Rebbetzen Tziporah : Shaping Action

 

Dear friends,

There is a deep comfort in realizing that the parashah we read is never merely a historical account. It is the spiritual landscape of the very week we are living. Each time, it reflects our reality and shapes it.

The parashah we are in now carries a striking message: Hashem is found in places we would never think to look. In Mitzrayim, revelation did not occur in a sanctuary, through lofty meditation, or in a moment of refined spiritual elevation. It occurred through an act that seemed almost unthinkable. Bnei Yisrael were commanded to take a sheep – the very god of the Egyptians – slaughter it openly, and place its blood on their doorposts. This was not only dangerous; it was deliberately confrontational. Faith that until then may have lived quietly in the heart was demanded to step out into the open.

That act was not symbolic theater. It was faith translated into deed. By placing the blood on their homes, they declared that Hashem could be found not only in hidden beliefs, but in kitchens, thresholds, streets, and risk-filled choices. Redemption began not with escape, but with courageous presence.

The Zohar teaches a principle that feels especially alive in our times: for Hashem to be revealed in this world, inner truth must take physical form. Spiritual awareness that remains sealed within is incomplete. If it does not alter behavior, speech, priorities, or choices, it does not yet belong fully to the world Hashem created. Inner reality must press outward, shaping action.

Sometimes we are privileged to witness this truth unfolding before our very eyes.
This past Shabbos I was with my son Moshe and his wife Penina. Penina is the kind of person whose devotion to tefillah runs so deep that she quite literally holds the key to the shul. The tefillah that Shabbos was extraordinary. The singing was sincere and elevating, drawing from many worlds – Chassidic niggunim alongside Carlebach melodies – and weaving them into a single, living experience.

After davening, I learned that the baal tefillah was Teimani. I found myself wondering how he could sing Ashkenazi niggunim with such depth and feeling. The answer lay not in musical training, but in a life shaped by deeds rather than intentions.
As a child, his family was desperately poor. Food was scarce; luxury was unknown. Once, sent to Greenwald’s grocery to buy basic staples like bread and cheese, the little boy gave in to temptation and slipped a small treat under his sweater. An Arab worker noticed and began shouting, humiliating the little boy in front of the store’s customers. Frozen with fear, the child was certain the police would be called.

Suddenly, the storekeeper shouted “Ruch min hon” get out of here, in Arabic. He then approached the boy, filled his pockets with sweets, and gently told him to go straight home.

The hunger did not end there. In his talmud torah, a handyman noticed the boy’s meager lunches and quietly invited him to share food. When this could not continue openly, the school had a lunchroom and the child was expected to eat there, the man found another way – leaving extra food where the child could find it and discreetly supplement his sandwich.

In both of these moments, obvious need could have led to talk: explanations, judgments, or well-meaning conversations that shift responsibility elsewhere. Instead, these men did something. They acted.

They did what Hashem demanded of us in Mitzrayim. He taught us that faith must leave a visible mark, that the doors of our homes – and the choices of our lives – must bear witness to what we believe. It was this kind of faith that later shaped us at Har Sinai into a people who feel responsible for one another, and who allow Hashem’s love to flow outward through our deeds.

But even before the command to act, there was an earlier step. Bnei Yisrael cried out to Hashem. The answer did not come immediately, but that cry opened the door.

Tefillah can be difficult. Sometimes even beginning feels impossible. When the Men of the Great Assembly composed the siddur, they chose each word with care, knowing that every phrase has the power to open the heart – if we allow it to enter.

It is in this spirit that my daughter Devora has created a series devoted to tefillah: not as habit or performance, but as encounter; not as recitation, but as relationship. It is meant to help us give voice to what we already carry inside, and to translate inner longing into lived connection.

The details are attached. The need is already there. The door is already waiting to be opened.

With warmth and love,
Tziporah

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