When the waters recede: Finding humanity on both shores
Photograph by Matt Hardy via Pexels
Jonah Mac Gelfand
In the Book of Exodus, we read of the newly freed Israelites standing on the beach, hair still wet from ocean mist, watching as the parted Red Sea collapsed down on the pursuing Egyptian army. They “saw the Egyptians dead on the shore of the sea” and Moses led them in a celebratory song, relishing their newfound freedom. (Exodus 14:30-15:1, JPS) Their jubilance is unbridled, and their song becomes part of the daily Jewish liturgy.
But did G-d really want this celebration?
While we can understand the psychology behind an enslaved people cheering at their oppressors’ demise, is the celebration of death ever justified? Is it ever in service of the Divine? Our discomfort with this scene is not new. The ancient rabbis wrestled with this as well in a famous midrash (a genre of interpretative writings that fill in the gaps in the Biblical narrative). Their method for understanding the ethical stickiness of the Israelites’ delighting in the Egyptians’ death was to turn their focus from the earthly celebration to the simultaneous happenings in heaven, explaining that:
“The ministering angels [also] wanted to sing their song [in celebration of the Egyptians drowning] … but the Holy One, Blessed be He, said: The work of My hands, the Egyptians, are drowning at sea, and you wish to say songs?!”
Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz (1937-2020) explains that “this indicates that God does not rejoice over the downfall of the wicked.” While G-d understood the psychological need of the newly freed Israelites to cheer for the Egyptians’ destruction and thus allowed it, G-d forbade the angels — who were not subject to Egyptian slavery — to partake. From their positionality, cheering for the death of anyone — even those who were oppressors and could be seen as “deserving it” — is impossible, because they too are G-d’s beloved children.
This truth works its way into the rituals around Passover, the annual festival commemorating the Exodus in which Jews read the narrative at festive meals and refrain from eating leavened bread for eight days. At every other major festival, Hallel (a series of psalms of Thanksgiving) is sung in its entirety every day, but on Passover we only sing a full Hallel on the first and second night of the eight-day holiday. For the rest of the time, the practice is to only say a half Hallel. One of the reasons given for this by medieval commentators is in deference to the Egyptians who drowned: just as the angels couldn’t rejoice in their death, so too should our annual joy of recollecting our freedom be lessened through a respectful acknowledgement of its tragic cost.
From the Israelite point of view, the bubbles that rose from the drowning Egyptians were the shackles falling from their wrists. But if we try to look through “heaven’s eyes” (as we are “commanded” in 1998’s film “Prince of Egypt”), another story is told. Both the Egyptians and the Israelites were G-d’s creations.
At Passover, our annual joy of recollecting our freedom must respectfully acknowledge its tragic cost. The Midrash reminds us that in each of the sinking Egyptians was at least a speck of good. It is up to us to find that speck in each other before we all end up at the bottom of the sea together.
And when G-d created the first human “in Their image” (Gen 1:27), it was not sectarian. Within this one person was the seed for the multiplicity of peoples that would spread across the earth, including Israel and Egypt. In fact, the ancient rabbis asserted that Adam was created alone so that no person would be able to say that their ancestor was greater than anyone else’s: we all come from the same place. And we are all beloved by the Divine. Moreover, the rabbis teach that since the world’s population all came from Adam, to kill one person is to kill a whole world.[i]
Who are we to cheer when a world ends?
In an increasingly dystopian reality where the rise of global fascism threatens the safety of my neighbors and loved ones, how could we possibly live up to this G-dly ethic? As we all walk through the narrow straits of the parted sea together, we’d be lying if we said there wasn’t a part of ourselves secretly hoping that the “chariot wheels” of those who wish us ill suddenly got stuck in the mud. (See the fate of the Egyptians in Exodus 14:25.)
But the midrash is telling us to quell that instinct. It is not for us to decide who makes it to the other side of the sea. It is only up to us to bring each other along and try to get as many people as we can back to dry land — including those with whom we disagree.
Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, an 18th-century Ukrainian mystic, teaches that even in someone who you perceive as “completely wicked, you must search and seek the little bit of good in him.” He pushes us, saying that “how is it possible that he does not still possess even a little bit of good?” If we can locate that little bit of good within them, we might find a path forward to connect. And that might eventually influence them to change their ways, too.
When the angels started to sing out in celebration, G-d reminded them that in each of the sinking Egyptians was at least a speck of good.
It is up to us to find that speck in each other before we all end up at the bottom of the sea together.
Jonah Mac Gelfand (he/him) is a rabbinical student at Hebrew College in Boston. He is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of Gashmius Magazine, which publishes progressive neo-Hasidic art, poetry, and writing. Before starting rabbinical school, he got his MA in Jewish Studies from the Graduate Theological Union, where his research focused on neo-Hasidic leadership, and his writing has been published in both popular and academic journals.
The views expressed are those of the author and not necessarily those of American Baptist Home Mission Societies.
[i] The original Hebrew text refers not to generic “people,” but rather to “Yisrael.” Although particularistic at first glance (which was probably the intent of the author), a more liberal strand of Judaism re-interprets “Yisrael” through its original etymology in Gen 32:29 to more expansively and inclusively refer to anyone who “wrestles with God.” Incidentally, the Qur’an offers a similar idea – that to kill one person is to kill the entire humanity, and to save one person is to save the entire humanity (5: 27-39)
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