Miracles Amazing Wonders

The majority of this week’s Parsha speaks of Moshe and Aharon’s interactions with Pharaoh, and the various ways in which they, through Hashem, tried to convince him to let Bnei Yisrael leave Mitzrayim.

Of course the central feature of these efforts were the Esser Makkos, seven of which are discussed in this weeks Parsha. Prior to the actual Makkos, we also learn of the “Ossos” that Moshe performed in front of Pharaoh to show that he was sent by Hashem.

In fact, If we had to select a theme for Parshas Va’era, we could easily select “Nissim.” This Parsha is full of Nissim— from the Ossos to the Makkos. First we learn that the Matteh turns into a snake, and back into a Matteh, then Moshe’s hand becomes stricken with Tzaras, and immediately healed. In addition, each and every Makka had an element of Nes—the Jews were spared from the Makkos even as the Mitzriyim suffered immensely in the same exact circumstances.

Why is it that Yitziyas Mitzrayim had to come through Nissim Gelyuim? Could not the same outcome be made possible through Nissim Nistarim? Imagine if circumstances similar to the story of Purim took place: Moshe grew up in Pharaoh’s house, he could have found favor in the eyes of the King and convinced him to free his brethren on the basis of Mercy. Why did Hashem specifically have to bring about such fantastic Nissim for the purposes of Yitziyas Mitzrayim?

Even if we can understand that these Nissim were necessary, for one reason or another, the Nissim themselves were performed inan interesting manner: each had an element of Teva as well. For example: if Hashem wanted the water in Mitzrayim to turn to blood, he could accomplish that without Aharon striking the water—why was this element of Teva, a measure of human interaction, necessary for the Nissim of the Makkos?

It is vital to remember, as we have mentioned many times before, that the Torah is not a storybook—nothing is written just for the sake of letting us know what happened, so to speak. There are no literary devices either—not one word is written just for the sake of color, texture, background or rhythm. This being the case, we must understand why the Torah goes to such great lengths to describe each of the ten Makkos.

There were many events in the lives of the Avos Hakedoshim that are not written in Torah Shebiksav—anything that we do see in the Torah itself is there to teach us something. This must be the case when it comes to the Makkos themselves. As we learn these Parshios we cannot assume that the Torah is trying to tell us the story of the birth of our nation—there must be something that we can take from it. Just as the Makkos were a message for Pharaoh, they must hold a message for us as well.

I would like to suggest an approach that can help us understand the purpose and the nature of the Nissim as well as the reason that the Torah goes to such great lengths to record the entire story.

The beginning of our Parsha is really a continuation of Parshas Shemos, in which Moshe Rabeinu asked Hashem two questions: “Lama Hareiosa: why are you oppressing Bnei Yisroel?” and: “V’armru Li Mah Shemo, Ma Omar Aleihem: If they ask me ‘What is His [Hashem’s] name?’ What should I tell them?

The Medrah, brought by Rashi, explains that the first Pessukim in our Parsha were said by Hashem in response to those two questions “Va’era El Avraham, El Yitzchak, V’eal Yaakov, B’Kel Shakai, U’Shemi Hahsem Lo Nodati Lahem: I appeared to the Avos without revealing my name, other than the name Shakai.”

The Medrash explains that Hashem told Moshe that the Avos never asked what my name was, though Moshe felt a need to, and although they found plenty of tribulations in their lives, the Avos never asked “Lama Hareiosa.” The Medrash says that at this point Hashem said of the Avos: “Chaval Al D’Avdan, V’lo Mishtachin: Woe upon those who are lost and cannot be replaced.”

It would seem from this Medrash that Hashem was simply rebuking Moshe for his questions—which on his level perhaps displayed a lack of Emunah—but R’ Shimon Schwab offers a deeper insight.

The name of Hashem “Shakai” come from the word Dai: “enough,” as the Gemrah in Taanis says: “Mi Sheamar L’Olamo Dai.” This was the name that the Avos related to. R’ Schwab says that the Avos were satisfied with the word of Hashem—if they were promised something from Hakadosh Baruch Hu, they were absolutely secure in the knowledge that the promise would come true. He likens this to someone who has a large amount of money deposited in the bank on their behalf—he needn’t be holding the actual cash, the fact that it is in his account is enough to make him feel rich. So to the Avos were so secure in their Emunah that even a promise from Hashem was like money in the bank, so to speak.

For this reason, even when their experiences seemed to fly in the face of those very promises, they didn’t ask “Lama Hareisoa.” Avraham Avinu was promised the entire Eretz Yisrael: “Lecha Etnena, U’lizarecha.” Yet when it came time to find a burial lot for his wife, he met much opposition. Though these difficulties seemed to go against the Havtacha of “Lecha Etnena” Avraham assumed that the promise would yet be fulfilled—the word of Hashem was Dai.

R’ Schwab explains that at this point in history, as Hashem is speaking to Moshe, that Hanhaga no longer applied. No longer would Bnei Yisroel be satisfied with the word of Hashem alone, they now required a “Kiyum B’poel,” a physical manifestation of the Devar Hashem. The Shem of Shakai was no longer the prevalent Hanhaga, we had reached a point of Shemi Hashem—the name of Hahsem that represents direct and open Hashgacha. It was this change of status that Hashem was lamenting: “Chaval Al D’Avdan, V’lo Mishtachin.”

Perhaps it was for this reason that Yitziyas Mitzrayim required such open, magnificent Nissim.