Today’s portion is about birth, and calling and hope. It seems especially apt on a morning where the world is focused on a different ancient birth. It seems necessary when the world is focused on a global pandemic that has taken so many lives, over 800K in the US and almost 5M worldwide.  

Of course, in today’s portion, there is the obvious call of Moses and the story of the burning bush. G-d says to Moses, Eyeh asher Eyeh—I will be what I will be or I am that I am. Hebrew that is very difficult to translate—but that provides an expansiveness that G-d is everything. That is hope. Those are the very words that Moses heard when he stood on holy ground.  Then G-d insists that Moses go back to Egypt to demand that Pharaoh let the Israelites go. No easy task. And not one Moses wants to do. 

But our story begins before that. And it begins with smaller characters that rise above and do the unexpected, the unthinkable, the unimaginable. That they existed and rose to the occasion, provides hope, even today. 

After a 400-year interlude between last week’s portion and today’s, our story at the very beginning of Exodus, begins with the Israelites being enslaved. “A new ruler arose who knew not Joseph.” This new Pharaoh decreed that every baby boy born to an Israelite woman, be killed.  But two women, Shifra and Puah, did not do as the king commanded and let the boys live.  

They have a bit part in the Torah. And their names have come down to us, Shifra and Puah. There are other women who make the birth of Moses and the continuation of the Jewish people possible. Yochebed, Moses’s mother, Miriam, his sister, Batya, the daughter of Pharaoh, Zipporah, his wife. Each of them rose up and did something courageous and brave.  

Did they hear a calling? Did they have an internal sense of what they needed to do? 

Yocheved risked everything by getting pregnant despite the risks. She hid baby Moses from the authorities and then as he grew and she could no longer conceal him, she gave him up to save him and then she became his nursemaid. 

Miriam hid that baby Moses, then watched as Pharaoh’s daughter, Batya found him in the basket, drew him out of the water and rescued him, raising him as her own. Zipporah, not born an Israelite, grabbed a flint and circumcised her son, not even knowing what circumcision was.  

These women risked all. This brings me hope. 

In the book, The Light of Days, which the book group just finished reading this week, other women during the Holocaust, also rose up and seemed to do the unimaginable, Were they courageous and brave or did they just do what had to be done in order to survive?  

We are living through unprecedented times. Are we called to do something courageous and brave, something unexpected, unthinkable, unimaginable. I believe we are. Like the women we have been discussing, and in the face of ongoing fear and tragedy, we are called on to live with hope.  

When a new baby is born, there is that sense of hope and optimism. We have so many dreams for this new child. Sometimes in the Jewish tradition, we even think, this child will be the one. This child we be the moshiach, the messiah, the anointed one, the one chosen to be the savior, the one who rescues us and who redeems the world and makes the world whole and at peace.   

Any one of us could be that baby, that child. But we lose that hope as the child grows. The task seems too big, too daunting, too impossible. Perhaps the message then is that each of us has a role to play—and no role is too small. 

So let’s think back to these women who rose up and just did their part. Their small part. Say their names—Shifra, Puah, Yocheved, Miriam, Batya, Zipporah. Each of them took matters into their own hands and rose above the expectations of the day. Each of them made life itself possible. 

Do we have modern equivalents? I believe yes. Health care workers, research scientists, teachers, police and fire, even grocery store clerks. The people who have put their own lives at risk to make sure that life is possible. 

Sometimes teachers, doctors, nurses use the language of calling to describe their work. It is a sacred calling, a noble profession. But calling is not limited to those types of professions. Each of us has a unique role to play, a unique calling, one important task that can be completed only by us. 

When then do we know what it is that G-d wants us to do? That G-d wants us to be? How do we know if we are hearing G-d’s voice, like Moses at the bush? Or Jeremiah in today’s haftarah? 

Jim Wallis, the founder of Soujourners and now a professor at Georgetown’s Center on Faith and Justice, asks this very question  

Is there a reliable guide to when we are really hearing the voice of God, or just a self-interested or even quite ungodly voice in the language of heaven? I think there is. Who speaks for God? When the voice of God is invoked on behalf of those who have no voice, it is time to listen. But when the name of God is used to benefit the interests of those who are speaking, it is time to be very careful.”
― Jim Wallis, Who Speaks for God? 

He provides one answer. A prophet is someone who speaks out for the marginalized. The widow, the orphan, the stranger. So when we work at the Soup Kettle or donate blood we being prophets. Even more so if we work on advocacy for the food insecure or for access to healthcare.  

Sometimes Jews say that prophecy ceased with Ezra and Nehemiah, that way we don’t have to deal another prophet whose birth is celebrated today. How then can we hear G-d’s voice today? 

Psalm 29 talks about G-d’s powerful voice 7 times. We know that song…Havu L’adonai. Seven times it repeats, Kol Adonai. We sing it on Friday night and as part of the Torah service. This is G-d’s booming voice thundering above all, shattering cedars and splitting rocks. We also have “bat kol” in the Talmud, the voice of G-d swooping down in some kind of “deus ex machina” manner. 

I prefer a gentler voice, one that is harder to discern:  the example of Elijah’s still, small voice, something internal, eternal, something inside of us. 

That seems to be what Jeremiah heard in today’s haftarah:
“Before I created you in the womb, I selected you; Before you were born, I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet concerning the nations.” Jeremiah 1 

That sense of being called to something special even before we are born is echoed in Psalm 139:
“You shaped me inside and out. You have made my veins; You have knit me together in my mother’s womb.”  

Psalm 30, one of my personal favorites, pleads with G-d and demands: 
What profit if I am silenced. 
What benefit if I go to my grave in the pit? 
Will the dust praise You? 
Will it proclaim Your truth and faithfulness? 

It would suggest that we each have something important to say, just like Shifra and Puah. And if we die we can no longer speak truth to power. 

It ends by saying:
You turned my mourning into dancing,
My sackcloth into robes of  joy, 
That my whole being might sing hymns to You unceasingly
That I might praise You forever.  

That can seem difficult to do in the middle of a health care crisis, to praise G-d unceasingly. Yet that is one measure of what we are called to do. And it brings me hope. We’re not finished here. We have a job to do, a role to play. 

Sometimes people have the sense that there is something G-d wants them to do. That they were fortunate to be born with certain intrinsic traits. Frederick Buechner talks about call this way: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” Let me repeat that, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” So our job is to figure out where the intersection between the world’s great need and our own joy intersect. That is our individual calling. 

Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin, author of Putting G-d of the Guest List for Bar Mitzvah families and Being G-d’s Partner, the What Color is Your Parachute for Jews. tells an important, poignant story,  

“The boss of the moving crew was a delightful, crusty gentleman, a dead ringer for Willie Nelson. I had never met anyone so enthusiastic about his or her work, and I asked him the source of that enthusiasm. 

“‘Well, you see, I’m a religious man,’ he answered, ‘and my work is part of my religious mission.’ 

“‘What do you mean?’ I asked. 

“‘Well, it is like this. Moving is hard for most people. It’s a very vulnerable time for them. People are nervous about going to a new community, and about having strangers pack their most precious possessions. So, I think God wants me to treat my customers with love and to make them feel that I care about their things and their life. God wants me to help make their changes go smoothly. If I can be happy about it, maybe they can be, too’” 

The mover plays a small role in a person’s life. But it does it with compassion and empathy. With love. He has found his unique niche. His calling. 

What does life want from me? For each of you? Figuring out the answer to that question is figuring out what your unique call might be. Figuring that out is what this week’s Torah portion and haftarah portion are about. 

A baby was born. People worked to make sure that that baby lived. That is all part of our call. That is what brings me hope.