Struggling with Holiness and Power (Shemot)
At any moment now, please God, may the final signing of a deal to release our cherished ones be upon us. I keep refreshing my screen, waiting for the headline to flash, knowing that in Israel and across the world, people are clutching their friends and the dog tags we’ve been wearing. So, I ask you to say with me, as we did yesterday: the most important prayer we can offer right now — “Bring them home. NOW.”
There is so much happening in our world. Our broken hearts stretch across the globe, from the suffering in Israel to the devastation in Los Angeles, where countless people have lost their homes amidst fire and destruction. The planet itself seems to be crying out in pain. The enormity of it all can overwhelm us, yet we are called to strengthen our hearts enough to pay attention — to it all. We cannot only look at one part of the world or our own families and claim to reflect the image of God in which we were created. It’s not enough — and yet, in this moment, it is everything.
Please, friends, daven. Whatever “daven” means to you — pray, yearn, act with deep devotion — please join me in this sacred call: “Bring them home.”
This week’s Torah portion feels achingly close to this moment. We are in the book of Shemot, the story of Exodus — the story of liberation. It is a tale that holds joy and anguish intertwined. Today marks the 467th day since October 7, 2023, a date seared into our collective soul. If that number feels heavy to us, imagine the unimaginable weight borne by those locked in tunnels this entire time.
We do not claim to have the wisdom to unravel this, but the Torah — as it always does — offers us a mirror. Let us look at Moshe, our teacher, our leader, a deeply human and paradoxical figure. From his miraculous survival as an infant adrift in a tiny ark on the Nile to his unimaginable role as the midwife of our freedom, his story is one of enduring contradictions. How does a man raised in Pharaoh’s palace grow into the liberator of his enslaved people? How does he carry the weight of knowing both the suffering of his origins and the opulence of his upbringing? And when he witnesses an Egyptian Taskmaster beating an Israelite, what compels him to act?
The rabbis wrestle with Moshe’s act of violence. Some say he struck with his hand; others suggest he invoked God’s ineffable name, overwhelming the oppressor with holiness. Both interpretations reveal the tension between our aspiration for holiness and the necessity of power.
This tension echoes in our world today. We ache to be a people of light, an ‘or l’goyim,’ a beacon to the nations. Yet, we are also compelled to wield power — the ethical use of power we wish we didn’t need. Zionism, at its core, embodies this necessity: the yearning for a homeland rooted in dignity and peace, paired with the painful reality of defending it.
When Moshe looked this way and that before striking, was he hoping someone else would act? And when no one did, he stepped forward. His story reminds us of the ancient teaching: “In a place where there are no human beings, strive to be one.” This is our challenge and our calling.
Today, we see this sacred striving in the heroes who risk their lives in disaster zones, the families who have not given up on bringing our hostages home, and the volunteers who embody compassion amidst chaos. Humanity endures, even in the harshest conditions.
And so, we hold the tension — the same tension the rabbis felt about Moshe. We pray for a day when swords are beaten into plowshares, when force is no longer necessary. This is our Jewish prophetic dream, our commitment as Am Yisrael, a People who dare to believe in a better world.
But for now, we act. We pray. We love. And we cry out: Please God, bring them home. Bring them home now.