Relieved and reassured, the Jewish people burst into song. Just hours before, they had faced their fate with panic as Pharaoh and his legion of cavalry rushed toward their position on the banks of the Red Sea.
With nowhere to flee between the oncoming army and the watery depths, they cried out to God in their moment of crisis.
Yet here they were, miraculously saved by the pathway God laid out for them through the sea.
As they catch their breath, they sing a song, looking back on their fears, out upon the miracle, and onward to the bright future of freedom ahead.
This emotional redemption at the splitting of the Red Sea is highlighted by Ba’al Haturim in his commentary on the Torah portion – Masei.
In recounting the sojourns of the Jewish people, the Torah says that the Jews journeyed from Harada to Makhelot (Numbers 33:25).
Rather than reading these as two place names, the Ba’al Haturim sees in this verse a reference to the splitting of the sea when the Jews transitioned from terror (harada) to collective singing (makhelot).
This shift in mindset is itself an element of redemption – the transition from the mode of panic and survivalism into one of recollection, reflection, and rejuvenation.
No less emotionally charged is the song of Deborah in our haftarah (the portion from the Prophets read on Shabbat following the Torah reading), which was sung at the completion of the war with the Canaanites at Mount Tabor.
Years of hostilities finally draw to an end with this decisive victory, marking the start of forty years of geopolitical quiet in ancient Israel.
Finally, Deborah can reflect upon what has taken place.
Like those who sang the “Song of the Sea,” Deborah too is now able to detect God’s hand in the story, a perspective that couldn’t be seen in the real-time thick of battle.
She takes note of which tribes took part in the conflict and which failed to show up, offering praise and criticism, respectively, where they are due.
Deborah even closes her song with a reflection on the emotional cost felt across enemy lines, thinking of Sisera’s mother awaiting his return home – a poignant vignette that lives on in our ritual practice through the one hundred blasts of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah.
All of this taking stock occurs not during the war but after its conclusion, when the newfound quiet began to set in.
Israel is now faced with the same moment as in Jewish history
We, too, stand at a moment that offers the hope of quiet. With a fragile cessation of hostilities holding for now, we feel just about ready to lift our heads and hearts from the emotional drain of wartime.
The murdered and fallen will not return, the wounded are still healing, devastated communities are still rebuilding, and the hostages have not yet all been returned home.
Yet, even with all the grief and fear we are still holding on to, glimpsing a possible end to this war allows us to begin reflecting – on how we got here, how we traversed this journey together, how we remember those who have fallen, how we help those who have been injured, and how we wish to move forward.
Our current relative quiet may not be the victorious relief felt by our ancestors at the Red Sea or at Mount Tabor.
But it is nonetheless a moment to embrace, a moment to catch our breath – individually and collectively – and to regain our bearings on our national journey.
It is a journey of faith, resilience, and responsibility to build our national homeland; a journey that has carried us through the generations.
The writer, a rabbi, is president and rosh yeshiva of Ohr Torah Stone.