We Will Remember What Happened on Wednesday
Summoning the heart strength we need to tell the story.
Where were you on Wednesday?
I know that you remember — and I know that you will always remember. Wednesday became one of those ‘where were you when’ days. Like the day that Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Or when you first heard that Martin Luther King Jr had been assassinated. Or John F Kennedy. Or Yitzchak Rabin. You remember where you were on Wednesday, like you remember where you were when you first heard that a plane hit the Twin Towers.
Wednesday, January 6, 2021, the Assault on the Capitol, is now a part of our national narrative.
I was in the office on Wednesday.
I was trying to get work done, sending e mails and returning phone calls while keeping one eye on the news. I was trying to piece together the confusing story that was trickling-in through social media and major news outlets.
The depth of what had happened truly sank in a little bit later. I was driving my kids with the radio on, when my daughter asked me to ‘please put a different show on, Mommy. This one is too scary.’
She was right. It was scary. It is scary.
We will not forget the images that we saw of our nation’s capital under siege.
We scroll through the photos from that day:
There are our representatives being escorted out of the chamber wearing evacuation hoods.
There are police officers, guns drawn, as intruders attempt to break in.
There is an invader, hanging from the balcony, dressed in black, attempting to drop down and desecrate the sacred democratic process.
These photos become our collective history.
We each have our own part. We remember where we were.
In this week’s parasha, we read the first words of the exodus from Egypt. We see ourselves in the narrative, because this, too, is our story. And as we begin Parashat Shmot, we find ourselves hiding between the lines of our sacred text.
We imagine ourselves scrolling through the images:
There is Yocheved, crouched on the birth stool, afraid to bring her baby into a society that is eager to do away with him.
There is Pharoah, enraged with the tenacity and the fertility of the Israelites, heart hardened, decreeing that all firstborn Israelite sons be killed.
There is big sister Miriam, eyes wide, weaving a basket in which she will soon place her baby brother.
There is Pharoah’s daughter, gazing wistfully at the Nile river, wishing for a child of her own.
In the background of these images are two young women. Trained in the art of midwifery, they calmly wipe Yocheved’s brow, coaxing her to push through the fear. Together they bring this baby into the world, and instead of leaving him to die as they are ordered to do, they place him onto his exhausted mother’s chest. This is a day that they will always remember: The day that they defied Pharaoh simply by opening their hearts to the miracle of human life.
We read:
וַיֹּ֙אמֶר֙ מֶ֣לֶךְ מִצְרַ֔יִם לַֽמְיַלְּדֹ֖ת הָֽעִבְרִיֹּ֑ת אֲשֶׁ֨ר שֵׁ֤ם הָֽאַחַת֙ שִׁפְרָ֔ה וְשֵׁ֥ם הַשֵּׁנִ֖ית פּוּעָֽה׃ וַיֹּ֗אמֶר בְּיַלֶּדְכֶן֙ אֶת־הָֽעִבְרִיּ֔וֹת וּרְאִיתֶ֖ן עַל־הָאָבְנָ֑יִם אִם־בֵּ֥ן הוּא֙ וַהֲמִתֶּ֣ן אֹת֔וֹ וְאִם־בַּ֥ת הִ֖יא וָחָֽיָה׃ וַתִּירֶ֤אןָ הַֽמְיַלְּדֹת֙ אֶת־הָ֣אֱלֹקִ֔ים וְלֹ֣א עָשׂ֔וּ כַּאֲשֶׁ֛ר דִּבֶּ֥ר אֲלֵיהֶ֖ן מֶ֣לֶךְ מִצְרָ֑יִם וַתְּחַיֶּ֖יןָ אֶת־הַיְלָדִֽים׃
(15) The king of Egypt spoke to the Hebrew midwives, one of whom was named Shiphrah and the other Puah,
(16) saying, “When you deliver the Hebrew women, look at the birthstool: if it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live.”
(17) The midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live. (Ex 1:15–17)
I imagine Shifra and Puah walking silently away from the birthing tent, knowing that what has just transpired between them, the silent decision to let a baby live, is no small thing at all. This ordinary birth, this typical day at work for the two midwives, becomes an act of strength and defiance that is, eventually, recorded — and then, told for generations yet to come as we remember that we, too, were slaves in Egypt.
We too were the mothers giving birth in the reeds of the Nile.
We too stacked bricks and mortar for pyramids in the bitter desert heat.
We too were the courageous midwives.
These stories of perseverance are our story of perseverance, too.
But this week, it has been hard to let our minds rest on the stories of our past, when the stories of our present are so urgent.
We scroll through more photographs.
There is the representative from Colorado taking the representative from Pennsylvania by the hand to calm her as they take cover beneath the chairs.
There are our US Capitol Police officers risking their own lives as they try to stop rioters from entering the building.
And then there is one more photo that has caught my eye, again and again.
It is of two women, Senate aides, calmly carrying the crucial electoral ballot boxes out of the building. You can almost hear their silent conversation. What has transpired between them as they have done their jobs, it turns out, is no small thing at all.
The photo of the two aides has gone viral.
Author Glennon Doyle posted their picture on Instagram, saying,
“Here are the women … who had the presence of mind and courage to protect, keep safe, and transport the electoral votes before fleeing the Senate.”*
I gaze at the picture.
I reread the comments about their clear minds and courageous acts.
Could I ever be so bold?
I worry that I lack the bravery that should have been instilled in me by my ancestors, by Shifra and Puah, by Yocheved and Miriam.
Ometz Lev, courage, or bravery, is a Jewish middah, a Jewish virtue that we hold up as an individual responsibility.
But how, in a world that feels scarier than it should, do we make ourselves brave?
How do we become brave in this world
where ideas become tweets,
and tweets become movements,
and movements become the sort of violence that
occupy our sacred symbols of freedom?
Midrash Tehillim teaches that one becomes a hero not by pushing someone off of a roof, but by noticing that someone is about to fall, and reaching out to catch them.
In other words, bravery is not have to be a big act.
Sometimes bravery is as small, as simple, as stretching out a hand.
Photo by Tom Williams / CQ-Roll Call, Inc via Getty Images
Ometz Lev is the phrase we use to describe courage. But the words on their own tell us what that really means. Ometz means strength, and Lev means heart. Or, more simply: ‘heart strength.’
Courage is attainable. Bravery is as natural as breathing.
Ometz Lev is as simple as a beating, pulsing heart.
Pharoah’s heart was hard.
And the rioters — their hearts were hardened, too.
But ours don’t have to be.
Our hearts open and close as they contract and expand. They allow blood and oxygen to enter. Our hearts are muscles, working, always working, to nourish even the furthest parts of ourselves. This ‘heart strength’ is unconscious. It pulses and beats as we simply, bravely do our jobs as citizens, and as Jews.
Heart strength is grasping the heavy handle of the ballot box.
Ometz Lev is catching a baby, and letting it live.
Courage is turning off the news, taking a break, showing our kids that when the world starts to feel too scary, we care more about their well-being than our own fear.
Ometz Lev is our heartfelt inclination to reach out a hand to one who is falling. Ometz Lev is holding the hand of one who is afraid.
Ometz Lev is using our hands and our hearts to make the world better and braver. Ometz Lev is these small, manageable, intuitive acts of kindness and courage.
We might not go viral, but it is vital.
It is vital to remember the parts of Wednesday’s story that will be the beginning of our nation’s healing. Just like the midwives’ small rebellion was the first step out of Egypt, the hands that grasped others on Wednesday are our first step, too.
We look inside ourselves. We find the ometz lev that moves us past this difficult year, and into sweeter, kinder, more promising days ahead.
Our courage lives in these small, but significant acts.
When bravely, quietly do our part:
to protect the sanctity of life,
to pursue the promise of liberty,
and to hold up every happiness with the strength of these beautiful, beating hearts.
Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin
Parashat Shmot, January 8th, 2021
Congregation Beth Israel, Scottsdale Arizona
*Since posting, it is confirmed that the photo of the Senate aides carrying the ballot boxes was taken as part of the formal proceedings before the attacks. Does this make them any less brave? Does this make their part in the story any less poignant? Does it change how we tell the story?
