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When God appears to Moshe at the burning bush, He first bids him to remove his shoes, "for the place on which you stand is sacred ground" (3:5). We are familiar with shoe removal as a requirement in several circumstances, all relating to sanctity: in the Temple, during birkat kohanim (priestly blessing) - when the kohanim act as a conduit to the divine blessing, and on Yom Kippur - when we all stand, as it were, in the Almighty's presence. Why does the sanctity of a given situation require one to remove his shoes?

One explanation offered views shoes as a symbol of travel. By removing one's shoes, he demonstrates respect for the given setting by symbolically expressing permanence. The experience of the Shekhina is of such importance that one cannot even consider the possibility of leaving. He is there and there to stay.

This may also explain the other situation where halakha requires the removal of shoes: during the seven-day mourning period, Heaven forbid. The laws governing a mourner's conduct are meant to emphasize the disruption of his life's routine. Halakha confines the mourner to his home, forbids him from professional activity and requires him to speak only of matters relevant to his deceased relative. (This applies as well on Tisha B'Av, when we all collectively mourn the loss of the Temple.) By removing his shoes, the mourner underscores the fact that he has nowhere to go; he will remain in his home to grieve and mourn. (Based on an article by Rabbi Zvi Grumet)

A different explanation behind the symbolism of shoe removal is suggested by Rav Aharon Pashkoz, in his work, "Mishmeret Elazar." Shoes separate one from the earth. As the ground often symbolizes physicality and the mundane (as opposed to air and space, which represent the spiritual), shoes thus signify man's rising above an exclusively physical existence. In inherently spiritual situations, however, such as Moshe's meeting with God atop of Mount Sinai, the kohanim''s service in the Temple, or Am Yisrael's observance of Yom Kippur, we have no need for such a separation. Indeed, God tells Moshe that "the place on which you stand is sacred ground." When spirituality and physicality have essentially become one and the same, we no longer have any need for shoes.

Unfortunately, we often forget to "remove our shoes" when opportunities for spiritual enhancement arise. Rather than embracing these opportunities, we instead keep our distance and inhibit ourselves from stepping foot directly on the sacred ground. The most common example, of course, is synagogue service. Afraid to fully engage ourselves in a sacred encounter with the Almighty, we keep ourselves separate from the sacred ground by allowing our minds to wander and mouths to speak matters not directly (or even indirectly) related to the tefila. We must bear in mind God's command to Moshe, and "keep our shoes off" when we enter the sacred environment of the Almighty's sanctuary.

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Yesterday we examined God's order to Moshe at the burning bush, requiring him to remove his shoes, "for the place on which you stand is sacred ground" (3:5). Today we will discuss another theory posited to explain the symbolism of Moshe's shoe removal, one suggested by Rabbi Yitzchak Stollman (a rabbi in Detroit, Michigan in the mid-20^th century), in his work, Minchat Yitzchak.

Rabbi Stollman argues that shoe removal on sacred ground represents the need for a direct, unobstructed relationship between an individual and the source of sanctity - the Torah. Shoes on Mount Sinai or in the Bet Ha-mikdash symbolize an external, foreign influence connecting the individual with kedusha. One cannot hope to draw sanctity and apply it to his life through the introduction of foreign ideals. Holiness for Am Yisrael must come directly from the true source of holiness - the Torah - and mustn't be tampered with by external values.

Rabbi Stollman explains in this light a verse in Parashat Shoftim concerning the authority of the Jewish High Court (Sanhedrin): "You shall carry out the verdict that is announced to you from the place that God will choose… you must not deviate from the verdict that they announce to you either to the right or to the left" (Devarim 17:10-11). Chazal interpret the final clause of this citation to mean that one must obey the Court's rulings "even if they tell you that right is left and left it right." As Rabbi Stollman explains, rabbinic leaders (when empowered to do so) must, at times, enact provisions necessary to suit the specific needs of every generation. Some previously held axioms may, on one level or another, be overturned (right = left; left = right). However, this legislation must occur "from the place that God will choose." The basis for all rulings issued by the rabbinic leadership must be the authentic source of sanctity, the Torah itself. All enactment must be approved and mandated by Torah law.

In this context, Rabbi Stollman decried the efforts by some elements of the American-Jewish leadership of his time to introduce foreign ideals and values into Judaism, arguing that only then will Judaism survive its transplantation across the sea. Rabbi Stollman responds to these attempts as follows: "Do they think that Judaism can survive in this way? Who saved whom - the Jew saved the Torah, or the Torah saved the Jew?" Just as Moshe stood at Mount Sinai without any foreign object standing in between him and the sacred mountain, so must we draw our sanctity directly from the pure, authentic wisdom of the Torah.

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Parashat Shemot describes Moshe's two encounters when he leaves the royal palace to observe the suffering of his fellow Israelites. On the first occasion, he fatally beats an Egyptian taskmaster who mistreated a Hebrew slave. On the following day, as Moshe tries to intervene in a dispute between two slaves, one of them defiantly exclaims, "Are you planning to kill me - just as you killed the Egyptian!?" (2:14). Chazal, cited there by Rashi, claim that it was at that point that Moshe understood why God deemed Benei Yisrael deserving of oppression. When people slander against one another, as Moshe's slaying of the Egyptian had been reported to the authorities, they are not yet deserving of redemption.

The Midrashim are replete with descriptions of Benei Yisrael's religious deterioration in Egypt. In fact, the prophet Yechezkel (chapter 20) makes explicit reference to the nation's having adopted Egyptian paganism during their period of slavery. Yet, according to this Midrash, Moshe viewed the sin of "lashon hara" - slander - as the reason why Benei Yisrael had yet to earn redemption. Why did he attribute their ongoing slavery specifically to this violation, rather than their idolatrous practices? (See Chafetz Chayim, Shemirat Ha-lashon 2:4.)

The Almighty judges Am Yisrael based on not only their conduct per se, but also the circumstances surrounding their misdeeds. In the situation of exile, where Benei Yisrael were submerged in a hostile, pagan civilization that ultimately subjugated them, it is understandable - though not excusable - for them to gradually assimilate into the foreign culture. The nation's cultural integration into Egypt did not, in Moshe's eyes, preclude the possibility of redemption. A sin of this sort does not close the door on forgiveness, as it results from the pressures endemic to the experience of exile. Internal strife, however, had no basis for forgiveness in Moshe's eyes. During trying times of oppression and persecution, logic would dictate that the victims would join forces and work together in an effort to best deal with the crisis. This perhaps explains Moshe's bewilderment when he observes a Jew hitting another: "Wicked one! Why do you smite your fellow?" He simply could not understand why two fellow sufferers of Egyptian bondage would quarrel with one another rather than restheir differences peacefully. When Moshe sees thathe slaves were even prepared to slander one another and lacked the most elementary standards of mutual respect, he understands why the redemption tarries. In a situation naturally lending itself to harmony and the joining of forces, there can be no justification whatsoever for internal friction and discord.

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Parashat Shemot describes Pharaoh's decrees to kill all newborn Jewish males. While according to the simple meaning of the text he appears to issue these decrees in an attempt to thwart Am Yisrael's rapid population growth, a famous Midrash provides a different motive. Namely, Pharaoh's astrologers forewarned of a redeemer who will lead the Hebrew slaves to freedom. The king thus decided to take preventative measures by killing all newborn males (see Rashi, 1:22).

This Midrash takes on different forms in different sources. The Yalkut Shimoni (Shemot 164) presents a particularly interesting version of the story. According to this Midrash, Pharaoh dreamt of an old man standing before him with a scale. At one end, the man placed all the Egyptians leaders and noblemen, while at the other he placed a "teleh chalav," a milking sheep. Much to the king's astonishment, the mother sheep outweighed all the Egyptian aristocrats. His wise men told him that this can only mean one thing: a baby will be born to the Israelites who will in the future destroy all of Egypt. This dream and its interpretation prompted Pharaoh to enact his murderous decree.

Why does the dream represent Am Yisrael specifically with the image of a milking mother sheep?

This Midrash perhaps seeks to teach a beautiful lesson. Benei Yisrael overpower their oppressors through their commitment to basic values of family loyalty and devotion. The image of the gentle, soft sheep nursing its young perhaps symbolizes the "Yiddishe heim," the love and care that has always characterized the Jewish home. That warmth and tenderness shown to children as they are raised according to our tradition has ensured our triumph over large and mighty empires.

Indeed, another Midrash relates that Moshe's father, Amram, a respected religious leader among the Hebrew slaves, divorced his wife in response to Pharaoh's decree, and this led many others to do the same. His daughter, Miriam, criticized her father's decision, claiming, "You are worse than Pharaoh - he decreed death upon the boys; you are decreeing death upon both boys and girls!" Miriam argued that family life must go on, despite the government's edicts. And so, the Midrash continues, Amram remarried his wife, Yokheved. But the Midrash does not stop there; it emphasizes the great joy and celebration that accompanied the wedding ceremony. Benei Yisrael still managed to dance at weddings in celebration of the continuity of Jewish family life. They understood the profound message of Miriam, that the key to Jewish survival is found in the home, in the raising of children with warmth, care and commitment to tradition.

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In Parashat Shemot, the Torah relates the following just prior to its depiction of God's revelation to Moshe at the burning bush: "It was during those many days that the king of Egypt died. The Israelites groaned under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God" (2:23). Rashi, in his commentary, accepts the Midrash's interpretation of this verse, according to which Pharaoh did not actually die. Rather, he contracted the skin disease, "tzara'at" (a form of leprosy), an illness often equated with death. Benei Yisrael's anguish described in the verse resulted from the cure prescribed by the king's physicians: bathing in the blood of Hebrew children.

What compelled Rashi to adopt the Midrashic interpretation? What prevented him from taking the verse at face value, that the Egyptian king died?

The Malbim points to the opening phrase in the verse as the key to understanding Rash's preference for the Midrashic approach: "It was during those many days… " This introduction implies that the event to be described occurred over the course of an extended period. The death of a monarch, of course, is a one-time event. Therefore, Rashi understood the verse to refer to an extended period of illness, during which Israelite children were slaughtered. One may, however, dispute the Malbim's claim and argue that we may read the verse to mean, "At some point during those many days… " the king died. This would perhaps yield a far more straightforward interpretation of the verse than would the redefinition of "va-yamat" ("He died") to denote the contraction of tzara'at.

Another approach taken is that of the Vilna Gaon, as cited in the work, "Ha-ketav Ve-hakabbala." The Gaon notes a Midrash in Kohellet that explains why the Tanakh does not refer to King David with the title "king" when recounting his death. The Midrash attributes this to the fact that "there is no authority of the day of death" (Kohellet 8:8), meaning, one automatically loses his title of leadership when he passes on. In our verse, however, the Torah writes, "the king of Egypt died," referring to Pharaoh as "king" even as he "dies." For this reason, suggests the Gaon, the Midrash - and Rashi - felt it necessary to explain the term "va-yamat" as something other than actual death. As the Malbim notes, however, we do find other examples when a king retains his royal title even when his passing is described, such as the death of "Nachash, king of the Ammonites" (Divrei Ha-yamim I 19:1).

The Siftei Chakhamim raises a different possibility, that Rashi was troubled by the cause-and-effect described by the verse. The Torah relates that upon the king's death, the slaves' plight worsened, causing them to cry out in despair. Why would their suffering increase with the death of the tyrant who has subjected them to unbearable pain and anguish for so many years? The Midrash thus redefined "death" in this context such that it explains how it caused Benei Yisrael further suffering. Here, too, there is room for objection: the Torah may have intended that the Pharaoh's successor issued even harsher decrees, as the Ibn Ezra explains (in his "peirush ha-katzar"). Alternatively, as the Seforno writes, Benei Yisrael may had initially hoped that the death of the present king would herald their freedom. They cried out in hopelessness upon discovering that the new king upheld the cruel policies of his predecessor. (See also the Netziv's "He'amek Davar.")

In truth, however, one Midrashic source explicitly reveals the problem with the straightforward reading of the verse. The Midrash Ha-gadol (cited in the footnotes of Torah Sheleima on our verse) notes that towards the end of Parashat Vaera, Moshe, speaking on behalf of God, tells the Egyptian king, "I could have stretched forth My hand and stricken you and your people with pestilence… Nevertheless I have spared you for this purpose: in order to show you My power… " (9:15-16). Meaning, God specifically saw to it that the Pharaoh who subjugated Am Yisrael will continue living in order to witness their miraculous deliverance. The Midrash therefore explained our verse to mean that Pharaoh contracted tzara'at, but did not actually die.

(Based in part on an article by Rabbi Avraham Fischer)

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Yesterday we looked at the verse in Parashat Shemot (3:1) that tells of the death of the Egyptian king: "It was during those many days that the king of Egypt died. The Israelites groaned under the bondage and cried out; and their cry from the bondage rose up to God" (2:23). As part of our discussion, we addressed the cause-and-effect depicted by the verse, by which, it appears, Pharaoh's death somehow caused the Hebrew slaves further grief and suffering. According to one view, we saw, this anomaly prompted the Midrash, cited by Rashi, to explain that the king did not actually die. He merely contracted a skin disease which the physicians sought to cure by having the king bathe in the blood of the slaves' children. This caused the additional anguish described in the verse.

As we mentioned, however, some commentatouphold the straightforward meaning of the text, that Pharaoh indeed passed away, and they find other expfor the cause-in-effect implied by the verse. Today we will look at one such approach, suggested by the 19^th century sage, Rav Yosef Shaul Nathanson (Divrei Shaul, Mahadura Tanina). He claims that the verse here describes not additional cries of suffering as a result of Pharaoh's death, but rather the direction of those cries. With any transfer of power, those who suffered oppression under the outgoing administration would likely appeal to the incoming rulers for an improvement of their condition. Benei Yisrael, however, did not bother. Instead, they directed their appeal to the true source of the decree of hardship - the Almighty. The verse thus states, "their cry from bondage rose up to God." They understood that God alone controlled their destiny, not the Egyptian authorities, and they therefore directed their petitions to Him.

However, Rav Nathanson observes, the slaves' attitude changed later, towards the end of the parasha. Next week's parasha, Parashat Vaera, begins with God's message to Benei Yisrael conveyed through Moshe after Pharaoh decreed that the slaves must themselves find straw for the production of bricks. God declares that He has "heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage" (6:5). Whereas in our parasha the people's cries "rose up to God," here their wailing concentrates on the fact that "the Egyptians are holding them in bondage." Rav Nathanson suggests that as the hardship intensified, Benei Yisrael's disappointment led them to focus their grievances on the Egyptians, rather than directing their prayers to the Almighty. They now failed to look beyond the immediate circumstances and acknowledge the role of Providence in their current condition. Nevertheless, God promises redemption to fulfill His promise to the patriarchs.

These verses thus teach us to look beneath the surface when assessing current events and the problems we face. While we look for solutions wherever they may be found, it is important to recognize the power of prayer and faith throughout this process. Just as we must look to God for cures even while consulting with medical practitioners, so must we appeal to the Almighty for help in all areas, even as we do our part.

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In His initial address to Moshe at the burning bush, God promises the new leader that the Israelite slaves "will hearken to your voice" (3:18). Yet, several verses later, Moshe insists that "they will not believe me and will not listen to my voice; they will say, 'God did not appear to you!'" (4:1). How and why does Moshe doubt the fulfillment of God's word? If the Almighty guaranteed him the people's compliance, why does he insist otherwise?

The Malbim (in his commentary to 3:18) suggests an answer based on a subtle, linguistic distinction between the terms used by God and Moshe. God guarantees, "ve-sham'u LE-kolekha," whereas Moshe is concerned that "ve-lo yishm'u BE-koli." The Torah appears to differentiate between hearkening "LE-kol" and "BE-kol" (though we would translate both into English as, "hearken to one's voice." According to the Malbim, these two expressions refer to two entirely different responses. Listening "le-kol" refers to simply lending an ear, rather than obedience. God wished to allay Moshe's fears that the intense workload breaking the slaves' backs and the pressure to which they were subjected would prevent them from even paying attention to the former fugitive who suddenly informs them of a miraculous redemption. He therefore promises Moshe that they will listen to him and not ignore him as he addresses them. Moshe, however, wanted reassurance to the effect that the people would listen "be-koli," that they would heed his prophecy and accept him as their spokesman to Pharaoh.

A contemporary writer, Rav Dov Berish Rosenberg, in his work, "Devar Tov," uses this theory postulated by the Malbim to develop an interesting insight into prayer. Rabbi Rosenberg observes that God's acceptance of prayer is always referred to as His listening "be-kol." He cites the following verses as examples: Bereishit 30:6, Bemidbar 21:3, Devarim 1:45, Yehoshua 10:14, Shoftim 13:9, Melakhim I 17:22, Tehillim 130:2, and Divrei Hayamim II 30:27. (One notable exception, as Rabbi Rosenberg mentions, in God's acceptance of Yishmael's cries, in Bereishit 21:17. Rav Rosenberg suggests that this may indicate a degree of "ambivalence," as it were, in God's acceptance of Yishmael's prayer.) This means that in these instances, the Almighty not only listens to our prayers, but He obeys, as it were, our demands. The most extreme example of this phenomenon is Chazal's adage, "a tzadik decrees, and the Almighty obeys." In an ideal situation, God grants us the remarkable power to "tell Him what to do." When we are deserving, He obeys our word and grants our wishes.

We should recognize, however, that even His listening "le-kol" constitutes a wondrous gift. Even when we do not earn the fulfillment of all our wishes, we must find comfort in the knowledge that at very least God lends us a listening ear. When it seems there's nowhere else to turn, we know that the Master of the world listens compassionately to our cries. Even when we do not deserve His listening "be-kol," we are still privileged to know that He listens "le-kol."

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