The story of Yetzias Mitzrayim is not just the story of how our nation was freed from slavery — it’s also the story of how our nation was forged in the “iron crucible” of Egypt, learning what it means to care for one another as the challenges we shared built us into the nation we are today. Thousands of years later, and this truth remains constant, Klal Yisroel is a nation of givers.
On Seder night, we spend a few hours talking about every detail of leaving Egypt. And I’ll bet that in most homes, the feeling is one of simcha. Maybe also exhaustion, but for those who are still awake and enjoy telling this story, it’s exciting, it’s deep, it’s personal.
But as much as we enjoy it, Hashem really can’t get enough of it. We know we have a halacha called “semichus geulah l’tefillah,” meaning that we say the bracha of “ga’al Yisroel” (which details Yetzias Mitzrayim) and then immediately begin Shemoneh Esrei. Rashi (Brachos 4b) explains that when we recount the story of our redemption, we draw close to Hashem, and He also draws close to us. And with the distance narrowed, we ask for what we need. And Hashem gets “moved” by this story every single day, apparently.
The Torah calls Egypt “kur habarzel, the iron crucible” (Devarim 4:20). A crucible refines whatever metals you put into it through extreme heat. The Jewish people were that raw metal that was purified in Egypt. Not that I know what I’m talking about, but I’ve heard that Kabbalistic seforim teach that “barzel” is roshei teivos for “Bilhah, Rachel, Zilpah, Leah,” hinting to the idea that Egypt purified whatever negative middos were left over from Lavan’s house (all of Yaakov’s wives were Lavan’s daughters, according to a Chazal). We gained all our greatness in Egypt. All of our “impurities” were removed. That means that we didn’t grow despite the difficulty, but because of it.
One obvious gain was greatness in the middah of chesed. Slavery meant we had to take care of each other. We’ve all heard the stories from the Holocaust, of our bubbies and zaides who split rations that were already nowhere near enough, just to help someone who seemed to need it more. Of whole families (or two, or three) huddled under one blanket. We wouldn’t ask for such circumstances, but there’s no doubt that the levels of gemilus chasadim they reached are immeasurable.
We have to assume this happened in Egypt on an even grander scale. Under crushing slavery, we learned to be there for each other. It became part of who we are.
Here’s the thing, though: It’s easy for us to simply not notice all the chesed we do. Jews give. We give of our time, of our money, of ourselves. It’s so woven into religious Jewish life that many of us might not realize how great a thing we’re doing. And just how different we are from the rest of the world in this middah. So I’d like to tell you a story to set the record straight.
I often write copy/content for nonprofits. Mostly Jewish mosdos, such as kollelim, chesed organizations, and schools. But a few times in my career, I’ve been hired to write for non-Jewish groups. Once, I took a job writing for an organization that defends the legal rights of “wildlife control operators.”
Don’t know what those are? Neither did I. It’s simple: You’ve got a bear approaching your house. Or a family of squirrels nested under your van. Or a few dead skunks by the pool. You need someone to deal with it, someone with skills, chemicals, traps, and a gun, if necessary. That person is a wildlife control operator, or WCO.
However, the whole industry is constantly threatened by animal rights activists who apparently believe in Mrs. Bear’s constitutional right to tear apart your home. So the animals threaten the people, you call other people to handle the animals, but then different people threaten those people. What’s a WCO supposed to do?
Thankfully, organizations exist to legally defend WCOs’ right to work. They show up at the Senate hearings, back-room meetings, and wherever else they have to go to make sure they have their chance to speak. I was hired to write fundraising materials for one of these “defense” organizations.
I prepared for my meeting with Travis and Brett (names changed). I put together campaign ideas and angles and wrote a basic draft, heavy in the themes of gratitude, giving back, and defending the defenders. After all, the WCOs are literally (literally literally, not figuratively literally) saving homes and lives across the country.
The meeting started, and I presented my ideas. Travis and Brett weren’t smiling. “No, Danny. That’s not going to work. You can’t just convince anyone to give to this.”
(I’m thinking: But… that’s what I do all the time.) “No one gives charity, Danny. No such thing.”
Let’s pause for a second. The yeshiva ketana I’d written an email sequence for a few weeks prior had raised $500,000 in 36 hours. The shul down my street has about the same annual budget, and they cover it every year. And the kiruv organization on the next street over, and the neighborhood kollel, and the bikur cholim, and the special needs school, and more and more. They all stay afloat. But apparently, no one gives charity.
I had to just go with him for the time being, so I asked, “What do you mean? If we’re not asking the general public, who are we asking?”
“It’s like this,” Travis said. “I run this organization to fight back at the legal level, but I’m also a WCO myself. So is everyone else here. The only reason we drive ourselves crazy running around to congressional meetings is that if we don’t, we’ll be out of a job. The only support we ever get is from other people who’d also be out of a job if we fail. Other WCOs, trap manufacturers, tranquilizer salesmen, or hunting goods store owners. If the animal rights people win, we’re all doomed.”
He was getting worked up now. “I’ve helped dozens of people, Danny. Saved home after home. You know what those people do? They pay me for my time, and that’s it. They’ve never given us a penny. Not one penny to help defend the people who saved them.”
No one gives charity. Travis was right. In his world, no one gives charity. People look out for themselves and move on. Here was a man doing something genuinely good, and no one wanted to help him continue doing it. He was angry, and rightfully so.
But that’s not how it is in our world. Jews make up about 2% of the American population. But we account for 30% of America’s most generous donors and about a quarter of all “mega-donors” who give more than $10 million annually. The average religious Jewish family gives at least 10% of their income to charitable causes, while the average non-Jewish family gives around 2-3%. Jewish charitable donations in the US raise somewhere between $5.5-6 billion annually.
Of course, there are “regular” monetary donations. But walk through any Jewish neighborhood and you’ll see much more: the guy fixing an elderly man’s leaky faucet, the women cooking for shiva houses, tutors helping struggling students, teenagers collecting mishloach manos for soldiers, funds to support widows and orphans, families hosting many total strangers for Shabbos, organizations dedicated to paying for wedding expenses, people driving down city streets looking for Yidden to give a ride to, amazing programs for kids with special needs, drivers taking cancer patients to treatments, the Chevra Kadisha, Tomchei Shabbos, Bonei Olam, Ichud Hatzala, Chaverim, Shomrim, Ezer Mitzion, Shalva, Misaskim, the pushka in every kitchen and next to the Shabbos candles, the links sent to your email, and thousands more operating quietly out of basements and living rooms.
We give. It’s in our blood. And that’s not new. That’s been us from the very beginning. That’s something we mastered in Egypt: togetherness, caring, a sense of community. We’re the only nation doing these things consistently, of that you can be sure.
Look at the Haggadah’s rasha. The Haggadah never actually tells us what makes him wicked. He’s not described as a thief or a liar. We don’t hear about his crimes. So what earns him the title? He asks: “mah ha’avodah hazos lachem? What is this service to you?” He says “you” instead of “us.” And the response is clear: “Because he excluded himself from the community, had he been there, he would not have been redeemed.”
He decides to go it alone, and that doesn’t fly with us. Because if he hasn’t learned the importance of this middah, if he hasn’t learned how he needs to be part of the klal, to care for others and receive care from others, then he clearly wasn’t refined enough in that Egyptian crucible to continue on as a part of our nation.
But on the other end of it, there were Dasan and Aviram, the troublemakers of the Torah. Targum Yonasan and the Be’er Mayim Chaim explain that they initially stayed in Egypt when everyone else left. But then they heard about the sea splitting and how the people sang, and they regretted their choice. They wanted back in.
So Hashem gave them their own yetzias mitzrayim, even splitting the sea again, just for them. Why? Because they stuck their necks out for other Jews. When their Jewish brothers didn’t manage to produce enough bricks to meet the quota, Dasan and Aviram took the beating for it from the Egyptian taskmasters. Hashem knew exactly what they would do later. The complaints, the rebellion, all of it. And they still got out of Egypt, because they knew what achdus was. And that factor won out over all the negativity they would bring.
Going back to our initial observation of how Hashem loves this story. Maybe this is part of the reason. The miracles, plagues, and the breaking of nature, that’s all exciting. But the real story, at its root, is about a nation that learned how to take care of each other. And who have been taking care of each other ever since, in the desert, in Bavel, in Europe, in America, in Israel, and everywhere in between.
“We were redeemed from Egypt.” We. Not a collection of individuals. A people.
When we sit down at the seder and tell that story, we’re telling Hashem: We’re still that people. We’re still the ones who take care of each other. We’re still us. And Hashem is leaning in the whole time, loving every word. Chag kasher v’sameach.
This article was found in Nekuda Tova Issue 76 Pesach.
