A Song of Gratitude: Parashat Beshalaj

This week we read Parashat Beshalach, one of the most foundational portions of the

entire Torah. The parashah recounts “Yetzi´at Mitzrayim”, the definitive departure from

slavery in Egypt and the crossing of the Sea, and at the same time marks the birth of a

people with its own voice.

It is no coincidence that this Shabbat carries a special name: Shabbat Shirah, the Shabbat

of Song. Because there are moments in history when silence is no longer enough, and the

soul must sing.

It is called Shabbat Shirah because at the heart of the parashah we find Shirat HaYam, the

Song of the Sea: “ישראל ובני משה ישיר אז — Then Moses and the children of Israel sang”

(Exodus 15:1).

The Midrash lingers on a seemingly strange word: az yashir, “then he will sing,” phrased in

the future tense.

Rashi, citing the Midrash, explains that this is an allusion to redemption. It was not only a

song of the past; it is a song that has not yet finished being sung.

For several years now, when we take the Torah scroll and read this poem of gratitude, we

do so using a special melody. Today, we will do so again.

The Talmud teaches that even the most battered slave, when experiencing true liberation,

cannot help but sing.

Song is not a spiritual luxury; it is an existential response.

When danger recedes and life becomes possible again, the soul sings.

Our sages point out something striking: the people of Israel left Egypt, but Egypt had not

yet left the people. Slavery does not end when the gates open, but when the inner fear is

broken.

The Midrash describes the people standing before the Red Sea: water in front of them, the

Egyptian army behind them.

There was no logical escape. And yet, one man, Nachshon ben Aminadav stepped forward.

The Talmud teaches that the sea did not split until the water reached his nostrils.

Redemption does not occur when everything is guaranteed, but when someone dares to

move forward even without certainty.

That crossing of the Sea was not merely geographic; it was emotional, spiritual, and

historical. It was the moment when a group of former slaves began to see themselves as a

people.

One Midrash teaches that the Sea did not split just once, but twelve times—one path for

each tribe. Each crossed on its own road. Jewish unity has never meant uniformity.

We walk together, but not identically. We are one people within diversity.

Throughout history, time and again, we have found ourselves standing before seas that

seemed impossible to cross: exiles, persecutions, Autos-da-fé, pogroms, the Shoah,

terrorism.

And yet, “Am Israel Chai”, we keep moving forward. Sometimes with song, many times

accompanied by tears, but always onward.

This week, this parashah resonates with particular force.

The recovery of the last of the hostages taken by Hamas, Rani Gvili, reminds us of a central

truth of Judaism: Kol Israel arevim zeh bazeh—all of Israel is responsible for one another.

It was impossible not to be moved to tears hearing Hatikvah sung by IDF soldiers as they

carried his body, wrapped in the flag of the State of Israel.

The people of Israel did not relax while even one person remained behind. Freedom is

never complete if a brother or sister is still captive. The Talmud teaches that the

redemption of captives (pidyon shvuyim) is among the greatest mitzvot, because it

touches directly on the supreme value of human life.

It is not only about bringing back the living. Jewish burial is also a sacred obligation. The

body is not a disposable object; it is part of human dignity. Burying our dead affirms that

every life matters—even, and especially, when it was brutally taken.

May this bring comfort to his family, as all of Israel recites Kaddish.

With this return, I hope that the nightmare that has held so many of us in anguish since

October 7, 2023 may finally come to an end: the nightmare of the yellow ribbon, of

demanding justice in the face of horror; of knowing about torture and abuse; of silence,

apathy, and the lack of sensitivity of those—both outside and within—who see the world

in black and white, reducing human existence to interests, ideologies, and power.

Perhaps this is why Shirat HaYam appears in traditional siddurim and is recited every day

in our prayers. Because we have not yet finished singing it. As long as there are captives,

as long as there are threats, as long as there is pain, our song remains incomplete.

And yet we also know this: every time we choose not to look away, every time we say “no

one is left behind,” every time we defend life and human dignity, the Sea opens just a

little bit more.

May this Shabbat Shirah find us with the courage of Nachshon, with the faith of those who

crossed the Sea, and with the deep responsibility of a people that never abandons its own.

Let us not lose hope that soon we will be able to sing a more complete song—a song of

full joy, a song of freedom and peace.

A song of life