by Rabbi Yair Hoffman

Sipur Yetzias Mitzrayim should be father to son (and daughter) – not the other way around. It should also be in Q&A form. This may be helpful.

How Did a Family of Seventy Souls Become Slaves?
The story does not begin in Mitzrayim. It begins with Avraham Avinu, standing before Hashem at the Bris Bein HaBesarim — the Covenant Between the Parts. There, Hashem revealed to Avraham that his descendants would be strangers in a land not their own, afflicted and enslaved, and that in the end Hashem would judge that nation and bring His people out with great wealth (Bereishis 15:13–14).
The Midrash tells us that Hashem considered several locations for this crucible of exile. Mitzrayim was chosen because it was the most morally depraved civilization on earth — the very “ervah,” the nakedness, of all lands (Bereishis Rabbah 16:4). To emerge from Mitzrayim intact would itself require a miracle.
Yaakov Avinu descended to Mitzrayim with seventy souls. Seventy — a family, not yet a nation. But inside that small number was compressed the entirety of the Jewish future. The family settled in Goshen, set apart from the Mitzrim. Chazal teach that throughout the entire exile, the Jews preserved four things: their names, their language, their mode of dress, and their moral conduct (Vayikra Rabbah 32:5). These four shields of identity would prove to be the very reason they merited redemption.
After Yosef HaTzadik died, something shifted. “And a new king arose over Mitzrayim who did not know Yosef” (Shemos 1:8). The Talmud in Sotah (11a) records a dispute: one opinion holds it was literally a new king; the other maintains it was the same Pharaoh who now conducted himself as though he had never known Yosef. Either way, the debt of gratitude was erased. When a civilization loses its capacity for hakaras hatov, the capacity for evil becomes limitless.
Pharaoh convened his advisors. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 1:9) tells us that three advisors were present: Bilam, who counseled to destroy the Jews; Iyov, who remained silent; and Yisro, who fled in protest. Each received his measure for measure — Bilam was ultimately killed, Iyov suffered terribly, and Yisro merited that his descendants sat in the Lishkas HaGazis in the Beis HaMikdash.
Pharaoh’s strategy was cunning. He did not enslave the Jews by force at first. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 1:11) describes how Pharaoh himself put a basket on his own shoulder and began making bricks. The Jews, seeing their king engaged in labor, rushed to help — and by the time they realized what had happened, they were already enslaved by their own sense of loyalty and social obligation. The trap had been sprung without a single sword being drawn.
What Did the Suffering of the Jewish People Actually Look Like?
The Torah describes the slavery with escalating intensity. First came the taskmasters. Then came the back-breaking labor — building the store cities of Pitom and Ra’amses. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 1:14) tells us that these cities were built on swampland, so that every structure the Jews erected would sink — forcing them to build again and again without end. The labor was designed not to produce but to destroy.
The Talmud in Sotah (11b) notes that the Mitzrim targeted the Jews specifically in areas that were meant to be joyful. The Midrash elaborates: men were given women’s work and women were given men’s work, deliberately inverting the natural order to humiliate and demoralize.
Pharaoh then issued his first decree: the midwives, Shifra and Puah, were commanded to kill every male infant at the moment of birth. The Talmud (Sotah 11b) identifies Shifra and Puah as Yocheved and Miriam, Moshe’s mother and sister. They defied Pharaoh at great personal risk, telling him that the Jewish women were like the chayos — the wild animals — giving birth before the midwives could even arrive. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 1:15) adds that not only did they refuse to kill the babies, they actively brought food and water to the mothers and cared for the infants. In the merit of their courage, Hashem built them great houses — the houses of Kehunah, Leviyah, and Malchus descended from them.
When that decree failed, Pharaoh issued his most terrible edict: every newborn Jewish boy was to be thrown into the Nile. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 1:18) tells us something shattering — that when this decree was issued, Amram, the leader of his generation, reasoned that there was no point in Jewish men and women having children if they would only be murdered. He divorced his wife Yocheved. All of Klal Yisrael followed his lead and did the same. It was his young daughter Miriam who challenged her father: “Your decree is harsher than Pharaoh’s. Pharaoh only decreed against the males. You have decreed against the males and the females.” Amram recognized the wisdom of his daughter, remarried Yocheved, and once again all of Klal Yisrael followed. From that remarriage, Moshe was born.
The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 1:12) further describes how the Mitzrim imposed the slavery with meticulous psychological cruelty — keeping records, enforcing precise quotas, and punishing any shortfall. The Jewish foremen stood between the Mitzri taskmasters and the Jewish workers, absorbing the beatings rather than reporting their brothers’ failures to meet quota. It was in the merit of these foremen, the Midrash tells us, that they later became the seventy elders of the Sanhedrin.
And through it all — Hashem watched. “And Hashem heard their groaning, and Hashem remembered His covenant with Avraham, with Yitzchak, and with Yaakov. And Hashem saw the Children of Israel, and Hashem knew” (Shemos 2:24–25). The Baal HaTurim notes that the four expressions — heard, remembered, saw, knew — correspond to the four expressions of redemption that Hashem would soon speak to Moshe. Nothing was lost. Every tear was counted.
Why Did Hashem Appear to Moshe in a Lowly Thornbush of All Places?
Moshe was tending the flock of his father-in-law Yisro in the wilderness when he saw it — a bush burning with fire, yet the bush was not consumed. He turned aside to look, and in that moment of turning, everything changed.
The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 2:5) asks the very question we are asking: why a thornbush? Of all the trees and plants in creation, why did Hashem choose to reveal Himself in a sneh — a lowly, thorny, desert bush? The Midrash answers to teach that there is no place devoid of the Shechinah — not even the lowliest, most painful of places. The thornbush represented Klal Yisrael in Mitzrayim, trapped in the thorns of slavery and suffering. And Hashem was saying: I am there with you, inside the thorns.
Rashi adds another dimension: the thornbush was chosen as an act of solidarity. Just as the Jewish people were in pain, Hashem, so to speak, placed Himself in a place of pain — the sharp and prickly thornbush. This is the meaning of the verse in Tehillim (91:15): “I am with him in his distress.”
And why Moshe? The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 2:2) tells us that Moshe was tending someone else’s flock — the flock of Yisro — with the same care and devotion he would give his own. When a young lamb ran off, Moshe chased it until he found it drinking from a pool of water. He said: “I did not know you ran away because you were thirsty.” He lifted the lamb onto his shoulder and carried it back. Hashem said: “You have compassion for a flock belonging to a human being — you will tend My flock, Israel.”
Hashem called to Moshe from within the bush: “Moshe, Moshe!” — and the repetition of the name, say the meforshim, was an expression of love and urgency. Moshe responded: “Hineni — here I am.” The Alshich HaKadosh notes that this single word — hineni — was the password of the great ones of Israel. Avraham said it. Yaakov said it. Yosef said it. It means total, unconditional availability: I am here, completely, whatever You need of me.
Hashem told Moshe to remove his shoes, for the ground was holy. Then He spoke the words that shook the universe: “I have indeed seen the suffering of My people in Mitzrayim. I have heard their cry from before their taskmasters, for I know their pain. I have come down to rescue them from the hand of Mitzrayim and to bring them up from that land to a good and spacious land” (Shemos 3:7–8).
Moshe resisted. He raised objection after objection — who am I to go to Pharaoh? What shall I tell them Your name is? They will not believe me. I am not a man of words, I am heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 3:14) tells us that this dialogue between Moshe and Hashem lasted seven days. Hashem answered every objection. And when Moshe finally asked for His name, Hashem said: “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh — I will be what I will be.” The Ramban explains: tell them that the Hashem of their fathers has sent you — the Hashem Who was, Who is, and Who will always be. The name Havayah encompasses all of time, because Hashem stands outside of time entirely.
Moshe returned to Yisro, took leave of him respectfully, gathered his wife Tzipporah and his sons, and began the journey back to Mitzrayim. The Zohar notes that the moment Moshe turned toward Mitzrayim, the entire spiritual machinery of the redemption began to move.
Why Did Hashem Strike Mitzrayim With Ten Makkos — Why Not Simply Free the Jews?
When Moshe and Aharon first appeared before Pharaoh and said “Thus says Hashem, the G-d of Israel: send out My people,” Pharaoh’s response was contemptuous: “Who is Hashem that I should listen to His voice? I do not know Hashem, and moreover I will not send out Israel” (Shemos 5:2). The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 5:14) tells us that Pharaoh immediately consulted his book of nations and their G-ds, searching for the name of Hashem — and not finding it, concluded that Hashem did not exist. This was the precise error the makkos were designed to correct — not merely to force Pharaoh’s hand, but to systematically dismantle every false belief that Mitzrayim held about the nature of the world and the nature of power.
The Maharal of Prague (Gevuros Hashem, Chapter 57) explains that the ten makkos correspond to the ten utterances with which Hashem created the world. Mitzrayim had corrupted every dimension of creation, and so each makkah struck a different corrupted dimension and restored it to its proper order. The Abarbanel adds that the makkos came in three groups of three, with the tenth standing alone — each group preceded by a warning, then a plague without advance notice, teaching that Hashem operates with justice, with patience, and ultimately with absolute sovereignty.
Dam — Blood. The Nile was the god of Mitzrayim. It was the source of their sustenance, their pride, and their worship. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 9:9) tells us that the Mitzrim actually prayed to the Nile. By turning it to blood, Hashem declared: your god is powerless before Me. The fish died. The water reeked. There was blood throughout all the land of Mitzrayim — in the wooden vessels, in the stone vessels — everywhere the Mitzrim turned. Yet for the Jews in Goshen, the water remained pure. When a Jew and a Mitzri drank from the same vessel, the Mitzri tasted blood and the Jew tasted fresh water (SR 9:10).
Tzefardeia — Frogs. The Talmud (Sanhedrin 67b) records that there was in fact one giant frog that emerged from the Nile, and when the Mitzrim struck it, it split into multitudes of frogs that swarmed everywhere — into the ovens, the kneading bowls, the beds. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 10:4) praises the frogs that jumped into the fiery ovens willingly, and says that from this we learn the greatness of mesiras nefesh. So inspired were Chananyah, Mishael, and Azaryah by the frogs’ example that they were willing to enter Nevuchadnezzar’s furnace rather than bow to an idol. The Seforno learns that they were crocodiles.
Kinim — Lice. The earth of Mitzrayim itself turned against its masters. Every speck of dust became a louse. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 10:7) notes that the Mitzri magicians could not replicate this plague, because their magic had no power over something as small as a louse. They were forced to admit: “This is the finger of Hashem.” Yet Pharaoh’s heart hardened.
Arov — Wild Beasts. The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh notes that the word arov denotes a mixture — a terrifying swarm of wild and dangerous creatures unleashed simultaneously upon Mitzrayim. Lions, bears, wolves, and serpents filled the streets. The Mitzrim could not step outside their homes. Yet Goshen was untouched. The Sforno observes that this was the first plague in which Hashem explicitly distinguished between Mitzrayim and Goshen — making unmistakably clear that these were not natural disasters but targeted Divine judgments.
Dever — Pestilence. A devastating plague swept through the livestock of Mitzrayim — the horses, the donkeys, the camels, the cattle, the sheep. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 11:3) notes that not a single animal belonging to a Jew died. Pharaoh sent investigators to verify this, and they confirmed it was true. Still, Pharaoh hardened his heart.
Sh’chin — Boils. Moshe took handfuls of soot from a furnace and threw them toward the heavens before Pharaoh. The soot became fine dust that spread over all of Mitzrayim, causing agonizing boils to erupt on man and beast alike. The Midrash notes that the furnace Moshe used was from the same kiln in which the Mitzrim had burned Jewish babies — measure for measure, the very instrument of cruelty became the instrument of punishment.
Barad — Hail. This was unlike any storm the world had ever seen. Fire and ice — normally opposing forces — were miraculously suspended together within each hailstone, working in harmony to fulfill the will of their Creator (Shemos Rabbah 12:4). The Midrash notes that Hashem gave the Mitzrim fair warning before this plague — those who feared the word of Hashem could bring their servants and animals indoors. Some Mitzrim listened. This act of mercy even in the midst of judgment reflects Hashem’s attribute of rachamim that never fully disappears even in the harshest moments of din.
Arbeh — Locusts. Even Pharaoh’s own servants begged him at this point: “How long will this man be a snare to us? Send out the people!” (Shemos 10:7). Pharaoh momentarily wavered — but then insisted that only the men could go, not the women and children. Moshe refused. An east wind blew all night, and by morning the locusts had covered the entire land of Mitzrayim and devoured every remaining blade of vegetation. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 13:6) says that the locusts even sought out vegetables that the Mitzrim had hidden in their storage chambers underground.
Choshech — Darkness. For three days, a darkness so thick it could be felt descended upon Mitzrayim. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 14:3) explains that this was not merely the absence of light — it was a tangible, palpable darkness, a substance unto itself. The Mitzrim could not move. They were frozen in whatever position they had been in when the darkness fell. But for every Jew in Mitzrayim, there was light. The Midrash adds another dimension: during these three days of darkness, those Jews who had become so assimilated into Mitzri culture that they did not wish to leave died quietly during the plague of darkness — so that the Mitzrim would not see Klal Yisrael suffering as well. Even in this, Hashem protected the honor of His people.
Makas Bechoros — The Death of the Firstborn. At midnight on the fifteenth of Nissan, Hashem Himself passed through Mitzrayim. Not through an angel. Not through a messenger. The Haggadah is emphatic: “I and not an angel, I and not a seraph, I and not a messenger — it was I, Hashem, alone.” Every firstborn Mitzri died — from the firstborn of Pharaoh sitting on his throne to the firstborn of the captive in the dungeon, and even the firstborn of the animals. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 18:3) tells us that the wailing that night was unlike anything ever heard in human history. There was not a single home in Mitzrayim without its dead. Pharaoh himself rose in the night, he and all his servants, and there was a great cry throughout all of Mitzrayim (Shemos 12:30). And at that very moment — Pharaoh broke.
What Happened the Moment Pharaoh Finally Said Yes?
For months, Pharaoh had been a man of refusals. No, no, no — plague after plague, warning after warning, and still he would not yield. And now, in the darkness of midnight, surrounded by the wailing of an entire nation, the most powerful ruler on earth summoned Moshe and Aharon and said the words he had never said before: “Rise up, go out from among my people — you and the Children of Israel — go and serve Hashem as you have spoken. Take your flocks and your cattle as you have said, and go. And bless me as well” (Shemos 12:31–32).
The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 18:1) captures the astonishing reversal of that moment. The very man who had declared “I do not know Hashem” was now begging for Moshe’s blessing. The Sforno notes that when Pharaoh said “and bless me as well,” he was acknowledging for the first time that Moshe had access to a power greater than anything Mitzrayim possessed. It was the most complete personal defeat imaginable.
But there was something Pharaoh did not know. Hashem had already told Moshe that Pharaoh would not merely permit them to leave — he would drive them out entirely. And that is precisely what happened. The Mitzrim pressed upon the people urgently, saying: “We are all dying!” (Shemos 12:33). They thrust the Jews out of Mitzrayim before they even had time to let their dough rise. Those flat, unleavened pieces of dough — carried on their shoulders, baked by the heat of the desert sun — became the matzah we eat to this day.
The Meshech Chochmah observes something remarkable: the Jewish people had been told in advance to prepare for this night. They had slaughtered the Korban Pesach, smeared its blood on their doorposts, eaten it with their shoes on and their staffs in their hands — ready to travel at a moment’s notice. Yet Hashem so accelerated the redemption that even those careful preparations were almost not enough. The redemption, when it finally came, came with breathtaking speed.
Before they left, the Jewish people did something that required extraordinary courage: they asked their Mitzri neighbors for silver, gold, and clothing. The Talmud (Berachos 9a) tells us that Moshe himself spent the precious final hours in Mitzrayim not gathering personal valuables, but searching for the bones of Yosef — fulfilling the oath that Yosef had extracted from his brothers centuries earlier: “You shall surely carry up my bones from here with you” (Shemos 13:19). While others gathered gold, Moshe gathered the promise of a brother. The Midrash says that Moshe knew where the bones were buried because Serach bas Asher — who had lived since the days of Yaakov and never died — showed him the place in the Nile where the Mitzrim had sunk Yosef’s coffin in a lead casket, hoping to keep his bones in Mitzrayim forever.
What Did the Actual Night of Leaving Look Like?
Six hundred thousand men — and that is only the men, not counting women, children, and the elderly — marched out of Mitzrayim. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 20:19) tells us they left b’yad ramah — with an upraised hand — meaning openly, proudly, in broad daylight, with their heads held high. This was not a flight in the dark. This was a procession of a nation.
With them went the erev rav — a mixed multitude of non-Jews who had witnessed the makkos and wished to attach themselves to the Jewish people. The Zohar is critical of Moshe for accepting them, noting that the erev rav would cause trouble throughout the wilderness years — it was they who instigated the sin of the golden calf. Yet Moshe’s calculation was one of pure chesed: he could not turn away souls seeking to come close to Hashem.
The Jewish people had lived in Mitzrayim for 210 years — reckoned by Chazal as the gematria of the word “ger,” stranger. They had entered as a family and were leaving as a nation of hundreds of thousands. The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 20:11) describes how the Shechinah itself went before them — a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. They were not wandering. They were being escorted.
Hashem deliberately led them away from the short coastal road toward Canaan — the derech eretz Plishtim — even though it was the most direct route. The Torah explains: “Lest the people reconsider when they see war and return to Mitzrayim” (Shemos 13:17). The Netziv explains that Hashem understood the psychological fragility of a people just emerging from slavery. They needed time. They needed the wilderness. They needed to be built into a nation before they could face the challenges that awaited them in Eretz Yisrael.
They marched toward the sea. And Pharaoh, watching from his palace as the dust of six hundred thousand pairs of feet rose into the desert sky, began to regret what he had done.
What Happened at the Sea — and How Did It Split?
Pharaoh’s regret became obsession. He harnessed his chariot personally — the Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 21:5) says he did not wait for his servants, so consumed was he by the need to recapture what he had lost. He took six hundred elite chariots plus the entire army of Mitzrayim and pursued the Jewish people. When the Jews looked up and saw Mitzrayim marching after them and the sea blocking their path ahead, they cried out to Hashem in terror.
At that moment of crisis, the Jewish people divided into four camps — and each had a different response. One group said: let us throw ourselves into the sea. One group said: let us return to Mitzrayim. One group said: let us fight. And one group said: let us cry out to Hashem in prayer (Mechilta, Beshalach). Moshe addressed them all: “Do not fear. Stand firm and see the salvation of Hashem which He will perform for you today. Hashem will fight for you, and you shall be silent.”
But Hashem said something striking to Moshe: “Why do you cry out to Me? Speak to the Children of Israel and let them journey forward” (Shemos 14:15). The Kotzker Rebbe asks: was Moshe praying? We are told he was speaking to the people, not praying. The answer, says the Kotzker, is that Moshe’s very inner being was crying out to Hashem — and Hashem heard even the silent cry of the heart.
And then came Nachshon ben Aminadav. The Midrash (Sotah 37a) records one of the most celebrated acts of faith in all of Jewish history. While the people stood frozen at the water’s edge, Nachshon walked into the sea. The water reached his knees. His waist. His shoulders. His chin. And when the water reached his nostrils — the sea split.
The Sfas Emes explains that the sea did not split in response to Moshe’s staff alone. It split in response to the faith of a human being who was willing to drown rather than turn back. That is what cracked open the laws of nature — not magic, but emunah.
What the people then witnessed defied all description. The Mechilta records that what the simplest Jewish maidservant saw at the splitting of the sea surpassed the prophetic visions of Yechezkel. The sea walls on either side became transparent like glass, so the Jewish people could see one another through them (Shemos Rabbah 21:10). The seabed became dry land — not mud, not sand, but solid ground. And the water on either side was divided into twelve separate lanes, one for each shevet, so that every tribe crossed in its own path (Midrash Tehillim 114).
As the Jewish people crossed on dry land, the Mitzrim pursued them into the sea. The wheels of their chariots became stuck and began to come off. The Midrash tells us the horses refused to advance further — they sensed what was coming. And then Hashem told Moshe: stretch out your hand. Moshe stretched out his hand over the sea, and the waters returned. Every chariot. Every horseman. The entire army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea — not one of them remained (Shemos 14:28).
The Talmud (Megillah 10b) records that when the angels wished to sing before Hashem as the Mitzrim drowned, Hashem silenced them: “My creatures are drowning in the sea and you wish to sing songs?” Even in the moment of ultimate victory, Hashem mourned the loss of human life. The makkos were not acts of revenge — they were acts of necessity. And even necessity carries a cost.
How Did the Jewish People React After Crossing the Sea?
The moment the last Jew set foot on the far shore and the last wave closed over the last Mitzri, something extraordinary happened — something that had never happened before in human history and would never happen again in quite the same way. Six hundred thousand people, men and women, old and young, spontaneously broke into song.
“Az yashir Moshe u’vnei Yisrael” — then Moshe and the Children of Israel sang this song to Hashem (Shemos 15:1). The Mechilta notes that the word “az” — then — always signals a turning point in history. At this moment, the entire nation of Israel became nevuah — prophecy — and sang together as one voice. The Zohar says that at this moment, the Shechinah rested on every single Jew simultaneously, something that had never occurred before.
The Talmud (Sotah 30b) asks: how did they all sing together — did Moshe recite each line and the people repeat it? Or did they all sing the words simultaneously? The Talmud offers a miraculous answer: Moshe opened his mouth, and the words flowed from his lips — and at that very instant, the identical words rose simultaneously from the lips of every single Jew. It was not call and response. It was a miraculous unison of hundreds of thousands of souls.
What did they sing? Shiras HaYam — the Song of the Sea — is the most exalted piece of poetry in the entire Torah. The Vilna Gaon writes that it contains within it encoded allusions to all of Jewish history from Mitzrayim to the final redemption. Its opening word — “ashirah” — is in the future tense, which the meforshim note is intentional: the song that was sung at the sea is still being sung. It will be completed only in the days of Moshiach.
The song praises Hashem not only as a redeemer but as a warrior — “Hashem ish milchamah, Hashem Shemo” — Hashem is a Man of War, Hashem is His name. The Mechilta explains that Hashem appeared at the sea in the form of a mighty warrior, in contrast to His appearance at Matan Torah as an elder full of mercy, and in contrast to His appearance in the Beis HaMikdash as a gentle figure. The same Hashem — but the same infinite Being reveals different facets of Himself at different moments in history.
Then Miriam the Prophetess — Aharon’s sister — took a timbrel in her hand. The Midrash (Mechilta Beshalach) asks a stunning question: where did Miriam get a timbrel in the middle of the desert? The answer reveals the depth of the Jewish women’s faith. The women had brought timbrels with them out of Mitzrayim. In the midst of slavery, in the darkness of exile, the Jewish women had prepared instruments of song — because they knew, with absolute certainty, that there would be a moment worth singing about. Their faith did not wait for the miracle. It prepared for it in advance.
Miriam led the women in song and dance: “Sing to Hashem for He is most exalted — horse and rider He has thrown into the sea” (Shemos 15:21). The Ramban notes that the women’s song was not a repetition of the men’s song. It was its own expression — a different register of joy, a different dimension of gratitude. Together, the men’s song and the women’s song formed a complete tapestry of praise.
After the song, Moshe led the people away from the sea. Three days into the wilderness, they found no water. When they finally found water at Marah, it was bitter and undrinkable. The people complained. Moshe cried out to Hashem, and Hashem showed him a tree — and when Moshe cast it into the water, the water became sweet. The Midrash identifies this tree as an olive tree, or according to others, as a willow — but the deeper message, say the meforshim, is that Hashem was already beginning to teach the people: the bitter can become sweet, the hard can become gentle, if you trust in Hashem and follow His Torah.
What Did the Journey to Sinai Look Like?
From the shores of the sea, the Jewish people began a journey that was unlike anything the world had ever seen — a nation of hundreds of thousands moving through a howling wilderness, sustained at every moment by open miracles. This was not merely travel. It was a curriculum. Every stop, every test, every complaint, and every miracle was a lesson in what it means to be the people of Hashem.
Three days after leaving the sea they arrived at Marah, where the bitter waters were sweetened. One month after leaving Mitzrayim they arrived at the Wilderness of Sin — and there they complained that they missed the food of Mitzrayim, the pots of meat and the bread they had eaten in abundance. The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh notes with irony that the people were romanticizing slavery — the same Mitzrayim that had crushed them seemed appealing when their stomachs were empty. Hunger has a way of distorting memory. Hashem responded not with rebuke but with abundance.
He told Moshe: I will rain down bread from heaven for you. Each morning, the mon — the manna — appeared on the ground like a layer of dew, fine and flake-like, white as coriander seed, tasting like wafers made with honey. The Talmud (Yoma 75a) records that the mon tasted like whatever the person eating it desired. For the righteous it descended already baked; for others they had to prepare it. The Midrash notes that the mon taught the Jewish people emunah — because it could not be stored overnight, they were forced to trust that Hashem would provide again each morning. Only on Erev Shabbos did a double portion fall, teaching the sanctity of Shabbos even before the Torah was given.
With the mon came a new discipline: no man could go out to gather on Shabbos. Some went out anyway — and found nothing. Hashem said to Moshe: “How long will you refuse to keep My commandments and My teachings?” (Shemos 16:28). The Netziv observes that even before Matan Torah, the laws of Shabbos were in effect for the Jewish people. The journey to Sinai was not simply geographic — it was a process of becoming ready to receive the Torah.
At Refidim, the people complained again — this time for water. The complaint here was different in character, more aggressive, more accusatory. “Why did you bring us up from Mitzrayim to kill us, our children, and our livestock with thirst?” (Shemos 17:3). The Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 26:2) tells us that the name Refidim itself hints at the reason for this trial: rafah — they had weakened — their grip on Torah and mitzvos. Spiritual weakness preceded physical thirst. The lesson was clear: when a people loosens its connection to Hashem, every challenge becomes unbearable.
Hashem told Moshe to strike the rock at Chorev with his staff — and water gushed forth. Then came Amalek, striking the Jewish people from the rear, attacking the weakest and most vulnerable among them. Yehoshua led the battle while Moshe stood on a hilltop with his hands raised. The Mishnah (Rosh Hashana 3:8) asks: did Moshe’s hands make Israel victorious in battle? No — but when Moshe raised his hands, the Jewish people looked upward and directed their hearts to their Father in Heaven, and they prevailed. It was emunah, not military strategy, that won the battle.
Yisro, hearing of all that Hashem had done for Moshe and for Israel, came to the wilderness to join them. He brought with him Tzipporah and Moshe’s two sons. When Moshe told Yisro everything that had happened — all the hardship and the miracles — Yisro rejoiced with a joy that shook the heavens. “Blessed is Hashem,” he said, “Who saved you from the hand of Mitzrayim and from the hand of Pharaoh” (Shemos 18:10). The Midrash says that at this moment, every word of praise that Yisro spoke was a rebuke to the nations of the world — for it was a former idolatrous priest, a man who had worshipped every deity in the world, who recognized and proclaimed the greatness of Hashem when so many others had not.
In the third month after leaving Mitzrayim, the Children of Israel arrived at Sinai. They camped at the foot of the mountain. And there, for the first time since they had left Mitzrayim, they camped — the Torah uses the singular form, vayichan, he camped — as one man, with one heart (Rashi, Shemos 19:2). All the complaints fell silent. A nation stood at the foot of a mountain, united, and waited for Hashem to speak.
The journey was over. Everything that had happened — from the bris bein habesarim to the darkness of Mitzrayim, from the burning bush to the splitting of the sea — had been leading to this single moment. Sinai was not the end of the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim. It was the reason for it.
V’chol hamarbeh l’saper b’yetzias Mitzrayim — harei zeh meshubach. Whoever elaborates on the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim — this person is praiseworthy.