Rebbetzen Tziporah: Shemot – Myopia

 

Dear friends and family,

Parashat Shemot opens not with miracles, but with forgetting. In Lekutei Moharan, Rebbe Nachman associates forgetfulness with death. In context it’s not the “where did I put my keys” kind of forgetfulness that he is talking about. It’s more like myopia, where you can see what is immediately in front of you, but forget that there is anything else beyond what you can see.

“וַיָּקָם מֶלֶךְ חָדָשׁ עַל מִצְרָיִם”—a new king arises who does not know Yosef. Chazal debate whether this was literal ignorance or willful amnesia, but the result is the same: a society that severs itself from gratitude, memory, and moral continuity begins to unravel. Enslavement does not begin with bricks; it begins with forgetting the greater story that came before. 

The Zohar asks why Hashem put us in exile, and why to Egypt of all places. The answer is that Yaakov’s family was universally admired at that time, and admiration by its nature can easily become mutual. It was better for us to be with a nation whose character was so degraded that they would despise us for being who we are to the point of ultimately enslaving us. The result was that we retained an inner vision of who we are, that is to say, in a spiritual sense, we remembered. 

The code word for recognizing that the man chosen by Hashem to redeem us from the “house of slavery” was genuine was פקוד פקדתי—which means I recall and did recall. Hashem remembered what we had almost forgotten. 

There was Yocheved and Miriam who were sensitive to who we really are, and that our vision of ourselves includes eternity. Every child has a spark of eternity worth saving even at risk to their own lives. It is important to recall the unnamed women, who also feared God more than power, and had child after child in the face of what any outsider would have called death. There were then many mothers who refused despair, a sister who watches from the riverbank, a princess who recognizes a crying child as human before seeing him as Hebrew. 

The Torah lingers on these moments to teach that history turns not only on leaders and revelations, but on small acts of moral clarity performed when no one is applauding.

Moshe himself enters the story only after he has learned to see. He notices suffering that others pass by. He intervenes, not because success is guaranteed, but because injustice has become unbearable. Leadership in Shemot is not defined by charisma or certainty, but by the refusal to grow accustomed to cruelty, and to see that Hashem is there with them, that He is the source of all light.

The Rebbe says that one of the ways to learn how to remember is through acts of kindness. It makes your scope of vision wider and more inclusive.

A story I learned from Rav Gamliel of how this can work begins in a village in Russia about 200 or so years ago. A young man was engaged, and because he had tragically lost both parents the people of the city realized that it was up to them to turn the wedding into something memorable and (by the standards of the times) what we would call “over the top.” 

They went as far as inviting the Baal HaTanya (who was in no way related to the young man), and the sage agreed to come. This turned the entire occasion into something beyond what they had envisioned. They went as far as decorating the streets of the Jewish area with banners and arranged for music. The local evil Russian nobleman became aware of the to-do, and entered the picture. 

Among the many responsibilities he had above and beyond carousing (when was the last time you heard that word?) at his wild parties, was supplying the Czar’s army with soldiers. He immediately had the young groom served military papers. The Rabbanim and community heads were frantic. They knew how to solve the problem—the solution as always was money. Given the stakes they realized that he would ask a fortune. They weren’t “disappointed,” if that is the word. He wanted 5,000 reinish, which was far beyond the capacity of the small village no matter how much they would sacrifice to get the money together. 

When the Baal HaTanya found out what was happening, he asked the community leaders to give him a list of the wealthiest members of the town. They thought that this was a total waste of time, but in deference to the Baal HaTanya they provided the list and at his request agreed to accompany him. When he asked to be taken to the wealthiest man in town, the leaders told him not to bother—his stinginess is legendary. He consistently refuses every appeal for tzedakah with vigorous verbal abuse followed by throwing a small coin at the men who were collecting. 

The Rav insisted, and also insisted on being the one to actually knock on the door. When the wealthy man answered, he threw the Russian equivalent of one penny at the Baal HaTanya, who responded by smiling warmly and saying, “Yashar koach—may you be worthy of doing many more mitzvos.” As they walked away from the rich man’s home, they were shocked to see him running after them with his wallet. He gave the Rebbe a bill, and was thanked again with a huge smile and many brachot. 

The scene repeated itself until the entire sum was given. The last “payment” was accompanied by tears. “This is the first time that anyone ever thanked me or blessed me. It was always demands, and always left me feeling taken advantage of.”

Much later the Baal HaTanya explained the inner reality that had taken place. The man was stingy. This trait was one that was part of his core character. It is a “klipa,” a shell that hid his genuine inner reality. It is his tikkun and test to deal with it just as we all have to deal with discovering ourselves when we face what we don’t want to be. 

This is our own Mitzrayim. The klipa became thicker each time he refused to give and responded with the kind of (defensive and offensive) harshness. When I smiled at him and blessed him the klipa was weakened, and when he felt honest pain at what he had become to the point of weeping, the klipa was defeated.

The next morning when the brand-new bridegroom went to shul to daven, he passed over a wooden pedestrian bridge leading to the synagogue just as he did every day. He saw a pouch, picked it up, and saw that it was full of large denomination bills. He brought it to the Rav of the city to ask what should be done with it. The Rav, together with the Baal HaTanya who had stayed over and another talmid chacham, formed a beis din and determined that the chosson was entitled to claim the money as his own.

Perhaps this is why the book is called Shemot—Names. Slavery erases names; redemption restores them. God hears the cry of a people whose individuality has been flattened, and the long process of geulah begins when human beings insist on seeing one another as more than functions, threats, or statistics.

Parashat Shemot asks us a demanding but hopeful question: where, in our own lives, are we being invited to remember, to notice, to act—quietly, imperfectly, but faithfully? The Exodus does not begin at the sea. It begins when someone chooses not to look away.

Love,
Tziporah