Parashat Va'eira, the second portion in the Book of Exodus.
Once again I read the familiar words that return each year and wonder: what gateway do they open to the reality of our current Jewish-Israeli life? What is preserved in the memory of generations that is relevant to these days, when even after the longest multi-front war in our history, I—like so many good people around me—remain shaken to the depths of my soul, suspended between heaven and earth?
This upheaval is accompanied by a deep anxiety about the character of Israeli leadership in a time of crisis: will it know how to take responsibility and engage in soul-searching, in order to begin the process of healing and repair that is essential for the security of our children and our state?
I pause over the opening words of the parashah: “God spoke to Moses and said to him, “I am GOD. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name GOD” (Exodus 6:2–3).
God chooses to open with a discourse in which He presents Himself directly in the first person—“I am GOD.” This introduction underscores the uniqueness of the moment: revelation through the explicit Divine Name, in contrast to the revelation as El Shaddai to the patriarchs in the Book of Genesis. Commentators have noted that the name El Shaddai reflected a promise oriented toward the future, whereas the explicit Name signifies the realization of redemption for a people groaning under Egyptian oppression.
Yet when I examine the ongoing dialogue between God and Moses, something seemingly surprising emerges: even in the face of the divine promise of redemption and a mighty hand, a central place is given to human doubt and to free, critical thought. Moses does not accept the words at face value; he lays before God the dangerous gap between the mystical promise and the real, historical plane.
He questions the consequences of his mission and his charge: how will his demand be received by the Egyptian despot? Who will ensure that the oppressed people recognize his authority after God has been hidden for so many years? And will the revolutionary vision not be interpreted as a rebellion that endangers the lives of the people?
It seems that it is not enough to conceive of divinity as El Shaddai—in the sense of a God in whom everything suffices to remove all doubt and criticism. The figure of Moses, even before the consecration at the burning bush, is that of a leader driven by an inner, moral source of authority. Ahad Ha’am, in his classic essay “Moses,” characterized him as one in whom “the rule of absolute justice reigned in the soul of the prophet, in his words and in all his deeds. Being a man of truth, he could not but also be a man of justice” (Ahad Ha’am, “Moses,” in At the Crossroads, pp. 228–230). This is the leader who did not ignore the suffering of the beaten Hebrew, who intervened in an internal conflict between brothers, and who acted as a refugee on behalf of the foreign daughters of Midian.
It is precisely this model of leadership, choosing justice and personal example, that merits dialogue with God through the explicit Name, and that is worthy of uniting the people toward a covenant of destiny.
From here, the existential question about our future in the face of national crisis becomes sharper. My hope is that we will know how to act for the emergence of an old-new model of leadership: leadership that does not hide behind slogans of “blind faith,” but is willing— in the name of the tradition of generations—to take responsibility, to investigate, and to ask hard questions about the real circumstances that led to the great failure of abandonment on October 7.
We need leadership committed to the Torah of Moses: a Torah in which the command of life is contingent upon the pursuit of truth, justice, and peace, and whose power lies in leading the people toward the realization of the Zionist and Israeli vision. For our very lives depend on it.
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Rabbi Regev Yaakovovitz is a member of Kibbutz Lahavot Haviva. He is married and the father of four, an educator and lecturer. He holds a PhD in philosophy, specializing in the thought of Martin Buber, dialogical education, and Israeli identity and culture. He is an Israeli Reform rabbi. These days he is in the midst of a crowdfunding campaign to publish his new book, “In a Hidden Ravine Among the Cliffs – A Jewish-Israeli Travel Journal”
Once again I read the familiar words that return each year and wonder: what gateway do they open to the reality of our current Jewish-Israeli life? What is preserved in the memory of generations that is relevant to these days, when even after the longest multi-front war in our history, I—like so many good people around me—remain shaken to the depths of my soul, suspended between heaven and earth?
This upheaval is accompanied by a deep anxiety about the character of Israeli leadership in a time of crisis: will it know how to take responsibility and engage in soul-searching, in order to begin the process of healing and repair that is essential for the security of our children and our state?
I pause over the opening words of the parashah: “God spoke to Moses and said to him, “I am GOD. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name GOD” (Exodus 6:2–3).
God chooses to open with a discourse in which He presents Himself directly in the first person—“I am GOD.” This introduction underscores the uniqueness of the moment: revelation through the explicit Divine Name, in contrast to the revelation as El Shaddai to the patriarchs in the Book of Genesis. Commentators have noted that the name El Shaddai reflected a promise oriented toward the future, whereas the explicit Name signifies the realization of redemption for a people groaning under Egyptian oppression.
Yet when I examine the ongoing dialogue between God and Moses, something seemingly surprising emerges: even in the face of the divine promise of redemption and a mighty hand, a central place is given to human doubt and to free, critical thought. Moses does not accept the words at face value; he lays before God the dangerous gap between the mystical promise and the real, historical plane.
He questions the consequences of his mission and his charge: how will his demand be received by the Egyptian despot? Who will ensure that the oppressed people recognize his authority after God has been hidden for so many years? And will the revolutionary vision not be interpreted as a rebellion that endangers the lives of the people?
It seems that it is not enough to conceive of divinity as El Shaddai—in the sense of a God in whom everything suffices to remove all doubt and criticism. The figure of Moses, even before the consecration at the burning bush, is that of a leader driven by an inner, moral source of authority. Ahad Ha’am, in his classic essay “Moses,” characterized him as one in whom “the rule of absolute justice reigned in the soul of the prophet, in his words and in all his deeds. Being a man of truth, he could not but also be a man of justice” (Ahad Ha’am, “Moses,” in At the Crossroads, pp. 228–230). This is the leader who did not ignore the suffering of the beaten Hebrew, who intervened in an internal conflict between brothers, and who acted as a refugee on behalf of the foreign daughters of Midian.
It is precisely this model of leadership, choosing justice and personal example, that merits dialogue with God through the explicit Name, and that is worthy of uniting the people toward a covenant of destiny.
From here, the existential question about our future in the face of national crisis becomes sharper. My hope is that we will know how to act for the emergence of an old-new model of leadership: leadership that does not hide behind slogans of “blind faith,” but is willing— in the name of the tradition of generations—to take responsibility, to investigate, and to ask hard questions about the real circumstances that led to the great failure of abandonment on October 7.
We need leadership committed to the Torah of Moses: a Torah in which the command of life is contingent upon the pursuit of truth, justice, and peace, and whose power lies in leading the people toward the realization of the Zionist and Israeli vision. For our very lives depend on it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Regev Yaakovovitz is a member of Kibbutz Lahavot Haviva. He is married and the father of four, an educator and lecturer. He holds a PhD in philosophy, specializing in the thought of Martin Buber, dialogical education, and Israeli identity and culture. He is an Israeli Reform rabbi. These days he is in the midst of a crowdfunding campaign to publish his new book, “In a Hidden Ravine Among the Cliffs – A Jewish-Israeli Travel Journal”