A version of this sermon was delivered at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow, January 20, 2017.
"וַיָּ֥קָם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָ֖שׁ עַל־מִצְרָ֑יִם
אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יָדַ֖ע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף׃"
“A new
king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” This verse, the 8th verse of the
first chapter of the book of Exodus, which reading we begin this Shabbat, cries
out to us to be heard. The Torah is
always right where we need it to be, but some weeks it just seems all the more
so. This is one of those weeks. "וַיָּ֥קָם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָ֖שׁ
עַל־מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יָדַ֖ע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף׃" A new king indeed.
What does it mean that he
did not know Joseph? Who was Joseph,
anyway? The most beloved son of our
patriarch Jacob, he rose to be the viceroy of Egypt, responsible for saving the
nation from calamity and famine, due to his innate abilities. He was also an immigrant, victim of human
trafficking, and ex-con, brought out of prison to serve the King. Symbolically, Joseph is the past of
Egypt. The past of a nation which
welcomed those in need, allowed for second chances, gave out food to those who
were suffering and hungry, and planned ahead for the ravages of an
unpredictable climate. That’s who Joseph
was: a patriot for his adopted nation, working hard to ensure his home’s
success, and the success of all who lived there.
When the text tells us
that the king didn’t know Joseph, it’s talking about a king who didn’t respect
the ideals of the past, a king who didn’t care what progress had been made,
because he knew better than anyone what had to be done and how to do it. He had a vision of an Egypt made for
Egyptians, hearkening back to a time and a reality that probably didn’t even
exist. This Pharaoh solidified his
control and power by casting an immigrant population as the other, demeaning
them, scaring his populace on account of them, and ultimately enslaving them
and condemning the baby boys to death. A
new king, a new kingdom. Make Egypt
Great Again!
In the face of such a
power grab, upending generations of norms of behavior and tacit rules of
governing and coexistence, how is one to respond? How should the Israelites respond to their
new reality? How can they work to redeem
themselves from the nightmare that has befallen them? The Torah, again demanding, begging, us to
see its continuing relevance, provides us with two blueprints of a
response. Two reactions, a generation
apart, that teach us that our tradition recognizes that we are called to stand
up when we witness injustice. Reactions that
teach us that we are called to work for immediate response, and long term
change. Reactions from two very
different places, with the same intention of resistance.
When we read that Pharaoh
decrees that the Hebrew boys are to be killed, we read that Pharaoh himself
comes to see the midwives, the women who help deliver the babies, to give them
the instructions that the boys are to be killed and the girls are to live. But, the Torah tells us, “The Midwives,
fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys
live.” A simple sentence belying a
powerful response. The midwives stand up against a law they know is
unjust. They resist the imposition of a
decree that they know to be against God’s plan.
They don’t allow the Pharaoh to meddle in the Israelite women’s personal
healthcare decisions.
We read next that Pharaoh
comes to see them, demanding to know why they’re not doing what he commanded. They make up a story about the Israelite women’s
cunning and strength, saying that they don’t even know about the births before
they happen. Rather than Pharaoh
throwing the midwives to jail or executing them, we read that God dealt well
with them.
Moreover, we know that
these women are to be noticed for this first recorded act of civil disobedience,
for even though we only read of their story via a handful of verses in the Torah,
we learn their names, Shifra and Puah. Because
of its rarity, when a woman in the Torah is named, it teaches us that she is to
be noticed, payed attention to. These
women put their lives on the line to disobey a law they see as unjust, and our
tradition recognizes the valiant nature of their actions by telling us their
names.
A generation after the midwives,
only a few verses in the Torah, we read of Moses, who would work not just
against one unjust law, but against the entire corrupt system. He doesn’t come to it naturally or
immediately.
In the animated Midrash
Prince of Egypt, we see Moses’s nightmare where he begins to learn the truth
about what happened some 20 years earlier with the decree concerning the baby
boys. His nightmare is confirmed when
the Pharaoh explains why he did what he did. Moses at this point begins to truly learn who
he is and where he comes from. He begins
to see that though he has benefitted from the regime, he is no longer
comfortable with what it stands for, and so he runs away. Even many years later, Moses is not quite
ready to hear the call to fight against what he knows in his heart and soul to
be unjust.
Moses, in our Torah
portion, speaks to God for the first time at the burning bush. God calls on him to lead the people against Pharaoh,
to bring them out of bondage, toward freedom and the promise of the covenant
made with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. But Moses doesn’t want it. He doesn’t see himself in that role. He’s not a rabble rouser. He fled that place and is content with his
sheep. Time and again, Moses tells God that
he is not the right one to speak out. He
doesn’t have the right words. They won’t
believe him. He’s just a shepherd. He’s not the right guy to lead this
revolution. But God insists.
God tells Moses that he
will not be alone, God will be at his side, and he will have help from Aaron as
well. Moses, reluctantly, assumes the
mantle of leader of the resistance. Unlike
the midwives, he is not just tasked with disobeying a single law or ordinance,
he is sent to upend the system and bring God’s people out toward the Promised
Land, to serve God and be a kingdom of priests.
It won’t be easy. It will take weeks of work, overcoming the
Israelites’ skepticism, working with Aaron in the face of a recalcitrant Pharaoh
who seems to take pleasure in toying with the Israelites lives, because he can.
It will take miracles and marvels, God’s
outstretched arm and mighty hand, and attempt after attempt to persuade the
Pharaoh. Even once that happens, it will
take a generation to undo the damage to the Isrelites’ psyche. We all know how it ends.
Moses is reluctant to
speak out. “Who am I?” he says. What can I do? This scene is about more than Moses’s
humility. God wants us to recognize that
if we all were to take Moses’s first instinct and run with it (or, as Moses
does, run away with it) nothing would ever change for the better. Even if the work ahead is hard, we can’t
simply give up before we even try. We
cannot desist from the work even if we don’t think we’ll complete it. We must take the first step and say we will
commit to bringing about redemption.
When we are willing to
commit ourselves to working toward that redemption, we have taken the first
step in upending corrupt systems. The
first step toward that redemption is indeed a divine call. And that call comes from our tradition through
the prophets who time and again remind us to take care of the least fortunate,
feed those who need it and heal those who are sick.
God wants us to take those
first steps toward redemption by saying that we will be counted when necessary,
marching alongside those who will fight back against unjust rule, a rule that
focuses on the few and not the many. A
rule that sees some as better than others, and institutes that into law. A rule
that seeks to institute its own prerogative over the welfare of the population.
What will be our moment at
the Burning Bush? Will we respond when
we see injustice in our midst? Will we
fight back like the midwives? Will we,
like Moses, question our place until God insists? Will we take our God commanded place in the
bringing of redemption?
One of the subtle changes
that Reform liturgy makes is in our Amidah, where rather than describing God as
mevi go’el, the bringer of The Redeemer, we say, mevi ge’ulah,
the Bringer of Redemption. This change
was instituted because don’t believe we’re waiting for one person to redeem us.
There is no sense in awaiting one person
when there is all this work to do. We’re
actually not waiting for anyone but ourselves to take up the mantle of redeeming
this world. We are all supposed
to work toward it together, hand in hand, heeding God’s call and command to love
our neighbors as ourselves, to be holy, as God is holy, and to seek out and
pursue justice.
May we all hear the call,
and respond.
Shabbat Shalom
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