We haven’t had a Dvar Torah in a few months, and none on Beshalach in a few years. To be honest, it hadn’t occurred to me to write one for this parashat, either — as you can see from the fact that I’m days late and Shabbat Beshalach is already past. Properly speaking, I should be writing about Tu B’Shvat, which is today, or Parashat Yitro, this coming Shabbat.
But when I heard the news out of Colleyville, Texas, on Saturday night, my thoughts went straight to the Torah portion that we had read that Shabbat morning. And today I’m still thinking about it. So let’s do a late Dvar Torah.
Even if you’re not Jewish, you probably know the story of Beshalach (though probably not by that name!). The portion starts with the Israelites heading into the wilderness, after Moses has finally convinced Pharaoh to “let my people go.” But then Pharaoh, acting like your typical tyrant, capriciously changes his mind and starts chasing after them with his armed cavalry. The people come up to the Sea of Reeds and despair. Not to worry: Moses parts the sea and they cross, just ahead of Pharaoh’s army. Then the waters come rushing back and drown the pursuers. The people sing and dance in victory. The portion continues with the story of the manna that will sustain the Israelites for the next forty years (they don’t know this yet!), and ends, pointedly, with an attack on the people by the forces of Amalek in the wilderness. Moses again prevails, but it looks like a close thing, and unlike the flight from Egypt their victory here involve real fighting.
So why is it that, right after the people escape Pharaoh and his iron chariots, the Torah has them face Amalek? The rabbis tell us that Amalek is the Torah’s symbol of pure, implacable hatred and evil. The Torah enjoins us to “remember what Amalek has done to you — do not forget,” but also to utterly destroy the descendants of Amalek (the Amalekites), not sparing even babies — which sounds like an evil commandment if there ever was one! The Haggadah reminds us that, even if all the Amalekites were utterly destroyed, “In each and every generation they rise up against us to destroy us. And the Holy One, blessed be He, rescues us from their hands.” And archaeologists tell us that no actual people called “Amalekites” are known ever to have existed.
This is my interpretation: the commandment to utterly destroy Amalek is not an evil commandment, because “Amalek” wasn’t a person (or a people). Amalek is the quality of hatred and evil that exists in all of us. We are enjoined to destroy the hatred within us, and I think more importantly these days, the hatred and mindless enmity we see in the society around us. That hatred returns “in every generation,” and indeed we have seen how racism and antisemitism return again and again, trying to destroy us, yet we fight back and, so far, win.
Ok, enough about Amalek. I think you can see how that image relates to the mindless antisemitism that was on display last Shabbat in Colleyville. Let’s move on to Pharaoh.
I find it significant that, even though Pharaoh also sought to destroy the Israelites, we are not commanded to remember him, or to blot out his name, or to destroy him and all his people. Instead, we are told to remember how we escaped his clutches. Pharaoh himself remains behind, a pitiful figure fading into the distance of time and space. Why isn’t Pharaoh treated like Amalek? My view: because, unlike Amalek, Pharaoh was a real person and his Egyptian followers were real people. And they were drowned, really drowned (well, “really” within the mythical confines of the story of Exodus) when the sea closed in around them. Not an existential threat, just sad.
And here is the point that jumped to mind when I heard, on the one hand, the good news that the rabbi and the other three congregants of Beth Israel in Colleyville had been freed — shades of Exodus — and then the news that the hostage-taker was dead. I feel that no one has wanted to talk about that part of the Colleyville story, but it sticks with me. Here it was, just past Shabbat, the holiest day of the week, and a man had died — presumably killed by a police bullet, but nobody wants to tell us that’s what happened, they’re keeping it a secret for some reason — inside a sanctuary. Of course I am happy that the “good people” were rescued, but how can I rejoice at a death, a killing, in a synagogue? I know that if a Torah scroll slips and falls to the ground during services, the synagogue is traditionally supposed to go into a forty-day period morning and fasting; what is the penance for a death?
Well, in the story of the exodus, the Moses and the people of Israel react to the death of Pharaoh’s soldiers by dancing and singing. Not exactly a fast. Their reaction is one of unrestrained joy at their liberation — and rightly so, you might say. It had been a long time coming. But should that be our reaction today? The Etz Chayim humash (Torah and commentary) used in the Conservative movement adds this commentary to the Song at the Sea:
Another rabbinic tradition describes the angels as wishing to break into song when they saw the Egyptian pursuers drowning. God silenced them, declaring: “How dare you sing for joy when My creatures are perishing!” (Babylonian Talmud, Megillot 10b: 26). This is the source of our custom to spill drops of wine from our cups at the Pesah Seider. Our cup of deliverance and rejoicing cannot be full when we recall that innocent Egyptians had to suffer because of their ruler’s stubbornness.
And that, for me, is the lesson of this sad day that ended well, yet also tragically. I hope we can all put away the “Amalek” inside us that only wants to hate and destroy the other, and instead see all of us, each of us, as kindred. This is also the lesson I get from the inspiring story of the interfaith religious leaders who came together on Saturday in support of Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker and Congregation Beth Israel.
Two more things: first, I grew up in a house less than twenty miles from Colleyville, so yeah, that hits home. Second, for the past thirty years I’ve been a member of another synagogue that shares the name, Congregation Beth Israel, so that hit home, too.
For more than a decade, our Beth Israel has been the target of a weekly “protest” — an antisemitic hate-fest, really, with a handful of “protesters” picketing the synagogue every Shabbat morning with signs that combine anti-Israel slogans with the most vile antisemitic propaganda. One day early in the protest I had the idea that I might be able to talk some sense into the “protest” leader, since I also stand with Palestinian rights and against the abuses of the Israeli security apparatus. Within minutes it became obvious that there could be no common ground. His “protest” wasn’t based on a desire to change Israeli policy; it was based on an unrelenting hatred of Israel, Israelis, and Jews. I hadn’t come face-to-face with unvarnished antisemitism in many years, but there it was, talking to me. The voice of Amalek.
I asked him: if he was so concerned about US policy toward Israel, why didn’t he bring his protest to Washington or to the politicians who might do something about it? What did Beth Israel have to do with his complaints? He smirked as if talking to a child and told me that, of course Beth Israel was behind it all. Beth Israel, get it? The light in his eyes was insanity. So, yes, I know that deranged antisemitism exists and means us no good. Even so, though I wish his “protest” would end, I wish him no harm. I just wish he could sense the Amalek in him, recognize it as evil, and turn away. (Yes, I know it won’t happen, but still I wish it).
I hope that in the next few years we can see our tragically divided, Amalek-driven country come together, across and through and despite religions and notions of difference, people of all different faiths and people of no faith alike, to recognize our common humanity in this one world that we have to live on, together.
Last week’s Torah reading: Exodus 13:17 – 17:15. Haftarah: Judges 5:1-31. Past Divrei Torah on Beshalach are here.