Sh’mot
Exodus 1:1-6:1

By Jen Smith

If Vayechi was the quiet closing of a book, Sh’mot is the abrupt opening of a new one – with a completely different tone.

Genesis ends with a family. Exodus begins with a census. Genesis is intimate and personal. Exodus opens with bureaucracy, forced labor, and a new Pharaoh who does not know Joseph (I like to think of this as Torah shorthand for things are about to get very bad very fast.)

And yet, the book that begins in slavery will end at Sinai. And this already tells us something essential about Jewish wisdom: our story doesn’t start when things are good; instead, it begins in the narrowest of places.

Sh’mot opens with names. “These are the names of the children of Israel who came to Egypt…” While this may seem superfluous, there is mystical significance to this detail. In Kabbalah, rather than a label, one’s name is a channel of spiritual energy. Over the course of history, we have learned that names anchor identity when everything else is stripped away. Pharaoh might be able to reduce the Israelites to bricks and quotas, but the Torah insists on naming them anyway. And for me, this is where Jewish values begin: no matter how constrained the body becomes, the soul remains named, counted, and known.

Egypt in Hebrew is Mitzrayim, which literally translates to the narrow places. Spiritually, it represents any space where life feels oppressed, where breath is shallow, where joy feels rationed or even completely absent. Which is to say: Egypt is not only a location; Egypt is a state of mind. And throughout history, it has also been a recurring human experience.

Pharaoh’s plan to deal with the Israelites is chillingly efficient: fear growth, limit freedom, control reproduction. And yet, in a moment of divine irony, the more the Israelites are oppressed, the more they multiply. Mysticism reads this as a spiritual law: light increases under pressure (and, frankly, people turn to their partners for comfort…in a practical sense).

The midwives, Shifra and Puah, become the quiet heroes of this parsha. They practice civil disobedience with compassion, choosing reverence for life and honoring their principles over obedience to corrupt power. Jewish wisdom loves this kind of courage: quiet rebellion and moral clarity enacted one small choice or act at a time. It is also worth noting that God’s first redemption strategy is to work through the midwives instead of the warriors. There are no prophets, only women who refuse cruelty.

And then, finally, we meet Moses. Born into chaos, raised in privilege, and utterly unprepared for leadership. God calls him to active duty (so to speak), and Moses argues with God, insisting that he is not the right person for the sacred mission of rescuing the Hebrew slaves.  Which is comforting, honestly.

Mystically, Moses represents the soul that turns away from greatness but is chosen anyway. The burning bush, on fire, yet not consumed, becomes the ultimate spiritual metaphor: a mortal human holding infinite purpose without burning out. (God will later revisit this theme several thousand times.) Moses’ reluctance shouldn’t be judged as weakness. Instead, it is the Torah’s way of personifying humility. Sh’mot reminds us that Jewish leadership is not about the desire for power – it’s about remembering not to look away when we are faced with injustice.

Yes, the book of Exodus has miracles and plenty of drama. But before anyone starts chasing frogs or crossing parted seas, the Torah insists that we first sit with the fear, courage, and discomfort that precede the seismic shift from people to Peoplehood.

Sh’mot teaches us that redemption does not begin with freedom. It begins with remembering who we are when we are stuck in narrow places. And maybe that’s the humor of it all: the Torah’s grand liberation story doesn’t start with thunder, but rather, with anxiety, midwives, and a man arguing with a magical flaming shrub.

Because Judaism knows the following deep truths: Growth is awkward. Redemption is inconvenient. And transformation rarely starts when we feel ready.

As we enter Egypt again this year, may we notice our own narrow places with curiosity instead of despair. May we remember our names when the world tries to reduce us to numbers. And may we trust that even reluctant souls, speaking imperfectly, can still become vessels for liberation.

After all, if Moses can change the course of history as a shepherd in the run, there is hope for the rest of us yet. Let the journey begin!

Shabbat Shalom!