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Israel Cried From Egypt and the Sea Ran Away

Israel drank God's hard wine in Egypt and trembled under it. Then they called out in every divine name they knew, and the sea ran away from them.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Hard Wine Made Israel Tremble
  2. The Hidden Secret of Shabbat
  3. The Sea Fled and the Mountains Trembled
  4. Israel Called Out in Every Name

The Hard Wine Made Israel Tremble

Psalm 60 says God has shown His people a hard thing and given them wine that makes them tremble. The wine is not a gift. It is the weight of Torah, the burden of covenant carried in a body that is not always strong enough to stand under it steadily. Israel in Egypt drinks this wine and its knees buckle.

The midrash names the hard thing as both the Egyptian slavery and the responsibility of having received the law. These are not separate burdens. The same people who suffered under Pharaoh's yoke are the people who would stand at Sinai and receive a different kind of yoke. Both make the body unsteady. Both demand more than ordinary human endurance.

But God's right hand saves. Lamentations remembers the moment when that right hand seemed withdrawn, when the city fell and God's arm appeared to have gone elsewhere. Isaiah corrects the record. The right hand had not gone away. It had waited, and what it waited for was the cry: not the trembling, not the wine, but the voice calling out from inside the narrow place.

The Hidden Secret of Shabbat

Psalm 92 is a song for the Sabbath day. The midrash says the Sabbath was chosen even before the world was completed, that God had already doubled Shabbat's holiness in the moment before creation was finished. The song was written into the fabric of the week before any week had been lived.

The secret of creation that Shabbat reveals is not a hidden doctrine. It is a structural fact: the world runs in seven, and the seventh is the one that contains the others. The six days of work do not produce the seventh day. The seventh day produces the six. The whole rhythm of human labor is organized around a rest that comes first in the divine intention, even if it comes last in the human calendar.

Israel in Egypt had no Shabbat. The hard wine of slavery has no seventh day in it. The Exodus is not only an escape from Pharaoh. It is the return to the week that has a Shabbat in it, the week as God shaped it before any human hand was set to work.

The Sea Fled and the Mountains Trembled

Psalm 114 asks: what ailed you, sea, that you fled? What ailed you, Jordan, that you turned backward? What ailed you, mountains, that you skipped like rams, hills like young sheep?

The question is a mock question. The psalm already knows the answer. The sea fled at the presence of God. The mountains skipped because the One who turned the rock into a pool of water was coming. But the question format matters. It puts Israel in the position of someone who watched the sea make a decision. The sea saw something and ran from it. The Jordan reversed itself. The mountains, which have been standing since before any human being was born, became momentarily like young animals, light on their feet, unable to hold still.

The midrash extends the image: the heavens had layers at this moment, and each layer opened. The sea's running was not a single dramatic event but a cascade of creation moving out of the way of something that the entire physical world recognized as more than it could contain.

Israel Called Out in Every Name

When Israel cried from Egypt, they did not know which name of God would be heard in this particular darkness. So they called in every name.

They called out to El. They called out to Elohim. They called out to Shaddai. They called out to Tzvaot. They called in every name for God that had been given to them through the generations, through the patriarchs, through the early history of their people, and they used every one simultaneously because they could not afford to call on the wrong one and get silence.

God answered in the expanse of Yah. The answer came in the broadest name, the name that includes all the others, the short form that the Psalms use when they want to compress the divine into a single syllable. Every name they called resolved into that one answer. All the different ways of reaching for God converged into the one voice that told the sea to run away.

That is what the Exodus was. Not a military operation, not a natural disaster, not even simply a miracle. It was the convergence of every prayer Israel had learned to say, reaching through every name of God they had inherited, and finding that all of those names were one, and that one was already moving the sea out of their path before their feet had reached the shore.

Midrash TehillimHeavenJosephMosesEgyptShabbatRed Sea
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Midrash Tehillim 61:1Midrash Tehillim

The ancient rabbis grappled with this too. They looked at Psalm 61, and from it, they wove a powerful message about suffering, redemption, and the ever-present possibility of connection with the Divine. This exploration is found in Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms.

"You have shown your people a hard time," the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) begins. It then asks, "What is the wine that trembles?" The answer isn't about intoxication, but about the overwhelming burden of the Torah, the weight of responsibility, the sheer difficulty of living a righteous life. It's the kind of burden that can make you feel unsteady, like you might spill the wine at any moment. But here's the twist: this very wine, this very struggle, can also be what ultimately removes the yoke. It’s through facing these challenges that we grow closer to God.

The Midrash continues, "Save me with your right hand and answer me, the same right hand that went after you." This is a plea for help, but it's also a reminder. Even when we feel abandoned, God's "right hand" – a symbol of strength and protection – is still reaching out. The book of Lamentations (2:3) poignantly describes a moment where it seems like God has withdrawn that hand: "He has withdrawn his right hand." But the Midrash offers hope. God says, "You ask for one thing, and I will add another." As Isaiah (11:11) proclaims, "On that day the Lord will extend his hand a second time to reclaim the surviving remnant of his people." There’s always a chance for renewal, for reconnection.

The Midrash then shifts to the idea of prayer. "To the conductor, on the melody of David. I will listen to my prayer." This isn’t just about uttering words; it's about truly listening to the prayers that rise from within. Proverbs (15:29) tells us, "The Lord is far from the wicked, but he hears the prayer of the righteous." But what about when we don’t feel righteous? What about when we feel lost and distant?

The Midrash reminds us that throughout history, whenever Israel cried out, God answered. In Egypt, as we read in Exodus (3:7), God heard their cries: "I have surely seen the affliction of my people who are in Egypt and have heard their cry because of their taskmasters. I know their sufferings." At the Red Sea (Exodus 14:15), in the wilderness (Numbers 21:3), during the time of Samuel (1 Samuel 7:9), even in Solomon's time when fire descended upon the Temple (1 (Kings 8:5)4) – God was there, listening, responding.

And what about now, in exile? Even now, in our own moments of feeling exiled from ourselves, from our communities, from God, the Midrash offers comfort. Lamentations (3:55-56) echoes, "I called on your name, O Lord, from the depths of the pit; you heard my plea, ‘Do not close your ear to my cry for help!’"

But there's a challenge here, too. The Midrash acknowledges that we might only call out to God from "the edge of the earth" – when we're desperate, when we're far from home, when we're at our wit's end. God responds, "From the edge of the earth you have called me, but when you were in the land, you did not call on me." Ouch. It's a reminder to cultivate a constant connection, not just a crisis connection.

Jeremiah (29:12-13) encourages us: "Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart." And Moses, in Deuteronomy (4:30), offers a path: "When you are in tribulation, and all these things come upon you in the latter days, you will return to the Lord your God and obey his voice."

So, what does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's this: even in the midst of hardship, even when we feel distant, the possibility of connection remains. It requires us to turn, to call out, to seek with all our hearts. And maybe, just maybe, the "wine that trembles" is actually a reminder of our own resilience, our own capacity for faith, and the enduring presence of a God who hears us, even from the edge of the earth.

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Midrash Tehillim 92:1Midrash Tehillim

Why Shabbat (the Sabbath)? What makes it so special?

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Psalms, digs deep into this very question, particularly in its commentary on Psalm 92, "A Psalm, a song for the Sabbath day." This psalm isn't just a pretty melody; it's a gateway to understanding the profound significance of this day.

Rabbi Yitzchak points us to (Exodus 16:29): "See that the Lord has given you the Sabbath." But what does "see" really mean here? Rabbi Yosei of Marganita suggests it means the Sabbath "was given to you," a gift, pure and simple. And what a gift! Rabbi Yitzchak continues by saying that every aspect of Shabbat is doubled – its obligations, its rewards, even its punishments for violation. The offering of the omer, a measure of barley, is doubled. The sacrifices in the Temple are doubled with two lambs. The warnings, "Remember" and "Keep," are doubled in the Ten Commandments. It's like the universe is shouting: PAY ATTENTION! This day is different.

Then, the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) takes a surprising turn. It quotes Ecclesiastes, that famously melancholic book: "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!" Kohelet, the author of Ecclesiastes, sees vanity in… everything. He links the seven days of Creation to this sense of futility. What was created on the first day? Heaven and Earth. And their end? "The heavens will vanish like smoke, and the earth will wear out like a garment" (Isaiah 51:6). Vanity! The firmament? It'll be rolled up like a scroll (Isaiah 34:4). Vanity! And so on, through the luminaries, the creatures of the sea, even humankind itself, destined to return to dust (Genesis 3:19).

Pretty bleak. But then comes the seventh day, Shabbat. God looks at it, sees it as holy and serene… and then, according to Rabbi Isaac, sees that humans sin even on this day, and are held accountable. Even the Sabbath seems tainted by vanity. So, are we back to square one? Is everything meaningless?

Not quite. The Midrash isn't saying the Sabbath is vanity, but rather acknowledging the potential for it to be corrupted, for us to miss its true essence. The reason the other days feel like vanity, the Midrash argues, is precisely because of the Sabbath! On the seventh day, no work is done. It's a day set apart. Like a king who keeps a precious vessel only for his son, God bestows the Sabbath upon the Israelites, making it a day of rest and holiness.

Think about the story of the manna in the desert. For forty years, God provided the Israelites with food six days a week, but on Shabbat, nothing. Not because God couldn't, but because Shabbat demanded rest. It was a tangible lesson, a weekly reminder of God's provision and the importance of ceasing from labor. As it says in (Exodus 16:30), "So the people rested on the seventh day."

The Midrash continues, drawing parallels: God created seven heavens, but chose none as His dwelling place except the Sabbath (Psalm 68:5). Seven lands, but chose only the land of Israel (Deuteronomy 11:12). Seven seas, but chose only the Sea of Galilee (Joshua 19:32-33). Seven worlds, but chose only the seventh for rest. Seven days, but blessed only the seventh (Genesis 2:3). Seven cycles of years, but chose only the Sabbatical year for release (Deuteronomy 15:1).

See the pattern? Shabbat isn't just a day; it's a symbol of God's chosenness, a microcosm of the divine plan. And, according to (Isaiah 56:2), keeping Shabbat, "holding fast to the Sabbath, not profaning it", brings forgiveness of sins.

So, what does all this mean for us today? Maybe it's a reminder that amidst the chaos and vanity of the world, there's a space for holiness, for rest, for connection. Shabbat is an invitation to step outside the cycle of work and consumption, to remember our purpose, and to reconnect with something bigger than ourselves. It's a gift, waiting to be unwrapped, week after week. Will we accept it?

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Midrash Tehillim 114:1Midrash Tehillim

That’s kind of the feeling behind Psalm 114, and the Midrash Tehillim, an ancient collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Psalms, dives deep into the joy and gratitude expressed within it.

"Praise the name of the Lord! Praise Him for the war He fought for us," it begins, echoing the relief of the Israelites after the Exodus. It’s a song of deliverance, remembering how God fought for them, as we are told in (Exodus 14:14): "The Lord will fight for you." It’s a pretty powerful statement.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) contrasts this world, where God might be cursed or provoked, with the world to come, where such irreverence will be unthinkable. God, in turn, promises to bless us "from now and forever," mirroring our own eternal praise, like (Psalm 125:2) says: "The Lord surrounds His people from now until eternity."

So, what was it like for the Israelites leaving Egypt? (Psalm 105:38) tells us, "Egypt was glad when they departed." Rabbi Berechiah offers an interesting analogy to help us understand the complexities of the situation: "This can be compared to a meat seller riding on a donkey.." (Unfortunately, the text cuts off there, leaving us to wonder about the full comparison! But it hints at a sense of relief and perhaps even a bit of self-interest on the part of the Egyptians).

When David saw the Israelites' joy, he mocked the Egyptians, the Midrash says. And that brings us to the verse, "Sing to God, sing praises to His name; extol Him who rides on the clouds" (Psalm 68:5). But what does it mean to "extol Him who rides on the clouds?" It’s a loaded phrase! The text references (Job 7:7), "Do not gaze at me, and I shall not exist," hinting at the awe and reverence due to God.

Rabbi Yehuda interprets "extol" to mean "destroy," while Rabbi Nehemiah understands it as "clear the way before Him," connecting it to (Isaiah 62:10): "Clear the way, clear the way, remove the obstacles from the road of my people." So, is it about destruction or preparation? Maybe both. Clearing the path sometimes requires removing obstacles, even destructive ones.

The text then moves into a fascinating discussion about the heavens. How many are there? The Sages suggest two, referencing (Psalm 68:34), "Ascribe strength to God; His majesty is over Israel, and His strength is in the skies." But other Sages suggest three, based on (Deuteronomy 10:14), "Behold, the heavens and the heaven of heavens belong to God." And then Rabbi Eliezer throws a curveball, claiming there are seven: heaven, firmament, clouds, throne, dwelling, place, and the wilderness. It’s a cosmic ladder of sorts, each level bringing us closer to the divine.

According to Rabbi Tachlifa ben Yaakov in the name of Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon, God saw the deeds of the righteous and was pleased. Rabbi Pinchas HaKohen (a priest) bar Chama added that the sky, called "wilderness," is sown with the deeds of the righteous, producing fruit. It’s a beautiful image of our good deeds literally bearing fruit in the heavens.

And what about God's name? Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi asks Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman about "His name" in (Psalm 68:5). The response is intriguing: "There is no place where a person is not appointed to oversee his coming, except for the Holy One, blessed be He, who is appointed to oversee His own coming, as it says, 'His name is the Lord.'" The Midrash suggests reading it not as "His name" but as "His coming." It's as if God is constantly present, overseeing and involved in His own creation.

Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi then laments a lost tradition, a secret teaching he couldn't share because he had been rebuked for revealing secrets in the past. The story goes that a maiden once asked Rabbi Elazar: "What is His name, composed of these two letters, by which God created two worlds?" referring to the letters yod and hei in the name Yah (יָהּ). (Isaiah 26:4) states, "For in Yah the Lord created the worlds."

The Midrash explores the significance of these letters. Was this world created with the letter yod and the World to Come with the letter hei, or vice versa? Referencing (Genesis 2:4), it concludes that this world was created with the letter yod. The shape of the letter hei, open at the bottom, symbolizes that everything created in this world eventually goes down to Sheol, the grave. Yet, the "prick" within the letter hints at the resurrection of the dead. The World to Come, on the other hand, was created with the letter hei. The letter yod, small and bent over, represents the humility of the wicked in the future, as (Isaiah 2:17) says, "And the haughtiness of man shall be brought low."

So, when David understood that God created two worlds with these two letters, he began to praise God with hallelujah. It’s a reminder that even in the smallest details, like the shape of a letter, we can find profound meaning and reason to praise the Divine.

What does it all mean? Perhaps it’s a call to look deeper, to see the layers of meaning embedded in the world around us. To remember that even in times of darkness, there is always hope for redemption, for a "coming" of the Divine that will ultimately set things right. And maybe, just maybe, to be a little more humble ourselves, recognizing that we are all part of something much larger than ourselves.

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Midrash Tehillim 118:8Midrash Tehillim

It's a theme beautifully explored in Midrash Tehillim, specifically in its interpretation of Psalm 118. This isn't just about ancient history; it's about a relationship – a dialogue – that continues to this day.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) begins with a simple yet profound statement: "From Egypt I called out to God." But it quickly deepens, revealing that the Jewish people, regardless of the language they used, could always reach the divine. The text actually states, “Mitzrayim is what the Jewish people call the Lord in all languages, and He answers them.” Mitzrayim, of course, literally refers to Egypt. The Midrash isn't just saying God heard their cries; it's suggesting that even the very act of calling out from Egypt, a place of immense suffering, was itself a form of addressing the divine. It highlights the unwavering accessibility of God.

The Midrash then provides a series of examples, each illustrating this point. In the fields, they called God Shaddai – often translated as "Almighty," but also hinting at a nurturing, breast-like abundance. The Midrash references (Genesis 28:3), "May El Shaddai bless you," and connects it to (Genesis 35:11), "I am El Shaddai; be fruitful and multiply." The implication? Even in the quiet, pastoral settings, God was present, a source of blessing and growth.

Then there's Elohim, a more general term for God. In (Exodus 2:22), we see the plea, "O Lord, what can You give me?" And the response? "Their cry for help rose up to God" (Exodus 2:23). It’s a direct, almost immediate answer to a desperate question.

And of course, there's Hashem, the most common way we refer to God, literally "The Name." (Deuteronomy 26:7) recounts, "And we cried out to Hashem," and the very next verse declares, "Hashem heard our voice" (Deuteronomy 26:8). A constant and reliable presence.

Even the shortened form, Yah, is invoked: "From Egypt I called out to Yah, and He answered me in the expanse of Yah" (Psalms 81:6).

(Deuteronomy 4:7) puts it powerfully: "For what great nation is there that has a god so close to it as Hashem our God whenever we call upon Him?" It’s a rhetorical question, of course, but it emphasizes the unique intimacy and responsiveness of the divine-human relationship in Judaism.

But the Midrash doesn't stop there. It dives deeper into the meaning of "Mitzrayim," suggesting it can also refer to the harsh conditions of Egypt itself. "Speaking of Egypt," the Midrash says, referencing the bitter lives and hard labor described in (Exodus 1:14). Even within the confines of suffering, the possibility of divine connection remains.

And that phrase "in the expanse of Yah"? The Midrash beautifully interprets this as God "broadening His kindness." It even uses the imagery of "The wings of a dove are sheathed with silver" (Psalms 68:14) to illustrate this expansive grace.

Finally, the Midrash connects this idea to David. When David was abandoned by his brothers, and all of Israel turned their eyes to heaven, David proclaimed, "A song of ascents. I will lift my eyes to the mountains" (Psalms 121:1). The Holy Spirit, the Ruach (spirit) Hakodesh, responds, "Do not let your foot slip; your Guardian does not slumber" (Psalms 121:3). God broadened the way for David, and the people followed him to victory against the Philistines (1 (Samuel 17:5)3). As Ginzberg retells it in Legends of the Jews, David’s unwavering faith and connection to God paved the way for redemption.

What does all this mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that no matter where we are, no matter what language we speak, no matter how dire our circumstances, the possibility of connection with the divine remains. It's an invitation to call out, to reach out, to trust that even in the narrowest of places, God can broaden our path. And maybe, just maybe, that call will be answered in ways we never imagined.

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