Parashat VaEschanan

“Just watch yourself, and carefully guard your soul, lest you forget the things your eyes have seen… and you shall teach them to your children and your grandchildren. The day upon which you stood before Hashem your G-d at Choreiv…”

Devarim 4:9-10

Parashat Va’Eschanan contains not one, but two accounts of Ma’amad Har Sinai. In this first account, Moshe Rabbeinu focuses on the awe and terror of the spectacle, Asher Yilmidun Li’Yirah Osi… ViEs Bineihem Yilameidun (4:10). We are reminded of the deep darkness and the ceaseless fire, and the imageless presence of G-d. In essence, Moshe reminds the people how frightening the event of Kabalas HaTorah was, and this fear, as the pasukim declare, reinforces our commitment to Shmiras HaMitzvos, Ki Hashem Aish Ochelah Hu (4:25).

The Ramban in fact sees these pasukim as two separate Mitzvos: a Mitzvas Lo Sa’assei to never forget Ma’amad Har Sinai; and a Mitzvas Assei to teach one’s children about it, to pass down the tradition.

“This Mitzvah serves a tremendous purpose, for were the Torah delivered solely through Moshe, although his prophesy is fully accredited, if another prophet or dreamer we to arise in our midst and command us to perform counter to our Torah’s instructions, doubt would rise in many men’s hearts. However, once the Torah reaches us by the Word of the Almighty, and our eyes behold no intermediary, all dissent is weakened, and we will recognize the liar”

Perush HaRamban, Devarim 4:9

The Ramban does not focus on the aspect of fright, but he definitely focuses on the ‘sight’ of the event, in contrast to the Mitzvos transmitted. This fits beautifully with the words of the pasukim. We must safeguard those things we see, and we must teach them to our children. It is no wonder the Ramban takes issue with Rashi’s interpretation of the verse.

“Yom Asher Amadta.” This [pasuk] reflects back on the words above, [as if to say] “Asher Ra’u Einecha Yom Asher Amadta BiChoreiv,” [the day upon which] you saw the Kolos and Lapidim.

Rashi, Devarim 4:10

In stark contrast to the Ramban, Rashi restores the focus of this pasuk to the terror of the moment, the presence of Kolos and Lapidim. Peculiarly, though, Rashi insists that the matter we teach our children is not the “Yom Asher Amadta BiChoreiv,” the spectacle of Har Sinai, or else he wouldn’t have to jumble the order of our pasukim. What then does Rashi think we must teach them?

Just watch yourself… when you do not forget [the aforementioned Chukim and Mishpatim – in pasuk 5 –] and you perform them truthfully, you will be considered wise and understanding people. But if you pervert them through forgetfulness, you will be considered idiots.

Rashi, Devarim 4:9

So according to Rashi, we must safeguard ourselves from forgetting the Mitzvos, and we must teach the Mitzvos to our children. But which Mitzvos? The Chukim and Mishpatim? The Aseres HaDibros? The pasuk is hopelessly vague. On one hand the “Devarim” referenced by Moshe Rabbeinu are the aforementioned Chukim and Mishpatim which we must never forget lest we appear like idiots. On the other hand, the “Devarim” must be those ‘things’ we saw with our eyes, presumably at Har Sinai as the subsequent pasuk states. To complicate matters even further, Rashi makes mention of the Kolos and Lapidim, suggesting the “Devarim Asher Ra’u Einecha” aren’t even Mitzvos altogether, but rather flashes of light and sound!

In order to resolve the apparent contradictions between Rashi’s uses of the term “Devarim,” one could suggest that Rashi never meant for the word Devarim to directly attach to the phrase “Asher Ra’u Einecha” as a single clause. Rather, the pasuk should read, “don’t forget those Chukim and Mishpatim, for after all your eyes beheld… the day you stood at Choreiv.” In this case, the Devarim are indeed all Mitzvos – not just the Dibros. Asher means much more than a simple “that” or “which;” in this context it means “for.”

We are left to wonder, though, why Rashi insists on butchering the flow of Moshe Rabbeinu’s address. It would still be clearer and simpler to identify the Devarim as Kolos and Lapidim; then we would have some idea as to why Moshe immediately segues into the “day we stood at Har Sinai.” Instead, Rashi leaves us with a dangling clause, Asher Ra’u Einecha, that attaches to nothing in its own pasuk and has only tangential pertinence to the topic at hand.

Let us return to our original premise, namely that Moshe Rabbeinu here avoids focusing on the Mitzvos themselves and their transmission, but rather focuses on the terror through which we were forced into acceptance, Asher Yilmidun LiYira Osi. The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh comments that Hashem’s intent to scare the nation out of their wits was not just some grand fireworks display, appropriate for the occasion but otherwise meaningless; rather, it was the only means by which HaKadosh Baruch Hu could remove the callousness from Klal Yisrael’s hearts and give His Mitzvos a chance to endure. From the time Chavah was coerced by the Nachash in Gan Eiden onward, Man was plagued with a Zuhama, literally a stench, that rendered him incapable of fearing Hahsem. Hashem’s Dibros, the same force that expelled the nation’s souls from their bodies, forced out this Zuhama.

“Here lays the root of our Kedusha,” the Ohr HaChaim’s peirush continues, but such matters lie beyond the scope of this medium. What we can superficially gather from these comments is that our fear of Hashem is requisite for eternal and enduring Shmiras HaMitzvos, but such fear is by no means a precondition. The Maharsha elucidates this point beautifully, and then adds a little more:

“…they say embarrassment is a quality trait in any man, but in terms of learning, we are told an embarrassed man never learns. In fact, the gemara in Beitzah states, “why was the Torah given to Yisrael? For they were stubborn and thereby fit to learn the Torah; no embarrassed man could ever learn Torah.” [In resolution of] these two [ideas,] it is the learning of Torah that weakens one’s stubbornness, Ki Yiras HaTorah Hee Al Peneihem (cf. Shemos 20:17)”

Chidushei Agados HaMaharsha, Mesechet Nedarim, 20a

This is a truly original idea. Not only is fear important for keeping to the right path, but brazenness is equally important for acquiring this path in the first place! This runs counter to what we would expect. Surely one who submits to another’s practices without a fight will have a more likely chance of maintaining these practices than one who stubbornly fights against submission and acceptance! Or perhaps not, perhaps only in the short term. The individual who passively accepts another’s commandments is merely acting by his own choice, and he can someday choose to disregard these commandments as easily as he initially regarded them. The stubborn individual, on the other hand, salvages no such authority; in his futile struggle, he relinquishes all authority by force, and is left with no vision of personal choice or volition. His obedience is thus eternally ensured.

We now understand why the terror of Har Sinai was so necessary, and we see how it directly ties into the ability to “fear Hashem all of our days,” but what does this concept have to do with Chinuch, with our obligation to teach Mitzvos to our children? Perhaps Moshe Rabbeinu is teaching his nation that it is each parent’s responsibility to construct a “model” Mattan Torah for his and her children, not in terms of the flashes of light and sound but in terms of the coercion involved. A parent might think his child best off to discover Mitzvos all on his own; surely the child will appreciate the values of such statutes as “do not kill” and “do not steal” if he is the founder of his own moral guidelines. But such a child is no Eved Hashem, he is merely his own boss and capable of walking away from Yideshkeit as easily as the embarrassed and passive student could. In contrast, the child overwhelmed by his parents’ authority will keep the Mitzvos for the proper reason – not because they are right or moral but because he was told to and forced to and no alternative remains.

Perhaps this is what Moshe Rabbeinu means when he claims that we will appear Chachamim nad Nevonim in the eyes of the other nations when we keep the Chukim U’Mishpatim. One should wonder, why would the Umos HaOlam praise us for our observance of Chukim, senseless laws with no rational foundation? Quite the contrary, shouldn’t they ridicule us? But if we accept that our “wisdom” lies not in our devotion to morality but rather in our devotion to consistency, then it is easy to see what is so praiseworthy about our stance. So long as we don’t doubletalk, and so long as we don’t flip flop, we as individuals serve as ideal models, whether or not we abide by another nation’s code of law.

Everything begins to fall into place. Rashi does not see our parasha as yet another iteration of the need to keep the Mitzvos. Instead, our parasha focuses on a much more specific need. We must keep the Mitzvos for the proper reason. We must serve Hashem because we were forced to. Without this mentality, we may someday succumb to other foreign desires; but as stubborn individuals whose Zuhamos were essentially frightened away, our Avodas Hashem is an eternal surety. In addition, we must provide the same mentality for our children, we must be Michanech them with a forceful authority.

“Just watch yourselves, and guard your souls, lest you forget these Mitzvos.” And what if we ever forget these Mitzvos? Can’t we hope to restore them and their observance? Of course we can, but no longer by force. Once the tradition is broken, anything we choose to keep is not by the command of a higher authority; rather it is by the command of our own authority, and the chain to Sinai is broken. Such are the Devarim, Asher Ra’u Einechah. They are the things – the Mitzvos – we must never even forget, let alone pervert, for our eyes saw frightening things when we received them and – without such sights – they could never be restored to the same degree.

Kabalas Hatorah is more than just an affirmation of Hashem’s Yichidus, and its Mesorah is more than just an accreditation of Moshe’s legitimacy. It stands the pivotal moment when we transformed from a brazen nation into a humble one, and through which became the eternal beacon of truth and consistency for all other nations. Our G-d is always close, and our statutes are always righteous, for we have painstakingly maintained them to the finest detail across countless generations.

Parashat Matos

In response to the “Dvar Ba’al Pe’or,” as it is termed in our parasha, Hashem commands Moshe Rabbeinu to annihilate Midyan. Moshe sends 12,000 warriors, led by Pinchas, and they succeed in killing every adult Midyanite male. But amidst the undertones of this genocide, we do see compassion and care for human life, for Pinchas spared every woman and child – even those women who had actively partaken in the Ma’aseh Pe’or.

Moshe Rabbeinu understandingly scolds Pinchas for his decision. The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh explains that Pinchas spared these women – in spite of their promiscuous behavior – because of the overbearing pressure their fathers and husbands placed on them to act such. However, Moshe pointed out, these women voluntarily coerced the Jewish men into bowing down to their god, Ba’al Pe’or, and were therefore still worthy of punishment.

“For they themselves were to the Bnei Yisrael – during Bilam’s plot – [a cause] for treachery against Hashem in regard to the matter of Pe’or… and so now you must kill every male child, and each woman [capable of] knowing a man should be killed.”

BaMidbar 31:16-17

These pasukim provide plenty of support for the Ohr HaChaim’s proposal, but we are left with no good understanding as to why the male children should also be killed. To fill in the gaps, the Kli Yakar considers Klal Yisrael’s perspective of the transpiring matter. The nation would see Pinchas and his soldiers return with these captive women. Then, by Moshe’s command, they would execute them all. ‘Why didn’t they execute these women in the field?’ the people might wonder, and they would wrongfully conclude that the soldiers intended to take these women for illicit relationships and were therefore rebuked by Moshe. In order that the nation not cast such aspersions on these righteous soldiers, Moshe ordered them to first execute all the male children, for such action would make no sense had Moshe rebuked them for initiating in illicit relationships.

The Kli Yakar’s approach nicely completes the Ohr HaChaim’s aforementioned perspective, but it leaves us wondering what does and does not warrant murder and genocide. We often pair execution with punishment, as if it must be the consequence of some egregious crime. These Midyanite boys though were guilty of no apparent crime. They were too young to pressure their sisters into promiscuity. They were not present at the battlefield to coerce Jews to worship Pe’or. And if their idol worship at home were sufficient grounds for their woeful fate, then the same should have been true for the youngest Midyanite girls – who were indeed spared.

It seems that these young boys die for no justifiable reason. Rashi, though, subtly hints at a third offense the Midyanim committed:

Why did Pinchas go [to battle] and not Elazar… for he [also] went to avenge his ancestor Yoseif, as the pasuk states, “And the Midyanim sold [Yoseif to Mitzrayim].

Rashi, BaMidbar 31:6

Curiously, Rashi associates Pinchas to the annihilation of the Midyanite nation through a relatively minor occurrence some five centuries earlier. What significance does Yoseif’s sale altogether bear towards the fate of the entire Midyanite nation? In fact, if any nation were to be held responsible for Yoseif’s sale, we would first blame Yosief’s own brothers! We could also blame the Yishmaelim, who first purchased Yoseif and sold him to the Midyanim. What then is so special about the Midyanim’s role within the sale?

Perhaps we can reason that although various nations swapped Yoseif’s custody, they never sold him into outright slavery. They pawned him off as a bargaining chip within their trades, but they never fully demoted him to the lowest state of slavery and subjugation. The Midyanim, however, sold Yoseif to Mitzrayim as a slave for Potiphar, thereby fully striping Yoseif of whatever dignity he had yet retained.

In similar fashion, the Midyanite contemporaries of Pinchas forfeited their daughters and wives for the sake of licentiousness. Like their ancestors who sold Yoseif, they showed no reluctance towards the abasement of another human, even their own kin. Appropriately, Rashi notes, by annihilating the Midyanite nation and their heinous mindset, Pinchas also retaliates against the very motives that prompted Yoseif’s sale to Mitzrayim.

Perhaps then the Midyanites forfeiture of their own kin equally warranted the slaughter of their youngest male children. Just as they degraded their wives and daughters for a shameful purpose, so too Moshe gave Pinchas and his army full right to treat the Midyanite children with equally dehumanizing indifference, Midah K’Neged Midah. In this sense, the male Midyanite children died not for their own sins but rather for the sin of their parents.

One could even imagine Pinchas to have manipulated his situation in order to bring about this result. Had Pinchas killed the guilty Midyanite women before returning to the camp, Moshe would never have valid reason to order the deaths of the Midyanite children. But once the women return, Moshe is forced to kill the children too so as to repel the false aspersions of the Kahal, as the Kli Yakar explains. The children’s deaths cannot even be called martyrdom, for they are merely casualties of a much grander scheme, and dehumanized casualties at that, for their very right to life becomes a mere afterthought in the face of another man’s reputation. And what at first appears as compassion on the part of Pinchas transforms into exactly the opposite, an insensitivity rivaled only by the Midyanim who sold Yoseif to Mitzrayim.

Parashat Pinchas

“LiAzni Mishpachas HaAzni.” I say that the family of Azni is the family of Etzbon, though I do not know why this family is not called by its original name.

Rashi, BaMidbar 26:16

A very curious Rashi. Is there something esoteric about the name Azni that escapes Rashi, something to which he can provide no plausible explanation? Perhaps, but perhaps not. What difficulty does Rashi attempt to resolve here? In Parashat VaYigash, we listed all the 70 families that traveled down to Mitzrayim, and here we recount them, minus a few lost divisions. But the name Azni is nowhere to be found in the original census. Rashi therefore explains that the family Etzbon, a family omitted from our narrative, is really present but with a different name. Granted Rashi would love to provide us with some explanation behind this change of name, but is that really what he’s out to accomplish? Why can’t he simply assert: “Azni, Zu Mishpachas Etzbon,” and leave the rest to our own speculation?

But that’s not what makes this such a curious Rashi.

“…But the [Shimonite] family of Ohad perished, as did five families from Shevet Binyamin… and Etzbon, from Shevet Gad. That makes seven familes. I found in the Talmud Yerushalmi that when Aharon died, the Ananei HaKaod dispersed and the Cana’anim came to battle with Yisrael. The Nation retreated… and the Bnei Levi chased after them to bring them back, and [in the civil skirmish] killed [these] seven families…”

Rashi, BaMidmar 26:14

Now we are told that the family of Etzbon perished in a scuffle with Shevet Levi. Of course, they can’t be renamed Azni and dead at the same time. Rashi’s two comments seem hopelessly irreconcilable. So much for this Yerushalmi that Rashi quotes.

“…and four Levite families [also omitted from our parasha’s census] fell: Shimi; Azi’eli; and from the sons of Yitzhar, only the Bnei Korach are mentioned. As for the fourth family, I do not know who it was.”

Rashi (ibid.)

The Yerushalmi’s already difficult account borders on the inexplicable. Quite simply, counting four dead families is logistically impossible if only three families are omitted from the census. Yet the Agada claims that a fourth family of Levi’s was killed, and not surprisingly fails to support its claim.

The Sefer Zikaron resolves Rashi’s inconsistencies with a redaction. He changes the name Etzbon to Yishveh (from Shevet Asher), another family mysteriously omitted from our parasha’s census. Etzbon is then counted as Azni, Yishveh was killed by Shevet Levi, and the contradiction is resolved. It’s a quick patch. It’s simple, but not entirely satisfying. Let’s see if we can do better.

Rashi elsewhere (pasuk 24) comments that the families Ard and Na’aman (both from Shevet Binyamin) are not the children of Binyamin but rather are his grandchildren – children of Belah – and are named after their uncles. Although they were not among the seventy individuals who descended to Mitzrayim, they presently constitute their own families due to their relative size. The same is true of I’ezer and Cheilek, Yoseif’s great great grandchildren, who certainly weren’t born until long after Ya’akov arrived and yet are counted as their own Mishpachot.

It is therefore possible, the Levush HaOrah speculates, that Azni was a descendant of Etzbon’s whose family had grown large enough to be counted by its own name. The rest of Etzbon’s family was then killed by Shevet Levi, and so the Yerushalmi considers the family of Etzbon to have been wiped out although some of Etzbon’s actual descendants did survive.

Rashi continues, “I do not know why Azni is not called by its [larger] family’s name.” In other words, the Levush HaOrah reasons, one would expect the family of Azni to uphold the legacy of their descendants, Mishpachat Etzbon; yet they do not, and why they do not is unclear. And there is nothing mysterious or obscure about the name Azni.

Now one might question why Rashi scratches his head as to why Azni does not uphold Etzbon’s legacy whereas we have no questions why Korach does not uphold Yitzhar’s family name. However, the Levush HaOrah adds, the Torah elsewhere informs us that Korach is the son of Yitzhar, so our parasha does not need to fill in any details. By telling us Korach’s family is counted, we can easily infer that Yitzhar’s family – or at least a part of it – survived. However, we cannot so definitively infer Etzbon’s survival from Azni’s existence.

Rashi’s comments are curious indeed, but for an entirely different reason. Rashi could have easily explained the presence of Azni’s name in our parasha as the Torah’s terse way of informing us that the rest of Mishpachat Etzbon died out. But alas, the Torah does not count the Jews to tell us who is missing; rather, we count the ones who remain and forget the ones lost.

The Yerushalmi tells us four families from Shevet Levi perished, but we can only ascertain the names of three. Borrowing from the logic of the Levush HaOrah, perhaps what the Yerushalmi means is that one of Levi’s later descendants grew large enough to constitute its own family, and then died out, yet we are left with no method by which to determine which descendant this was.

“Mah SheHaya Haya,” what was no longer is, in the words of the Levush HaOrah. This presents a shocking counterpoint to our parasha’s emphasis on individual deaths, such as Dasan’s and Aviram’s, Eir’s and Onan’s, and Tzelofchad’s. Somehow a few single deaths – of sinners no less – are more noteworthy than a miniature genocide, and this sounds eerily similar to the opening of our parasha, where the Nasi of Shevet Shimon, Zimri ben Salu, is singled out from among 24,000 as the victim of Avodas Ba’al Peor.

But what does this all mean? The Torah seems to distinguish between the legacy of an individual and that of a populous. When the former is punished or killed, his environment does not drastically change, there is no startling shift in culture or perspective, and those who survive him can examine his life, his actions, and his legacy within the same environment he constructed it. U’Vnei Korach Lo Maisu. The latter grants no such luxury. And so Yisrael retains 601,000 men and 65 families, but the identities and perspectives of Ohad and Etzbon and Shimi and Yitzhar are lost forever.

The identity and collective spirit of Klal Yisrael is an ever changing beast. Mistakes are made, families are lost, and legacies change. Hopefully for the better.

Parashat Korach

The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh suggests that Hashem’s consideration to destroy Klal Yisrael by the faults of Korach and his rebellious crowd is not necessarily as dramatically dire a moment as one might initially think. After all, Hashem often warns Moshe of the impending annihilation of his nation, and Moshe – always the successful arbiter – succeeds in dissuading Him out of His plan. So really Hashem’s resolutions are nothing more than an indication to Moshe that this is a good time to pray on the nation’s behalf. Indeed, Moshe and Aharon immediately fall to their faces and make their appeal:

“Keil Elokei HaRuchos LiChol Basar, HaEesh Echad Yechetah, ViAl Kol HaEidah Tiktzof?”

BaMidbar, 16:22

“Keil Elokei HaRuchos, [You are the G-d of all spirits and thereby] Knower of all thoughts. You are nothing like a human king, for when part of a human king’s nation rebels against him, he cannot know who has sinned and who has not; therefore, when he becomes enraged, he punishes all alike. But to You all thoughts are known, and You well know “HaEesh Echad Yechetah” – that only one man (Korach) – has sinned. Why then should You be angry at the rest of the nation?” HaKadosh Baruch Hu replied, “you have spoken well, I do know and I will make known those who have sinned and those who haven’t.”

Rashi, BaMidbar 16:22

As Rashi describes, Hashem at first considers wiping out the entire Am for their association with and support of Korach, as the previous pasuk states VaYakheil Aleihem Korach Es Kol HaEidah, Korach amassed the entire nation. Moshe then reminds Hashem that the people are acting improperly, but not to their own fault; rather, Korach is responsible for both his and the Kahal’s misdeeds.

There is a small incongruity, however, between the Ohr HaChaim’s assessment of our situation and Rashi’s description. Rashi approaches Moshe’s and Aharon’s “tefilla” as an appeal to Halacha. They argue that the people are not themselves rebels but rather victims of a single individual’s – a very charismatic individual at that – rebellion, and so they arrive at a different Din than does Hashem. This is not how we commonly picture tefilla. We normally imagine that Hashem determines the Halacha accurately, and then arrives at a Din, and then our prayers have the power to convert Hashem’s strict judgment into a merciful one.

Normally when Moshe argues on behalf of the nation, he focuses on the effects of a specific punishment. If Hashem were to wipe out the whole nation, what would the Mitzrim say? What would the Cana’anim say? And so on. Our parasha’s appeal is the genuine exception, for Moshe clearly disagrees with the very notion that the Bnei Yisrael are guilty altogether! How then does the Ohr HaChaim understand this “opening,” this opportunity Hashem leaves Moshe to rescue his nation, when the nation should not be in need of a rescue in the first place?!

Rashi lends us all the necessary information to answer these questions. There are a few extra words dropped about his commentary that provide us with some very useful hints. Most obviously, there was no need for Hashem to specify that He both “knows” and “will make known” which individual sinned and which ones did not. Moshe’s appeal lies squarely on the knowledge that Korach alone sinned, why then does Hahsem deem it necessary to inform Moshe that He will make this fact known to everyone else? Shouldn’t Moshe simply care that the Kahal won’t be killed?

There is an even more subtle hint dropped in the use of the term Ko’es, “enraged.” Moshe’s argument focuses on the king’s need to maintain control over his country, but his inability to do so without punishing the sinners. Therefore, whether the king is emotionally unstable or not, he is forced to exert brutal action to ensure control over the masses. Why then does Moshe refer Hashem to the case of the “enraged king” instead of simply “the king who does not read minds?”

Rashi’s employment of the element of Ka’as is certainly not his own idea, for Moshe Rabbeinu himself uses the very same idea in our pasuk, ViAl Kol HaEidah Tiktzof. Moshe doesn’t suggest that Hashem actively seeks to annihilate or even harm the Kahal; rather, Moshe accuses Hashem of getting mad at them, becoming indifferent of them, and leaving them to perish whether they deserve such a fate or not. How so?

Chazal tell us that when Hahsem administers His Midas HaDin, it does not differentiate between Tzadik and Rashah. One might imagine the opposite, that nothing would be more capable of differentiating between the two than pure justice. But perhaps what Chazal mean is that when Hashem lets the Malach HaMaves loose to destroy as a result of His Din, His Malach does not distinguish between the good and bad, and so all are fair game. We can then group the nation into three classes: Resha’im deserving of punishment; Tzadikim deserving of being warned to flee from the site of the impending Onesh; and Beinonim who are not the intended victims of Hashem’s Din yet are equally vulnerable.

This translates well to our parasha. Until the people associated themselves with Korach, there was a strong enough Zechus present to prevent punishment. But once they congregated, their merits vanished and punishment was imminent. Hashem warned Moshe and Aharon (and the few remaining Tzadikim, according to the Ohr HaChaim) to flee the scene for they were deserving of a warning, but Hashem wasted no time dispersing the rest of the crowd for He was mad at them and did not care enough to save them.

In response to Hashem’s disdain, Moshe appeals to the case of the enraged king to illustrate that the only way Man becomes indifferent toward his fellow is through his anger, which is sparked by his lack of knowledge and – in effect – control of a situation. Hashem, therefore, has no right to be indifferent towards His nation, for He has no right to get angry if He knows exactly who sinned and who did not. His knowledge allows Him to control the situation in a professional – and caring – way only He can. And so in response, Hashem acknowledges both that He knows who sinned and also that He should make known who sinned, or in other words that He should warn the rest of Klal Yisrael to avoid the site of Korach’s imminent Onesh.

All along, Hashem never accused Klal Yisrael of having sinned, but they were vulnerable to widespread punishment nonetheless. Moshe’s tefilla, albeit unconventional, does indeed focus on Hashem’s bountiful mercy, not in contrast to the administration of Din, but rather in contrast to His feelings of anger. And while Moshe’s plea is only partly successful – we find the Kahal attacked by widespread plague only a day later – we learn a tremendous deal from this short account about what great havoc our anger can wreak, and what great force our prayers can evoke.

Parashat Yisro

Six days you shall labor, and you shall do all your work, and the seventh day will be a Shabbos for Hashem your G-d, don’t do any work… [F]or Hashem made the heavens and earth and all that is in them in six days, and He rested on the seventh; therefore, Hashem blessed the day Shabbos, and He sanctified it.

Shemos, 20:9-11

Although each of the Aseres HaDibros are intended to affirm and establish our everlasting relationship with HaKadosh Baruch Hu, none accomplish the task quite like Shabbos. Unlike the rest, the mitzvah of Shmiras Shabbos requires the emulation of our Master; just as He rested, so do we. In Tehilim, we are told that Bnei Noach are Yom VaLila Lo Yishbosu, that Goyim are required to never rest; if a non-Jew chooses to observe the halachos of Shabbos and rest, even on a Monday, he incurs a Chiuv Misah Bi’Yidei Shamayim! But we, as Jews, are privileged to elevate our nature from that of G-d’s other creations; we are instead obligated to mirror Hashem’s behavior.

But what does it mean to rest as Hashem rested. Do we really believe that Hashem needed to take a nap after six long days of work? Rashi elaborates:

VaYanach BaYom HaShivi’i: [what does it mean that G-d “rested”?]

KiBiYachol, as if it were possible, [Hashem] writes of rest regarding Himself. [This is done] in order for us to learn a Kal ViChomer from Him to man, for [while Hashem works and never tires, and nonetheless rested on Shabbos, man, whose] work [is performed] in toil and [leaves him] in weariness, [all the more so] he should be at rest on Shabbos.

Rashi, Shemos 20:11

According to Rashi, Hashem is incapable of resting; however, the pasuk anthropomorphically attributes the characteristic of exhaustion to G-d in order to obligate us to rest as well. But there is a fundamental problem with Rashi’s Kal ViChomer; it overlooks the very nature of obligation. If we learn our obligation to rest on Shabbos from Hashem, then we are implying that Hashem obligated Himself to rest on Shabbos. Such a notion is perfectly sensible, for as we stated earlier, Hashem would never rest out of necessity; therefore, He would only do so out of obligation. But if Hashem’s obligation is created out of a lack of necessity, how can it possibly carry over to beings which naturally tire?

In other words, the very nature of Hashem’s rest was that He wouldn’t have rested had it not been for His obligation. Logically, one should only expect the Chiuv to pertain to beings that otherwise would not rest, but man, who rests when he is tired and works when he is replenished, should have no such obligation placed on his shoulders, for his need to rest is already governed by nature. Granted, one could imagine man being obligated to rest because it emulates Hashem’s actions, but such a Chiuv has nothing to do with the logic of Kal ViChomer.

Just as there is a flaw in our understanding of Rashi’s Kal ViChomer, so too, we are grossly misunderstanding the implications of the term KiBiYachol. When Rashi says Hashem cannot actually rest, he means that Hashem did not actually rest for it was impossible for Him to. Eventually, we will have to consider whether our actions of Menucha actually emulate G-d’s or not, but for now, there are more immediate questions to address. For starters, why is Rashi so convinced that the term VaYanach refers to something Hashem is incapable of performing? If the word refers to physical sleep, then we would certainly be forced to attribute anthropomorphism. But who’s to say VaYanach doesn’t refer to, say, the cessation of interaction with our world in a specific sense? The pasuk contiues Al Kain Bayruch Hashem Es Yom Hashabbos VaYikadisheihu, that Hashem blessed and sanctified the day. Here, Rashi’s comments suggest anything but an interaction of KiBiYachol measure:

Bayruch VaYikadishaihu: [what does each term respectively refer to?]

He blessed it through the Man, which he doubled on Fridays, and He sanctified [Shabbos] through the Man, for it did not fall that day.

Rashi, Shemos 20:11

There are many things Hashem can do that constitute resting without actually pulling up an ottoman to His Kisai HaKavod. Rashi says in Parashat Beraishis that Hashem doubled His quota on Friday so that He could finish creation a day early, leaving Shabbos as a day of rest. There, rest is meant in a much more passive sense, implying that everything that Hashem intended to create had already been created. Why then must Rashi insist that the term VaYanach is KiBiYachol?

Perhaps there is a direct contrast between the term Shavas written in Beraishis where Hashem passively rests, and the term Nach in our parasha where Hashem actively rests. More to the point, Rashi insists that our pasuk’s term is KiBiYachol in order to emphasize that Hashem went out of His way to write such a term about Himself in the Torah. In other words, Hashem did not go out of His way to rest; rather, He went out of His way to say that He rested, although we all know that such an action is impossible for Hashem.

Therefore, the Kal ViChomer we learn from Hashem has nothing to do with a comparison between obligations, for Hashem could never obligate Himself to do something He simply was incapable of doing! Rather, the Kal ViChomer is simply a comparison of how much one goes out of his way to rest on Shabbos. In Hashem’s case, the very notion of resting is altogether absurd; yet not only did Hashem go out of His way to attribute the characteristic of Menucha to Himself, but He chose to write that He rested on Shabbos. Therefore man, who naturally tires and doesn’t need to go out of his way to motivate his Menuchah, all the more so should he go out of his way to rest on Shabbos as opposed to on another day of the week. Whereas Hashem doubly diverts from His natural tendencies, we must only alter our nature to a single degree, choosing to rest on Shabbos instead of on another day of the week when we eventually exhaust. Therefore, we are Kal ViChomer obligated to divert from our nature.

But if Hashem cannot actually rest, then can we still emulate His actions? From where does this obligation to rest actually stem? If Hashem simply wanted us to rest on shabbos, there are much more straightforward ways of creating the obligation than through a Kal ViChomer learned out from an anthropomorphism. He could have commanded “Rest,” and we would have been obligated the same. (Note this would entail a different obligation than the one already specified in pasuk 10, for the lashon of Tishbos is passive while our pasuk, according to Rashi, obligates us to actually replenish our bodies.)

Looking back at the Sheishes Yemei Beraishis, we find a rather peculiar description of Hashem’s sanctification of the seventh day. The pasuk there says VaYiVareich Elokim Es Yom HaShivi’I VaYiKadeish Oso, that Hashem both blessed it and sanctified it, not very different from the description in the Aseres HaDibros. Of course in our parasha, Rashi describes this “blessing” and “sanctification” as the distribution of Man, so it comes as no surprise that Rashi attributes this very same event to the account of “blessing” and “sanctification” in the Sheises Yimei Beraishis!

A cut and dry case of Ein Mukdam U’Mi’Uchar BaTorah, perhaps Rashi is trying to teach us something very fundamental about not only our observance of Shabbos, but also its very existence. According to Rashi, it is somehow necessary that the Torah acknowledge – all the way from the time of creation – the Man that will fall in the desert, millennia in advance! In other words, HaKadosh Baruch Hu’s very decision to rest on Shabbos (not KiBiYachol) revolves around the desire to involve mankind in a similar behavior. Without dropping a double portion of Man on Friday, and without withholding Man on Shabbos, Hashem would have no incentive to rest on the seventh day of creation.

So the existence of Shabbos is only for mankind’s benefit, but clearly not as a day of forced rejuvenation, for then Hashem would simply command us to rest when the need arises. “Thou shalt sleep eight hours a night,” and the rest would be history. Rather, the benefit we derive from Shabbos is the ability to recognize Hashem’s creation of the world. The Man’s abundance and subsequent absence creates a contrast and instills a feeling of importance upon a day on which nothing occurs. We observe this day through Shvisa, a lack of production, and prepare for the week to come through Menucha, relaxation, all the while achieving a true closeness to – if not an emulation of – our Maker.

Parashat BiShalach

And the Angel of Elokim that walked in front of Machane Yisrael traveled and walked from their rear, and the pillar of clouds traveled from in front of them and stood from their rear.

Shemos 14:19

After six days of exhausting travel, Machane Yisrael finds itself in a worse predicament than when they initially left. The sea blocks any movement forward, and the Egyptian army is right on their tails, already hurling projectiles at them, according to the Midrash. Hashem sends the nation two forms of protection, an angel and a pillar of clouds.

“And walked from their rear” to separate between the Egyptian and Jewish camps and to intercept the Egyptian projectiles… “and the pillar of clouds traveled” when it became dark and the pillar fully transformed into a pillar of fire, the clouds did not ascend, as they normally would, but rather traveled from their rear to darken the Egyptian camp.

Rashi, Shemos 14:19

Rashi explains that the angel was designated to intercept the Egyptian projectiles whereas the clouds were sent to block the light of the Amud HaAish from reaching the Mitzrim. The pasuk conveys Hashem’s feelings of obligation towards the preservation and protection of His chosen nation. As Hashem states in Parashat Yisro, “I lifted you upon the wings of eagles and brought you to Me.” Rashi there explains the metaphor: “just as an eagle carries its young on its back… to protect them from manmade projectiles below… so too Hashem protected us… and when the Mitzrim threw projectiles, the clouds intercepted them.”

But as solid as Klal Yisrael’s relationship with HaKadosh Baruch Hu seems, the dispatching of this Malach simultaneously indicates exactly the opposite:

Normally the verse states “Malach Hashem,” but here it states “Malach Elokim,” and Elokim invariably refers to Din. This teaches Klal Yisrael were judged at that moment [when the Malach passed behind them] whether to be saved or to be destroyed with Mitzrayim.

Rashi, Shemos 14:19

On one hand, Hashem here unconditionally protects His nation, and on the other, He judges whether they deserve annihilation. The notion that Hashem would ever consider destroying the entire nation is itself absurd, given Hashem’s need to uphold His promise to Avraham Avinu.

“Speak to the Bnei Yirael, and they should travel,” the merits of their forefathers and that they believed in Me and left [Mitzraim] are enough to split the sea for them.

Rashi, Shemos 14:15

Notably, Hashem refers to the merits of the Avos, but only associates this Zechus to the splitting of the sea; whether the sea would remain split for all of Klal Yisrael to cross is another matter altogether.

Several of the Mefarshei Rashi read an undertone of doom and punishment into this episode. The Bnei Yisrael cry out to Moshe how their lives would have been better had they only stayed slaves in Mitzrayim, so it’s only plausible that their cries anger Hashem and He executes a judgment against them.

The fact remains, however, that Klal Yisrael did cross the Yam Suf and the Mitzrim drowned, so whatever judgment Hashem carried out had negligible effect on the Jews. Instead, it seems more plausible that Rashi calls on the presence of Din within this episode as a necessary measure by which to deal with the Mitzrim. The sea didn’t open on the Mitzrim’s behalf (rather, it opened on Bnei Yisrael’s merits) but Hashem’s Din caused it to close on them.

Interestingly, the Malach Elokim walked from the rear of Machane Yisrael whereas the cloud stood at their rear. Perhaps Rashi is stressing that while Klal Yisrael spent the night crossing the sea, the cloud hovered shoreside over the Egyptian camp so they could not see that the sea was split or that the Jews were traveling, whereas the Malach walked out to the sea to execute its Din against Mitzrayim. Upon the Ashmores HaBoker, eight hours later, the cloud lifted and the Mitzrim discovered that the sea had split. They ran out into the sea for a few hours, but before they could reach the other side, the Malach executed Din, the waters returned to their normal state and submerged the Egyptian army. The next morning, Bnei Yisrael sang Az Yashir.

This understanding may also explain why in this week’s parasha Rashi claims the Malach intercepted the Egyptian projectiles, whereas in next week’s parasha he claims the clouds did so. According to the Levush HaOrah, the Malach assumed its position behind Klal Yisrael while it was still daylight. The cloud did not arrive until nightfall, when the Amud HaAish took its place (as Rashi explicitly states). This explains why the pasuk separates the two when stated how they moved to the rear of Machane Yisrael, for the moves are ordered chronologically. Therefore, the Malach intercepted all the projectiles during the day, but once it moved out onto the sea to perform its Din there, the cloud, which hung back with Machane Mitzrayim, took up this role in the Malach’s stead.

It is true that Hashem judged Klal Yisrael when the Malach passed behind. The placement of the Malach between the two Machanot was itself a manifestation of this Din. Those in front of the Malach would be saved and those behind would be killed. But the real danger for Yisrael was not this Din, for there is really no indication here that Hashem ever considered killing His nation. Rather, Yisrael needed more than just a good Din to split the Yam Suf to begin, that feat required their Avos and their own Zechuyot.

Parashat Bo

Although Hashem introduces the entirety of Parashat Bo with an instruction LiMa’an Tisapeir LiVinchah, there are many additional elements of the parasha that are individually singled out for their future didactic qualities. After detailing the process of Korban Pesach, Moshe calls together the Zikeinim of the nation and teaches them to smear blood on their doorposts. Moshe commands, “Ki Savo’u El Ha’Aretz, U’Shmartem Es Ha’Avoda HaZos,” presumably referring to the dipping and smearing of the Korban’s blood.

However, we know that the Bnei Yisrael are never again obligated to smear blood on their doorposts. Why then would Moshe command them to “keep” this Avoda in Eretz Yisrael? Looking ahead to the next pasuk, we discover that Moshe’s command actually doesn’t refer to Nisinas HaDam, but rather to the Korban Pesach itself. Moshe foretells:

When your children will ask, “Ma Ha’Avoda HaZos LaChem,” you shall say, “Zevach Pesach Hu LaHashem Asher Pasach Al Batei Bnei Yisrael BiMitzrayim BiNagifo Es Mitzrayim ViEs Bateinu Hitzil.”

Shemos, 12:26-27

So the Avoda kept, the Avoda the children ask about, is the Korban Pesach. This makes plenty of sense; the Korban Pesach has many unusual laws associated with it. We may not break its bones. We eat it with Matzah and Marror, and we eat it reclining. The children have many good reasons to be confused. But one slight difficulty remains; why does Moshe have to tell the Zikeinim about this instruction in correlation to Nisinas HaDam? We finished the bizarre details of Korban Pesach back in pasuk 20; if the child’s question is spurred by our obscure practices, then shouldn’t the pasukim transition from one to the next? All in all, what does the answer Moshe provides for the nation’s children – a resolution that comes to define the Zevach Pesach, not the Nisinas HaDam – have anything to do with dipping and smearing blood?

The answer Moshe provides for the children is itself a source of confusion. Why is it redundant? What does it mean that Hashem skipped our houses at the time that He saved our houses? Even if one understands the term Pasach to refer to mercy and not skipping (as Onkelos does), the redundancy might be resolved, but the syntax is shattered. The pasuk doesn’t say that Hashem had mercy when He smote the Mitzrim and saved us; rather, it reads that Hashem had mercy on us when He smote the Mitzrim, and He also saved our houses. If the effect of Hashem’s mercy is that He spared our houses, why do we have to specify the two actions with two separate clauses?

Perhaps the pasuk identifies Hashem’s mercy over the Jewish homes separately from His saving of the homes because they are two separate actions which actually happen at separate times of the night. We get so caught up in the presence of Makas Bechoros, the holocaust of an entire – and relatively advanced – civilization, that we overlook the other events of that particular night. But a close read into two seemingly contradictory Rashis reveals that there was more to the annihilation of Mitzrayim that night than “merely” the death of their firstborn.

ViLo Yiheyeh BaChem Negef: But there will be [a plague] amongst the Mitzrim. If a Mitzri was situated in a Yisrael’s house, one could imagine that [the Mitzri] might escape; therefore, the pasuk says “the plague will not be BaChem,” but it will be among the Mitzrim in your houses. [Perhaps] if there was a Yisrael in a Mitzri’s house, I could imagine that [the Yisrael] would too be smitten; therefore, our pasuk says “the plague will not be BaChem,” it will not affect us at all.

Rashi, Shemos 12:13

ViAtem Lo Seitzi’u, You shall not leave your homes [lest you be injured]: This tells us that after permission is given to a destructive force to injure, it does not differentiate between Tzadik and Rashah. And night is a time when injurious forces reign, as the pasuk says, “Bo Tirmos Kol Chayaso Ya’ar.”

Rashi, Shemos 12:22

With close analysis, the Mizrachi makes good sense of Rashi’s comments. On one hand, the Bnei Yisrael are told there is no significance as to whether they reside in their home on Pesach night; either way, they will not be affected by the Makah. Yet on the other hand, they are strongly warned not to step outside lest they be hurt. Granted, Hashem might have made each family stay in its home as a test of loyalty or observance, but if Hashem says the Makah won’t affect the nation, then what danger does Rashi comment about reigning at night and not differentiating between Tzadik and Rashah?

The Mizrachi explains that there was another danger aside the threat of Makas Bechoros. On the night of the first Pesach, HaKadosh Baruch Hu turned His Mazikim loose and gave them full permission to hurt anyone they pleased anywhere they pleased, even inside a private home. However, Hashem did remove this Reshus from one location, inside any home with blood smeared on its doorposts and lintel.

The Mizrachi explains that although the commandment “Lo Seitzi’u” technically should apply on even an ordinary night, for there might always be Mazikim outside. But there was an added importance on the first night of Pesach that the Jews be extra safe. Hashem was about to decimate all of Mitzrayim, and without scratching a single Jew, but His plan could only work if the injurious forces were restrained.

If we look closely in the pasukim, we see that the blood on the doorposts served a dual purpose. Like pasuk 13 states, ViRa’isi Es HaDam U’Pasachti Aleichem, Hashem would see the blood and have mercy on the Jews (additionally, he would skip over the Jews), thus saving their households from the terror of Makas Bechoros. Hashem expresses mercy on the people, no matter where they are, whether in their own home or a Mitzri’s. But in pasuk 23, Hashem’s mercy is no longer directed at the people; ViRa’ah Es HaDam… U’Fasach Hasem Al HaPesach ViLo Yitein HaMashchis El Bateichem LiNgof, Hashem pities the entrance. Perhaps what the pasuk means is that the Chemlah Hashem expresses for his nation in this pasuk only extends as far as the doorpost. In other words, Hashem can only guarantee that the Mazikim cannot harm Jews who stay indoors.

Looking even more closely at the pasukim, we can see a syntactical inconsistency between these two accounts, lending further proof to the presence of two harming forces. In pasuk 13, Hashem warns about the Negef LiMashchis, the plague that will damage, a clear reference to Makas Bechoros. However, in pasuk 23, Moshe says Hashem will not allow the Mashchis LinNgof, the damager to plague. The subject is no longer a Makah but rather an injurious entity that Hashem does not allow to hurt Jews. The pasuk wouldn’t say Hashem didn’t allow Himself to hurt the Jews in such a roundabout fashion, therefore, we can safely conclude that this pasuk refers to the Malachei Chabalah.

We can now make sense of Moshe’s answer for the future generations’ kids. The Bnei Yisrael tell their children that Hashem was Pasach Al Batei Bnei Yisrael, the lashon of mercy expressing the restriction of Mazikim to enter Jews’ homes. And when did Hashem forbid them? BiNagifo Es Mitzrayim, When He was hopping around house to house inspecting for Dam. Furthermore, ViEs Bateinu Hitzil, at that time, He chose only to attack the rest of the country with Makas Bechoros. Now the pasuk reads smoothly.

“Shimurim LiChol Bnei Yisrael LiDorosam”

Shemos, 12:43

[The pasuk says there will be a guarding LiDoros, for generations,] Meshumar U’Ba Min HaMazikin, [the fifteenth of Niasan] will be guarded from now onward from harmful spirits.

Rashi, Shemos 12:43

When Hashem showed mercy on Klal Yisrael and restricted Mazikim from entering their homes, He graciously extended the restriction LiDorosam, for that same night each year. Every Peasch night, we are granted a little extra safety and freedom. As a result of the one smearing of blood in Mitzrayim, every first night of Pesach we are exempt from reciting Kriyas Shema Al HaMita, and we are safe from harmful spirits.

The young child, enjoying a roasted Korban Pesach with his family in the Beis HaMikdash, is utterly confused. He does not understand what significance his reenactment of a century-old tradition bears. Granted, we can explain the Korban Pesach as a commemoration of past events, an expression of thankfulness we extend to Hashem. But instead, we acknowledge the Korban as an actual reliving of Yitzeas Mitzrayim, and we support our stance by describing the ongoing effect our actions in Egypt had on future Pesachs. And so the placement of blood on the doorpost is key to understanding not the significance of Korban Pesach – not the one in Mitzrayim but the one in the Mikdash. That one Nisinas Dam is what ultimately enables us to feel safe and feel free and we munch on our roast meat. HaKadosh Baruch Hu may have only taken us out of Mitzrayim once, but our obligation to experience that liberation is annual.

Parashat Va'Eira

At a glance, the departure of Makas Tzfardeya seems standard and uneventful. Paroh summons Mohe and Aharon to his palace, begs for the frogs’ riddance on condition that he let the Bnei Yisrael leave, and fails to fulfill his end of the deal. Just like every other Makah. Rashi punctiliously draws our attention to a very specific aspect of the account:

And Moshe said to Paroh, “Glorify [yourself over] me, for when shall I pray for you and your servants and your nation to remove the frogs from you…”

Shemos, 8:5

Had [the pasuk] said “when shall I pray,” if would have implied [that Moshe asked] what time [he] should pray. Now that it says “for when shall I pray,” it implies [Moshe] prayed today for the frogs to disappear on the day [Paroh] specified.

And [Paroh] said, “Pray today that they should be removed tomorrow.”

And Moshe went… and he yelled immediately that [the frogs should] disappear tomorrow.

Rashi, Shemos 8:5-8

By Rashi’s assessment, what separates this dialogue from the rest (and warrants it as one of only three dialogues between Moshe and Paroh recorded in this week’s parasha) is the fact that Moshe prayed a day early for the ending of the Makah. Rashi’s diligence to delineate this point seems a bit excessive. Once Moshe offers to pray on one day for something to happen the next, and Paroh obliges this offer, it should be readily obvious that Moshe screamed that day, and that he requested the frogs disappear the next.

Excessive nonetheless, the Chizkuni argues, the subtle point Rashi elucidates is key to our understanding of Moshe and Paroh’s relationship, or lack of one. Paroh suspected that each plague was a predictable – albeit supernatural – phenomenon that Moshe had carefully calculated. Moshe would therefore cleverly ask him “when would you like me to remove this plague” right at the end of each Makah, surely expecting him to reply, “right away!” Paroh requested that the Makah end “tomorrow” in hopes of proving Moshe to be a liar and Hashem to be a façade.

The Chizkuni’s analysis lends a beautiful quality of vindication to our story. Hashem is upheld as the all-powerful entity behind Paroh’s suffering, and Moshe is upheld as the heavenly messenger he truly is. But the Chizkuni’s pshat does not explain everything. For starters, one would expect such a challenge to originate from Paroh, yet it is Moshe’s idea to pray on one day for another.

There is another slightly more technical difficulty with these pasukim. Moshe unduly emphasizes the role of his prayer. If Paroh doubts that this Makah can end any day other than that day, why wouldn’t Moshe phrase his offer “when should the frogs disappear.” Granted, Moshe’s response is tailored after Paroh’s initial appeal (in pasuk 4, where Paroh himself says “pray to Hashem to remove the frogs”), but the Chizkuni does little to assess why Paroh himself would focus on Moshe’s prayers and Hashem’s omnipotence. With all due reverence to the Chizkuni, it seems likely that Paroh did somewhat believe in Moshe’s powers.

Rashi interrupts his commentary on these pasukim to elaborate on the nature of Atira, prayer. Rashi points out that the words Ha’tiru (pasuk 4) and A’tir (pasuk 5) are both hifil because all “Atira” is ongoing and not immediate. The term means to “increase” ones prayers, to pile and pile requests until Hashem has but no choice to listen. This is a fascinating point, but what does it have to do with our narrative?

Perhaps Rashi is pinpointing a different quality of our story’s dialogue. Paroh asks Moshe to pray on his behalf, but he expects Moshe’s prayers to take a while. Moshe will have to pour prayer on top of prayer before Hashem acquiesces. Insulted, Moshe replies “until when shall I pray for you,” to which Paroh responds, “you should spend the whole day praying, so that the plague will cease tomorrow.” However, Moshe leaves the city and “yells” his prayer. He dos not perform Atira; rather, with a short plea, he completes what is necessary for the plague to end. Paroh first insulted Moshe’s ability to communicate with G-d; ultimately, the insult of an unnecessary and extra day of frogs was Paroh’s just desserts.

With this understanding, we can make sense of Rashi’s seemingly superfluous comments. When Paroh says “tomorrow,” Rashi explains that Moshe should pray today for the plague to end tomorrow. But when Moshe yells to Hashem, Rashi says he yells immediately for the plague to end. The respective choice of these two contrasting words outlines the aforementioned discrepancy between Paroh’s orders and Moshe’s actions.

Most importantly, we discover how personally Moshe Rabbienu took Paroh’s challenge. Moshe harps on a seemingly harmless word, Ha’tiru, and turns it into his own personal triumph, making his own authority – and not just G-d’s – known to Paroh. As Hashem declares at the opening of our parasha, “Re’aih Nisaticha Elohim LiParoh,” Moshe is granted godly powers over Paroh, and when the acknowledgement of these powers is put into jeopardy, Moshe’s role is jeopardized as well.

Moshe Rabbeinu is not only an emissary of HaKadosh Baruch Hu’s. He is a leader of a nation too. The Torah we have today is narrated by G-d, but authored by Moshe, and it is through his eyes that we develop our understanding of this world and beyond. Moshe’s godly powers serve not only as a sheer exertion of will, but more significantly an earthly reflection of a greater Will. As Moshe develops into what the Rambam terms the Bechir Adam, the prototypical man, the Torah gives us a small glimpse into the qualities Moshe attains and the crucibles he must withstand.

And Rashi would be remiss not to draw our attention to it.

Parashat Shemos

And Hashem did good to the midwives, and the nation grew and they became very strong. Because the midwives feared G-d, He built them houses.

Shemos, 1:20-21

The opening chapter of Sefer Shemos undoubtedly sets the stage for the upcoming 39 perakim. Rashi explains that the “good” Hashem resolved to do for these midwives – Yocheved and Miriam – was not the growth of the nation, but rather the construction of “houses,” a euphemism for dignified households. A couple of individuals’ devotion to and awe of Hashem precludes both the prosperity of their people and a much deserved reward from heaven.

Rashi’s assumption that the growth of the Jewish people did not serve as sufficient reward is certainly justified, for the pasuk would then have written VaYairev Ha’Am, and He made the nation grew, instead of VaYirev Ha’Am, the nation grew all on its own. The Rambam points out, in his Peirush HaMishnayos, that when the Mishna in Pe’ah says that we partake of the fruits of some Mitzvos in this world while the principle reward is saved for the next world, the Mishna does not mean that HaKadosh Baruch Hu actively rewards us in both this world and next, but rather that the advantageous effects of our actions in this world do not replace the reward that ultimately awaits us. Therefore, the reward these midwives earn must be exclusive of their nation’s effectual growth.

But is Rashi warranted in assuming that the “houses” built in pasuk 21 is a specification of the reward alluded to in pasuk 20? Why would the parasha devote two separate verses to the same detail, and what necessity would there be to mention the nation’s growth in between?

Two potential answers come to mind, but both lack full textual support. The pasukim could intend to teach us the lesson of the Mishna in Pe’ah, that in spite of the worldly returns, a great reward still awaited these midwives. But then there would be no need to mention the midwives’ fear of G-d as the source of their reward (unless one were to posit that there is no reward for a Mitzvah without the necessary Kavana and fear of Hashem). The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh suggests that the pasuk informs us that the nation grew so that we are aware of the large population who will someday esteem Miriam’s and Yocheved’s households. But would we then need to vaguely allude to the “good” Hashem did prior to accounting the population’s increase? Maybe both answers are correct.

Maybe we should consider whether these two pasukim, despite their overlap in content, truly carry a single unified theme. It is very possible that the first pasuk serves as the general conclusion to our perek’s story, whereas the second pasuk functions as a thematically appropriate epilogue. All we need to know at the conclusion of our story is that Hashem approved of the midwives’ actions, and that the actions had a practical effect as well. On the side, after we complete our story, the Torah teaches us that proper fear of G-d earns tremendous benefits and rewards.

Pasuk 21 certainly looks like an aside, being as these households are not established until much later in the nation’s history. It is of little surprise, then, that we discover pasuk 22 to also fall out of its chorological context! Paroh commands his nation to drown all boys in the river, and Rashi infers from the lack of distinction between Jewish and Egyptian boys that this edict was a special one, limited only to the day of Moshe Rabbeinu’s birth. However, Moshe is not conceived until the second pasuk of the next perek, so something in our parasha must be out of order.

Rashi’s interpretation of pasuk 22 has another interesting effect on the narrative of our first perek. All of a sudden, we discover that the decree to drown Jewish baby boys is never stated explicitly in the pasukim, although Rashi alludes to it on the words Hava Nischakima Lo. Rashi there questions the singular tense of the word Lo, given that the recipient of Paroh’s cunning was presumably an entire nation, and concludes that Paroh’s “wisdom” was aimed against Hashem. Paroh sought to kill the Jewish nation in a way Hashem could not mete punishment Midah K’Neged Midah; since Hashem swore to never destroy the world with a Mabul, Paroh deemed both himself and his nation safe.

The Sifsei Chachamim wonder why Paroh didn’t fear that Hashem would drown just him or his nation. They answer that part of Paroh’s initial plan involved hiring Jewish midwives as assassins; therefore, if Hashem were to punish any individual or nation for murder, it would have to be these midwives and their kin. It is evident then that Paroh’s plan to avoid Hashem’s wrath would presumably have worked (whether Paroh was actually aware that Ein Shliach Li’Dvar Aveira or not) had it not been for his later decree. On the day of Moshe’s birth, Paroh involves his entire nation with the slaughter of Jewish lives (since he undoubtedly no longer trusts the midwives to do so), and Egypt’s doomed fate is sealed.

Analyzing the Pesuchot and Stumot in our parasha’s first perek, we discover that the entire story – from Hava Nischakima Lo all the way until Paroh’s last decree – comprise a single story, the one that tells not only how Mitzrayim enslaved the Bnei Yisrael but also how they earned such a severe punishment. The story of the midwives is not a subsequent tale, an aftermath of the inevitable enslavement, but rather a development of Paroh’s plan to drown the Jewish children, resulting in the entire nation’s eventual involvement and guilt.

As Rashi argues, Paroh’s plan to drown the children is as cruel to the Jewish nation as it is callous to HaKadosh Baruch Hu’s unlimited power. It expresses the thought of actually outsmarting G-d. Even when Rav and Shmuel argue whether this Melech Chadash is really a new king, they agree that Asher Lo Yadah Es Yoseif means the king pretended not to know Yoseif. Whether our story introduces a new king or not, Yoseif was surely a household name and a national icon, and the G-d Whom Yoseif always acknowledged was surely of equal esteem. Our story’s “new Paroh” demonstrates a lack of fear in Hashem, and our story teaches the consequences of this loss of fear.

And so fittingly our perek ends with a dual epilogue, a contrast of two fates: that of the midwives; and that of Paroh and the Egyptian nation. Because the midwives feared Hashem, the pasuk meticulously specifies, they were rewarded. And because the Mitzrim lacked fear of G-d, because they thought they could outsmart Him, they were treated to a far less rewarding fate.