Pesach: Power of a People (Part II)

Friday March 25, 2022 – כ״ב אַדָר ב׳ תשפ״ב

The first time that we were named as “Jews” was in the Purim story. Mordecai was known as “היהודי” (HaYehudi), literally, one from Judea, or more commonly referred to as “the Jew.” At the end of the Megillah we hear what the Jews did, and that the “Jews had light and Joy….”

It is fascinating that we were given the name that we still use today while living under foreign rule outside of the Land of Israel. That is to say: the title “Jew” was not so much about who we were, but more about who we were not. The label was used as a descriptor to say that we were – to put it strongly – outsiders, foreigners, set apart, a distinctively different ethnicity. Despite rising to high ranks and positions of power, we were not Persian.

The experience of Moshe is opposite that of Mordecai. If we read about Moshe’s childhood, captured in a very few verses at the beginning of the book of Exodus, we have no reason to believe that he was identifiable as anything other than Egyptian. But the transformation that he underwent, as the spokesperson for the working class, for the slaves, he saw himself no longer as Egyptian, but a son of Israel and adherent to י-ה-ו-ה (YHVH).  The power that Moshe employed is not what most of us might expect. He did not cry out for equal rights for slaves. He did not push for an Egyptian Emancipation Proclamation. He was not an abolitionist fighting to end slavery so Egypt could continue to be an enlightened democratic republic.

No. Moshe understood the power of a people. There is a slight and subtle difference between championing the “power of a people” vs. “power to the People.”  John Lennon regarded the slogan “Power to the people” as indicating a need for individuals to take control from governments and institutions. To wrestle power away from the elites, the rich, and the ‘establishment’ in favor of the working class and the masses. That is certainly important. But the lesson of Pesach, and our formative collective experience being slaves in Egypt, teaches us that our strength is as one people, a singular nation.

When Moshe approached Pharoah he said, “Let My People Go…” and not “let people go.”

And so, from the moments prior to the Exodus the power of peoplehood became evident.

The distinction between Purim power –

The Biblical narrative of enslavement to freedom, covenant, and entering the land reminds me of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik’s 1956 volume Kol Dodi Dofek (The Voice of My Beloved Knocks) in which he writes: “The nation is enmeshed in its destiny because ‎of its longing ‎for an enhanced state of being, an existence replete with substance and direction.”

Often people misconceive Zionism to be about the past experience of the Jewish people before statehood. Many dwell on adversity, persecution, and genocide as being the only factors that fulfill the necessity for a Jewish National project resulting in the establishment of the State of Israel. I don’t blame them. That notion has been a pillar of Jewish education throughout the last century. But the lesson of Pesach must not be just about a simplified and pediatric universalist message that slavery, oppression, and domination are bad.

Pesach is about embracing our particularism and identity as a people and using our people’s narrative to reach and embrace universal humanitarian concerns

It is about recognizing that our formative experience was not only that we were slaves in Egypt, but that only together, as a nation or people, did we experience revelation and redemption.

If Purim is about power distribution and using individual acceptance and influence to enhance our position outside the Land of Israel, Pesach is about collective self-determination to establish our own civilization in the Land of Israel based on the ethics and values passed to us through Torah. This, in a nutshell, is the foundation of Zionism leading to statehood.

Zionism, with Pesach as its archetype par excellence, revived the ancient notion of the Nation of Israel, as a covenantal people that reestablishes its existence in our Land. While some see that as “dayenu,” (enough) or ‘mission accomplished,’ the Haggadah lends us two examples to remind us that our current situation has not yet achieved its goal.

Each example begins with a similar refrain:

1. “וְהִיאשֶׁעָמְדָה… שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר עוֹמְדִים עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ” “In every generation [nations] rise up to destroy us”
2. ״בכל דור ודור״ – “In every generation, we must see ourselves as if we went out from Egypt.”

Theodor Herzl believed that Zionism would prove antisemitism to be unnecessary and that antisemitism would fade away as a relic of yesteryear once we, Jews, were accepted into the family of nations.

Vladimir Ze’ev Jabotinsky, however, held no illusions that antisemitism would disappear even after the establishment of a Jewish state. He saw Zionism as a necessity to protect Jews from enduring persecution and attack.

Herzl and Jabotinsky were both right.

Zionism today must regard itself as a response to both calls from the Haggadah – simply put, our threatened existence vs. universal values. Number one, the authors of “והיא שעמדה” were scarily prophetic. Our generation faces those who are ‘rising up’ to destroy us. As American influence waxes and wanes in the region, Israel, and much of world Jewry, realizes that we must remain close with our most important ally, and be able to rely on ourselves when need be.

Number two: The threats against us must NOT negate the lessons of ״בכל דור ודור״. We cannot ignore that we have an obligation to see ourselves as having left Egypt sensitive to enslavement and being a stranger in a strange land and, as a result, have universal humanitarian obligations to others. We have to ask the hard question: Are we Jews today guilty of oppression of others?  Many say that we are, that in championing our particularism we failed in in service of our universal humanitarianism.

Earlier this week, Ukrainian President Volodomir Zelinskyy hammered that point home in his address to Israel’s Knesset. Whether you embrace the usage of Holocaust comparisons or not, he made the case to Israeli leadership that you, who have been the brunt of invasions and threats of destruction from dictatorial tyrants, must now do the right thing and come to our aid. His message was simple. Be empowered by your story to come to the aid of others in need.

This week we also saw the worst terrorist attack in Israel in the last five years. As a Bedouin assailant ran over and stabbed innocent bystanders, murdering four Jewish Israelis, then stood in the middle of a traffic circle, looking to continue his rampage. A local bus driver, Arthur Chaimov, evaluated the situation and acted. “I told myself I was in danger when he came only a few meters from me, so I made a judgment call, what could I do. I had to shoot him.”

He stressed that he did all he could to avoid killing the man and is pained to have taken his life, despite the man’s murderous actions.

“He’s a person, not an animal you need to kill. He was also a person… We’re human beings, we’re not animals,” Chaimov said. “I’m not used to such a situation, to shoot a person. I’m sorry for him but he brought it on himself.”

During the short standoff, the video captures background voices yelling to “take him out,” and “give him a bullet!” When finally, Chaimov shot and ended the standoff, another man ran up and also emptied his weapon into the ‘neutralized’ man.

There is no question that we must defend ourselves against attack. Chaimov, the bus driver (who had combat training), acted exemplarily. But the calls for murder and blood and the extra shooting (known euphemistically as “וידוי הריגה/confirmation of killing”) borders on a dangerous precedent where our humanitarian values and principles of morality and purity of arms get distorted.

The message of Pesach is to tell our story of slavery and redemption, our particularistic story, and our universal message. Now that we are privileged to experience Israel reborn, would it not be fitting – and even mandatory – for us to take a 5th cup of wine, as a symbol of the State, and that we spill out a few drops from the cup of Eliyahu to show that we have not said the last Dayenu, that our people has yet to help create a world worthy of the coming of the messianic era of justice, safety, and peace. As we retell our story this year may we do so with a sense of empowerment and agency to complete the work of bringing about a better, more peaceful world.

Shabbat Shalom!