Parashat Shemot opens quietly, almost deceptively so. A new king arises over Egypt who does not know Joseph, and suddenly a people who once thrived become strangers, feared and oppressed. The descent into slavery happens gradually, normalised step by step, until cruelty becomes policy. The Torah does not dramatise this at first. It simply tells us that the Israelites groaned under their labour and cried out.
And that raises an uncomfortable question. How long had they been crying before anyone listened? How long does suffering have to last before it becomes unbearable enough to demand change?
The Talmud reflects deeply on this opening of Shemot. In Sotah, the sages note that Pharaoh’s decrees intensified only once the people continued to grow despite oppression. Affliction did not break them. It multiplied them. From this, the rabbis draw a profound insight. Attempts to crush Jewish existence often provoke the very resilience they seek to destroy. Yet that resilience does not erase pain. Growth and suffering can exist side by side.
Into this darkness, a child is born. Moses enters the world not with triumph but with concealment, hidden in a basket among the reeds. The sages emphasise that redemption does not begin with power or spectacle, but with moral courage in small acts. A mother who refuses to give up. A sister who stands watch. Midwives who defy authority. Even Pharaoh’s own daughter, who hears a cry and chooses compassion over compliance.
The Talmud teaches that Moses was not chosen because of lineage or ambition, but because of empathy. In Midrash and later rabbinic teaching, Moses proves himself while tending sheep, stopping to care for the weakest among them. Leadership, our sages insist, begins with the ability to notice suffering that others overlook.
And then comes the burning bush. Fire that burns but does not consume. God speaks, but only after Moses stops, turns aside, and truly sees. The Holy One, Blessed be He, does not force the moment. Moses must choose to engage. Here the Torah poses another question, though silently. How often do we pass by burning bushes in our own lives, moments that demand attention, moral clarity, or courage, but we are too busy to stop?
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z”l often taught that Judaism is a faith that begins in protest against injustice. Faith, he wrote, is not acceptance of the world as it is, but commitment to the world as it ought to be. Shemot is where that commitment is born. God hears the cry of the oppressed, but human beings are summoned to act.
In our own time, these questions feel urgent. What does it mean to hear cries today? Where do we see the slow normalisation of cruelty, indifference, or dehumanisation? Do we wait for someone else to lead, or do we ask ourselves, as Moses ultimately must, who am I to turn away?
Shemot reminds us that redemption does not arrive fully formed. It begins in exile, in fear, in uncertainty. It begins when ordinary people refuse to accept moral numbness as inevitable. It begins when we listen, when we notice, and when we dare to respond.
The book of Exodus opens not with miracles, but with questions. Will we see? Will we hear? And when the call comes, will we answer, or will we pass by and keep walking?
May this parashah challenge us to stop, to listen, and to remember that even in the darkest moments, the first spark of redemption may already be burning before us.