Decades ago, one fateful afternoon, I went to the dentist. The dental hygienist, upon seeing my kipah, was excited to tell me that she and her Jewish boyfriend had just seen The Prince of Egypt in the theater and that it was a great movie that I should see too. She then shared that she did not like the ending. She then said that she didn’t want to say more so as not to “ruin it for me.” I told her that she didn’t have to worry because I had “read the book.” She then asked, “Is there a book to Prince of Egypt?”
Back then I could not have imagined that I would be standing in front of you here today as the rabbi of this congregation, but I knew, even back then, that I was in the midst of a story that I would tell and tell again for as long as I could find an audience willing to hear me tell the story.
But, here’s the thing, a few days after I was at the dentist, I too went out and saw The Prince of Egypt and I know exactly what the hygienist had in mind. I also don’t like the way the movie ends. If you don’t remember, or if you have never seen the movie, it ends abruptly. We cross the sea, we sing a beautiful pop version of the Song of the Sea, an image comes onto the screen of Moshe holding the luchot looking out at the crowd below, and the credits roll.
I understand that a full telling of the story would take forty years and movies are not that long, but the abrupt and triumphant end of the movie not only leaves out so much of the story of Moshe and the exodus, but it tells the story in a dramatically different way than we tell it.
The fourth aliyah of Parashat Beshalach contains Shirat HaYam, the triumphant song of the sea, but the aliyah continues and includes our first post liberation complaint.
Immediately after the description of praise and celebration and song and music, without interruption, the Torah tells us, in a matter of fact way, that we came to Mara and there was no water to drink.
Then Moses caused Israel to set out from the Sea of Reeds. They went on into the wilderness of Shur; they traveled three days in the wilderness and found no water.
They came to Marah, but they could not drink the water of Marah because it was bitter; that is why it was named Marah.
And the people grumbled against Moses, saying, “What shall we drink?”
וַיִּלֹּ֧נוּ הָעָ֛ם עַל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹ֖ר מַה־נִּשְׁתֶּֽה׃
As far as Israelite rebellions go, this one was fairly mild. We had a legitimate complaint. And God provides a solution to our thirst without any wrath or smiting. The significance of this particular bout of complaints is that it ensures that we can never tell the story of the Song of the Sea without remembering the complaints and backsliding that occurred just verses later.
Three days after we cried out in fear when we saw the Egytian chariots headed towards us, and three days after our miraculous rescue which filled us with faith – as the Torah says וַיַּֽאֲמִ֙ינוּ֙ בַּֽה וּבְמֹשֶׁ֖ה עַבְדּֽוֹ׃ – we complained and asked “what is there for us to drink?”
We tend to think that if only we lived in times of miracles we would have faith, if only God fought our battles for us and vanquished our enemies, we would rejoice with full hearts and full voices. But our ancestors who crossed the sea had the same struggles that we have. They didn’t rejoice and express their faith because they were fundamentally different than we are. They were a group of Jews that should be very familiar to all of us; and they made remarkable choices.
Belief is a choice. Taking the time to celebrate is a choice. The complaining and backsliding is not the surprising part. The surprising part is that our ancestors took the time to sing.
We too are taking the time this Shabbat to rejoice and celebrate even though we find ourselves in the midst of a fraught and trying and tragic time for the Jewish people. We celebrate, not because we are callous or because we have forgotten the hardships facing our brothers and sisters in Israel, but because faith and celebration has always been the result of a conscious decision to cultivate gratitude even amidst fear and suffering.
Four years ago a cohort of young people became b’nai mitzvah during Covid lockdowns and we had to find creative ways to celebrate these young Jews without so many of our customary traditions and without the ability of friends and family to gather together in large numbers. And so too my heart really goes out to the cohort of b’nai mitzvah who have had to celebrate a personal simcha during a season of national mourning. But we say to you, Avital, and to your parents and family, as we have said to your classmates, this is indeed a challenging time for a simcha, but it is a wonderful day for another proud Jew to join her siblings and her parents and her community in choosing to celebrate and choosing faith over despair.
Your parents, Avital, are among the first people I met in DC. Actually, I met your father in Chicago when we met for coffee last spring. And your home was the very first home in Shepherd Park that I was invited to enter. As I have come to know your family, I have a fuller appreciation of the significance of your bat mitzvah, on Parashat Beshalach, at a time of true grief and fear. We have reason to cry out in fear and we have legitimate reasons to complain and your family knows that deeply along with everyone in this community. And we are choosing to celebrate and choosing to cultivate faith.
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 