Beshalach and Writing Circles
Years ago, when I was nine, my friend and I were misbehaving
on the camp bus. On that particular day there
was no counselor to manage the campers, only a bus driver. And so we were jumping up and down on the back
seats, and screaming and shouting. I
know this is hard to imagine given how little I move on the bima, but we were even
running up and down the aisle. The bus
driver understandably grew angry with us.
We ignored every request to stop.
Perhaps the final straw was when we burst into laughter after he yelled
at us.
He pulled the bus over on what was St Louis’ equivalent to
Jericho Turnpike. He ordered us off the
bus. We happily complied, grabbing our
bags and lunches as we walked off the bus.
This was not a punishment but instead an opportunity, we thought. Rather than calling our parents at the nearby
bagel store or any number of stores along the way, we decided to walk to my friend’s
house. Although we did not know the
area, we could see the local hospital’s tall buildings in the distance and we
knew that he lived near the hospital.
And so we walked toward our landmark.
My mom only recently told me that the camp called with the
following message, “Mrs. Moskowitz, we need to tell you something. Your son’s bus driver arrived at camp this
morning and told us that he kicked Steven off the bus because he was
misbehaving. We have already sent our
staff out to search for him and we are sure we will find him very soon.” My father happened to be out of town on a
business trip. My mother was advised to
stay at home and off the phone in case I called her. I did not.
She sat by the phone, alone except for my younger brother, waiting and
crying. Family legend has it that her
hair started turning grey on that morning.
Meanwhile my friend and I were enjoying our unexpected
adventure. We decided to leave the busy
main road and walk through neighborhood streets. We could eat whatever we wanted from our
lunch bag, whenever we wanted. We were
free, wandering the streets of St Louis, oblivious to any dangers and
unconcerned by the worry growing at home and among the camp’s directors. The staff finally caught up with us, a few
short blocks from my friend’s house. We
had walked for nearly three hours, meandering through at least two miles of
streets.
They called my mom to tell her that they had found me and
were bringing me home. Had this happened
more recently I might have been able to retire then and there from the
lawsuit’s settlement. By the way the bus driver was only docked a few days
pay. Can you imagine today’s Internet
headlines? “Young boy traumatized by
crazed bus driver.” I was dumbfounded
that my mom was so upset and surprised that she kept saying, “Thank God you are
ok.” (I do understand now.) Of course we were ok. I had just returned from an exciting
adventure. I had explored new
streets. I had discovered new
areas. I was never afraid. My friend and I were always together. We never once doubted our ability to find our
way home. Although we were walking on
unfamiliar roads I never felt lost.
Recently I attended a lecture with the noted Harvard professor, Howard Gardner, who authored the book, The App Generation. He observed that
today’s children have never experienced getting lost. I wonder what lessons remain unlearned. They are uncomfortable asking a stranger for
directions. They do not know how to use
landmarks to find their way. They might be unable to bottle their fears of the
unknown and unfamiliar, harnessing them instead for the strength to explore and
learn. Imagine how my story might have
been different if we had cellphones or if we had opened the Google Maps app. There would be no story.
When my father returned home and overcame his anger, he
asked me why we had not gone into the closest store and asked to use the phone. Our answer surprised and mystified him. I said that we never thought of that. Why?
The adventure stood before us. We
were writing a new story.
“So God led the people roundabout, by way of the
wilderness…” (Exodus 13:18) The Hebrew
is even more direct. It suggests that
God turned the people around and around, intentionally leading them in
circles. 40 years of wandering begin this
week. 40 years of learning begin with
the walking in circles.
Bo and the Plague of Silence
I have been thinking about the cost of my freedom. In particular what is the cost to others for
my freedom? How many innocents have died
in our wars in Afghanistan and Iraq or our continuing drone war? To be sure the wicked have been killed and
terrorist attacks prevented. Still I
wonder how many innocent civilians have been killed so that I can continue to
enjoy the simple pleasures of my life, to walk around a city unafraid, to sit
in a restaurant with friends, to dance at a wedding celebration.
Last month we read that a drone strike killed eleven people
in Yemen as they were traveling in a wedding convoy. It was reported that those killed were most
likely affiliated with Al Qaeda. It is
also possible and perhaps even likely that at least some were innocent wedding
goers.
Every Spring we gather around our Seder tables and pause to
recall the plagues: Daam-Blood, Tz’fardeiah-Frogs, Keenem-Lice, Ahrov-Wild
Beasts, Dehver-Cattle Plague, Sh’cheen-Boils, Barad-Hail, Arbeh-Locusts, Choshech-Darkness,
Makat B’chorot-Death of Firstborn. For
each plague meted against the Egyptians, we recite its name and remove a drop
of wine from our overflowing glasses. We
are taught that we lessen our joy because of the suffering of others. However justified their punishment our joy is
diminished. And then some forget and
lick the wine from their fingers. And
others shout, “Don’t taste the plagues!”
Still all return to their meals and celebrations.
This week we read, “In the middle of the night the Lord
struck down all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the first born of
Pharaoh who sat on the throne to the first born of the captive who was in the
dungeon, and all the first born of the cattle.
And Pharaoh arose in the night, with all his courtiers and all the
Egyptians—because there was a loud cry in Egypt; for there was no house where
there was not someone dead.” (Exodus 12:29-30)
Every Egyptian suffered the plague’s punishments, from the
rulers who were ruthless in their persecution of the slaves to those who I
imagine even opposed Pharaoh’s rule. The
notion that a tyrant only jails those accused of justified crimes is
false. Why must those held in his
dungeons be punished as well? All were
killed from those evil men who plot against us and agitate for our destruction
to those innocents who came only to dance at a wedding.
Am I to believe that anyone racing across the tribal areas
of Afghanistan and Yemen is guilty?
Perhaps there was some who were only held captive and now they too
suffer their rulers’ punishments. One
could argue that all Egyptians were complicit.
Far too many remained silent in the face of our persecution. Far too many perpetuated the system of
slavery upon which their livelihoods were based.
I am unable to forget. Even the firstborn of those languishing in Egypt’s prisons were also punished. In the struggle against evil do we begin to lose the ability to distinguish between wicked and innocent?
The tradition argues that the plagues were also, and perhaps
even more so, for the sake of demonstrating God’s mighty power to the
Israelites. And so I ask, how many must
suffer so that I can proclaim my freedom?
The innocent continue to suffer.
And Abraham pleads with God when he becomes aware of the
plan to destroy the sinful cities Sodom and Gomorrah. “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to
bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and
guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth
deal justly?” (Genesis 18:25)
Dare we remain silent?
Dare we remain silent?