Hearing the Truth from Afar: Yitro and the Meaning of Revelation

Yitro is one of the most unexpected figures in the Torah. He comes from a great distance—geographically and spiritually. A Midianite priest, immersed in pagan culture, he stands outside the story of Israel both by birth and by belief. And yet, it is precisely he who hears. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom takes up the tale:

The Torah tells us that Yitro heard all that God had done for Israel and, in response, the verse uses an unusual word to describe his reaction: vayechad. Chazal struggle with its meaning, and Rashi presents several interpretations, each illuminating a different dimension of Yitro’s spiritual transformation.

One explanation connects the word to joy. Yitro rejoiced—with simcha—at what Israel had achieved. For the first time in human history, an entire nation had heard the voice of God. Revelation was no longer reserved for isolated individuals; it had become a shared human experience. Yitro could celebrate that achievement, even though it did not originate from his own people.

A second explanation offered by Rashi moves in the opposite emotional direction. Yitro trembled. He shook with fear upon hearing the fate of Egypt, a nation to which he had once been close. The destruction at the Sea was not merely a triumphant story—it was also a sobering one. Yitro possessed the moral depth to rejoice in Israel’s salvation while simultaneously feeling shock and awe at the downfall of Egypt.

A third interpretation sees the word as intellectual rather than emotional. Yitro arrived at a recognition of God’s uniqueness. After a lifetime of pagan worship, he achieved clarity: monotheism is true. This was no small step. Yitro had explored many belief systems, and precisely because of that journey, his recognition carried unique weight.

A fourth interpretation is even more radical. The word is linked to sharpness—to a knife. According to this view, Yitro circumcised himself and formally converted. The Gemara identifies him as the first ger whose conversion is described explicitly in the Torah. He did not merely admire the truth from afar; he bound himself to it physically and covenantally.

Later, the Torah records that Yitro returned to his land. Rashi explains that this was not abandonment but mission. He went back to bring his family—and perhaps others—closer to the truth he had discovered. Yitro never left Israel in spirit.

One of the most striking questions in the Torah is structural: why does the revelation at Sinai—Matan Torah, the foundational moment of Jewish existence—begin with the story of Yitro? Why frame the thunder, lightning, and national covenant with the quiet arrival of a Midianite priest?

One answer is that Yitro’s story complements Sinai. Sinai is a public, overwhelming event—a national acceptance of Torah. Yitro represents something different but equally essential: personal recognition, voluntary acceptance, and inner clarity. Revelation is not only about what happens when God speaks loudly to a nation; it is also about what happens when a human being truly listens.

Yitro teaches that Torah is not sustained by spectacle alone. It requires individuals who can hear truth even when it does not flatter their past, their culture, or their comfort. His presence frames Sinai with humility and openness, reminding us that covenant without understanding is incomplete.

There is something profoundly contemporary about Yitro’s legacy. In modern Israel, the Druze community—non-Jews who live primarily in the North—have demonstrated extraordinary loyalty to the Jewish people and the State of Israel. They serve, they sacrifice, and they stand shoulder to shoulder with Jews in defense of the land. Many Druze maintain an ancient tradition that they descend from Yitro himself. Whether historically verifiable or not, the symbolism is powerful.

Yitro heard the truth. He was overwhelmed by it. And he responded—not with indifference, not with partial admiration, but with commitment. That ability to hear, to truly listen across distance and difference, may be one of the deepest prerequisites for receiving the Torah at all.

In that sense, Yitro does not merely introduce Sinai. He makes it possible.

Undeserved Praise

 Once again our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger takes a close look at the Torah narrative and asks whether its actual words are capable of supporting a popular explanation. This is what he writes:

If one were to survey Rabbinic literature throughout the ages to determine the greatest single action or merit associated with the Jewish people, the result would likely be that they proclaimed “na’aseh venishma” (“we will do and we will (then) listen”) at Sinai. They have been eternally praised for their willingness to blindly accept whatever Hashem might command, even before hearing the scope of or reasons for His commandments. The Talmud (Shabbat 88a) even describes how the angels descended and placed 1.2 million crowns on the heads of the 600,000 Jewish men – one for na’aseh and one for nishma (see also Likutei Moharan 9:22). There is only one problem. If you read the Torah, plainly, simply, with no derash or fancy Biblical exegesis, it seems clear that this never actually happened.

As an aside, but something to keep in mind as we move forward, the people leaving Egypt were a nation of freed slaves. Logically, we would expect their only response to any instruction to be “yes sir.” For a slave there is nothing other than doing. The reason for any command does not matter. Many times, there is no reason for a master’s demand other than to demean, to subjugate or to punish. A slave tolerates.  A slave never needs to understand, just to obey! Thus, they most likely would not have responded “na’aseh venishma,.” They simply were not conditioned to think that way!

After that shocking assertion, one that may have many of you “seeing thunder,” we must explore what really happened. The facts that emerge from the Torah’s narrative and the real meaning, in proper context, will allow us to better understand the mindset of the nation that received the Torah and why Hashem chose Moshe as his vehicle to transmit it.

We begin with parashat Yitro, at the beginning of Shemot Chapter 19, on Rosh Chodesh Sivan when Moshe receives a message from Hashem. Part of the message involves telling Bnei Yisrael that they will be special, and part involves the procedures for receiving the Torah (where to stand, how to dress, sexual conduct, etc.). To these rules and not to any part of the Torah itself, they reply, “whatever Hashem has spoken, we will do.” (Shemot 19:8). Thus, the first time they respond to a set of instructions – something that occurs before they were standing at Har Sinai, they simply respond “na’aseh” – “we will do” -- as one would expect from slaves. They receive these instructions on 3 Sivan.

On the third day after receiving these instructions, on 6 (or perhaps 7) Sivan. Moshe orally delivers the “Aseret Hadibrot” (Shemot Chapter 20). Nowhere from Shemot 19:8 through the end of the recitation of the Dibrot (or in the rest of parashat Yitro) do we find another stated acceptance by the people or the phrase “na’aseh vnishma”. Quite the contrary, chronologically, from this point until Moshe’s first return from Sinai, rather than accepting Hashem and his Torah, a portion of the people forge and worship the golden calf!

After destroying the first luchot, Moshe ascends Sinai two more times, once to beg forgiveness for the Jewish people and once more to re-present the Torah to the people. Parashat Ki Tisah fully narrates these events. Surprisingly, during this entire lengthy narrative of Matan Torah, the nation is not gathered together; nor is it asked to accept the Torah—and it does not declare “Na’aseh venishma.”

 However, there is an interesting aside found earlier in parashat Mishpatim. In Chapter 24, there is an abbreviated version of the second matan Torah. This narrative ignores the golden calf, it ignores the second luchot, it ignores Moshe’s interactions with Hashem. In fact, it most likely happened after all of those events – or it is an expansion, of sorts – where Moshe teaches more than just the Ten Commandments.

Moshe goes up the mountain accompanied partway by Aaron, his sons and the elders. He continues the rest of the way alone. Moshe comes down and teaches the people all of Hashem’s commandments. “Then the people said all that Hashem has commanded “na’aseh” “we will do” (Shemot 24:3). In other words, AFTER Moshe had gone up twice to receive the Torah (four times in total to speak to Hashem on Har Sinai), and AFTER he already taught them the commandments. Even then, all they said—which is what slaves would be expected to reply—was NA’ASEH!

The narrative does not end there.  It seems that Moshe does something that he was not directly commanded to do. He was commanded to fashion the ten commandments (“Carve for yourself two tablets of stone like the first” Shemot 34:1). He goes one step further; he writes down all of the commandments (Shemot 24:4) and “he reads it aloud to the people” (Shemot 24:7). Then, he does something else that seems strange. He builds an altar and sets up twelve pillars (one for each tribe), and has assistants offer animal sacrifices, specifically bulls.

After hearing the commandments, now a second time, from the written text, a text called the “sefer habrit” (book of the covenant), the people FINALLY say “all that Hashem has spoken, na’aseh venishma” (“we will listen and we will do”). Bottom line, this is a far cry from a praiseworthy nation that boldly and faithfully placed their desire to serve Hashem before they had any need to understand what He was asking from them! Instead, this is much more like students that failed an exam twice times and then passed after the teacher sat them down and spoon-fed them the answers.

There may be no good answer here. The sequence of events and the text simply contradict the Rabbinic narrative in a definitive manner. But perhaps an approach can be derived from the actions that Moshe takes, seemingly at his own initiative.He has listened as the people time and time again respond as slaves – blindly accepting commands. He knows their psychology and the nuances of Egyptian culture – their gods and the symbolism well. He knows that they cannot be true servants of Hashem, with free will, unless they break out of their slave mindset.  

He erects pillars for each tribe – the Pharaohs of Egypt had pyramids and monuments – on the basis that the newly freed nation likewise was deserving of monuments of its own. He builds an altar to sacrifice bulls. The bull was one of the Egyptian gods but, more importantly, it represented the strongest, most developed manifestation of a calf! In slaughtering and burning that bull and offering it to Hashem, Moshe was laying waste to the notion of Egyptian power before their eyes.

Finally, and for the last time, Moshe read Hashem’s commandments to them. He read these commandments from a book and they were not the oral commands of a task master. They were however part of a covenant. A covenant is not unilateral – it has two parties. In a sense they are not being commanded or coerced; they are agreeing.  When they heard this, when they understood that this Torah was a code of respect for them. Then they transformed their “na’aseh” their expression of a slave’s blind supplication, to “na’aseh venishma” – we obey and we are willing to listen, to learn, to understand. Perhaps that was why the angels gave them crowns: they had finally evolved from slavery to Hashem’s royalty, “mamlechet kohanim.”

 

 

 

Two Ways of Seeing: Beshalach 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 28 January 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit (translation by AI) here.

Parshat Beshalach opens with a striking tension. On the one hand, the Torah tells us that Bnei Yisrael left Egypt chamushim—armed, prepared, and resolute. On the other hand, the very same passage explains why God deliberately avoided leading them by the direct route: lest they see war and lose heart, and return to Egypt.

Which was it? Were they strong or afraid? Courageous or hesitant?

The Torah does not resolve the contradiction—because it is not a contradiction at all. It reflects a complexity of perspective. The same people who carried weapons were also capable of fear. At the sea, they cried out to God in faith—and moments later accused Moshe of leading them to their deaths. The Ramban notes that the Torah itself alternates between two descriptions: sometimes they are called Bnei Yisrael, a people bound by covenant and destiny; at other times, simply ha’am, a frightened crowd reacting to danger.

Those who saw themselves as ha’am experienced only threat and uncertainty. Those who remembered they were Bnei Yisrael—part of something larger than the moment—were able, even amid fear, to sense that history was moving.

Our own time carries a similar emotional complexity. We have lived through prolonged anxiety, grief, and exhaustion. Moments of relief have arrived alongside pain; closure has come without simplicity; gratitude has not erased loss. It is entirely human to hold contradictory emotions at once—sorrow and relief, pride and fragility, hope and weariness.

And yet, despite this complexity, something unmistakable has emerged. Again and again, we have seen faith, resilience, and courage rise to the surface. We have witnessed extraordinary bravery—soldiers leaving families and livelihoods, time after time, to defend Am Yisrael without hesitation. Alongside them, we have seen a nation mobilize and a quiet awakening of faith. Far from paralysis or despair, what has defined this period has been courage, responsibility, and emunah.

This, too, is a way of seeing: choosing not to view ourselves merely as ha’am, caught in and reacting to the immediacy of events, but as Bnei Yisrael—a people who understand that even painful chapters sit within a far longer story.

In 1991, during the Gulf War, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l addressed a British solidarity delegation visiting Israel. He reminded them of the debate in the Talmud whether Yetziat Mitzrayim would remain central in Jewish memory, or whether a future redemption would eclipse it. The prophet Yirmiyahu speaks of such a moment—a return so powerful that it would reshape Jewish consciousness.

Rabbi Sacks observed that, in Moshe’s time, God Himself feared that if Bnei Yisrael faced war, they would lose heart and turn back. Yet in his own day, as missiles fell and commercial flights were cancelled, one set of flights never stopped—those bringing Soviet Jewry back home to Israel. People knew the risks. And they came anyway.

That, he said, was an Exodus of a different kind.

In this past week, we have experienced a moment that captures the complexity of our time: relief alongside pain, gratitude intertwined with grief. Like those who left Egypt chamushim, we move forward as Bnei Yisrael—carrying our past, sustained by faith, and confident that our story is still unfolding.

Shabbat Shalom!

A Time to Pray and a Time to Act

The Torah is extraordinarily precise in its choice of words. Sometimes a single verb reveals not only what happened, but how it happened—and what it meant. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom elucidates here:

Faith, Action, and the Birth of a Nation

At the beginning of Parashat Beshalach, the Jewish people are described in strikingly different ways. At times they are called Ivrim—Hebrews—a term that can suggest passivity, displacement, even reluctance. At other moments, they are called Bnei Yisrael, a name of identity, destiny, and purpose. Most powerfully, the Torah tells us:

וַחֲמֻשִׁים עָלוּ בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם

And the Children of Israel went up from the land of Egypt armed.

On the simplest level, chamushim means physically armed—equipped for battle. Indeed, Rashi explains it as mezuyanim, armed and prepared. But Chazal see much more here. Rashi also cites the Midrash that only one-fifth of the people left Egypt. Whether taken literally or symbolically, the message is unmistakable: not everyone was ready. Not everyone had the clarity, faith, and courage to leave slavery behind and walk toward an unknown future.

Rabbeinu Bachya adds a profound layer. The word chamushim is written without a vav, allowing it to be read as chamishim—fifty. The people who truly left Egypt knew exactly where they were going: toward Sinai, toward the fifty days that would culminate in Kabbalat HaTorah. They were not merely fleeing Egypt; they were moving with purpose toward destiny.

This distinction lies at the heart of the parashah. From the very beginning of Jewish history, there were different groups within Klal Yisrael. There were followers—those swept along by events, uncertain, reactive. And there were leaders—men and women who knew why they were leaving, where they were going, and what it meant to be a Jew.

Faith Alone Is Not Enough

This tension reaches its dramatic peak at the Sea. The Torah describes the moment with breathtaking honesty:

וַיִּירְאוּ מְאֹד

And they were very afraid.

Yet only one verse earlier we are told:

וּבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל יֹצְאִים בְּיָד רָמָה

The Children of Israel were going out with a high hand.

How can these two descriptions coexist? Had they not already seen Egypt humbled? Had they not experienced miracles beyond imagination? Moshe responds instinctively—he prays. And then comes one of the most shocking verses in the Torah:

מַה־תִּצְעַק אֵלָי? דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִסָּעוּ

Why do you cry out to Me? Speak to the Children of Israel that they should travel.

How can prayer be dismissed at the moment of greatest danger? Rashi, followed by Siftei Chachamim, explains something revolutionary: faith without action is ineffective. Until this moment, the Jewish people had believed—but they had not acted. They had been carried out of Egypt on miracles, protected on all sides. Their faith had never been tested through risk.

Now, for the first time, Hashem demands action. Step into the sea while it is still water. Only afterward will it split. This is not a limitation of prayer. It is its completion. Prayer that does not lead to movement remains incomplete.

Redemption Requires Movement

Rav Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal, in his monumental work Eim HaBanim Semeichah, applies this principle directly to our generation. All Jews believe in Mashiach. That belief has survived exile, persecution, and upheaval. But belief alone does not redeem. Redemption begins when faith expresses itself through action. A Jew who waits passively for Mashiach to carry him to Eretz Yisrael reveals—not strength of faith—but its absence. True belief moves a person forward. It compels planning, sacrifice, and concrete steps. Just as at the Sea, Hashem says to every generation: Do not only cry out to Me. Travel.

Two Halves of Jewish Life

Parashat Beshalach is almost surgically divided into two equal halves. The first half is miraculous. Hashem carries His people, protects them, overwhelms their enemies, and reveals His power openly. The people simply watch. The second half begins with the word vayisa—and suddenly everything changes. No water. Bitter water. Hunger. Manna with restrictions. Shabbat tests. Amalek. Trial after trial.

This is Jewish life.

There are moments of clear divine gift—matanot Elokim—when we see Hashem’s hand unmistakably. And there are long stretches of nisayon, where faith must be lived, not merely felt.

The Kli Yakar explains that the wilderness trained the people to live with minimum physical dependency. Not asceticism—but restraint. A Jew must learn to engage with the physical world without becoming enslaved to it. Excess attachment to material comfort dulls spiritual purpose.

This is why our prayers begin with praise before petition. First, we acknowledge the gifts. Then, we ask for the strength to navigate challenge.

The True Weapon of Israel

The Torah tells us that the Jewish people left Egypt armed—but the most powerful weapon they carried was not a sword. They carried the bones of Yosef. Chazal note that the sea fled (vayanos) when it “saw” Yosef. The same word appears when Yosef fled from immorality in Egypt. The merit of moral courage, of self-restraint, of fidelity to divine purpose—that is what split the sea. Weapons protect the body. Values split seas.

Leaders, Not Followers

From the very beginning, Klal Yisrael contained both am and Bnei Yisrael—followers and leaders, the uncertain and the purposeful.

Our task is clear. We must raise ourselves, our children, and our grandchildren to be armed—not only physically, but intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. Armed with clarity. Armed with emunah. Armed with purpose. The Jewish people were not redeemed because they prayed alone. They were redeemed because they moved forward.

And that remains the law of redemption—then, and now.

“Speak to the Children of Israel—and let them travel.”

Rabbi Chaim David HaLevi: A Life Story: Book of the Month, Shevat 5786

We are just in the process of receiving our Book of the Month for Chodesh Shevat!. It’s Rabbi Chaim David HaLevi: A Life Story, by Efrat Krausz, daughter-in-law of our member Pessy Krausz. This book is in Hebrew, but we do have an English translation of the publisher’s blurb that reads like this:

Rabbi Chaim David HaLevi (1924-1998), one of the most prominent halachic authorities in terms of Sephardic rulings in the twentieth century, believed with all his heart that we were in a period of the beginning of the Redemption. He was a man of spirit and action, who saw halachah as a conscious moral system, suitable for modern life. In his measured and clear voice, the rabbi combined a deep commitment to halachah with faith and confidence that halachic authorities could rule at any time and deal with the challenges of an individual's life, the people and the State.

As the rabbi of Rishon LeTzion and the chief rabbi of Tel Aviv-Yafo, he was an independent arbiter, who addressed his audience and the entirety of Israeli society with respect and love, and strove all his life to bring Torah, society and state together.

Rabbi Chaim David HaLevi: A Life Story traces the character of Rabbi Halevi through his biography: his childhood in Jerusalem, his studies at Yeshivat Porat Yosef, his becoming a student of Rabbi Ben Zion Meir Chai Uziel, his years as a rabbi and the many books that were published by his hand. Between the pages there emerges an honest and in-depth portrait of a spiritual leader who saw himself as part of the project of reviving the people and the state, and his halachic path is sketched, balancing tradition with novelty, humility and courage.

The Rav's life story is intertwined with the story of the State of Israel from its inception, and the reader gets to know a man of truth who lived modestly and faithfully, a man whose influence is evident to this day, far beyond his city and generation.

Efrat Krausz is herself a resident of Gush Etzion, and a writer of biographies. She also wrote Building a Land– the story of Moshe Moskowitz (Moshko), one of the founders of Gush Etzion.

Pessy has kindly donated a copy of Efrat’s book to our shul library. We are most grateful for this lovely gift—and maybe we will be able to welcome  Efrat to Beit Knesset Hanassi to talk about her book and tell us in person about the impressive rabbi on whom it shines a powerful, informative and inspiring light.

For more information about this book and its publishers, click here.

Remembering Miracles—and Recognizing Them Today: Bo 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 22 January 2026.

Every day, twice a day, we fulfill the command to remember Yetziat Mitzrayim—the Exodus from Egypt. The Torah anchors this memory in countless mitzvot: Tefillin, Mezuzah, Shabbat, Kiddush, Matzah and many others are all described as zecher l’Yetziat Mitzrayim. The Exodus is more than a historical event; it is meant to shape our Jewish outlook on life itself.

This week’s parsha recounts that extraordinary moment when the Jewish people left Egypt amid open and dramatic miracles. The ten plagues marked the complete suspension of the natural order. For a brief period, the impossible became real.

Why is the Torah so insistent that we remember these events constantly?

The Ramban explains that the Exodus was not only about the past; it was meant to transform the way we see the world in the present. Through the open miracles of Egypt, we are supposed to learn to recognize the hidden miracles that surround us every day. As he famously writes:

“Through the great and obvious miracles, a person will come to recognize the hidden miracles, which are the foundation of the entire Torah… A person has no portion in the Torah of Moshe Rabbeinu until they believe that all our experiences are miraculous, and that there is no such thing as mere nature or coincidence.”

The open miracles of the Exodus happened only once, but they were meant to teach an eternal lesson: the world we call “natural” is itself miraculous. We simply become accustomed to it and stop noticing.

Yet this idea applies not only to the laws of nature, but also to the laws of history.

In our generation we have been granted the privilege, and at times the challenge, of witnessing modern miracles with our own eyes. Over the past two years we have lived through a period of war and uncertainty, with real pain and loss that have touched so many families. There have been moments of fear, grief, and deep anxiety.

And yet, alongside the hardship, we have also seen remarkable resilience and extraordinary acts of Divine protection: communities that have stood strong, soldiers who have fought with incredible bravery, a nation that has refused to break, and countless stories that can only be described as miraculous. Even in the midst of darkness, there have been rays of unmistakable light.

More broadly, only one lifetime ago the Jewish people were shattered and homeless, and the idea of a Jewish state seemed unimaginable. Today Israel stands as a centre of innovation, strength, and Torah learning on a scale never seen before. What once appeared impossible has become everyday reality.

Centuries ago, Rav Yaakov Emden wrote that the continued existence of the Jewish people is the greatest miracle of all—greater even than the splitting of the sea. How much more true is that statement in our times, when we have witnessed not only survival, but renewal and rebirth.

When we mention the Exodus each day, we remind ourselves that our world is not governed by chance. Even in difficult times, we live in miraculous times.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read this piece in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here. 

Blood on the Doorposts: Becoming a People

Blood. Its connotations and symbolism are rich, pointing to both life and death. Blood also plays a central role in the birth of the Jewish nation. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains:

The night of the Exodus was not merely the end of slavery. It was the birth of a nation.

When the blood of the Korban Pesach was placed upon the doorposts, something irreversible occurred. Until that moment, the descendants of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov were a collection of individuals—families bound by ancestry and suffering, but not yet a people in the fullest sense. On that night, in the land of Egypt, Klal Yisrael came into being. From that moment onward, Jewish history no longer speaks about individuals alone. It speaks about destiny, collective responsibility, and a people bound together by covenant.

“Mishchu”—The First Word of Redemption

Moshe Rabbeinu introduces the command of the Korban Pesach with a striking phrase:

מִשְׁכוּ וּקְחוּ לָכֶם צֹאן לְמִשְׁפְּחֹתֵיכֶם וְשַׁחֲטוּ הַפָּסַח

“Draw forth and take for yourselves a lamb for your families, and slaughter the Pesach offering” (Shemot 12:21)

The word מִשְׁכוּ (mishchu) is unusual. It does not simply mean “take.” In Biblical and rabbinic Hebrew, it means to be drawn toward, to be attracted, to form a bond. In Shir HaShirim, the language of love between the Beloved and the beloved, we find the same root:

מָשְׁכֵנִי אַחֲרֶיךָ נָּרוּצָה

“Draw me after You—let us run” (Shir HaShirim 1:4).

To be redeemed, the Jewish people were not merely commanded to perform a technical act. They were commanded to be drawn toward a mitzvah—to engage emotionally, spiritually, and existentially. Yet Chazal point out something profound. The very same root, מ־ש־ך, can also mean the opposite: to withdraw, to disengage. In later Hebrew usage, limshoch et yadayim means to resign, to step back. This dual meaning reveals a deep truth about human transformation: One cannot be drawn toward holiness unless one is also willing to disengage from what contradicts it. Klal Yisrael had to be drawn toward the Korban Pesach—and simultaneously withdraw from the idolatry of Egypt. As the Midrash teaches, the gods of Egypt were lambs. To take a lamb, tie it to the bedpost, and slaughter it publicly was an act of spiritual rebellion. Redemption required courage, separation, and clarity.

The Tragedy of Those Who Could Not Let Go

Chazal tell us that not all Jews were able to make this break. Many had become deeply assimilated—emotionally invested in Egyptian culture, success, and belief systems. They could not disengage, and therefore they could not engage. During the plague of darkness, they perished unseen.

Rashi explains: Why was darkness brought? Because there were wicked Israelites in that generation who did not want to leave Egypt, and they died during the days of darkness, so that the Egyptians would not see them and say, “They too are being afflicted like us.” Midrash Tanchuma adds that these Jews were comfortable, respected, and prosperous in exile. They did not want redemption. This is a sobering truth: redemption is offered to all, but embraced only by those willing to leave exile behind.

Redemption Requires Mitzvot

There is another obstacle that had to be addressed. The prophet Yechezkel describes the moment of redemption with startling imagery:

וָאֶעֱבֹר עָלַיִךְ וָאֶרְאֵךְ מִתְבּוֹסֶסֶת בְּדָמָיִךְ… וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי

“I passed by you and saw you wallowing in your blood… and I said to you: By your blood, live” (Yechezkel 16:6).

Rashi explains: They were naked of mitzvot. Redemption was ready—but the people were not yet worthy recipients. A fundamental principle emerges: even when God wishes to bestow infinite kindness, we must create vessels to receive it. Those vessels are mitzvot. Two mitzvot were given at that moment: Korban Pesach and Brit Milah.

Blood That Gives Life

Blood usually signifies loss of life. Here, it signifies life itself.

וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי – בְּדַם פֶּסַח וּבְדַם מִילָה

“By your blood, live—by the blood of Pesach and the blood of circumcision.”

A national revival of Brit Milah took place in Egypt because no uncircumcised male could partake of the Pesach offering. These were not passive merits, such as not changing names or clothing. As the Kli Yakar explains, redemption requires active mitzvot, not merely restraint. These two mitzvot transformed a group of slaves into Am Yisrael.

Inner and Outer Strength

The Chatam Sofer offers a penetrating insight. Brit Milah represents mastery over the inner negative forces—ego, jealousy, desire, and aggression. It is a covenant inscribed upon the body itself. Korban Pesach represents resistance to external corruption—the rejection of foreign gods, values, and identities. Redemption demands both. The Maharal deepens this further. He distinguishes between mitzvot of doing and mitzvot of being. Many mitzvot involve actions we perform. Brit Milah defines who we are. It is not something we do repeatedly; it is something that defines our identity forever.

Darkness and Destiny

The plague of darkness was not only punishment—it was separation. Those who could not envision a future in the land of destiny could not survive the transition. Chazal debate how many Jews left Egypt—one-fifth, one-fiftieth, even fewer. Whatever the number, the message is clear: comfort in exile can be more dangerous than oppression. Yet God, Who sees beyond the present, preserved those who—even while flawed—would soon stand at Sinai and proclaim:

נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע

“We will do, and we will hear.”

A Template for All Redemption

The redemption from Egypt is the blueprint for every redemption—national and personal. It begins with mishchu: disengaging from inner and outer negativity, and being drawn toward covenant, mitzvah, and destiny. God is always willing to give. The question is not whether redemption will come—but whether we are ready to receive it. And when we are, He says to us again:

בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי

“By your blood, live.”

A Nation in Sheep’s Clothing

Sheep are among the most useful of creatures. There is literally no part of them that we cannot use one way or another. But, contrary to popular belief, it seems that the Egyptians didn't worship them at all. So what's the big deal with our forefathers killing them as a prelude to our exit from Egypt? Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains.

The first act of defiance that Hashem requested from Bnei Yisrael was for each household to take a sheep on the 10^th day of the newly designated first month of Nisan. They were to safeguard this animal until the 14^th day of the month and then slaughter it. They would then place some of the blood on their doorways and they would roast and eat the meat that evening  (Shemot 12: 3-8).

Many assume that this ritual, which has became a generational fixture as the korban pesach (Shemot 12:23) was symbolic of a rejection or conquest of the Egyptian gods especially since the process in Egypt began with the four-day period of flaunting the restrained sheep. (See, Rashi on Bereishit 46:34).

There is one problem with this. Examining the “pantheon” of Egyptian deities, one will find many animals and human/animal hybrids. A brief search disclosed more than 20 – ranging from crocodiles and hippopotamuses, lions, baboons, wolves, cows, rams (and even frogs) – but NO sheep!!

Why of all animals did Hashem specify/choose the sheep for this important moment – one that would echo through the ages? What was the message for then and now?

The key to unlocking this message is a strange incident that occurred many years earlier, when Yosef invited his brothers to join him for a meal. Bereishit 43:32 relates that he sat separately from them because it was an abomination for Egyptians to break bread with Hebrews. This is quite perplexing.  At most there were seventy Hebrews in the entire world. How is it possible that there was an Egyptian rule of etiquette, a harshly discriminatory practice directed at such an insignificant family (one could not even call them a nation or a people)?

The answer is revealed a few chapters later. In Bereishit 46:32 the Bnei Yisrael are identified as “ro’ei tzon” – shepherds. Bereishit 46:34 reveals, “ki to’avat Mitzraim kol ro’ei tzon” – shepherds were an abomination to the Egyptians. Thus Yosef could not have seated the brothers with him because they, this family of Hebrews, were known as shepherds – and thus were abominations.

When they first met Pharaoh, he segregated them in the Land of Goshen because they were shepherds. This was Yosef’s plan to slow assimilation, but it was also quite consistent with the core values of Egyptian society – to keep the abominations away.

Fast forward through several hundred years. The Bnei Yisrael have been enslaved. They are at best second-class citizens. They are mistreated and addressed in a most derogatory fashion. In modern times, under similar circumstances, the “N-word” garners an intense level of emotional attention and evokes trauma. Considering that the very notion of being a shepherd or a family/people of shepherds was considered an abomination in Egyptian society, it is not a stretch to think that this was a pejorative label used to diminish and dehumanize them.

Thus, when the time of their liberation arrived and it was time for them to take their first action, what could be more fitting than for them to flaunt their association with the lowly sheep. To stick it in the face of the Egyptians, so to speak.

“Look here mighty Egypt – the abominable shepherds are displaying our sheep freely in our yards.” Next, “now look, we are killing it, painting our door with its blood and eating it – and sitting formally TOGETHER.”  We are not compliant sheep; we are not mere shepherds: we are the masters. We are not passive, meek sheep: we are the wolves who spill the blood and eat. We are not abominable sheep; we are social units, a family, a strong nation.

The generation of Hebrews in Egypt understood the symbolism of the sheep and likewise Hashem understood just how defiant and empowering a message it was for them to incorporate it into process of their redemption. For all future generations this message is, perhaps, even more important. Every culture in every era will find an excuse to separate us, isolate us and to identify us as abominations. But Hashem does not want us to hide from or be ashamed of who we, His people, are. He wants us to place our identity proudly out front and to reject any notion that we are sheep. That is how redemption is earned and that is how it is sustained.  

Our Scholar in Residence, Mois Navon: the man and his philosophy

If you missed our Scholar-in-Residence Shabbaton and were wondering why everyone is talking about it, here's a bit of useful information to be getting on with:

Who is Rabbi Dr. Mois Navon?

Rabbi Dr. Navon is a uniquely positioned thinker: an engineer by training (one of the founding designers of the chips behind Mobileye’s autonomous-vehicle technology) and an Orthodox rabbi and Jewish philosopher by training. His work sits at the crossroads of Torah U’Madda — the idea that Torah and secular knowledge together offer a fuller understanding of life. He teaches Ethics in Artificial Intelligence at Ben-Gurion University and serves as a national advisor on AI policy and regulation in Israel.

AI Through a Jewish Ethical Lens

At the core of Navon’s approach is the question: How should humanity ethically engage with artificial intelligence, especially as it becomes more powerful, autonomous, and human-like? His work explores this question across multiple levels — from everyday use to philosophical questions about consciousness and personhood.

The Fundamental Jewish Framework: B’tzelem Elokim

A central Jewish idea for Navon is that humans are created “in the image of God” (b’tzelem Elokim) — a concept that, in Jewish thought, signifies our unique moral and spiritual status. AI, no matter how sophisticated, does not have this status because it lacks the divine soul (neshama) that Judaism sees as the source of consciousness and moral agency.

For this reason, Navon argues, we must be clear and humble about what AI is and isn’t: it can mimic human behavior and language, but it isn’t a human person in Jewish or philosophical terms.

The Moral Status of AI: Two Categories

In his doctoral thesis, Navon outlines a useful distinction:

1. Mind-less AI
   These are current AI systems — sophisticated tools that can process data, generate text, recognize images, or drive cars — but without subjective awareness or genuine experience.
2. Mind-ful (Conscious) AI
   A hypothetical future AI that might genuinely feel, perceive, or possess what philosophers call second-order consciousness — the ability not just to perform tasks but to experience the world.

These two categories raise different ethical questions. With mind-less AI, ethics focuses on how we use the technology. With conscious AI — should it ever arise — we would confront more profound questions about rights, dignity, and obligation.

On Conscious AI and the Golem Paradigm

One of Navon’s most engaging contributions is his use of the Golem story (the rabbinic legend of a clay being animated by human hands) as a paradigm for thinking about AI. In Jewish tradition, the Golem is not fully human, even if it looks like one; its creator must recognize both its capabilities and its limits.

Navon’s interpretation suggests the parallel with AI is enlightening: it warns us that just because a machine behaves like a human doesn’t make it a human — or even morally equivalent to a human. Rather than approaching the creation of conscious machines simply through technical or consequentialist lens (“What benefits or harms might result?”), he urges a deontological approach rooted in enduring Jewish ethical categories about what it means to create and how creation relates to the Creator.

In this view, the fact that we could build something “like” a human doesn’t answer the deeper ethical question: Should we do so? And what moral responsibilities would that entail?

Everyday AI Ethics: Mindless Systems and Moral Behavior

Even before reaching questions of consciousness, Navon emphasizes that mind-less AI systems already pose ethical challenges. These include:

• Autonomous systems making real-world decisions (e.g., in vehicles, policing, or warfare). Navon has argued that letting machines decide matters of life and death raises special concerns: machines can’t recognize human dignity in the Torah’s sense, so such decisions must be carefully constrained and guided by human ethical deliberation.
• Human relationships with AI — when machines interact with us in human-like ways (voice, appearance, social presence), we must remain aware they are tools, not persons, and avoid letting emotional attachment or moral confusion lead us to treat them as humans.
• Virtue and character formation — interacting with AI should not erode virtues like honesty, patience, and empathy; technology should support, not replace, authentic human moral engagement. Navon draws from Jewish ethical thought to stress that how we use technology reflects and shapes who we become.

Jewish Values Applied to AI Policy

Navon also brings Jewish ethical insights into broader policy questions:

• Human dignity and agency: Machines should never replace human moral judgment; AI should serve human flourishing, reflecting the Jewish value of preserving life and human dignity.
• Responsibility and accountability: Since AI systems can have widespread societal impact, Navon supports frameworks that ensure humans remain responsible for outcomes rather than hiding behind automated decisions.
• Precaution with uncertain moral status: While AI today is not conscious, should future developments raise uncertainty, Jewish ethical methods — such as applying stringencies in cases of doubt to avoid violating sacred moral obligations — might guide cautious treatment of such entities. (This idea, while elaborated in related Jewish philosophical discourse on AI, reflects the safeika principle — applying caution when moral status is unclear.)

Technology and Tikkun Olam

A broader theme in Navon’s work is that technology isn’t inherently good or bad; it’s a human endeavor that must be deployed to repair the world (tikkun olam), a core Jewish value. AI can do enormous good — advancing health, safety, and understanding — but only if guided by ethical vision and human responsibility.

 Rabbi Navon and Public Discourse

Navon’s voice is notable not for rejecting AI or urging fear, but for fostering informed engagement: he insists that ethical reflection, informed by Jewish sources, must keep pace with technological development. His approach encourages both Jews and non-Jews to grapple thoughtfully with the moral dimensions of AI, drawing on ancient wisdom and modern insight.

Summary

Rabbi Dr. Mois Navon offers a rich, nuanced framework for thinking about AI through Jewish ethics. His key contributions include:

• Clarifying that current AI lacks moral personhood but still raises serious ethical issues.
• Urging deep reflection before pursuing conscious AI and suggesting the Golem story as a powerful ethical paradigm.
• Applying Jewish concepts like b’tzelem Elokim, human dignity, and tikkun olam to modern dilemmas.
• Advocating for AI use that enhances human flourishing and preserves moral agency.

His perspective is rooted in tradition but oriented toward the future — engaging with AI not as a threat, but as a profound ethical challenge calling for wisdom, humility, and responsibility.

This piece, in response to a request to summarize the position of Rabbi Dr Navon on AI and Jewish ethics, was composed by ChatGPT in a little less than four seconds.

The Long View: Redemption Through Setbacks

This piece was first posted on Hanassi Highlights, 15 January 2026.

If the opening of Parshat Va’era feels strangely familiar, it is not by coincidence. Once again, Hashem appears to Moshe with the words “Ani Hashem.” Once again, Moshe hesitates, describing himself as arel sefatayim, unable to speak. Once again, Aharon is appointed to stand at his side. The scene echoes almost word for word the encounter at the burning bush in last week’s parsha.

The Torah does not repeat itself without purpose. What, then, has changed?

Between the two conversations lies Moshe’s first failed attempt at redemption. Sent by Hashem to Pharaoh, Moshe demands freedom for Bnei Yisrael—and the result is devastating. Not only are the people not released; their suffering intensifies. Straw is removed, the workload increases, and despair deepens. Moshe turns back to Hashem in anguish: “Lama hare’ota la’am hazeh?” – Why have You made things worse for this people?

At that moment, it would have been natural to conclude that the mission had failed. That redemption had been attempted—and rejected. But Parshat Va’era opens by telling us otherwise. Hashem sends Moshe back. Not with a new plan, but with the same mission. The message is subtle yet profound: a setback is not the end of the story. What looks like failure may be part of a longer process, invisible in the moment but essential in retrospect. Chazal even suggest that the intensification of the labour contributed to shortening the exile. What felt like regression was, in truth, a step forward.

Sefer Shemot, like Sefer Bereishit before it, establishes a pattern. Just as the experiences of our Avot became a template for future generations, the first redemption from Egypt becomes the model for all redemptions that follow—complex, uneven, and unfolding in stages.

That insight speaks powerfully to our own moment. We live with profound emotional complexity: joy at moments of light alongside fear, grief, and uncertainty. The Torah does not ask us to deny that tension. On the contrary, it teaches us to hold it honestly. To give thanks for what has been achieved, even as we continue to pray for what is still incomplete.

This idea is reflected in the four expressions of redemption at the beginning of our parsha—the source of the four cups of wine at the Seder. The Yerushalmi understands them not as four poetic phrases, but as four distinct redemptive stages, each deserving gratitude in its own right, even as the process remains incomplete.

Parshat Vaera reminds us that redemption is not a single dramatic moment, but a journey. “Atah tireh,” Hashem tells Moshe—you will yet see. There is a larger plan, a broader horizon, and a story still unfolding. Our task is to remain steadfast, grateful, faithful and confident that, just as we were redeemed once, we will be redeemed fully again.

Shabbat Shalom!

To read this piece in Ivrit: click here.

Torah and the Land: A Heritage That Cannot Be Divided

The Torah and Eretz Yisrael were given in a single utterance. They are not parallel gifts, nor independent pillars of Jewish life, but two expressions of one indivisible covenant. Jewish destiny is unintelligible without either one, and incomplete when they are separated. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains how this is so.

The Torah describes itself as a morashah:

תּוֹרָה צִוָּה לָנוּ מֹשֶׁה מוֹרָשָׁה קְהִלַּת יַעֲקֹב

 “Moshe commanded us the Torah, an inheritance— a heritage—of the congregation of Yaakov.” (Devarim 33:4).

And the Land of Israel is described in precisely the same terms:

וְנָתַתִּי אֹתָהּ לָכֶם מוֹרָשָׁה

 “I will give it to you as a heritage.” (Shemot 6:8).

This shared language is not stylistic coincidence. It is a deliberate equivalence.The same word—morashah. This is not coincidence. It is a gezerah shavah of destiny. Torah and Eretz Yisrael are bound by the same word because they are bound by the same essence.

Inheritance, Not Argument

When the Torah is called a morashah, it tells us something fundamental about how we relate to it. Our commitment to Torah does not rest on philosophical proofs or intellectual constructions. Such arguments, however sophisticated, can always be challenged or dismantled. Instead, Torah is ours because we received it—because more than two million Jews stood at Sinai and heard the Divine voice, and that experience was transmitted faithfully from generation to generation.

Inheritance does not need proof. It only needs continuity. The same is true of Eretz Yisrael. Our claim to the Land does not ultimately rest on conquest, diplomacy, or historical accident. Anything acquired by force can be undone by force. Anything established by agreement can be revoked by agreement. Only inheritance is beyond dispute.

The Torah itself serves as our deed of ownership. It testifies that the Creator of the world gave the Land to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, to be passed down eternally to their descendants. This is not a political claim; it is a covenantal one.

There is, however, a condition embedded in inheritance. A heritage can only be received by heirs who remain loyal to it. When descendants walk in the ways of their forefathers, the inheritance flows naturally to them. When they abandon those ways, the inheritance becomes inaccessible, even if they physically possess it. Torah and Land rise together—and they falter together.

Heritage, Not Property

A further distinction sharpens this idea: the difference between yerushah (inheritance) and morashah (heritage). An inheritance can be used, invested, squandered, or discarded at will. A heritage, by contrast, must be preserved intact and transmitted faithfully.

Torah is not ours to reshape according to fashion, reinterpret at convenience, or neglect when uncomfortable. We are guardians, not owners. The same is true of Eretz Yisrael. It is not a disposable asset or a negotiable abstraction. It is a sacred trust, given so that Jewish life can unfold fully and faithfully upon it.

Fire and Ice: Mak’at Barad

This unity of Torah, Land, and Divine sovereignty finds a striking expression in the plague of barad, the seventh plague in Egypt. The Torah describes it in extraordinary terms:

וַיְהִי בָּרָד וְאֵשׁ מִתְלַקַּחַת בְּתוֹךְ הַבָּרָד

 “There was hail, with fire blazing בתוך the hail.”  (Shemot 9:24).

This was not merely an unusually violent storm. It was a fundamental suspension of the laws of nature. Fire and water—elements that naturally extinguish one another—coexisted within a single phenomenon. Unlike other plagues, which could be rationalized as extreme but natural events, barad shattered the very framework through which nature is understood.

For this reason, barad is described as a culmination of the plagues. For the first time, Pharaoh fully acknowledges the moral and theological truth before him. He sees, however briefly, that nature itself is subject to a higher will.

Chazal identify this harmony of opposites as a hallmark of Divine action, echoing the words we recite daily:

עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו

 “He makes peace in His heights.”

Peace between fire and water. Peace between forces that cannot coexist—unless commanded to do so by their Creator.

Education, Not Only Punishment

Again and again, the Torah explains that the plagues were sent “so that Egypt will know that I am Hashem.” This emphasis is striking. If the goal were merely to free Israel, countless simpler methods were available. The plagues were not only punitive; they were pedagogical.

The Exodus was meant to educate—not only Israel, but humanity. It was the foundational revelation of Divine mastery over history and nature, a template upon which all future redemption would be built. Even though Egypt ultimately perished, the process itself had to carry within it the possibility of recognition and transformation.

Fear and Indifference

During the plague of barad, Egyptian society fractures for the first time. Some fear the word of Hashem and bring their livestock indoors. Others ignore the warning and suffer devastating loss. The Torah does not describe the latter as defiant or ideological. It portrays them as indifferent.

Indifference is more dangerous than opposition. It requires no argument and no courage—only disengagement. Those who do not care will follow anything, submit to anything, and ultimately stand for nothing. Comfort breeds apathy, and apathy paralyzes moral choice.

The Narrow Path

Chazal describe the human condition as a narrow path, flanked by fire on one side and ice on the other. Fire represents unrestrained passion and desire; ice represents apathy and spiritual numbness. Both destroy. One burns, the other freezes.

The message of barad is not destruction, but harmony. Fire and ice can coexist when they are governed by a higher will. This balance—neither frozen indifference nor consuming excess—is the Torah’s vision of human life.

Torah and Eretz Yisrael embody that vision together. They are a single heritage, entrusted to us not for convenience or comfort, but for responsibility and continuity.

A Promise Renewed

The story that began in Egypt has not ended. It continues to unfold in every generation, calling upon us to choose loyalty over indifference and guardianship over neglect.

וְהֵבֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם אֶל־הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר נָשָׂאתִי אֶת־יָדִי לָתֵת אֹתָהּ לְאַבְרָהָם לְיִצְחָק וּלְיַעֲקֹב וְנָתַתִּי אֹתָהּ לָכֶם מוֹרָשָׁה אֲנִי ה׳

 “I will bring you to the Land that I swore to give to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, and I will give it to you as a heritage—I am Hashem.” (Shemot 6:8).

Torah and the Land were given together. They endure together. And they will ultimately be fulfilled together.