Beshalach
Exodus 13:17–17:16 

By Guest Torah Blogger, Jen Smith

Beshalach is one of the most mystical and existentially charged portions in the Torah. It is a narrative of liminality – of thresholds crossed, waters split, and consciousness transformed. The Israelites leave Egypt, but their redemption is incomplete. They are free of Pharaoh, but they are still bound by fear. They sing even though they struggle to trust. Their journey is not simply about geography, but rather about spiritual evolution – a movement from familiar (oppressive) constraints to the vast, untamed wilderness of the unknown. 

In this portion, we encounter three defining motifs: the sea, the manna, and the song. These are not merely historical artifacts of an ancient journey; they are archetypes of human experience, mirrors of our own struggles, doubts, and aspirations. 

The Midrash teaches that the sea did not split immediately. It was only when Nachshon ben Aminadav stepped forward, allowing the waters to reach his nose, that the miracle occurred (Sotah 37a). There is something deeply unsettling about this image: the act of faith was not rewarded in advance; rather, it required an existential leap, a submission to the unknown. 

In Jewish mysticism, water represents the unconscious, the hidden strata of reality. The Kabbalists describe two modes of divine presence: Or Yashar (direct light) – these are the structured, knowable aspects of existence; and Or Chozer (returning light) – the hidden, chaotic elements that can only be understood in retrospect. The Red Sea is the Or Chozer, the realm of the unknown, where meaning is not linear but recursive. 

Each of us has our own sea – moments where clarity dissolves, where stability gives way to the abyss. Sometimes, as in the case with our friend, Nachshon, the path does not reveal itself until we fully commit, until we surrender the illusion of control and step into the uncertainty. How often do we stand at the shores of our own existential seas, unwilling to enter until we see the outcome? Beshalach demands that we rethink the nature of faith as movement despite uncertainty. 

After crossing the sea, the Israelites face a different test – not of fear, but of sustenance. They cry out in hunger, and God provides manna, with an unusual stipulation: they may gather only what they need for that day. Any attempt to hoard results in rot (Exodus 16:19-20). 

The ethical challenge of manna is profound. It subverts the instinct to accumulate, to secure one’s future through possession. The Torah is offering an alternative paradigm: spiritual security is not built on surplus, but on trust.  

The Baal Shem Tov expands this lesson into a philosophy of divine flow: just as the Israelites had to rely on daily manna, so too must we cultivate the capacity to live in the present, to believe that what we have in this moment is enough. This is not a call to passivity but to a radical reorientation of security – not as a function of what we hold, but of what we release. 

We live in a world obsessed with accumulation – of wealth, influence, even knowledge. We prepare for futures we cannot control, convinced that security lies in possession. But Beshalach challenges us: What if security is not about having more, but about needing less?  

After the sea splits, the Israelites erupt in Shirat HaYam, the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15). It is a moment of revelation, the first recorded communal song in Jewish history. But the Midrash adds an extraordinary layer: before they sang, there was absolute silence. The entire universe, it says, came to a standstill (Megillah 10b). In the mystical tradition, silence precedes song, revealing that true revelation comes from the stillness that allows an idea to be heard. 

We often think of faith as verbal, as an act of articulation. But Beshalach suggests another model: faith as listening. Before we can sing, we must be silent. Before we can know, we must dwell in mystery. 

The journey of Beshalach is not linear. Even after witnessing miracles, the Israelites doubt. Even after crossing the sea, they long for Egypt. This is not a failure of faith; it is an acknowledgment of the complexity of transformation. Redemption is not an event but a process, a constant oscillation between clarity and confusion, progress and regression. 

Each of us stands, at different moments, at the shores of our own seas, faced with choices we might be afraid to make. Each of us confronts the illusion of control, tempted to hoard certainty rather than trust in what unfolds. Each of us must learn to balance the noise of our Schopenhauer-esq striving with silence that allows us to listen to the underlying message.  

The mystics teach that every exile contains the seeds of redemption; breaking these binds is necessary for the emergence of something greater.  Beshalach is not just a story of the past; it is the structure of our own unfolding, an invitation to step forward, to release, and most importantly, to listen. 

May we have the courage of Nachshon, the humility to trust in the unseen, and the wisdom to hear the silence before the song. 

Shabbat Shalom.