Choose Light
Parshas
Bo
What is the worst
calamity that can befall a person? What agonies are the most difficult to
endure? To find the answer, we need only look at the plagues that afflicted the
Egyptians when they refuse to let the Jewish people out of bondage.
The Ten Plagues were
designed to break down the stubborn resistance of Pharaoh and the Egyptians.
Each successive plague turned up the pressure another notch or two higher,
until Pharaoh, no longer bear the pain, finally capitulated. The final and most
crushing blow was the death of the firstborn. The runner-up in sheer torture
was the ninth plague, which enveloped Egypt in such a dense, palpable darkness
that all the people were completely immobilized. The agony of a prisoner in
solitary confinement does not compare to the living death that gripped the
benighted Egyptians.
While all the Egyptians
were trapped in the darkness, life for the Jewish people continued as usual. As
with all the other plagues, they were completely impervious to the effects of
the catastrophes to which Egypt was being subjected. And yet, the Torah tells
us that during the plague of darkness “the Jewish people had light in all their
dwelling places.” Why was it necessary to tell us that the Jewish people were
unaffected by the darkness? Furthermore, what is the significance of their
having light in “their dwelling places”? Surely, they enjoyed light wherever
they were.
Earlier in Genesis
(28:10), we read that “Jacob departed from Beersheba and went to Harran.” The
Midrash observes that the Torah finds it appropriate to mention his point of
departure in addition to his destination point. This teaches us that “when a
righteous person is in a city he represents its glory, light and beauty, and
when he departs, its glory, light and beauty are removed.” What is the
significance of this redundant language?
The commentators
explain that all too often we do not appreciate what we have until we lose it.
When do people realize that the righteous person is the glory of his city? When
he departs, and the glory is removed.
In Egypt as well, the
Jewish people did not appreciate fully the wonderful gift of light until the
plague of darkness struck Egypt. Watching the Egyptians immobilized by the
darkness, they were suddenly extremely grateful that they had light to
illuminate their lives.
On a more mystical
level, the commentators see darkness and light as metaphors for the Egyptian
and Jewish cultures. Egyptian society, steeped in superstition, magic and
idolatry, was blind to the Presence of the Creator in the world. It was a place
of darkness. The plague of darkness tapped into the Egyptian way of life and
produced a physical manifestation of the spiritual darkness. And the severity
of the plague was clear proof of the extent to which the spiritual light had
been extinguished in Egypt. The absence of
spirituality immobilizes a person and prevents him from moving forward.
When the Jewish people
perceived the spiritual blight of the Egyptians, they recognized the Presence
of the Creator in every grain of sand, every blade of grass, and this profound
faith illuminated their world. The purity of life in “the Jewish dwellings,”
therefore, shone with a transcendent light that reflected the inner
spirituality of the Jewish people.
A young student was
sitting in the back of the classroom and daydreaming. At the front of the room,
the teacher was explaining the intricacies of a difficult subject, but the
student paid no attention. He was lost in the faraway world of his imagination.
Suddenly, he heard
another student speaking loudly and disrupting the class. The teacher asked the
troublemaker to be quiet, but to no avail.
The daydreamer’s
interest was piqued. He ears perked up, attuned to every word that transpired
in the classroom. He listened to the teacher trying to convey important ideas,
and he listened with revulsion as the troublemaker blotted out the teacher’s
words with his disrespectful noise.
How foolish I’ve been,
thought the daydreamer. My teacher is telling us such important things, and I
wasn’t paying attention. Unfortunately, it took the troublemaker’s antics to
make me aware of what I was missing.
In our own lives, we sometimes become so caught up in the
hustle and bustle of daily life that we lose sight of the deeper truths of
life, of a sense of which things that are important, and which are not. But
then when we see the extreme degradation of the society in which we live, we
are snapped back to reality and regain our innate appreciation for Jewish
values and ideals. It is better, of course, never to lose sight in the first
place, not to wait for the darkness of others to inspire us to choose light.
Text Copyright © 2007
by Rabbi Naftali Reich and Torah.org.
Rabbi Reich is on the
faculty of the Ohr Somayach Tanebaum Education Center.
Total Control
Parshas
Bo
“Come to Pharaoh,” says the Almighty at the
beginning of this week’s portion. “For I will harden his heart and the hearts
of his servants in order to put my wonders in his midst.”
The concept of a
hardened heart, influenced by Divine intervention, is grappled with by countless
commentators and myriad meforshim. After all, how do we reconcile a Divinely
hardened heart with free-will?
Some explain that
Divinity only influenced Pharaoh’s physical resilience, as Hashem did not want
to score a definitive knockout in the early rounds. Others discuss how Divine
intervention can actually hinder the opportunity of penitence.
All in all, the
natural order was changed, and the imposition on Pharaoh’s free-will rarely
occurs to the rest of humanity.
What troubles me,
however, is the juxtaposition of Hashem’s request that Moshe once again beseech
Pharaoh, followed by the words, “because I will harden his heart.”
Aren’t those two
separate thoughts? Shouldn’t the command be “go to Pharaoh because I want him
to free My people”?
From the word flow it
seems that Hashem’s hardening of Pharaoh’s heart was a reason for Moshe to go
to Pharaoh. Was it?
A friend of mine told
me the following story. Years ago, he visited an amusement park. Among the
attractions was a haunted house. It was pitch black inside, save for dim lights
that illuminated all types of lurking monsters strategically placed to scare
the defiant constituency that dared to enter the domain.
Reading the warnings
for park patrons who were either under 12 years old, below a certain height, or
suffering high blood pressure or heart disease, my friend hurried his family
past the attraction. He only glanced at the almost infinite list of other
caveats and exculpatory proclamations from the management. He surely did not
want his kids to challenge him to the altar of the outrageous.
Then he noticed the
line that was forming. The only life form it contained was tattooed
motorcyclists, each more than six feet tall and broadly built.
In spite of the ominous
warnings that were posted, they stood anxiously in line waiting to prove their
masculinity to themselves and the groups that hurried by the frightening
attraction.
But nestled among the
miscreants of machismo, he noticed a young boy, no more than seven-years-old,
standing on line. He was laughing and giggling as if he were about to ride a
carousel.
My friend could not
contain himself. Surely, he could not let a young child like that show him up.
“Sonny,” he called to
the boy. “Can’t you read? This is a really scary ride. And besides, you’re not
even ten!” The boy just laughed. “Why should I be scared?”
“Why should you be
scared?” my friend asked incredulously. “This is the scariest ride in the park!
It is pitch black in there! You can’t see a thing — except for the monsters!”
The boy’s smile never
faded. In fact it broadened. Then he revealed the source of his courage.
“You see the man over
there?” He pointed to a middle-age fellow who sat in front of a switch-filled
control box.
“Well that’s my dad! If
I just give one scream,” exclaimed the child, “all he does is flip one switch
and all the lights go on, and the monsters turn into plastic dummies!”
Rav Yecheil Meir
Lifschutz of Gustinin explains that Hashem began the final stages of the
redemption commanding Moshe, “Go to Pharaoh.” Hashem’s next words were said as
the reason to disregard any of Pharaoh’s yelling, shouting, and cavorting. They
are totally meaningless, “Because I will harden his heart. I am the one in
control. I am the one who hardens hearts and causes tyrants to drive you from
their palaces.” With one flip of a heavenly switch they will chase after you in
the darkest night and beg you to do the will of the Creator.” So “Go to
Pharaoh,” says the Almighty “because I am the one who hardens his heart!”
When faced with challenges, we can approach them with a sense
of certainty if we know that there is a higher destiny that steers our fate. We
can even walk into the den of a Pharaoh with the confidence of one who knows
that it is the Master of Creation who is pulling the switch.
A Matter of Time
Parshas
Bo
Egypt reels under a
barrage of plagues. Pharaoh’s stubborn resistance is finally crumbling. The
Jewish people sense the long-awaited end of their enslavement. Hashem is about
to take them out of bondage and forge them into His chosen people, the
recipients of His holy Torah. Indeed, even before the final plague is
administered to the Egyptians, Hashem already gives them their very first
mitzvah as a nation.
So what is this first
mitzvah that will cement the nascent relationship between Hashem and our
emancipated ancestors whom He has chosen as His own special people? One might
have expected an exalted ideal, such as the mitzvah of emunah, faith in Hashem.
Or perhaps a mitzvah of personal refinement, such as loving other Jews as
oneself. But no. It was the very practical mitzvah of establishing a lunar
calendar to regulate the annual cycle of festivals and observances. This is
really quite baffling. Why this particular mitzvah? Would it not have been more
appropriate perhaps to initiate the Jewish people with a mitzvah that
represents transcendent spiritual concepts?
Let us reflect for a
moment on one of the more notorious features of our society – the mad rush that
characterizes our daily existence. The rhythm of our lives is driven by the
tick tock of the clock. Our jobs, our schedules, our appointments, rush hour
traffic, all the aspects of our contemporary lifestyles are measured and
regulated by the inexorable clock. But this is not really a new phenomenon. The
accelerated pace of society has simply highlighted one of the fundamental
truths of the world – that the most precious commodity by far is time.
“Time is money!” we
are told, but a wise man once turned this adage on its ear and said, “Money is
time!” Time, not money, is the fundamental currency by which the value of all
things is measured.
Coming out of bondage,
the Jewish people were presented with a sudden wealth of time. As slaves, their
time had been stripped away from them, but now they got it back. What would
they do with this great treasure that was about to fall into their laps?
This crucial question
was answered by the mitzvah of establishing the calendar. When designating the
new month, the Beth Din declares, “Mekudash, mekudash! Sanctified, sanctified!”
Hashem gave the Jewish people the power to sanctify time by what they say and
do, not only to give it worth but to imbue it with holiness. Rosh Chodesh, the
first day of the new month, has the status of a minor festival, reminding us
that we can consecrate all the moments of our lives. By living in a way
consistent with Torah values and ideals, we consecrate our time and preserve it
for all eternity. This mitzvah, therefore, does indeed represent some of the
most transcendent spiritual concepts in the Torah. This mitzvah, delivered with
the gift of time, was indeed a most fitting beginning for the special
relationship between Hashem and the people He had chosen as His own.
The mitzvah of
establishing the calendar also highlights another aspect of time – its cyclical
nature. Life, as we know all too well, is an endless procession of ups and downs,
with no guarantees as to the outcome. But the eternal existence of the Jewish
nation is unconditionally guaranteed by our Creator. The symbol of this
guarantee is the lunar cycle which our calendar follows. The Jewish people are
compared to the moon. Just as the moon wanes to the point of oblivion but
always returns to its fullness, so will the Jewish people always return to
their greatness, no matter how far they are driven down by the pressures of
exile.
Therefore, the mitzvah
of the calendar was doubly appropriate for the time it was given. The Jews were
slaves deprived of spirituality and even basic human dignity, a people on the
verge of extinction, yet they would once again glow with the brightness of the
full moon. They had been mired for centuries at the nadir of human existence,
but now Hashem had lifted them up and placed them on the pinnacle of Creation.
A man once visited a great sage.
“How is your life going?” asked the sage, “Spiritually?
Materially?”
“Splendid!” said the man. “Everything is excellent. It’s been
great for years and years. Couldn’t be better.”
“Life without ups and downs? You are living in a dream world.
If you do not know you are down, how do you expect to get up?”
In our own lives, we
can also take comfort in the metaphor of the lunar cycle. The flow of time is a
harbinger of hope, both for ourselves as individuals and for all of us as a
people. But even as we wait for the future, it is within our power to sanctify
the present, to give meaning and value to our time by the manner in which we
live. We can mold our time into a bridge to an illuminated future.
Text Copyright © 2008
by Rabbi Naftali Reich and Torah.org.
Rabbi Reich is on the
faculty of the Ohr Somayach Tanenbaum Education Center.
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