The ancient rabbis certainly did. And they found ways to see even the most epic struggles, like the Exodus from Egypt, through a deeply human lens. They weren't just interested in the historical events; they wanted to understand the spiritual and moral lessons embedded within.
Take this passage from Shir HaShirim Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Song of Songs. It grapples with a seemingly simple verse: "To a mare in Pharaoh's chariots" (Song of Songs 1:9). Now, what could a mare possibly have to do with spiritual growth and understanding God?
Rabbi Papis, in his interpretation, plays with the Hebrew word for "mare," lesusati. He points out that it's written without a vav, a Hebrew letter that often functions as a vowel. This allows it to also be read as lesisati, which sounds like "I was gladdened" (sasti). So, Rabbi Papis suggests, God is saying, "Just as I was gladdened to eliminate the Egyptians at the sea, so I would have been gladdened to eliminate the enemies of Israel."
But who caused Israel to be saved? According to Rabbi Papis, it was the merit of the Torah they were destined to receive, symbolized by God's right hand, "From His right, a fiery law to them" (Deuteronomy 33:2). And on their left? The mezuza, that small parchment scroll containing verses from the Torah, affixed to the doorpost. It's a constant reminder of God's presence as we enter and leave our homes. Alternatively, he suggests the right is reciting the Shema prayer and the left is the Amidah prayer.
However, Rabbi Akiva, ever the astute scholar, wasn't entirely convinced by Rabbi Papis's interpretation. He pointed out that the word for "gladness" (sisa) is usually spelled with a sin, not a samekh, the letter used in this verse. So, he challenges Rabbi Papis: how do you interpret "to a mare in Pharaoh's chariots"?
Rabbi Akiva then offers a powerful and visually striking interpretation. He suggests that just as Pharaoh rode on stallions, God, too, revealed Himself on a stallion – "He mounted a cherub and flew" (Psalms 18:11). Pharaoh, fearing the aggression of stallions, opted for mares. But God, in a way, mirrors Pharaoh's actions, meeting him on his own terms.
The midrash continues, drawing parallels between Pharaoh's war preparations and God's actions. Pharaoh brought armor, and God "donned righteousness like armor" (Isaiah 59:17). Pharaoh brought naphtha (a flammable liquid), and God sent "hail and coals of fire" (Psalms 18:13). The text meticulously compares Pharaoh’s arsenal to God’s, emphasizing that while Pharaoh relies on earthly weapons, God's power is cosmic and absolute.
Rabbi Levi adds that God's arrows didn't just strike the Egyptians; they scattered and confused them, dismantling their entire formation.
The climax arrives with Rabbi Berekhya's statement in the name of Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman: after Pharaoh exhausted all his weapons, God began to exalt Himself over him. "Wicked one, do you have wind, do you have a cherub, do you have wings?" God asks, rhetorically highlighting the limitations of Pharaoh's power compared to His own.
Where did God cause these elements to fly from? Rabbi Yudan suggests they were taken from between the wheels of the Divine Chariot. Rabbi Ḥanina bar Pappa adds a profound idea: humans ride on things that carry them, but God carries what He rides upon. "He mounted a cherub and flew, and He soared on wings of wind" (Psalms 18:11).
Rabbi Aḥa concludes with a breathtaking thought: God has many worlds, and He reveals Himself in each of them. This suggests that the Exodus, while a pivotal event in Jewish history, is just one manifestation of God's ongoing engagement with creation.
What does all this mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming challenges, we can find strength and hope in our traditions. We can see God's presence in the everyday – in the mezuza on our doorpost, in the words of the Shema, and in the power of prayer. And maybe, just maybe, we can find a little bit of gladness, sisa, in the midst of it all.