There are moments in which the Torah we learn jumps off the page and morphs into something completely different than what appeared at the outset.
As I was searching for inspiring Torah to write for this column, I came across a beautiful dvar Torah by Rabbi Aviva Richman of the Hadar Yeshiva. It was so instantly resonant that it was as if it had been sent for this purpose.
The beginning of the Book of Exodus opens with the terrible loss of baby boys as they are cruelly thrown into the Nile. In this week’s Torah portion, as the Children of Israel are leaving Egypt, they are leaving behind their dead children mired in their watery graves.
Richman analyzes two midrashim that I had never paid close attention to because of their fantastical content. Both describe a reality in which these babies miraculously survive! However, there are significant distinctions between them that yield contrasting ideas.
In the first, the parents reunite with their children on the banks of the Reed Sea.
“How do we know that the sons thrown into the Nile River went up with their parents out of Egypt? The Holy One, blessed be He, hinted to the angel appointed over the water who spit them out into the desert. They ate and drank and procreated there... and when the Children of Israel were on the banks of the sea, these sons appeared opposite them and opened their mouths and cried out, ‘These are our fathers!’
“Immediately, their fathers opened their mouths [in response to this miracle] and said, “This is my God and I will glorify Him.” The sons [then] said, “God of my father and I will elevate Him” (Otzar Midrashim Minyan 1:17).
In this midrash, the glorification of God comes after the parents are reunited with their lost children on opposite sides of the Reed Sea. While the children are not part of the initial exodus from Egypt, they join the nation in this singular moment of redemption. In Richman’s words, the midrash is suggesting that leaving Egypt would not be meaningful if parents had to leave their children behind.
Only now, in this moment of joyous, miraculous reunion against all odds, parents, followed by their children, recognize the greatness of God and cry out in praise. Love for God is intertwined with love between parents and children, reflecting the midrashic idea that there are three partners in the creation of a child: mother, father, and God. When the partnership between God with parents and children is illuminated, as in this midrashic moment, it is cause for exaltation and celebration of the divine.
In a parallel midrash in Exodus Rabbah, the story is told somewhat differently. The narrative begins with the daughters of Israel seducing their husbands in order to continue procreating, despite Pharaoh’s decree to kill the male babies. The women would give birth in secret in the fields, and the babies would be provided for by an angel sent by God to clean, care, and feed them.
The midrash in Exodus Rabbah 1:12 continues: “Once the Egyptians became aware of them [the babies], they sought to kill them. A miracle was performed for them, and they were enveloped in the ground. They [the Egyptians] brought oxen and they plowed [the land] above them. After [the Egyptians] would leave, they [the babies] would sprout and emerge like the grass of the field.
“Once they grew, they would come in flocks to their homes. When the Holy One, blessed be He, revealed Himself at the sea, they recognized Him first, as it is stated: ‘This is my God and I will glorify Him’” (Exodus 15:2).
In this version of the midrashic narrative, the children return to their parents after they sprout wildly in the fields. They are thus part of the exodus experience. Furthermore, as Richman explains, it is they who recognize God at the sea and, in this way, introduce God to their parents.
Their direct experience with near death and salvation gives them the ability to see God’s providence in the world before their parents, who have only just emerged from the crippling experience of slavery and the near loss of their children.
Losing loved ones amid the Israel-Hamas war
THIS COLUMN is being written on a day in which 21 families were informed of the terrible loss of their sons during the fighting in Gaza, including a young man, Ariel Wolfstal, who grew up in my community in Elazar and married his childhood sweetheart, Sapir.
Last week, our community lost David Schwartz, and on the October 7 Hamas massacre, we lost Rinat Zagdon. Three beautiful young people with so much life to live and so much love to give to their family, friends, and Am Yisrael. We are only one community mirroring the myriad communities and families who are in deep mourning.
Before this war, I would have read the midrash dispassionately, trying to understand and teach the literary underpinnings to the interpretation and the midrash’s incredible ability to weave verses from throughout the Bible to enrich the narrative.
But today, when I rediscovered these midrashim, all I hear is incredible yearning – for children who have died before their time to be united with their parents; to feel God’s presence; to sense salvation at times of unending darkness.
One final point. I give a weekly Gemara shiur at the home of Ariel Wolfstal’s mother, where we study the Talmudic tractate Bava Batra. The first chapter is about the relationship between neighbors, building walls, and the nitty-gritty of who owes what to whom, and when.
Last night, before the family was informed of the terrible news, we started learning about Reuben. His fields abut Simeon’s on three sides, and he decides to build fences on each side of Simeon’s field.
In the usual style of the Talmud, questions arose whether Simeon could be obligated to contribute to the cost of the walls. The Talmud talks about the makif (the one who surrounds) and the nikaf (the one who is surrounded). This morning, it occurred to me that those concepts have a much deeper significance. In moments of sorrow and loss, when we live in a community, we are either the ones surrounding a family in mourning (the makif) or being surrounded when we are experiencing a loss (nikaf).
While Bava Batra is filled with moments of conflict between neighbors (which is why good walls make good neighbors), those walls temporarily dissolve as we surge forward to hold, comfort, and surround those who mourn.
May the memories of Ariel, David, and Rinat, along with all of those who have fallen, be a blessing. May they help us see the presence of the divine in these moments of darkness.
The writer teaches contemporary Halacha at the Matan Advanced Talmud Institute. She also teaches Talmud at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies, as well as courses on sexuality and sanctity in the Jewish tradition.