Surf A Little Torah
Yeshivat Har Etzion

by Rav David Silverberg

Parashat Shemot tells of Moshe's excursion into the lives of the Hebrew slaves, where he comes upon an Egyptian beating a Hebrew. The Torah then writes, "He turned this way and that and he saw there was no one; he struck down the Egyptian and hid him in the sand" (2:12). The straightforward meaning of this verse is that Moshe looked around to ensure that there was no one present to witness his assassination of the Egyptian taskmaster. Midrashim and other sources, however, add other, homiletic interpretations. One might deem these homiletic explanations as necessary for a full understanding of the verse; after all, how could the Torah tell that Moshe saw there was nobody around, if, as we know from the next several verses, a Hebrew slave witnessed the event (see 2:14)? This question, perhaps, led the Midrashim and later commentators to suggest alternative interpretations of the phrase, "he saw there was no one."

Rashi cites one such Midrashic approach, which explains that Moshe saw through ru'ach ha-kodesh (divine foresight) that no convert would ever descend from this violent taskmaster. Only once Moshe ensured that no descendent of this Egyptian would ever embrace Judaism, did he proceed to kill him.

The Netziv, in his Ha'amek Davar, suggests a different explanation. "He saw there was no one" means that Moshe saw there was no government body or authority to which he could appeal for help on behalf of the beaten Hebrew. Moshe first sought to protect the slave by way of a police force or the like; once he found no peaceful means to correct the injustice he witnessed, he resorted to violence and killed the Egyptian taskmaster.

More recently, Rabbi Mordechai Mayer, in the introduction to his work "Ma'amar Mordechai" published towards the beginning of the Holocaust (New York, 1941), advances a slightly different, timely approach to this verse. Moshe had been raised in the Pharaoh's palace, the heart of the ancient Egyptian culture, which had earned worldwide prominence and domination. He had undoubtedly been taught the beliefs and outlook of the ancient Egyptians, their views concerning proper human conduct and values. He likely placed his trust in the sophisticated culture to which he had been exposed. But then he sees an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave; the cultured person, who claims to fight for the betterment of mankind and takes pride in his society's achievements, oppresses a poor, helpless slave, without provocation. At this point, "He turned this way and that." He figured that the taskmaster before him was but a social aberration and he therefore looked to the representatives of the culture in which he had been raised to find a solution. Surely the intellectuals, the scholars, the cultural leaders, would denounce this inhumanity and take up the cause of the downtrodden Hebrews.

Much to Moshe's disappointment, however, "he saw there was no one," or literally, "he saw there was no person" ("va-yar ki ein ish"). He realized that in his "cultured" society there were no human beings, no humanity, no compassion or morals. Nobody would come to the aid of the suffering Hebrew slaves.

Rashi writes that Moshe smote the Egyptian by declaring the "Shem Ha-meforash," the ineffable divine Name. This, too, suggests Rabbi Mayer, is symbolic of Moshe's reaction to his discovery of the moral emptiness of the surrounding culture. Moshe came to the conclusion that he can overcome the foe only with God's Name – with His Torah and mitzvot.

Rabbi Mayer concludes by applying this message to his day, when the society that prided itself on its enlightened culture and sophistication butchered the Jewish people with unspeakable horror and without any moral compunction:

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In Parashat Shemot, God reveals Himself to Moshe for the first time, in the famous scene of the "burning bush." Several different approaches have been taken to uncover the symbolism latent within this image, of a bush that burns but is not consumed. Most obviously, perhaps, it symbolizes the fact that as much as Benei Yisrael's enemies set them ablaze and try to destroy them, they will never be entirely consumed.

Rav Soloveitchik, however, noted an additional symbolic meaning to Moshe's vision (cited by Rav Herschel Shachtar in "Mi-pninei Ha-Rav"). The Torah describes that God appeared to Moshe "in a blazing fire from the midst of a bush" (3:2). Meaning, the fire was situated in the middle of the bush, deep in its interior, but could not penetrate outward, to consume the bush's exterior. The fire was restricted to the inner part of the bush, and the bush was therefore not destroyed. This image symbolically conveyed to Moshe the spiritual condition of Benei Yisrael at this time. Earlier, after Moshe discovers that there were those among Benei Yisrael who witnessed his killing of an Egyptian taskmaster, he frightfully exclaims, "Indeed, the matter is known!" (2:14). Rashi, based on the Midrash, explains that Moshe refers here not to the information concerning his killing of the Egyptian, but rather to the secret behind Benei Yisrael's exile. He now knows why Benei Yisrael suffer as they do: if there are people among the nation who are willing to betray one another and report their fellow Hebrews to the authorities, then they are hardly deserving of freedom. Moshe again expresses his doubts concerning Benei Yisrael's worthiness here, at the burning bush, after God orders him to tell Pharaoh to set the slaves free. Moshe asks, "Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from Egypt?" (3:11). Rashi, following Chazal, interprets this question as a composite of two separate questions. First, Moshe asks, "Who am I that should go to Pharaoh?" Then, in addition, he wonders how he can "free the Israelites from Egypt." (We will not discuss here the grammatical issues involved in Rashi's interpretation of this verse; it likely involves the placement of the "etnachta" note underneath the word "Pharaoh.") According to Rashi, Moshe here asks in what merit Benei Yisrael are deserving of redemption.

The burning bush, Rav Soloveitchik explained, was intended to demonstrate to Moshe that Benei Yisrael's shortcomings are limited to their "exterior." They, like the bush in the desert, have a large flame burning deep within, only that flame cannot succeed in penetrating outward. Although Moshe cannot see the merits of his people, this is because their merits are concealed within, and he sees only the imperfect exterior. Therefore, when revealing Himself to Moshe and commanding him to lead Benei Yisrael to freedom, the Almighty shows Moshe the burning bush, the blazing fire within the heart of the nation that awaits the opportunity to spread outward and shine forth without any obstruction.

This message is perhaps reinforced later in the dialogue between the Almighty and Moshe, when the latter explicitly questions Benei Yisrael's readiness for redemption. Moshe claims, "But they will not believe me and will not listen to me" (4:1). In response, God equips Moshe with several signs, including his hand's becoming leprous as soon as he places it in his bosom. Chazal, cited by Rashi (to 4:8), explain this to mean that Moshe is punished with leprosy, the punishment for lashon ha-ra (negative speak), for his having spoken negatively and distrustfully of Benei Yisrael. Rav Yechiel Kavetsky, in his "Goral Gedalyah" (Corona, NY, 1914), adds that the sudden transformation of Moshe's hand also symbolizes the possibility of sudden change. Just as Moshe's hand could instantly change colors at God's command, so could Benei Yisrael, in spite of how distant they have become from God and spirituality, can suddenly transform themselves into a people worthy of redemption and of standing before God at Sinai, prepared to receive His Torah.

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Yesterday, we made brief mention of the conversation between Moshe and the Hebrew slave he finds fighting with his fellow, as narrated in Parashat Shemot. Moshe asks him, "Why do you strike your fellow?" to which the assailant responds, "Who made you chief and ruler over us? Do you mean to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?" (2:13-14). Realizing that the previous day's incident, when he killed an Egyptian taskmaster, has become public knowledge, Moshe cries, "Indeed, the matter is known!"

As we noted, Rashi, citing the Midrash, presents a homiletic interpretation of Moshe's exclamation: "That which I have wondered about is now known to me: how did Yisrael sin more than all seventy nations, that they are oppressed with slave labor? But I now see that they are deserving." The Midrash Tanchuma, the source of Rashi's comments, reads, "There is lashon ha-ra [negative speech] among you – how are you deserving of redemption?"

The question arises, why had Moshe previously assumed that Benei Yisrael are worthy of redemption? Many Midrashim speak at length of the sharp spiritual decline of Benei Yisrael during their period of bondage in Egypt, to the point where, at least according to one Midrashic source, they were almost indistinguishable from the polytheistic natives among whom they lived. In fact, the prophet Yechezkel (chapter 20) elaborates on the nation's pagan lifestyle while in Egypt. Why, then, did it take this unfortunate incident of talebearers publicizing Moshe's assassination of the taskmaster, to solve the mystery of why the redemption has yet to come?

The Chafetz Chayim, in his work "Shemirat Ha-lashon," explains that the violation of lashon ha-ra has the particular effect of delaying redemption and preventing divine compassion. One who speaks negatively about his fellow chooses to overlook his fellow's positive qualities and focus instead on his shortcomings. Rather than acknowledging, appreciating, and concentrating on the admirable traits of others, he prefers instead to spread the word of their imperfections. If this is the case, then the Almighty follows suit, so-to-speak, and deals with him, and his nation, accordingly. Rather than overlooking our mistakes and forgiving our wrongs, God will, instead, focus on our failings and, Heaven forbid, punish us accordingly.

One might suggest a different explanation of this Midrash. To one extent or another, Benei Yisrael's religious decline in Egypt can be attributed to the trying circumstances in which they lived. The slavery conditions offered them little opportunity, and certainly no encouragement, to preserve their spiritual heritage and maintain their grip on tradition. It is only natural, albeit inexcusable, for a slave nation to gradually distance themselves from their past and embrace the culture of their current home country. This cannot be said, however, about lashon ha-ra, about spreading rumors – true or false – about our fellow Jews and engendering mistrust and animosity. Sins of this nature cannot be blamed on the harsh conditions of exile. Persecution and hardship must bring us together and cause us to leave our differences aside and cooperate with one another for the common good of our people. When Benei Yisrael instead resorted to back-stabbing and mutual hostility, Moshe then asked, "Are you worthy of redemption?"

Rav Aharon Lewin (known as "the Reishe Rav"), in his "Ha-derash Ve-ha'iyun," suggests his own, particularly novel, homiletic interpretation of Moshe's exclamation, "Indeed the matter is known." Towards the beginning of the parasha, we read that Pharaoh initiated his oppressive policies against Benei Yisrael out of concern that given the foreign people's accelerated population growth, Egypt could face grave danger should the Hebrews align themselves with the country's enemies. Throughout his early years, Moshe never understood what could have led Pharaoh to such suspicion of Benei Yisrael. Egypt had sustained them during famine and allowed them to settle and tend to their flocks in the country's fertile pastures. Would Benei Yisrael be so unappreciative, to the point where they would betray the nation that hosted them and cared for them during their time of need?

"Indeed, the matter is known." The shameless hostility this Hebrew slave showed Moshe, the fact that he would report to the authorities the one who heroically killed a violent taskmaster, disillusioned Moshe and made him realize just how ungrateful people can be. Previously, Moshe could not have imagined why Pharaoh would have any reason to as much as suspect Benei Yisrael of ingratitude. But now he realized that indeed, sadly enough, people have the capacity and perhaps even the tendency to forget their debt of gratitude to others and turn against those who helped them in their time of dire need.

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In Parashat Shemot, we read of the dialogue between God and Moshe surrounding the Almighty's command that Moshe appear before Pharaoh to demand the freedom of the Hebrew slaves. At one point, Moshe expresses doubts as to whether Benei Yisrael themselves will believe that God appointed him as the nation's representative to Pharaoh. In response, God equips Moshe with three miracles that he should perform for the people to earn their trust. One of the signs, as we discussed earlier this week, is that Moshe's hand would contract tzara'at (a form of leprosy) after he places it in his bosom (see 4:6).

The Midrash Lekach Tov addresses the Halakhic significance of Moshe's tzara'at: "The hand of Moshe Rabbenu did not become tamei, for there is tum'a for a leprous affliction only by word of a kohen." Generally, the onset of tzara'at brings about a severe form of tum'a, ritual impurity, which yields several Halakhic ramifications, including a prohibition against the metzora (the person who contracted tzara'at) entering cities, not to mention the Temple grounds, or partaking of sacrificial meat, and so on. The Midrash Lekach Tov determines that since, as clearly indicated in Sefer Vayikra, the process of tum'at tzara'at requires the participation of a kohen, Moshe did not become tamei when his hand contracted tzara'at, as there was no kohen who confirmed and declared the status of tzara'at.

While this point is clear, the Midrash Lekach Tov continues with a far more perplexing passage: "Similarly, Rabbi Yochanan said: Once the Temple was destroyed, there is no tum'a from a metzora." This sentence is very difficult to understand for two reasons. Firstly, how is Rabbi Yochanan's statement "similar" to the previous point made by the Lekach Tov, that tum'at tzara'at requires the involvement of a kohen? Why would this result in the inapplicability of tum'at tzara'at after the Temple's destruction? Do we not have kohanim even in the absence of the Beit Ha-mikdash? Far more importantly, however, the conclusion itself is contradicted by other sources. The Tosefta in Masekhet Negaim (8), as well as the Torat Kohanim in Parashat Metzora (end of chapter 1), state explicitly that tum'at tzara'at applies even in the post-Temple era, and the Rambam rules accordingly (Hilkhot Tum'at Tzara'at 11:6). On what basis, then, does the Midrash Lekach Tov cite Rabbi Yochanan as claiming that tum'at tzara'at became obsolete with the destruction of the Beit Ha-mikdash?

Rav Menachem Kasher zt"l, in his Torah Sheleima on this parasha (appendix 18), notes that the answer to this question is given by the Midrash Lekach Tov itself, later in Chumash – in Parashat Tazria. The Lekach Tov there cites the aforementioned statement of Rabbi Yochanan, and adds, "Meaning… there is no tum'a from a metzora at all, for we do not have a 'moreh' [teacher, or instructor] in this regar." According to the Midrash Lekach Tov, tum'at tzara'at applies in principle even in the post-Temple era – as explicitly established in the sources cited above. In practice, however, the laws of tzara'at are not in effect today, because we have no "moreh." To what does the Lekach Tov refer?

Rav Kasher explains by discussing the general issue, addressed by many sources, as to why the laws of tzara'at have, in effect, become practically irrelevant nowadays. (Needless to say, the laws of tzara'at are still studied, just as all areas of Torah are and must be learned, even if they practically do not apply). The Radbaz and others claim that since, as mentioned, tum'at tzara'at cannot be established without a kohen, and today we lack kohanim meyuchasim (kohanim who can definitively trace their lineage to the line of Aharon), tum'at tzara'at has no way of surfacing nowadays. However, as Rav Kasher notes, this is clearly not the position of the Midrash Lekach Tov, which cites Rabbi Yochanan as affirming the inapplicability of tum'at tzara'at already in his day. During Rabbi Yochanan's time, the Jewish people still had many kohanim meyuchasim. Necessarily, then, The Midrash Lekach Tov has a different explanation for why we do not practically observe tum'at tzara'at nowadays, one which he expresses with the phrase, "we do not have a 'moreh'."

The answer, Rav Kasher explains, emerges from a passage in Torat Kohanim (Metzora): "[A kohen] does not see afflictions [to determine tum'at tzara'at] unless his rabbi trains him." Similarly, the Yerushalmi in Masekhet Chagiga (2:1), according to the Ra'avad's version of the text (which is also in certain manuscripts of the Yerushalmi, as Rav Kasher mentions), requires a kohen to have seen or worked with his rabbi in the field of leprous infections ("shimush") before he is qualified to proclaim tum'at tzara'at. This would indicate that the affirmation of tum'at tzara'at requires not only a kohen, but a kohen who trained in this field under a kohen who had himself trained under a kohen, and so forth (similar to the formal "semikha"). To this, perhaps, the Midrash Lekach Tov refers when it speaks of a "moreh." After the destruction of the Temple, the oral tradition from kohen to kohen regarding the shades and coloration of the different forms of tzara'at was discontinued as a result of the decrees and persecution against the Jewish people. Therefore, although in principle the tzara'at laws should apply even nowadays, they cannot take effect because we no longer have kohanim with the ancient oral tradition necessary to serve in this capacity. It is for this reason that Rabbi Yochanan, as cited by the Lekach Tov, established that tum'at tzara'at does not practically apply after the Temple's destruction, and it will be reinstated when Eliyahu Ha-nevi returns to the Jewish people and reintroduces this tradition.

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Parashat Shemot tells that as Moshe and his family made their way from Midyan towards Egypt, his wife, Tzipora, circumcised their son. The verse (4:25) relates that Tzipora took a "tzor," or a sharp stone, with which she performed the circumcision. Similarly, when Benei Yisrael conducted a nationwide circumcision in the time of Yehoshua, God instructed that they use for this purpose "charvot tzurim" – sharp instruments made from stone (see Yehoshua 5:2). Strictly speaking, however, stone is not the only material suitable for use in the performance of a circumcision. The Rambam, in Hilkhot Mila (2:1), writes that a circumcision may be performed with any type of instrument (provided it poses no danger), but it constitutes a mitzva min ha-muvchar – a particularly high standard of performance – to use a tool made from iron. The Rambam adds that common practice among Am Yisrael is to perform the mila with an iron knife.

Different explanations have been given as to why we use specifically iron. The work "Tze'ena U-re'ena," as well as the Perisha, a commentary to the Tur (in Y.D. 264), cite a fascinating Midrash tracing the origins of this practice back to the time of King David. In among the most famous military confrontations in the Bible (and perhaps in history generally), the young, untrained David killed the mighty general, Galyat (or Goliath), with a slingshot (Shemuel I, chapter 17). The obvious question arises as to how this occurred, given the fact that Galyat wore armor all over his body, including a helmet on his head, which is where David's stone hit him (see 17:5). Rashi cites one view that Galyat's helmet fell from his head just before David hurled the stone, and then proceeds to cite Chazal's explanation, that the iron armor miraculously gave way to the stone. According to the Midrash, God ordered the "angel" of iron to yield to the "angel" of stone. In commemoration of this great miracle, David, upon becoming king of Israel, instituted that circumcisions be performed with iron, rather than stone.

Rav Yaakov Chagiz (17^th century), in his "Halakhot Ketanot," suggests that this Midrash can help explain the common practice that before a berit mila, the father recites the verse of "Shema Yisrael" (though Yemenite communities do not follow this custom). The verse tells in Sefer Shemuel I (17:16) that each "morning and evening" during this war between Israel and the Pelishtim, Galyat would approach the Israelite camp to intimidate the soldiers and warn them that they cannot defeat the Pelishtim. The Gemara (Masekhet Sota 42b) explains that Galyat came every "morning and evening" in an effort to disrupt Benei Yisrael's recitation of shema, which is to be conducted each morning and evening. Therefore, Rav Chagiz suggests, since berit mila involves a commemoration of this battle between David and Galyat, we recite "Shema Yisrael" before performing the berit to show that despite Galyat's efforts, we nevertheless continue to observe the Biblical command to recite the shema.

Rav Menachem Kasher, in his Torah Sheleima (Parashat Shemot, chapter 4, note 153), proposes an entirely different explanation for why the custom developed to use specifically iron instruments for berit mila. Commenting on the verse that describes Tzipora taking a "tzor," the Midrash Lekach Tov cites one opinion that the word "tzor," both in our verse and in Sefer Yehoshua, means "Indian iron." It thus turns out that Tzipora and Benei Yisrael in Yehoshua's time used not stone, but rather iron. Quite understandably, then, Halakha shows preference to the use of iron, as it was iron that Tzipora used and that God ordered Benei Yisrael to use in the performance of circumcision.

A far simpler explanation for the use of iron is suggested by the Levush, who claims that iron tools can be made particularly sharp, thus minimizing the pain of circumcision.

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Towards the end of Parashat Shemot, we read that in response to Moshe's demand that Pharaoh free the Hebrew slaves, the Egyptian king refuses and even increases their workload. He declares, "Let heavier work be laid upon the men; let them keep at it and not pay attention to words of falsehood" (5:9). What does Pharaoh mean by "words of falsehood"? Which "words" had Benei Yisrael occupied themselves with, from which Pharaoh now wishes to keep them away?

The Midrash (Shemot Rabba 5:18) explains that Benei Yisrael had with them "megilot," or scrolls, that they would study every Shabbat, which Pharaoh had granted them as a day of rest. These scrolls, the Midrash tells, indicated to Benei Yisrael that the Almighty would ultimately redeem them. Pharaoh wished to crush the slaves' hopes of redemption, and therefore ordered that they stop occupying themselves in these "words of falsehood," referring to the material they would study every Shabbat.

Several attempts have been made to identify these "scrolls." According to the Maharzu, the classic commentary on the Midrash Rabba, these scrolls contained the stories of Sefer Bereishit, including creation, the deluge, the Tower of Bavel, and the accounts of the patriarchs' lives. The study of Bereishit reinforced the people's belief that God's promise to the patriarchs, that their offspring would ultiemerge as a strong, large, free nation, would one day materialize.

Rav Matityahu Shtrashon (son of the famous Talmudic commentator Rav Shemuel Shtrashon of Vilna, or the Rashash), in his notes to Masekhet Bava Batra (14b), suggests a much different, and particularly novel, theory. He cites an earlier source as claiming, based on ancient records, that during the Egyptian bondage, Moshe would bring the book of Iyov to the elders of Benei Yisrael and teach it to them. Sefer Iyov conveys the message that if one steadfastly retains his trust in God's judgment, no matter how unfairly he appears to suffer, he will, ultimately, be rewarded. Moshe sought to reinforce this message among the Hebrew slaves, and therefore delivered sessions on Sefer Iyov. Indeed, the Gemara there in Bava Batra informs us that it was Moshe who composed the book of Iyov. According to this ancient source cited by Rav Matityahu Shtarshon, he wrote it during the period of bondage and would teach it to Benei Yisrael as a means of injecting some hope into the otherwise despondent spirits of the slaves.

If so, Rav Shtarshon writes, then we might speculate that the "scrolls" spoken of in the Midrash refer to the chapters of the book of Iyov. It is this work which Benei Yisrael would study every Shabbat, and Pharaoh sought to disrupt this weekly session, so as to eliminate any hopes of redemption that this learning might engender. Rav Shtrashon then adds a fascinating insight into the verse cited above, which records Pharaoh's admonition that Benei Yisrael pay no attention to "words of falsehood." According to one view in the Gemara in Bava Batra (which the Rambam famously adopts), the story of Iyov never actually occurred. It was invented as a poetic means by which to address the fundamental question of the suffering of the righteous. According to this position, we perhaps arrive at a new understanding of Pharaoh's reference to "words of falsehood." He emphasizes the fact that Sefer Iyov, which, as mentioned, Benei Yisrael spent Shabbat studying, is factually untrue, and on these grounds Pharaoh wished to discourage the slaves from paying attention to this book.

Rav Yaakov Kaminetzky advanced a different theory in identifying these "scrolls." Chazal, cited by Rashi in his commentary to Tehillim (90:1), attribute eleven chapters of Sefer Tehillim to Moshe Rabbenu. He composed eleven of the chapters of Tehillim – chapters 90-100 – and King David incorporated them into the final book of Tehillim. The third of these chapters is the Psalm of "Mizmor shir le-yom ha-Shabbat" – the special Psalm for Shabbat. (Another Midrashic tradition, however, ascribes this chapter to Adam.) Many commentators have struggled to find the connection between the content of this Psalm and Shabbat. This chapter makes no mention at all of Shabbat, and focuses instead on the question of "tzadik ve-ra lo" – the suffering of the righteous and prosperity of the wicked: "Though the wicked sprout like grass, though all evildoers blossom, it is only that they may be destroyed forever" (verse 8); "The righteous bloom like a date-palm, they thrive like a cedar in Lebanon" (verse 13). In this chapter we are reassured that the success of the wicked is but temporary, as is the suffering of the just. In the end, the evildoers will perish, and the righteous will blossom. But what does this have to do with Shabbat?

Rav Yaakov suggests that in truth, this chapter has nothing to do with Shabbat. But it was this Psalm, which, as mentioned, Moshe Rabbenu himself composed, that Benei Yisrael studied and reviewed every Shabbat. On their day of rest, the slaves would spend time contemplating this chapter of Tehillim which promises the ultimate downfall of the wicked oppressors, and the salvation and blossoming of the righteous. It is therefore entitled the "song of the Sabbath day," because it was initially composed specifically for study on Shabbat. To this, perhaps, the Midrash refers when it speaks of the "scrolls" that Benei Yisrael learned on Shabbat, in their desperate search of hope and encouragement during the bitter period of slavery and oppression.

(Taken from a shiur by Rav Yissachar Frand)

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In Parashat Shemot, the Almighty reveals Himself to Moshe and orders him to appear before Pharaoh and demand the release of the Hebrew slaves. God assures Moshe that Benei Yisrael will "heed your voice" and believe that indeed God is now prepared to redeem them from slavery (3:18). Rashi comments, based on the Midrash, that Benei Yisrael would believe Moshe because of the special "formula" God has him use in telling them of the imminent redemption: "Pakod pakadei etkhem" – "I have taken note of you" (3:16). Just before his death, Yosef had used a similar expression in assuring his brothers of Benei Yisrael's ultimate return to Eretz Yisrael – "pakod yifkod Elokim etkhem" (see Bereishit 50:24). According to the Midrash, Yosef here establishes this term as a "code word" of sorts, by which Benei Yisrael could identify the authentic "redeemer" whom God has sent to lead them to freedom.

Many writers have struggled with the obvious problem with this Midrash. If this tradition was widely known throughout Benei Yisrael, to the point that they all believed Moshe when he came to announce their emancipation, then why couldn't any charlatan pose as the redeemer by using the "magic formula"? If everybody knew this "code," then how could it be an effective means of confirming the authenticity of an alleged redeemer?

One simple answer might be that this tradition referred specifically to someone from outside the system, who would be unfamiliar with Benei Yisrael's traditions but would nonetheless employ this expression in proclaiming the redemption. Since Moshe grew in Pharaoh's court and was presumably unaware of the "pakod yifkod" code, his use of this term upon his return to Egypt after many years as a fugitive, would indeed make an impression.

More likely, however, the Midrash never meant to say that the moment the words "pakod pakadeti" would leave someone's mouth he would be automatically declared the redeemer. Rather, this term expresses the candidate's achievements that would indicate the arrival of freedom. The Rebbe of Kotzk associates the phrase "pakod yifkod" with a verse in Sefer Shoftim (15:1): "Shimshon visited [va-yifkod] his wife with a goat [as a gift]." The verb "p.k.d.," the Kotzker suggests, often means more than simply remembering or taking note of someone. It has a connotation of affection, love, conveying the message the one very much cares about and has feelings for the other. This was the tradition of "pakod yifkod." The person who would lead Benei Yisrael to redemption would have to appease the nation on God's behalf, so-to-speak, he would have to reassure them of the Almighty's continued love and affection for them despite what He has subjected them to over the last two centuries. Thus, the mere utterance of the words "pakod pakadeti" would not confirm the authenticity of a redeemer; what was required was something far more meaningful: the ability to convince the people of God's immense love and concern for them and His desire to take them as His people.

Rav Yaakov Moshe Charlap is cited as explaining the significance of "pakod yifkod" as based on the double expression. "Pakod" means that God has taken note of Benei Yisrael; "yifkod" alludes to these same sentiments on the part of Benei Yisrael, towards the Almighty. Moshe's responsibility involved more than merely informing the people that God now prepares to redeem them; he had to help them prepare to be redeemed. "Pakod yifkod" meant that the one who leads the people to freedom would have to prove himself capable of engendering the desire for freedom among the people, to extricate them from the mentality of slavery and prepare them for redemption. Redemption requires not only the Almighty's preparedness to free His nation, but the nation's preparedness and desire to be freed, to leave the exile and once and for all return to and rebuild their ancient homeland. Rav Charlap added that the same applito the final redemption: while we anxiously await for the Almighty to grant us redemption, we must also prepare ourselves by initiating the return to Eretz Yisrael and working towards our freedom and independence.

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