Exodus Knowing Humanity
Parashat Shmot Exodus 1:1-6:1
Some years ago, when I was relatively new to Torah learning and eager to explore, I was doing parsha study with a group of friends, and we encountered this verse.
וַיָּקׇם מֶלֶךְ־חָדָשׁ עַל־מִצְרָיִם אֲשֶׁר לֹא־יָדַע אֶת־יוֹסֵף׃
And there arose over Egypt a new king who knew not Josef.
(Exodus 1:8)
Familiar from my family’s rendering of the Pesach seder, this was a verse that felt like I’d always known it; but that day, for some reason I saw something radically different from the normative understanding. Cautiously at first, and then with the unearned confidence of the misguided, I made an impassioned argument that this pasuk—I would have called it a line back then—was full of rosy optimism. It speaks, I said, of the possibility of new beginnings. Perhaps it was because I grew up in the shadow of an extravagantly talented older brother, a hilarious and gracious older sister, and a brilliant and adorable younger sister. The idea of finding myself in a place where I wasn’t automatically filed under the category of So-and-so’s Sister sounded refreshing. I thought: maybe it was good that the new king didn’t know Josef; maybe it would give the Israelites a chance to reinvent themselves, independent of Josef’s skill, cunning, and power. It’s good to wipe the slate clean and start fresh, right?
We kept reading that day, and I began to see it differently.
The new king who knew Josef neither by deed nor by reputation had no way of understanding that it was because of Josef’s skill and foresight that famine didn’t wipe out the entire known world. To this new king, Josef’s Israelite descendents were a nuisance, a growing minority, a foreign presence. To this new king, they were immigrants, outsiders.
The language in the passage is telling. The verse right before the new king is mentioned, says:
וּבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל פָּרוּ וַיִּשְׁרְצוּ וַיִּרְבּוּ וַיַּעַצְמוּ בִּמְאֹד מְאֹד וַתִּמָּלֵא הָאָרֶץ אֹתָם׃
And the Israelites multiplied and swarmed and increased and grew strong very very much. And the land filled with them.
(Exodus 1:7)
The careful reader might remember the word יִשְׁרְצוּ (yishretzu) from the story of creation, day five, when God fills the seas and the earth with, among other things, creatures that creep and crawl. The dehumanization begins.
The fifteenth-century Rabbi Avraham Saba, known as the Tzror haMor, interprets the new king with disdain for the Egyptian citizenry. His view was that the Egyptians wanted nothing to do with any king who might have favored Josef. Therefore they purposely disrupted the typical hereditary transfer of power and installed a new king, one who was purposely chosen because he knew not Josef.
The Tosafists of Da’at Zkenim suggest something darker still. Because the text doesn’t explicitly say that the old king has died, these medieval scholars imagine that the so-called new king isn’t even new. Rather, they suggest a scenario where the citizens try to influence their ruler to attack the Israelites. He resists their suggestion, and so they depose him. Three months later he makes his way back to power by promising to attack. Under the influence of mob rule, the king renounces his principles and becomes a new person, giving up some of his own humanity in the process. As is so often the case, dehumanization cuts both ways.
Each of these commentaries is grappling with the question of how societies come to turn against outsiders. Sadly their dim view of the Egyptians echoes their contemporary real-life experience: during the Tosafist period, the study of Talmud was outlawed by the church and volumes of our sacred texts were burned in the street. And the Tzror haMor spent much of his life fleeing persecution and expulsion. Not unlike what happened to the Israelites toward the beginning of Shmot, his children were taken from him and forcibly converted to Christianity.
It must have been all too easy for these sages to take the Hebrew name for Egyptians—Mitzrim—literally. The root word צר—narrow—practically shouts that the Israelites were squeezed into a corner. The narrow-minded people in power, and the narrow-minded people who influenced them, replaced knowledge and relationship with fear and contempt, resulting in a new king who did not know the worth of Josef’s years of service.
Clearly, the relationships we form and the reputations we earn can protect us. And in their absence, all too often, dehumanization takes root. Knowing is a potential antidote to the harm that dehumanization can cause. In people of good will, knowing one another and understanding each other’s stories can help us to see the best in each other, even when we disagree.
The community I serve is about ten miles away from the home of a man who had been posting vile antisemitic threats online. When police came to question him last week, they discovered a stockpile of weapons and arrested him. The unspooling of this troubling story underscores the urgency of helping our well-intentioned neighbors to understand the role of antisemitism in Jewish history. It is not just someone else, somewhere else; social and political forces are swirling in ominous ways.
In times of narrowness, it takes courage to allow ourselves to be known, but it could be our best hope. The moment may not call for grand gestures—after all, the subtle, subversive heroism of the midwives Shifra and Puah is a reflection of tremendous courage. Rather, what I believe this moment demands of us is to gently and thoughtfully articulate why antisemitism is a problem that merits earnest attention. The more we cultivate our allies—in relationship, through quiet conversation—the safer we will be.
In about two months’ time, we will recall Queen Esther’s courage in letting herself be known, when Haman’s ruthlessness and hatred, coupled with Achashverosh’s gullibility, threatened the safety of the Jews of Shushan. Soon we will read this famous line evoking the power of knowing:
מִי יוֹדֵעַ אִם־לְעֵת כָּזֹאת הִגַּעַתְּ לַמַּלְכוּת
Who knows if perhaps you reached your royal position for such a time as this.
Who knows indeed? Author and Hebrew College professor Nehemia Polen taught me that the world can change on a dime, maybe even for the good. Perhaps in such a time as this, our courage in allowing ourselves to be known can lay the groundwork for that very change. Perhaps my naive (mis)understanding of the new king who knew not Josef can be redeemed, to reveal the possibility of a renewed energy for genuine connection and sincere solidarity.
Naomi Gurt Lind (she/her) is a fifth-year rabbinical student at Hebrew College and the former editor of the 70 Faces blog. Additionally, she serves as spiritual leader at Temple Ahavat Achim in Gloucester. Apart from her studies, teaching, and leading, she plays Bananagrams with her family and bakes a legendary challah. Subscribe to her Rosh Hodesh newsletter Naomi’s Notes from the Beit Midrash and her blog Jewish Themes.
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