‘Let my People Go’. Possibly one of the most famous phrases of the book of Exodus, if not the Torah. It is a lament people throughout the ages have employed at some of the darkest times, and it famously became the refrain of an African American Spiritual, praying for freedom from lived slavery. This year it is impossible to hear it without thinking of Gaza. Of the 240 people held hostage from October 7th, around half of whom are still thought to be in Gaza. This week marked 3 months since we sat here together on Simchat torah in shock and grief, unsure of the details that were unfolding.
For three months we have recited the blessing known as ‘pidyon shivuim’ – the blessing for the freeing of captives. The blessing exists because it has historically been a recurring problem, and one that Halachah, Jewish law, devotes a significant amount of time to discussing. We hope soon we will say the blessing for the freeing of captives in thanks at their safe return and not in hope for it. We also hope that Gazans will be freed from the tyranny of Hamas and the unthinkable horrors of bombardment. As time passes, it is, perhaps, easy for us to become like Pharoah, whose heart is hardened in this week’s portion. Hardened by fatigue to the realities of an ongoing war – not only in Israel and Palestine but in the Ukraine, and as of this week, it seems, spreading across the Middle East into Yemen.
This impulse to become hardened or fatigued by the suffering of others is one that our seder meals asks us to resist when we recite the plagues, some of which we heard Harley read so beautifully from the Torah this morning. When we recite the plagues at our Pesach sedarim, we remove wine from our cups for each plague. Wine is our symbol of joy, blessed at all festivals and joyous celebrations like weddings. So we are physically reminding ourselves that when humans suffer, whether our enemy or not, we should reduce our joy.
Often I have felt totally helpless over the last few months. Watching events unfold from afar, trying to hold space for friends and family who have lost loved ones or whose family are serving in the army, or whose relatives or friends live in Gaza. What can we say or do, other than sit with the ever reducing wine in our cups? As we read our way through the Exodus narrative I am reminded of a metaphor Jews have been drawing on for thousands of years. Mitzrayim, the Hebrew word for Egypt, which literally translates as ‘Narrow Place’. Slavery forced the Hebrews into a narrow place, with restrictions on their emotional, physical, and spiritual lives. The Exodus is, therefore, also a story on a metaphorical level, that we re-enact every year, of liberation from the things that hold us back, and the narrow places we need to leave behind.
The founder of the Chassidic Breslover sect, Rabbi Nachman of Breslov[1], said, “The Exodus from Egypt occurs in every human being, in every era, in every year, and in every day.” We have felt this Narrow, restricted place acutely in a multitude of ways over the last few months. But this is a journey we can take every day in many aspects of our lives. It may be by actively seeking to widen the world and to make it as inclusive as possible for all around us, whatever their ability, creed, gender, sexuality or position. We can each actively seek to widen the world for others every day. But we may also need to widen the world for ourselves. We may need liberating from bad habits or bad relationships. Our narrow places may be rooted in anxiety or mental health (which we will be considering more next week on Jami’s designated Mental Health Shabbat). Every day we have the possibility of beginning the next Exodus, whether on a personal level or a communal level, whether for ourselves or for others.
When Moses demands, on God’s behalf, that Pharoah should ‘Let My People Go’ it won’t, Please God, always speak to us of Israeli hostages and embattled Palestinians. But there will always be people in need of freedom, and elements of our own lives which hold us back, or trap us in narrow places. Sometimes it may come from someone or something else, often it comes from our own internal monologue – just as Moses doesn’t believe in his own abilities and tries desperately to escape from God’s plan for him, I am often beset by an inner voice of doubt and insecurity. Moses is not allowed to let his inner saboteur win, but we may need support to ensure our own path doesn’t narrow, just as we have been supporting one another through the last three months of grief, terror, sadness and fear.
Let My People Go: may this be a rallying cry for all of us to work for the release of captives who feel close to our hearts, and who we might never have been aware of. May it remind us of the narrowness others struggle with day in and day out, excluding them from participation in community life. And may we have the support and strength to find our own journey of Exodus and freedom from all that holds us back as we wrestle with our inner doubt and external challenges from day to day.
[1] 1772-1822
