that even when we feel we are at a distance from Hashem, “זֶה־הַיּוֹם עָשָׂה יְקֹוָק” - “this is the day Hashem has made; let us rejoice and be happy with it” (Ps. 118:24).

A rebellious time of year

Rav Lainer used the illustration of the sun and the moon to help explain this principle. When is the moon the fullest? It is not when the moon is closer to the sun, because if that were the case, the moon would appear dark to us. Rather, we see a full moon only because the moon is further away from the sun than we are, and thus is reflecting the sun’s light back toward us. The fact is, sometimes being at a greater distance from Hashem is what allows us to create more spiritual light. If we can retain our devotion even beyond those glory days, then this is a sign of a true eved Hashem (servant of God), who consistently shows up for davening and shiurim even when feeling unfulfilled and uninspired. Our holy sefarim teach that we are in the midst of a period of the year known as “Shovavim” (this is an acronym for the parshiyot we read over 6 weeks – Shemot, VaEra, Bo, Beshalach, Yitro, Mishpatim – but also is a word in Tanakh meaning, “rebels” – see Jer. 3:14 and commentaries). It is considered a time for returning to Hashem. What makes it different from the traditional time of teshuvah, during Elul and the High Holidays? We are asked to repent not because we are approaching a monumental day of judgment, or facing holy days of awe. Rather, when we are in the midst of the doldrums of life, we are called upon to remember Hashem, even amidst the bitter waters of living life by routine. Make life sweet by making God a part of everyday living, even when there are no life and death stakes. Wedding anniversaries are great; but the truest signs of love with our spouses is when we express our love even when it’s not our anniversary. When we’re not dressed up, when we’re just doing household chores together, that’s when real love is evidenced. Use those times when nothing special is happening to express your deepest love for each other. For those times when we find ourselves in the desert without water, we can take comfort knowing that our light still shines, and our God is still with us. May we always feel Hashem’s loving presence until the coming of the Redemption, bb”a.

Rubbernecking Others’ Tragedies

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin Have you ever been caught in freeway traffic, only to later discover that it was due to an auto accident down the road, and that all the drivers had slowed down to “rubberneck,” that is, to gaze for a few moments at what happened? It’s annoying, but we all do it. In trying to understand why we do it, one person wrote: “It is rooted in profoundly human instincts and feelings of curiosity, shock, and empathy… Carl Jung believed that human beings enjoy witnessing violence. He maintained that this is a way to entertain our most destructive impulses without actually harming ourselves or others in the process.” We suggest that part of our fascination in others’ tragedies is a response to the subconscious anxiety we experience when seeing an accident: “There but for the grace of God go I.” That could have been me, and I’m subconsciously relieved it was the other guy instead. We take great pride when reading the section of the Haggadah which talks about how God not only redeemed us from Egypt, but did so by Himself, not via proxy: וַיּוֹצִאֵנוּ ה' מִמִּצְרַיִם. לֹא עַל־יְדֵי מַלְאָךְ, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׂרָף, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׁלִיחַ, אֶלָּא הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא בִּכְבוֹדוֹ וּבְעַצְמוֹ “And the Lord took us out of Egypt” - not through an angel, and not through a seraph, and not through a messenger, but [directly by] the Holy One, blessed be He, Himself.

The angel of death

The Hagaddah demonstrates this from a verse in our parsha (12:2) which emphasizes the idea of “אֲנִי יְקֹוָק” – it is I, God Himself, who is redeeming you from Egypt. And yet, the very same chapter of the Torah contains a verse which implies the exact opposite. In telling the Jewish people to paint their doorposts with paschal blood on the night of the Plague of the Firstborn, the Torah then exhorts (12:22), “וְאַתֶּם לֹא תֵצְאוּ אִישׁ מִפֶּתַח־בֵּיתוֹ עַד־בֹּקֶר”- “No person may leave their front door until morning.” Why couldn’t the Jews walk outside during the plague? Rashi, quoting the very same Sages who wrote the Hagaddah states: “We learn from here that once permission is granted to God’s destroyer angel, he does not distinguish between the righteous and the wicked.” So which is it, God Himself or His angel of death? If God Himself redeemed us from Egypt, then what’s wrong with walking outside? Can’t God Himself distinguish who is Jewish and who is Egyptian? Furthermore, even if Hashem sent some kind of angelic proxy to bring about the death of the firstborn, where is the justice in killing righteous and wicked alike? What kind of lesson is this for the offspring of Avraham, who was always taught that Hashem is a righteous and just God?! While there are a number of commentaries who address this gaping contradiction, a comment from the Zohar is most meaningful. “Whenever Divine justice is being meted out, a person should stay indoors” and not gaze at the overt retribution.

Spared for a reason

The Zohar provides three biblical examples, which at first glance don’t appear connected: (1) God required Noah to seal himself in an Ark when the rest of the world was being destroyed. (2) When Lot and his family were fleeing from the destruction of Sodom, the angels told Lot and his family that they could not turn around and look at the destruction. (3) When the Jews were being saved from the Plague of the Firstborn, they were commanded to not leave their homes, so as not to look upon all of the Egyptian carnage. All three of these episodes share something very important in common. Each one of the parties being saved – Noah, Lot, and the Jewish people in Egypt – were not being saved on their own merit. Rather, these were overall good, yet flawed, human beings who were being spared by Divine decree. (1) Noah was spared in order to perpetuate mankind, but would not have deserved to be saved from the Flood on his own merit. (2) Lot was only saved from Sodom’s destruction because he was Avraham’s nephew. (3) The Jewish people, at this stage of their development, were pagans who had not yet received the Torah, and were not yet meritorious enough to deserve a miraculous salvation for their own sake. God saved them because of his covenant with their ancestors and because of His foreknowledge that they would become a great people in the future.

A new faith at the Red Sea

Rav Yaakov Etlinger (19th cent.) noted a very interesting evolution of the Jewish people during their Exodus process. Bnei Israel only sang to God after the Splitting of the Red Sea, because they were granted the privilege of seeing the Egyptians perish. Why were they allowed to witness this carnage only now, whereas before, they were not permitted to witness the Egyptians’ death during the Plague of the Firstborn? Something new developed within the Jews’ faith in God after the Red Sea’s splitting. Until that moment, they still harbored doubts about God and His ability to save them. Because of this lingering lack of faith, they were not sufficiently different from the Egyptians, and thus were not granted the opportunity to see their enemies fall. But after the splitting of the Red Sea, the Torah testifies (14:31), “וַיַּאֲמִינוּ בַּיקֹוָק וּבְמֹשֶׁה עַבְדּוֹ” – “They completely believed in Hashem and in Moshe, His servant.” They were then granted the right to witness the complete elimination of their persecutors. The Midrash quoted above stated that once the “destroyer angel” is granted permission to destroy, it does not distinguish between the righteous and the wicked. What it really means, according to this Zohar, is that even when Hashem Himself is meting out the punishment, those righteous (i.e., righteous in comparison to those being punished) who are being saved – such as Noah, Lot, and the Jewish people in Egypt – do not have a right to gaze upon their fellow human beings’ suffering, so long as they are not substantively different from them. If they do, then they are deemed guilty, and deserve the same punishment. This helps resolve the contradiction over whether it was God Himself or an angel, and where the justice is in this system.

Overcoming unhealthy insecurities

We all have an instinct, due to our own insecurities about our mortality, to be curious when we hear about others’ tragedies. When someone tragically dies young, for some, the first question is, “What happened? How did they die?” We don’t consciously mean to be petty and intrusive, but the alarms go off in our minds: “They’re not much older than me. If it could happen to them, what will be of me?!” We seek to reassure ourselves that whatever circumstance brought about their tragedy will not be relatable to ourselves. But deep down, we know that what happened today to them, could, God forbid, happen to any of the rest of us. It’s an instinct that we should try to overcome. It’s not coming from a healthy place, but rather from a place of insecurity. It’s that anxiety which causes some of us to say foolish things at a shiva house. Things like: “Which bus line hit him?” “I didn’t know she was so sick! My wife saw her at the market just the other day and she looked fine!” “Was he a smoker?” “Did he have good life insurance?” When we hear of a tragedy, we should instead express sympathy, care, and suppress our curiosity-motivated questions. In other words, we should leave the blood-stained “front door” of our prying eyes closed. This was such a fundamental lesson to the Jewish people in their early formation. If so, it seems to be vital to our identity as God’s people. It is part of our national character to be compassionate and caring. Suppress your curiosity and rubbernecking, and just be there for your friend who could use your support without your curious questions. May we all have the fortitude of character to support each other in our times of need, so that we travel together with our heads held high toward the Redemption, bb”a.

“Chosenness” Revisited

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin The chosennes of the Jewish people has gotten us into trouble over the centuries. Both we and the rest of the world have misused and distorted the moniker, “Chosen People.” It is nonetheless vital that we never forget the special bond that exists between God and Israel. We may prefer to call this special bond a responsibility, in that it obligates us to behave differently from the rest of the world, at a higher standard. We normally think about the bringing of the Plagues upon Egypt as a way of introducing God to the pagan world. This is certainly reflected in the text, where Moshe repeatedly tells Pharaoh throughout our parsha that through these plagues (7:17), “You will know I am Hashem.” There is, however, another way to read the story. Instead of the Plagues teaching the world about God, they are teaching the world about the Jewish people, who have a unique relationship with God. In other words, although the surface of the text seems to be God-focused, there is a sub-text that wishes to teach a lesson about how the Jewish people are a special, chosen nation, who are treated by God differently from the rest of mankind. This lesson is so important to both Egypt and future readers of the Torah: Look how Egypt so harshly mistreated and subjugated this chosen and protected people. Look at the consequences they suffered by “awakening” the wrath of the God who attached Himself to this specific nation. Reader beware: If you provoke the Jews, you provoke their God.

Teaching Pharaoh, and the world, who God is

Our clues for this lesson come from four verses where Moshe expresses to Pharaoh that through the Plagues, Pharaoh and his people will “know” (Heb.: “תדע”) about God. Each time, Moshe expresses this phrase with slightly different language. Lesson #1: After the plague of Frogs, Pharaoh asks Moshe to pray to his God to stop the plague. Moshe asks Pharaoh a bizarre question: “When would you like the plague to end?” Pharaoh answers an equally bizarre response: “Tomorrow!” Moshe says (8:6), “Fine. I’ll do it,” “לְמַעַן תֵּדַע כִּי־אֵין כַּיקֹוָק אֱלֹהֵינוּ” – “So that you’ll know that there is no one like Hashem our Lord.” Why did Pharoah choose to wait until tomorrow to stop the plagues?! Some explain that Moshe was giving the skeptical Pharaoh a chance to test him: In case you believe that this is a manipulation of natural forces, and that I just happen to know when nature will bring an end to the plague, I’m giving you the option to decide when the plague should stop, so that you won’t be able accuse me of tapping into a natural phenomenon. I’m reminded of a scene from Mark Twain’s novel, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, where a man from the 19th century is transported back in time to the 6th century. He wishes to impress upon the king’s court that he is a magician. He happens to know about a historical solar eclipse and so threatens the court that if they harm him, he will blot out the sun on the date when he had read the eclipse would occur. Moshe wanted to demonstrate that this wasn’t a fluke of nature, but that God would respond whenever Moshe called out to Him.

God treats Israel differently

Lesson #2: The second time is before the plague of ‘Arov, wild beasts. There, Moshe said that although the animals will attack all Egyptians, God will distinguish the Jewish neighborhood of Goshen in that they will not suffer from the plague. In this instance, Moshe said (8:18), “לְמַעַן תֵּדַע כִּי אֲנִי יְקֹוָק בְּקֶרֶב הָאָרֶץ” – “So that you’ll know that I am Hashem in the midst of the land.” This demonstrated that God treats us differently from all other people. Egypt will suffer from the wild animals, but the plague will be completely absent from our community. Hashem chooses whomever He wishes to be His protected people. Lesson #3: The third time is before the plague of Barad, hail. Here, Moshe warned Pharaoh that this plague would be multi-faceted (“אֲנִי שֹׁלֵחַ אֶת־כָּל־מַגֵּפֹתַי” – “I am sending ALL My plagues”), harming all manner of vegetation and creature. It would be the most devastating plague to date. Moshe then said (9:14), “בַּעֲבוּר תֵּדַע כִּי אֵין כָּמֹנִי בְּכָל־הָאָרֶץ” – “In order that you’ll know there is none like Me in all the land.” You might argue: What’s so remarkable about the Jews? Other nations have powerful gods also. We can pit our gods against yours! The Jewish God is different: He is omnipotent and controls all the different forces that bring about the great destruction from the hail. Don’t mess with the Jewish people, because their God will decimate yours. Lesson #4: The fourth and final time is when Pharaoh asked Moshe to stop the hail. Moshe agreed, but told Pharaoh that he, Moshe, first needed to “leave the city,” spread out his hands before God, and only then would the plague stop. Here, Moshe said (9:29), “לְמַעַן תֵּדַע כִּי לַיקֹוָק הָאָרֶץ” – “So that you know that the land belongs to Hashem.” Pharaoh, you might argue: even though the Jews are entitled to pray to their God, why do they need to go to the desert to do so? The answer is that God owns the entire earth, and decides where and how He wishes to be worshipped. This argument is also important for future generations to know that Hashem assigned the Jews as the proprietors of Eretz Israel (compare with Rashi to Gen. 1:1). This is why Moshe needed to leave the city in order to pray at a specific place for a reprieve from the hail, something which he didn’t do when praying over the other plagues. This indicated that there are distinct places that are more propitious for Divine connection.

Chosenness matters

These four lessons, taken together – (1) Hashem is completely responsive to the Jewish people’s needs; (2) Hashem distinguishes the Jews from others by protecting them amidst others’ suffering; (3) the Jews’ God is more powerful than any other nation’s god or power; (4) Hashem particularizes special places that He reserves for the Jewish people – bear witness to the specialness of the Jewish people. Despite all our efforts to reach out to the rest of humanity and to be part of the family of man, we must still acknowledge that at the end of the day, this is the resounding undercurrent of the entire Torah. The world has been trying to beat us down, accusing us of terrible things simply because we won’t roll over and die, and because we won’t allow our mortal enemies to continue killing us. While it may not be healthy to dwell on the idea of chosenness, it’s times like these when it’s worthwhile remembering. May we always assume that mantle responsibly, with humility and dignity, until we can unite with all humanity at the time of the Redemption, bb”a.

We All Ask, “Who Am I?”

By Rabbi Daniel Korobkin Parents often ask their children, “What do you want to be when you group up?” They sometimes get the typical answer: nurse, doctor, fire fighter, etc. Sometimes, the responses are unexpected. One of my children once answered that he wanted to be a fire truck. One girl named Suzy, when asked this question, answered, “I want to be Suzy. If I become someone else, then who will be Suzy? I just want to be myself.” There’s a halakhah that states: When a person is asked to be the Shaliach Tzibur (the person who leads the prayers in synagogue), he should initially decline. When asked a second time, he should hesitate slightly. When asked a third time, he should ascend to the cantor’s post immediately. The Talmud (TB Berachot 34a), which is the source of this law, states: “One who doesn’t hesitate at all is like a cooked food without salt; one who refuses excessively is like a cooked food with too much salt.” The Sfas Emes remarked that three biblical figures acted as examples of three types of people: (1) Korach aspired for honor, and was like the food without salt at all. (2) Aharon hesitated when invited to be a Kohen, but only initially, and therefore he was like the food with just the right amount of salt. (3) Moshe, when told by God to be the redeemer of Israel, refused excessively, and was like the food that is too salty.

Moshe's refusals

Moshe refused Hashem’s invitation a full three times. The first time he refused was when he said (3:11), “מִי אָנֹכִי” – “Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh, and that I should take Bnei Israel out of Egypt?” The second time he demurred was based on his having a speech impediment (4:10): “בִּי אֲדֹ-נָי” “O God, there is a defect in me! I am not a man of words… I am rather a man of heavy mouth and tongue.” The third time Moshe refused, he didn’t give an apparent reason, but simply said, very cryptically (4:13): Once again, “בִּי אֲדֹ-נָי” – the problem is within me. “שְׁלַח־נָא בְּיַד־תִּשְׁלָח” – “Send now, in a hand send.” We don’t even know what those words mean, but this refusal raised Hashem’s subsequent ire against Moshe (4:14). Why did Moshe refuse three times, and how do we understand his final objection? There are so many different ways of understanding the vision of the Burning Bush. Rashi’s grandson, Rabbi Shmuel ben Meir (Rashba”m) has a fascinating interpretation (3:11). He suggests that the Burning Bush was a model to Moshe about himself. Every human being is usually in charge of and limited by his natural abilities. But there are times when miracles occur, and the human being is “possessed,” as it were, with superhuman abilities that far exceed his own abilities. A regular bush would normally be consumed if it was infused with so much fiery energy. However, there are times when God can infuse an individual with power that would normally consume him; miraculously, the individual endures that power and accomplishes great things with it.

Have no fear

Hashem was telling Moshe that he should not fear the formidable task being assigned to him. Even though a normal human being would not have the ability to just saunter into Pharaoh’s palace and make such demands, and even though a normal human being would not have the ability to persuade an entire nation of people to pick everything up and leave their homeland, Moshe was about to be infused with a superhuman strength that was not his own. This is what Hashem meant when he said to Moshe (3:12): “כִּי־אֶהְיֶה עִמָּךְ” – “I will be with you; you will not be doing this on your strength, but rather with the special Divine energy that I am implanting within you.” “וְזֶה־לְּךָ הָאוֹת כִּי אָנֹכִי שְׁלַחְתִּיךָ” – “And this, the Burning Bush, is the symbol of what you are about to become.” You will be “on fire,” filled with a superhuman energy that will not consume you. Why, then, did Moshe object an additional two times, even after Hashem’s explanation? Some commentaries suggest that Moshe couldn’t understand why Hashem would choose such a flawed “vessel” to be His representative. “I have a speech impediment! Wouldn’t you rather choose Your representative as someone who can at least speak properly?”

Moshe mirroring the burning bush

Hashem’s response to Moshe was, just to the contrary, I want you to be a complete receptacle of Divine power. Just as a dry bush is perhaps the most combustible of plants, I have chosen you to be the bearer of eloquent speech precisely because of your speech handicap. This will prove to Pharaoh and all the onlookers that you are coming not of your own strength, but from a Divine “fire” that was miraculously implanted within you. We can now understand Moshe’s third objection. Moshe viewed himself not only as a man with a speech impediment, but also as a person who, over the years, had become a peaceful shepherd, and who was anything but aggressive and belligerent. God had told Moshe (3:19): “I know that the king of Egypt will not give you permission to leave,” “וְלֹא בְּיָד חֲזָקָה” – “especially because he has such a strong grip [‘hand’] upon the people.” Wouldn’t it make more sense, reasoned Moshe, to have someone with an aggressive personality, someone who could counter the very strong “hand” of Pharaoh? This is why Moshe used the word “hand” in this last protest. This is when Hashem displayed anger to Moshe. Hashem had expected Moshe to be His sole representative, and that Moshe would be able to alter his personality, overcome his natural aversion to confrontation, and rise to the occasion. When Moshe demurred this third time, Hashem scolded him by telling him that if Moshe could not bring himself to aggressively stand up to Pharaoh by himself, then Aharon, Moshe’s brother, would need to assist him and provide the moral support and encouragement necessary to follow through on this difficult task.

Our destiny

This story is not just a lesson about Moshe. It’s a lesson for each of us. Rav Mordechai Lainer suggested that when asked, “Who am I, that I should act as the redeemer,” Moshe was really asking a more existential question: “What is within me? Is this really my destined path? Is this project my raison d'être, my reason for being?” This is sometimes the greatest paralyzing factor in one’s life. We never really know for sure whether the endeavor that I’m investing so much of my life into – whether it’s a career, a relationship, a community project, etc. – is really what I’m supposed to be doing. Perhaps someone else would be better served doing this, or perhaps it shouldn’t be done at all. Hashem’s response to Moshe, for every objection, was “כִּי־אֶהְיֶה עִמָּךְ” – “I am with you on this journey.” We should all view ourselves as receptacles for Hashem’s will. We will never know for sure “who we are” and what our true destiny is. All we can do is hope that even when the task seems to be formidable or even insurmountable, that Hashem will imbue us with a supernatural “fire” that will allow us to complete the task.

Getting it just right

The important thing is not to demur or ruminate over our options for too long of a period. Hesitation born from self-doubt and caution is fine for a brief period, but not for an extended period. When one is working on preparing a meal, if you don’t spend enough time on kitchen prep, if you don’t add enough spice, the food will come out bland. But if you spend too much time shaking that salt shaker, adding spice, and otherwise trying to “patchke” with your food, you will end up ruining it. Similarly, one can spend a lifetime deliberating over what to do, how to do it, when to do it, etc. But if we don’t pull the trigger at some point, we will have squandered the most important gift of existence, our life itself. May we all have the merit of discovering who we are. May Hashem continue to imbue our chayalim with the miraculous “fire” that impels them to victory. May we all do great things over the different chapters of our lives, so that we can help in ushering the ultimate Redemption, bb”a.