Parashat Vaera meets us in the middle of despair. The people of Israel are still crushed beneath the weight of Egyptian slavery. Moses has already spoken once in the name of HaShem, and instead of relief, the suffering has intensified. The Torah tells us that the people could not even listen to words of redemption because of their “shortness of spirit and hard labour”. What happens when pain is so deep that hope itself becomes unbearable?
HaShem responds not only with promises but with identity. “I am HaShem… I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” Redemption does not begin with miracles. It begins with memory. The covenant is recalled, the relationship renewed, and a future is spoken aloud even before the people are ready to hear it. The Torah shows us that faith does not erase suffering, but it refuses to allow suffering to become the whole story.
Our sages in the Talmud note that redemption unfolds step by step, with patience and persistence. The plagues themselves are not only punishments but awakenings. They shake Egypt’s certainty, they break the illusion of absolute power, and they teach that tyranny is never the final word. The process is slow because human hearts change slowly. HaShem could have ended slavery instantly, yet the Torah instead records a journey. Why? Perhaps because freedom is not only political, it is also spiritual. A people who have been silenced must slowly learn to hear again, and then to speak, and finally to stand.
The Midrash teaches that even at the darkest moment, there were hidden sparks of faith that refused to disappear. The people did not lose their names, their language, or their sense of connection to one another. These small acts of spiritual resistance preserved identity when everything else was stripped away. Redemption, then, began not only with HaShem’s outstretched hand, but with the people’s refusal to forget who they were.
Parashat Vaera asks us difficult questions. What do we do when our own spirit feels shortened, when the news is heavy and the future unclear? How do we respond when promises of change sound distant or unrealistic? Where do we find strength when history itself seems to repeat its darkest chapters?
The answer in this parashah is not naïve optimism. It is covenantal resilience. Moses himself struggles. He doubts his own voice. He fears rejection. Yet he continues to stand, to speak, to go back to Pharaoh again and again. Persistence becomes an act of faith. The Talmud teaches that even when the gates of prayer appear closed, the gates of tears are never closed. The cry of the oppressed is always heard by HaShem, even when we cannot yet see its response.
Today, we live in a world that knows something of fear, division, and uncertainty. Jewish communities still carry deep concerns for safety and identity. The questions the parashah raises are not theoretical. What kind of world do we believe is possible? Do we accept injustice as fixed, or do we challenge it, even when the path is long? Can we maintain compassion, solidarity, and faith when we are tired?
Vaera does not guarantee that tomorrow will be easy. It does something more honest. It tells us that redemption is real even when unseen, that transformation is often slow, and that the covenantal story still moves forward because we refuse to abandon it.
May we find strength when spirit is short, courage when the task is heavy, and voice even when it trembles. And may we, like our ancestors, learn to hear in the midst of struggle the quiet promise that the world can yet be redeemed.