By Michele Werner

When I was growing up, I somehow managed to miss some basic concepts- some would say key concepts- that would have made it easier for me to navigate my existence or make sense of the world around me. One of these concepts – which I am sure would have helped me- was the knowledge that I lived on an island. Now all of you will know that I have come here from New Zealand, which is a country composed of islands, but I actually grew up some place else, - you would think the name would have given me a clue- a place that many of you will have heard of—Long Island.

As a child, the fact that I was missing this central bit of information led me to ask my parents every time we crossed a body of water Are we on the main land? You can imagine my confusion because my grandparents, like all Jewish grandparents in the world, lived in the Bronx. So each time we went to see them, we approached the Throgs Neck Bridge, you can see as I looked out into the distance there were bridges bridges everywhere and underneath me was this swirling mass of water- and I could never exactly understand why I kept crossing this body of water and …I asked my parents… Are we on the main land?

The French expression for this phenomenon is depaysement. Paysage is the landscape-- and depaysement is the changing of one’s landscape --what we would call losing one’s bearings. We are keen to say in cliché, that after an experience of depaysement, we know ourselves better, but that is not actually the case. The person we know at the end of our period of depaysement and reorientation is actually a new self and the person who comes out of the tunnel will be significantly different to the one who went in.

I am particularly sensitised to the motifs of this week’s parasha because they include the quintessential, emblematic motif of Jewish depaysement which has left its indelible mark on our collective psyche- the crossing of the Red Sea.

The opening of the parasha tells us that G-d did not take the people directly through the desert- by the shortest possible route. A theme that perhaps I could understand, n’est pas? And the commentators try to glean insight by exploring why this may have been the case. In Rashi’s remarks about the grammar of this passuk, he calls attention to the word NaCham- Nun-Het-Mem (with the SHORESH NUN-HET-HAY) which means to lead them – as in Ad, did not lead them directly. At the end of the verse is the word yi na chem. From the shoresh nun het mem meaning to repent or have a change of heart

Rashi points out that these two words should not be confused because they come from different roots, but it seems to me that we are meant to hear the echo of one in the other. G-d did not bring the people to rest, (ANOTHER MEANING FOR NUN-HET-HEY) because he was afraid they would have a change of heart. Perhaps when we read this passage we underestimate the effects of depaysement on the people, who, we may understand, would be wary about entrusting their lives to such a fiery G-d as One who brings about the destruction of the mighty oppressor Egypt with the flick of a wave- albeit a tidal wave.

The hesitant nature of this disoriented people is central to our understanding of them and our ability to feel compassion for them. Fully appreciating their state of mind is perhaps the first thing incumbent upon us if we are to really understand the keynote address of this parasha- the Song of the Sea.

The Song of the Sea is universally believed to be one of the two oldest passages of the Torah. According to the Mekhilta, Perek Shirah, it is “the second of nine songs that in the course of history Israel sang to their G-d.” It carries a transcendent and ephemeral quality. The tenth and last song, we are told, will be that grand and mighty song, when Israel will raise their voice in triumph at their future deliverance, for that will be the final deliverance for all time.” (Ginzberg. p32)

A remnant of the song remains in the MeChaMocha, which we sing after the Amidah. But in some different traditional settings, the song is sung in its entirety as part of the Pseukei de Zimra. Nahum Sarna points out that, “In the days of the second Temple, it was customary for a Levitical choir to accompany the priestly tamid offering on Sabbath afternoons with a singing of the shirah in two parts. … After the destruction of the Temple, the Palestinian communities perpetuated the Levitical custom, although without the sacrifice. The Jews of Rome incorporated the entire shirah into the fixed daily morning service, (WHERE IT REMAINS TO THIS DAY IN DIFFERENTLY TRADITONAL PRACTISE)… this daily recitation assumed even greater meaning as an affirmation of G-d’s moral governance of the world.”

The song “closes at it opens, with the exaltation of G-d now expressed in terms of Kingship- the earliest biblical use of the metaphor.” It celebrates, “G-d’s direct, unmediated personal incursion into the world of humankind.”

The image of G-d which is portrayed in the legends surrounding the song is very personal- one would almost say personable. There are legends which describe how G-d made the angels wait so that first Moses, then the women could sing to Him. Another legend, which speaks to me particularly, tells when the people “intoned the song of praise, G-d put on a festive robe on which were embroidered all the promises for a happy future to Israel…. But when Israel sinned, G-d rent the festive robe and He will not restore it or put it on again until the coming of the future world.”

These wonderful images of an accessible G-d colour my reading of the Song of the Sea. The Song presents an intriguing enigma. The Song itself begins with the words “then Sang Moses”- or does it? The verb Yashir is in the imperfect and there is no conversive vav affixed to it. Rashi’s explanation for the Hebrew words “Az yashir Moshe” is that “When Moses saw the miracle, a thought came to his heart that he would sing, and thus he actually did.” Rabbi Judah haNasi uses this instance to infer that there is “an eschatological teaching implied by the verse” This use of the future he says, “is written here not as Then sr Moshe but as ysyr Moshe- thus from the Torah we derive the doctrine of Resurrection of the dead.” And Moses will sing… Yashir… in the time to come.

The song then, is a declaration of the kingship of G-d, and as the scholars point out, probably the oldest passages in our Scripture to do so. As such, it seems to me, it is best understood in partnership with the shema, with which it makes a balanced pair. If we are to understand the shema as the acceptance of the yoke of the kingship of G-d, and we are to experience the recitation of the shema as the timeless moment when we were all standing at Sinai, then perhaps we can enrich our saying of the shema by re-enacting the timeless moment that preceded it, the moment of the crossing of the Red Sea.

One of the questions raised by yesterday’s service was do we need to feel hesitant or reluctant to actually say the Song of the Sea, are we in some way gloating over the misfortunes of the Egyptians. I think this is more a shortfall of the way in which we interact with the language. First of all, the victory is not ours, but Adonai’s. At the same time, it is language of song, lyrical and laden with emotion. Why would we apply to the liturgy restrictions on expression which we would never dream of imposing on the Torah text itself. Especially, as I would like to argue, something intrinsic can be gained by incorporating this into the prayer experience.

In his work on Jewish prayer, Jewish Liturgy as a Spiritual System, Arnold Rosenberg explains that “The reason the Song at the Sea is accorded such importance is that its singing at the Red Sea coincided with the Jews’ initial acceptance of G-d’s authority, and, indeed represented the high point of that acceptance. Only then did G-d appear for the entire Jewish people to see. At no time before or since did the Jews accept G-d with such unanimity.” (Rosenberg 1997: 71). If during the Shema we are intended to conceive of ourselves as personally receiving the Torah, how much more enhanced that leap into faith becomes if we precede it by celebrating the moment when our people came together to accept G-d’s kingship.

If you conceive of the prayer structure – as I do- as one designed to move you closer to G-d, it seems to me that by sidestepping the Song of the Sea we are attempting to do a deep breathing exercise- breathe in – breathe out- with only one part of the equation.

Breathing, like praying, like travelling on all of life’s bridges – is a means of taking us from one place to another and from one Paysage to another. Perhaps this understanding of our people’s crossing of the red sea and the triumphant song of joy which accompanied their salvation gives new meaning to my initial question—are we on the mainland?