The story of the Exodus begins with the Israelites in the house of bondage, “strangers in a strange land,” in a land without freedom or dignity. The covenant that Abraham struck with God, “I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and will give them all these lands, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed” (Genesis 26:4), was but a distant, nearly long-forgotten dream.
Along comes a Prince of Egypt, the adopted son of the living man-God, the morning and evening star: the Egyptian pharaoh. Undoubtedly, the Egyptian gods favor Moses—high status, lavish parties, burgeoning prospects—soon to be second in command behind his brother Ramses, the next leader of the Egyptian empire. Egypt is flourishing—the slave labor has built the limestone city of Pithom—and Moses gets to inherit, along with his brother, the ever-expanding dominion along the banks of the Mediterranean Sea and the River Nile.
In traditional storylines, we would find our main character, Moses, enriching his kingdom, winning great victories and living out the end of his days as a supportive adviser to the Pharaoh. The history books would remember the great Egyptian civilization, led by iconic brothers Moses and Ramses.
Alas, the book of Exodus and the story of Passover take a much different turn. Moses, after learning of his true identity—a Hebrew—in a moment of failing moral idealism, finds an Egyptian beating a Hebrew and kills him. Ashamed, scared and broken, he runs from his inheritance and betrays his loyalty to the Egyptian throne. Escaping to Midian, he marries Zipporah and has a family. Once again, we see another likely storyline: Moses spending the rest of his days as a loving father in the Midian paradise.
Moses meeting God at the burning bush is the first time that choice was presented. Kabbalah, the wisdom of ancient Jewish mysticism outlined in the Zohar, suggests that the burning bush hinted that even though the Israelites were suffering in Egypt, they were not all consumed by Pharaoh’s wrath and the fires of oppression; hope, hidden, still swirled in the flames. “God called to him from within the bush, ‘Moses! Moses!” And Moses said, “Here I am” (Exodus 3:4).
He’nai Ani—“Here I am”—words spoken in preparation to answer a higher calling, no matter the challenge; words confirming the trials, the incoming of adversity, of duty that personify an attempt to embody Divine moral ideals. Despite Moses’s hesitation, asking God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and that I should bring out the Israelites from Egypt?” he took a leap of faith guided by the outstretched arm of God that would lead his people out of bondage.
We hear the words “Here I am” time and again throughout the grand story of the Bible and of the Jewish people.
As God beckoned Abraham for his final test, “He said to him, ‘Abraham,’ and he answered, He’nai Ani—‘Here I am.’ Take your son, your favored one, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights which I will point out to you” (Genesis 22:1).
Abraham, like Moses, took the leap of faith and trusted God. Asked to bestow death or to make life—to sacrifice a son or to lead a people into freedom—are equally adverse situations. But God had imparted promises, like promises we make to ourselves, and those great leaders decided to uphold them. In turn, they inspire their people and teach them to become leaders.
Isaiah, too, embraced the arduous task of leadership. “And I heard the voice of the Lord, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? And I said, ‘Here I am; send me’” (Isaiah 6:8) as he sets out on his journey to follow God and guide the Jewish people.
Much like the Israelites did thousands of years ago, these days we feel as if we are walking through a desert, craving certainty in a time of uncertainty. From college campuses to battles raging in Gaza and Lebanon, we must remember that our birthright—traded for a bowl of lentils—never stipulated that the House of Jacob, the House of Israel, should expect to receive comfort, security or any lack of difficulty.
Rather, our birthright consists of shining a light unto the world through a higher moral responsibility. As Moses stood upon Mount Sinai, the Jewish people received and accepted the highest ethics of the world: the Ten Commandments. The root for Sinai is found in the Hebrew word sinah, uncovering that antisemitism or “Jewish hate” is intertwined with the Jewish fate.
Through challenges, we discover who we truly are, both as individuals and as a community. “Adversity,” claimed Abraham Lincoln, “introduces a man to himself.”
We are not victims. Just as the strongest steel is strengthened by the hottest fire, we become stronger through adversity. Our historical memory—receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai, the wise kingdoms of David and Solomon, the construction and destruction of the two Temples in Jerusalem, the Diaspora, expulsion, pogroms, the Holocaust, the return and realization of the Zionist dream of being a free people in the land of our forefathers, the land of Israel, defending the covenant while surrounded by enemies and emerging resolute after a dark Saturday in October—it is through these struggles that we find our commonality and identity.
Like the story of Moses, the Jewish story could have gone in many different directions. Our journey cultivates our mental and physical faculties, building the foundations of leadership for both the present generation and those to come. Today, we must mirror our ancestors—strong, forthright, ever-present and ready to answer the call at any given moment. We all have the great prophets of history within us: Abraham, Moses and Isaiah, and in this declaration, we must be the ones with responsibility, courage and the hope of redemption to say, He’nai Ani.