In Parshat Beshalach and Parshat Yitro, two events occur that inform the Jewish experience throughout the ages: the splitting of the Red Sea and the giving of the Torah.

The splitting of the Red Sea was the ultimate overt miracle, but it is perceived not only as a miracle but also, more significantly, as a revelation of the future.

G‑d’s revelation at the sea is portrayed as the pinnacle of the Exodus and as the culmination of the process that began with the ten plagues and with the miracle of “G‑d will make a distinction between Israel’s cattle and Egypt’s cattle”1 and continued until the parting of the sea. The People of Israel walk into the sea, a great salvation ensues, and the Egyptians drown. Every element of the narrative emphasizes that the event is “Your hand, O G‑d,” “Your right hand, O G‑d.”2

The splitting of the Red Sea is a momentous event with a profound spiritual dimension, and when viewed in light of the Song of the Sea and all the wonders, miracles, and marvels that it describes, we see that all these events created an extraordinary sense of momentous times. As the Talmud says, “Even the babes in their mothers’ wombs chanted a song by the Red Sea.”3

When the sea is split, the process is essentially different from the miracles that have occurred thus far – whether the plague of blood, the plague of frogs, or the plague of the firstborn. When the plagues come, they are clearly miraculous occurrences, but they are local miracles, events that transpire in the external world. By contrast, when the sea becomes a place in which people are able to walk, the feeling is completely different. Suddenly, nature changes, the whole system is transformed, and everything that we know about reality is no longer valid. The sea is no longer a sea; the water is no longer water: The rules of physics do not apply.

When our sages say that “maidservants beheld at the sea what even Isaiah and Ezekiel never saw,”4 Suddenly, nature changes, the whole system is transformed, and everything that we know about reality is no longer valid. The sea is no longer a sea; the water is no longer water: The rules of physics do not apply. this is because the maidservants see firsthand how all of physical nature is not actually fixed but can suddenly change from one extreme to the other. The whole conception that the world is a place with strict laws and a set order collapses. The splitting of the sea demonstrated to the maidservants and to the rest of the People of Israel that everything we see in the world is a mere theatrical performance, where the house on stage is not truly a house and the tree is not truly a tree – everything is made of cardboard. The entire world dissolved and melted before the eyes of Israel into new forms and patterns: Before, the sea was water; now it has become dry land. The people understood that the world is no longer governed by rigid laws; everything has become possible.

The aftermath

Great and wondrous things abound in Parshat Beshalach. However, let us try to view these events from below; not from the perspective of Moses and Aaron, not from G‑d’s perspective, but from the perspective of an ordinary Jew. One can argue that such a perspective misses the main point; nevertheless, we, the ordinary Jews, are the ones who read the Torah, so this is a natural perspective for us to take.

A Jew goes forth from Egypt. He is not a great man, but merely one of the thousands of nameless Jews who picked himself up and went along with everyone else. What is he experiencing following the upheaval of the splitting of the sea? How does he proceed from there?

After the sea returns to its normal condition, suddenly everything is over, and the people begin their journey through the wilderness. A short time ago, this nameless Jew was sure that he was about to die. Immediately afterward, he experienced an incredible supernatural event. And after all that, he must crash back down into the mundane reality of the world. What is going on in his mind? How can he deal with these conflicting states of consciousness?

Immediately after Israel’s emergence from the sea and the ecstasy of the Song of the Sea, the Torah says that “Moses made Israel travel from the Red Sea.”5 After this experience, Moses had to force his people to travel onward, because they themselves were dazed and disoriented. They simply stood there in a state of confusion. It was necessary to organize them and start going. This individual who just emerged from the Red Sea does not know whether he is in a dream or in the real world; the whole world seems different to him.

When one crashes down from the heightened reality of the miracle, there is deep disappointment from the very discovery that the world still exists

It appears that this transition is the major test of Parshat Beshalach, recurring several times: at Marah regarding the manna and at Refidim with the war against Amalek. In all these accounts, we see the great difficulty of moving from a world where everything is perfect, where the rules of physics can be altered on a benevolent divine whim, to a world that unforgivingly follows the way of the world.

The miraculous splitting of the Red Sea can provide a person with spiritual sustenance for a long time, but there comes a stage where this simply does not work anymore. And when one crashes down from the heightened reality of the miracle, there is deep disappointment from the very discovery that the world still exists. This is not always a sudden fall from a high peak to a deep pit, and perhaps no devastating crash occurs at all, but the question remains: How can a person shift from the miraculous world of the Red Sea to the world of Marah, where the water is so bitter that it is undrinkable.

The story of the manna is likewise connected to the difficulty of dealing with dramatic changes in reality. The manna is a confusing combination of two aspects. On the one hand, its whole essence is miraculous: Bread that falls from the sky in large quantities is something that is entirely incompatible with the order of nature. On the other hand, it comes regularly, day after day, week after week, month after month. Eventually, the People of Israel likely ceased to consider the manna a miracle at all – it is difficult to imagine that they continued to be amazed by it throughout their travels in the desert. Under such circumstances, even if a person who experiences a miracle remains aware of its miraculous nature, he no longer feels its miraculousness. The miracle ceases to be a wonder and becomes routine. Just as a child knows that he can go each morning to the grocery store and buy a loaf of bread, a child born into a reality of manna knows that each morning one goes and collects manna – there is no wonder in it. Just as one can get used to anything, one can also get used to miracle bread from heaven, and take it for granted just like bread from the earth.

Just as one can get used to anything, one can also get used to miracle bread from heaven, and take it for granted just like bread from the earth

The duality of the manna is a perfect metaphor for the life of the People of Israel in the wilderness. Right after Marah, the People of Israel arrive in Elim, “where there were twelve springs of water and seventy date palms; and they encamped there by the water.”6 It is unclear whether the seventy date palms are seventy palm trees or seventy kinds of dates, but either way, these are numbers that possess great significance. The Midrash explains, “Twelve springs corresponding to the twelve tribes of Jacob, and seventy palm trees corresponding to the seventy elders”7. Right after the disappointment of Marah, the People of Israel come to a new place, and the twelve springs of water and seventy date palms give them a sense of the familiar: They again witness G‑d’s hand in nature, that the world is once again customized to their needs. They then leave this place and go back to traveling in the wilderness, returning to the throes of hunger and thirst, and the pattern repeats itself.

Every person must face this combination of miracle and routine in his life. Even a simple person who has no time for or interest in philosophy must deal with the same questions: What is nature? What is the supernatural? How, in the midst of this uncertainty regarding the nature of the world, do I direct the course of my life as a human being?

A human being remains a human being

We know about the tests that Abraham faced. We know about the tests faced by the other patriarchs and prophets as well. But what can we learn from this test?

The answer is that the nature of our experiences in this world does not matter; adversity will always exist. Jews frequently complain, claiming, “If we were to experience miracles like our ancestors experienced, we would return completely to G‑d.” But it turns out that this complaint is unfounded. Even that very Jew who lived through Parshat Beshalach with its tremendous revelations is still capable of complaining, of yelling, and of dancing around the Golden Calf. The complaints continue after the sin of the Golden Calf as well. All those miracles did not stop Korah, nor did they stop Zimri, even though they grew up eating bread from heaven.

Our sages say, “Whoever fulfills the Torah in the midst of poverty will ultimately fulfill it in the midst of riches; whoever neglects the Torah in the midst of riches will ultimately neglect it of the midst of poverty.”8 By his very nature, man tends to fall. Because of this, we must constantly be engaged in spiritual work, with or without miracles; the test of faith never end One who neglects the Torah will do so whether it is a time of trouble and sorrow or a time of overt miracles, and one who fulfills the Torah will continue to fulfill it even at a time of great difficulty and upheaval. By his very nature, man tends to fall. Because of this, we must constantly be engaged in spiritual work, with or without miracles; the test of faith never ends.

In a sense, when our sages say that “the Torah was given only to those who ate the manna,”9 they are referring to this point. Trust and stability can be expected only from those who are always ready to proceed, with or without miracles. The Torah is given to those who can carry on even when oppressed and downtrodden, not to those who need constant miracles throughout their forty years of travel in the wilderness to sustain them spiritually. The test determining who merited entering the Land of Israel ultimately hinged on this same distinction as well.

People like the patriarchs and like many of our other great and holy ancestors were able to bear this burden, to live through all kinds of troubles and distressful situations and still remain faithful to G‑d. But for someone who is not built for this, no number of wondrous miracles will change his basic nature. It is possible to survive for a while, but eventually one’s basic nature comes to the fore.

Ezekiel relates10 that in the future G‑d will operate on us, removing our heart of stone and replacing it with a heart of flesh. Until then, however, we will continue to be tested: “You tested him at Massah and contended with him at the waters of Merivah.”11

A stiff-necked people

Though this test of faith can be daunting, it can equally be seen in a positive light, as it emphasizes man’s inherent stubbornness. Free will, the divine spark embedded in man, figures prominently here, in the sense that ultimately man cannot be bribed. G‑d, as it were, attempts to sway the people’s loyalty to Him by providing for their every physical need. He feeds them manna – and later on, quail – morning and evening, every day. But the people remain stubborn and unchanged.

In this sense, when Moses calls Israel “a stiff-necked people,”12 Man’s glory is his free will, for his ability to decide is a kind of act of G‑d. Man can use his free will to his own detriment, or as an expression of glory and dignity it is actually a form of praise, in a way. He takes pride in this attribute: We cannot be so easily moved, like those for whom hearing one sermon by a Christian preacher leads them to proclaim, “I am born again!” When attempting to move a Jew, every inch is an exhausting process.

Man’s glory is his free will, for his ability to decide is a kind of act of G‑d. Man can use his free will to his own detriment, or as an expression of glory and dignity.

The conclusion to be drawn is that man cannot be induced by external means to make a change in his essential nature. Neither miracles nor bread from heaven can, in and of themselves, change human nature. Human nature can change, but we must make these changes from within.

The nameless Jew who experienced both the high point of the splitting of the Red Sea and the low point of Marah remains a bit stubborn and rebellious, but his mind is not completely closed to change. The most effective path to this change is not clearly defined perhaps miracles are necessary, and perhaps they are not. But when a person uses his free will, the hallmark of his humanity, to draw closer to G‑d, then change is always possible.