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.

Zomet: making technology with halachah

The Zomet Institute is an Israeli high-tech non-profit organization specializing in IT equipment and electronic appliances designed to comply with halacha. Founded by Rabbi Yisrael Rosen, the Institute has developed solutions for operating electrical appliances on the Shabbat and other Jewish holidays. Appliances made or approved by the institute can be found in religiously observant homes and in public organizations such as hospitals, the Israel Police and the IDF.

On Sunday, thanks to the Women’s League, a bus-full of curious and excited members of Beit Knesset Hanassi set forth on a visit to the Institute, to learn more about its work and the practical applications of its halachically acceptable innovations. We were not disappointed. Located deep in the heart of the Gush, Zomet occupies a low, unpretentious building that, from the outside, gives no clue as to the treasures within. 

Shortly after our arrival our host, Rabbi Yisrael Krengel (right), led us downstairs to a lecture theatre that was packed with ingenious devices, all of which turned out to be props used in his demonstrations. A cheerful and enthusiastic lecturer, he explained that the Institute did not simply give its approval or disapproval to potentially Shabbat-friendly devices: it operated within a firm methodological framework in which there was a hierarchy of halachic acceptability.

The ideal solution to any issue involving a question of melachah on Shabbat is to create a technical solution that was entirely automated and left no opportunity for human intervention at all. Shabbat elevators are the best example. Incidentally, this solution depends on the resolution of a machloket between Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai as to whether the Torah requires shevitat kelim (the resting even of one’s utensils). Beit Hillel’s lenient view is that which was accepted so that, when we rest on Shabbat, our elevators don’t have to be rested too. The next best solution after complete automation is to find a means of continuing the use of technology in its existing state. Both these solutions can be relied upon in all situations.

Two further solutions are available, but these may only be relied on in cases of necessity. The first of these is gerama, the performance of a melachah in an indirect manner and in such a way that the act of the person who performs it is not the sole cause that achieves the desired result. The last solution—also available only in cases of need—involves the modulation of an existing flow of electrical current to the point that it is almost but not quite stopped. Gerama and modulation of current are the means by which electric wheelchairs and scooters are operated.  Rabbi Krengel reminded us that these options are only available to a person who needs it for the purposes of his or her oneg Shabbat (as ruled by Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach).

The lecture closed with a Q-and-A session in which BKH’s membership continued to distinguish itself with some probing questions and acute observations, all of which were warmly praised by Rabbi Krengel. 

Thanks are due to Shirley March, Sharon Schild and the Women’s League team for all their work in planning and organizing this fascinating excursion.

 Footnote: why is Zomet called Zomet?

 The Hebrew name for the Zomet Institute is Machon Tzomet (מכון צומת). Tzomet is the acronym for Tzevtei Mada veTorah (Hebrew: צוותי מדע ותורה, meaning 'Teams of Science and Torah'). The name was chosen because צומת means 'junction' and the Institute works at the junction of science and halachah--and also because Tzomet sounds better than Tzotem, which would have been the name if 'Torah' was placed before 'Mada', as some have argued it should be.

Watching From Afar, Seeing Beyond the Moment

This devar Torah by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.

When a Jewish child is placed in a small basket among the reeds of the Nile, the Torah tells us that his sister, Miriam stood watch over him—“Va-tetatzav achoto me-rachok, le-de’ah mah ye’aseh lo”—she stood from afar, to know what would be done to him. What is the significance of the Torah's description that she watched him from afar?

The Torah is giving us far more than a description of Miriam's physical location. Rather, it is teaching us about her long-term vision. The story begins long before that riverbank scene. Rashi (Shemot 2:1) describes a moment of crushing despair. Amram, leader of his generation, divorced his wife Yocheved as a result of Pharaoh’s decree that every Jewish newborn boy be cast into the Nile. His logic was unassailable: why bring children into a world where they are condemned at birth? But his daughter Miriam challenged him. “Your decree is harsher than Pharaoh’s,” she said. Pharaoh condemned the boys; yet Amram, by separating from his wife, denied the entire Jewish future. Amram relented, remarried Yocheved, and as a result Moshe was born.

Yet, again, crisis struck. The baby had to be hidden, cast into the river. Salvation still seemed far off. But Miriam was able to look beyond, longing for historical destiny to take its course.

Even as a child, Miriam understood that redemption is rarely announced with fanfare. It is incubated in reeds, hidden in the margins of history, advanced by those who refuse to surrender to despair. She stood from afar because she was not merely observing a basket—she was tracking a promise. Would the covenant made with Avraham, that his descendants would become a nation and ultimately inherit their land, be fulfilled? She watched, waiting to see how her seemingly small act—persuading her father to remarry—would ripple outward toward redemption.

Today, Miriam’s posture is ours to emulate. We live in a world that pushes us to react instantly, to measure success in news cycles and viral moments. But the deeper story of the Jewish people has always been written by those who can stand back far enough to ask: Where will this lead? What does this moment demand of our destiny? It is not distance that breeds indifference; it is distance that enables perspective.

Like Miriam, we do not always see the end of the story immediately. But we can be confident through the historic moment in which we live that the small, faithful acts—of service, learning, courage, and hope—are far more than footnotes. They are the reeds from which the next chapter grows.

Miriam watched a basket and saw redemption. May we too merit the vision and clarity to recognize our place in the great puzzle of Jewish history.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Light of Moshe Rabbenu: Lessons in Leadership, Redemption, and Torah

The early chapters of Shemot introduce us to a seemingly simple story: the birth of Moshe Rabbenu, a child hidden by his mother for three months to protect him from Pharaoh’s officers. Yet, within these sparse verses lies a profound spiritual narrative, rich with lessons on creation, leadership, and the enduring resilience of the Jewish people. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

A New Creation: The Spiritual Light of Moshe

Rashi describes Moshe as “ki tov hu,” a lovely child. At first glance, this seems obvious—every mother sees her child as beautiful. The Ran, however, asks: what is special here? The answer lies in a deeper understanding: Moshe’s birth represents a new creation, echoing the beginning of the universe. Just as God created light at the dawn of time (Bereishit 1:3), Moshe enters the world as a vessel of spiritual illumination.

This is not ordinary light. Rashi explains that the light of the first day was hidden—a spiritual light, reserved for the righteous. The Zohar adds that this light symbolizes divine wisdom and the power of Torah. Moshe’s mother recognized that her child was not just beautiful in appearance but radiated an inner spiritual light, a force capable of guiding the Jewish people through darkness and oppression. This hidden light is emblematic of God’s presence in the world. Even in the most difficult circumstances, sparks of holiness exist, waiting to be nurtured and brought into the open.

The Challenge of Redemption: Moshe at the Burning Bush

When God commands Moshe to redeem the Israelites, he hesitates—not once, but four times. Why would the prophet tasked with leading the people resist his divine mission?

The first reason is practical: the Israelites had spent over two centuries in Egypt, immersed in idolatry and moral corruption. To Moshe, the task seemed impossible. Yet God knew what Moshe could not: the Jewish soul contains an indestructible spark, capable of returning to holiness even from the lowest depths. The midrash emphasizes that, even at the nadir of spiritual decline, the potential for redemption remains.

Moshe’s reluctance also reflects a profound ethical sensitivity. Applying the principles of Derech Eretz, he hesitated out of respect for his older brother, Aharon. Leadership, he understood, is not simply about power or position; it requires consideration, respect, and moral integrity. Only when assured that Aharon would support him did Moshe accept the mission.

These lessons resonate today: redemption often seems impossible, and leadership is never easy. Yet with patience, ethical discernment, and faith, transformation is always possible.

Torah as a Guide: Beyond the Literal Word

Moshe’s leadership also exemplifies the proper engagement with Torah. When counting the Israelites, he refrained from entering the tents of nursing infants, showing respect for their dignity. The Torah is not merely a set of literal commands; it is a moral and spiritual guide, requiring thoughtful interpretation and ethical application.

The Zohar likens Moshe to a lens, focusing divine light into the world. His leadership demonstrates that spiritual guidance, ethical sensitivity, and wisdom are inseparable. True understanding of the Torah, like leadership itself, requires depth, reflection, and insight.

Conclusion: Lessons for Our Lives

From Moshe’s birth and mission, three key lessons emerge:

1. Every spark of light matters. Just as Moshe brought spiritual illumination into the world, each of us can bring light through our actions, words, and choices.
2. Redemption is possible, even from the lowest point. Spiritual and moral renewal is always within reach, no matter how far someone has strayed.
3. Ethical discernment is essential to leadership. Courage alone is not enough; wisdom, morality, and respect are integral to guiding others.

The story of Moshe Rabbenu reminds us that even in darkness, light can emerge. It teaches us that leadership, redemption, and Torah are deeply intertwined, and that every individual carries within them a spark capable of illuminating the world.

In praise of responsibility

  Here's a report by our member Dr Pessy Krausz on the first Hanassi event of the year, the Women's League's annual new members’ tea, 5 January 2026.  

The ever-popular Annual Ladies’ Tea to welcome new Hanassi members last Monday kicked off the new Gregorian year. Shirley March, the Women’s League indefatigable chairperson received well-earned accolades, together with her team. The beautifully laid-out and laden tables were a feast in more ways than one. It was a splendid relief from the daily multi-tasking roles to which women are heir! 

The Hava Nashira Choir, conducted by Temeema Weil, enthralled the hall’s packed audience with its diverse repertoire of carefully selected music. A delightful interlude was also provided by guest Duo Tziona Stutz on the flute and Liat Marom Toledano, keyboard. 

Introducing our new members, we were happy to learn their background. One proudly related that her grand-daughter is Israel’s triathalon champion! 

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop as we listened to the insights offered by Rebbetzin Sarah Kenigsberg. She focused on our upcoming Torah portion of Shemot, in which it was Pharaoh who related to us not as tribes but, for the first time, as a people – Am Yisrael. Turning to Moses, her theme was that of caring for one’s brothers rather than the pursuit of self-interest—a theme that holds a message for us today. Even more powerful was her message of the importance of not merely individual but collective responsibility—something that has been amply demonstrated by Jewish people worldwide most recently during our traumatic Swords of Iron War. 

Rebbetzin Sarah continued by pointing out that it is nothing short of miraculous how Jewish people, wherever we are, feel for one another. In particular, she recalled our collective joy at the release of hostages. In closing with her hope that we will continue collectively to be blessed with joy throughout the generations Rebbetzin Sarah received a heartfelt “Amen!”

You can find photos of this event on the Beit Knesset Hanassi Facebook page, here.

Moses the Anonymous Egyptian

We have read the story of Moshe Rabbeinu so often that we surely haven't missed anything--have we? But the deeper one digs, more the Torah text reveals, and it is the Torah that sweeps away our preconceptions and misconceptions. Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger explains:

Moshe Rabbeinu is perhaps the greatest and most influential figure in the history of the Jewish People. He was their redeemer, lawgiver, leader, prophet, defender, sustainer, and teacher.  While the Torah is blueprint for all of creation, it is also named “the Five Books of Moses.” 

Our perceptions of Moshe are of a larger-than-life figure. Midrashim tell tales of his remarkable youthful exploits – being tested by Pharaoh as an infant and travels and conquests in African lands. Popular culture has even created an image of a “Prince of Egypt.”  A careful reading of the parasha however tells a very different story.  Moses was initially a rather anonymous and inconsequential Egyptian man. His birth story was interesting but, until Hashem’s initial revelation to him, he was basically a nobody.

A Levite man went and took a Levite woman and they had a child. At this point all identities are insignificant, anonymous and irrelevant. The narrative is familiar -- so, skipping ahead, Pharoh’s daughter notices the child floating in the Nile and directs an attending maiden to retrieve him. She is compassionate toward what is obviously (to her) a Hebrew child.

The Midrash and most readers of the text interpret Shemot 7:10 in the narrative as Pharaoh’s daughter (i) adopting the child as her own, (ii) naming him Moshe (“because he was drawn from the water”) and agreeing to his care by Jewish nursemaids (not in that order).  However, as one reads these verses and the subsequent text, this is not what happened.

The child was taken by the princess’s retainer from the water, but he certainly could not have been raised by her. Thus, she was put in the care of nursemaids. After a period of time when he grew (Shrmot 2:10), he was brought before her. This implies that there was no previous relationship between them. Linguistically, the Torah creates a Hebrew narrative that, in fact differs from the actual (and the actual is more consistent with all that follows).

To digress for a moment. The Egyptian suffix mss (or mosses) means “son of” or “child”. The best example of this is the line of Egyptian royalty that adopted the name Ramses – Ra was their main deity, the Sun God – thus Ramses was the “son of” the Sun God. In this instance, to Pharoh’s daughter this boy was NOT a son, he was merely moses (with a small m), a child that she had compassion for.

This conclusion is supported by logic, by fact and by the six verses that follow:

1.     In ancient times a princess was currency, a political asset to be married off to rulers of other kingdoms or to important noblemen.   Logic dictates that such a princess could not have had a son identified with her.

2.     In Shemot 2:11, Moshe goes out to see his “brothers” and he sees their burdens (“sivlotam”). This word, sivlotam is used only one other place, in Shemot 1:11 – and it refers to the burdens of the Egyptians (see Rashi on that verse).  This being so, the main burden of the work and taxes was on the Egyptians (as they were the vast majority of the population, the Jews were still a small minority). They were also involved in the harsh labor; It was their burdens that Moshe went out to witness!  He was a compassionate person and reacted to the scene he was witnessing. Had he been a prince, he would have been able to order the taskmaster to stop – but he was merely an “ish” an Egyptian commoner!

3.     In Shemot 2:14 as he witnesses the two Jews fighting, they refer to him simply as an “ish”. Moshe is afraid, again, as we see in the next verse (Shemot 2:15), because he is merely a common Egyptian.  He is not viewed as the son, real or adopted, of Pharaoh’s daughter.  He has no privilege.

4.     Finally. as he flees to exile in Midian, in Shemot. 2:19 Yitro’s daughters identify him as an Egyptian man (“ish Mitzri”).

In summary, until Hashem reached out to Moshe through the sneh (the burning bush), he likely did not know anything about his heritage or of the destiny of the Jewish people. He may not have even known anything of Hashem, only the pagan gods of Egypt. It is quite telling that, when Hashem addresses Moshe, he first explains that he is God of his fathers Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov (Shemot 6:13). In other words, He reveals to Moshe his identity as a Hebrew. Likewise, it is quite telling that, after the shock of this revelation, Moshe’s first words are “mi anochi” – who am I (Shemot 6:11)?

Moshe was no longer an anonymous Egyptian man. He was now the greatest Jew who ever lived, tasked with ending his people’s Exile.  All of his capabilities had lain dormant within him, awaiting the exact moment for them to emerge. May the latent abilities of the anonymous Mashiach who hopefully is walking among us soon be realized.

Postscript

After I developed the thoughts and structure of this devar Torah, I found a very similar analysis in Rabbi Zvi Grument’s new Book, Exodus: The Genesis of God’s People (Maggid Books, Jerusalem, 2025) pp. 15-26.

The story of the Steins

 The following is an account by Pessy Krausz of the story of two of our most senior members: Dr David Stein z'l, who sadly passed on only a few weeks ago, and his wife Miriam. We offer our thanks to the Stein family for helping Pessy put this together, and offer Miriam our warmest wishes for the future.

The inspiring story of Miriam Stein and Dr. David Stein z”l

Beware of fruit shop owners with discerning eyes and long beards—especially if they sit next to you in Shul. Some 70 years ago, one such ingenious fellow sat next to the father of eligible medical student David Stein. It’s said, "a nod's as good as a wink"—leading him to catch Dr. Gottlieb, father of lovely daughter, Miriam. And the rest is history. Unlikely as it was, even more so was the miracle of a match between the son of Polish immigrant parents and a daughter of parents of German origin.

 David was youngest of four brothers. His father’s story was one of a struggle to make it to the Goldene Medina, landing on Ellis Island in 1914 having left his wife and two sons, Paul and Joe in Der Heim’ Only two years later, having amassed sufficient funds, could he bring them over to join him in USA. There, despite economic struggles, the couple was blessed with two more sons: David’s brother Julie and last but not least, the hero of out profile, David!

 Miriam’s story was one of a life disrupted when Nazis came to power. A whisper from an acquaintance in the ear of Dr. Gottlieb in 1940 led to him urgently applying for and receiving a visa to leave Germany—but only to get to Cuba. Miriam’s mother, also a doctor, could not leave her elderly parents. Thus, when she was only eight years old, these disastrous events led to Miriam being sent, together with her brother, Fred, by Kindertransport to England.

 Initially Miriam and her adored elder brother, who eventually also became a doctor, were kept together in an orphanage. But Miriam was separated from him when he was sent to the southern seaside town of Margate and Miriam to a non-Jewish family in East of England’s Bedfordshire. She remembers how the family ate meals regularly – though she ate separately with other Kindertransport children whose meals were sent to them by the Kindertransport organisation.

 For the two years of this orderly life Miriam, their little star, was educated in Jewish classes provided for all children evacuated to her locality. Thus Miriam felt she was on familiar ground when finally she was lovingly re-united with her parents. A famous proverb meaning that a person's character and worth are defined by their behaviour, politeness, and conduct is “manners maketh man” to the extent that little Miriam wrote a touching thank you letter to which her host family responded in appreciation. Miriam has both letters to this day. To see them, click here.

 Eventually David’s mother and father’s elderly parents managed to leave Germany and the family was reunited in New York. His grandmother is remembered by both Miriam and her daughter Susie – who kindly joined us – as being very Yiddish in both their language and their mode of expression. For example, when saying See you next week after spending the Sabbath together, grandmother would respond with If I live that long! Still, Susie proudly possesses a glass set of translucent yellowy jug and glasses inherited from her which she re-produced in addition to family photographs as well as the one of her mother with this writer.

When the family relocated to the States, having family there, Miriam’s father—despite his previous qualification—had to retake State medical exams after which he opened his private practice. It’s said that an ill wind blows no-one any good: many of the younger doctors were called up just when the smallpox disease became rampant. It created a demand for serum which Miriam’s father was able to obtain. People who came to be vaccinated remained as patients, thus creating a thriving practice. All the while, Miriam’s mother was the home-maker, only later resuming her medical career as a dermatologist.

 Stemming from a family of doctors, Miriam made no exception to this rule by marrying David in 1955, even though he was still a medical student at the time. His prowess was remarkable. Neither he nor his brothers were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, but by dint of obtaining scholarships and working their way through college, they achieved every Yiddishe Momma’s dream. David’s oldest brother became an accountant, the next a lawyer, third a cardiologist and our David a very popular allergist. His winning smile, kindly eyes and gentle voice endeared him to all.

 On marrying, this young couple made sure they would share their Shabbatot equally between their parents. A series of sayings could illustrate this adoring young couple’s early beginnings. "You've made your bed, now lie in in", meaning you must accept the consequences of your choices. Furthermore, the saying "If two people are in love, they can sleep on the blade of a knife" is an aphorism attributed to the American author and nature writer Edward Hoagland. Pirkei Avot, on the other hand, focuses on the nature of love – specifically whether it is conditional or unconditional—rather than on physical circumstances.

 Miriam and David proved their devotion in both the letter and spirit of these sayings throughout years of unconditional love. Indeed, theirs proved to be a match made in heaven in more ways than one. When single, Miriam had been a blood bank technician. But after marrying she become David’s office manager. This demure, quietly spoken princess was responsible for the finances, and hiring and firing of staff who eventually joined David’s thriving practice.

This did not prevent the couple from raising three loving children who in turn realised every Jewish parents’ dream by becoming a doctor, a psychologist and lawyer! Neither did it prevent David from following his hobbies: learning Hebrew calligraphy and, above all, growing flowers and vegetables. So successful was he that, when they were youngsters, their trio would sell the vegetables while the flowers graced their Shabbat table.

 On retiring from his practice, David and Miriam realised another dream and made Aliya in 1995, following their children. For a while David continued working as an allergist and, on retiring volunteered as consultant in Da’at under the auspices of Yad Sarah – the leading volunteer-staffed organization in Israel, which provided compassionate health and home care services for the general public. For 10 years David devotedly participated in a team which responded to people who found no satisfactory solution to queries relating to medical matters—a project which sadly ended with the outbreak of Covid. Miriam was not idle either. For 20 years she volunteered for Melabev’s day care centre devoted to improving the quality of life for cognitively impaired adults. Miriam willingly gave a hand wherever one was needed. One was very much needed by a blind German-speaking patient who had no use of her hands. How she cherished Miriam’s sympathetic weekly German conversations!

Sadly, in his later years David became wheelchair-bound, but that did not stop him from having a cheerful chat whenever our paths crossed. Increasingly frail, David passed away some two weeks before my meeting with Miriam. As always, her petite figure with its upright posture belies her age. Indeed, she is a star in our Sunday morning chair Yoga group. Dressed immaculately, Miriam follows the moves with concentration. Our yoga teacher confirms that she has made considerable progress!

 Having made only blended food for David latterly, since the short painful time of his passing Miriam confided she has already returned somewhat to her love of baking and cooking. “Well,” she reminisced, “That’s what he would have wanted...and after our 70 years together, this is the way it is. We had a gift from Hashem.”

Raised by Choice, Not Just Climate: Vayechi 5786

This article was first published in Hanassi Highlights for parashat Vayechi, 1 January 2026.

The berachah we give our children each week comes from our parsha: “Yesimcha Elokim ke’Ephraim e’chiMenashe.” But why these two? What did Ephraim and Menashe embody that made them the model of Jewish blessing for all generations? And why does the Torah emphasize a reversal of order—Ephraim blessed before Menashe—just when we might have expected the family to have fully internalized the dangers of favouritism and division?

Rav Yaakov Kamenetzky zt”l offers a profound reframing. The berachah was not necessarily an affirmation that Ephraim and Menashe were more deserving, but rather a recognition that they were the ones who most needed it. They were the first generation born entirely outside the home of their ancestors, raised at the heart of Egyptian civilization rather than in the tent of Yaakov Avinu. Their lives force us to ask a question that would echo throughout Jewish history: What happens when Jewish identity is no longer inherited by atmosphere, but must be forged by effort?

Rav Kamenetzky saw in them the prototype of the Jew in exile—not the Jew who fails, but the Jew who succeeds, and in doing so, risks forgetting that exile is a passageway, not a destination. Menashe, whose name reflects forgetting, was still anchored in Yosef’s yearning for home, a child named for loss but raised in memory. Ephraim, however, whose name celebrates flourishing in galut, carried the subtler danger: that cultural success can create the illusion of cultural belonging. Prosperity can blur perspective more than persecution.

Even their names reflect the challenge. Rav Kamenetzky notes that the letter פ (pey) appears repeatedly in Egyptianized names of the era—Pharaoh, Potiphar, Tzafnat Pe’aneach, Puah. Ephraim’s name, he suggests, bore the phonetic fingerprint of Egypt. This was not a critique, but a diagnosis: Ephraim’s identity was more exposed, more blended, more tested—and therefore demanded reinforcement. Yaakov crossed his hands and reversed the order not to select a favourite, but to fortify the child carrying the greater cultural gravity.

Yaakov’s message was not nostalgic, but strategic. Remember who you are before you attempt to change the world. Flourish, but don’t forget the soil you grew from. Thrive outward, but remain tethered inward.

Yosef completes this mission. As his life draws to a close, he binds his descendants to history through oath, instructing them to carry his bones out of Egypt when redemption finally comes. The Jewish people would ultimately journey toward geulah accompanied by two Aronot: the Aron HaBrit, carrying Torah, and the Aron of Yosef, carrying mesorah—purpose moving ahead, identity reaching back.

Ephraim and Menashe teach us that exile begins not when Jews suffer, but when Jews forget. And redemption begins when we ensure we will remember—remember who we are, where we came from, and to where we are ultimately returning.

Shabbat Shalom!