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Are You Listening?

Va-Era 5778 / 13 January 2018

January 18, 2018

The Vizhnitzer Rebbe had a habit of taking a walk on Friday afternoons, just before Shabbat. Sometimes he would walk through the town square, sometimes through the forest paths. Wherever he went, his shammes, his attendant, went with him; and always they spent the hour in silence.

One Friday, however, the shammes was surprised when the Rebbe passed straight through the square to the other side of town, where the wealthier — and generally irreligious — Jews lived. The Rebbe walked with purpose to one particular house, climbed the front steps, and knocked at the large, ornate door. A few minutes later the door swung open to reveal a startled butler, struggling to maintain his composure at the sight of the Vizhnitzer Rebbe and his shammes. The Vizhnitzer seemed not to notice the butler’s confusion and asked, “Is the master of the house at home?” Fumbling over his words, the butler replied that, in fact, he was at home, “And would his honorable holiness please wait in the entry hall?”

The Rebbe and shammes came inside as the butler disappeared into the house. They waited another few minutes until the butler returned and beckoned them into a large wood-paneled library. Leather-bound volumes of all sizes and colors filled the shelves on the wall, and soft light passed through gauzy off-white curtains. Off to the side, seated at a table, was the president of one of the local banks, a well-respected but fiercely secular Jew. The shammes couldn’t figure out why the Vizhnitzer had come here, of all places, and it seemed as if the bank president was just as befuddled to see the Rebbe in his home.

Still, the bank president was a dignified and polite gentleman, and beckoned for the Rebbe to sit opposite him at the table. The butler returned once more with tea and fruit, and then excused himself and left the three men alone. For about ten minutes, the Vizhnitzer Rebbe courteously asked about the man’s family, their health and welfare, about his business, and the latest news about town. Then, just as suddenly as he had come, the Vizhnitzer Rebbe stood, thanked the bank president for his hospitality, and headed for the door.

As they followed behind, the bank president whispered to the shammes, “What brought the Rebbe here?” But the shammes, who knew nothing more than the man himself knew, simply shrugged. As the Rebbe stepped outside, the bank president called out to stop him. “Might I accompany the Rebbe to his home?” he asked. The Rebbe nodded his assent, and the three men set off across town.

A short time later they arrived at the Vizhnitzer Rebbe’s home, and as he walked onto the porch, the bank president called out again, “If I may, could I ask the Rebbe one question?”

“Of course, my friend.”

“The Rebbe walked all the way across town to my home, when it is almost shabbes — surely you could not have come just to enquire about my family’s welfare!”

With a warm smile, the Rebbe replied, “Indeed not. In the Torah we read, הוֹכֵחַ תּוֹכִיחַ אֶת־עֲמִיתֶךָ, ‘You shall surely rebuke your fellow.’[1] But just as we have a mitzvah to rebuke a person who will listen to what we have to say, our Sages of Blessed Memory also teach that we have a mitzvah not to rebuke those who will not listen.[2] I thought to rebuke you about a certain matter, but it was clear that you would not listen to me. But I thought, what mitzvah is it not to rebuke the good gentleman, while I sit in my house and he sits in his? So I came to visit you in order for us to sit together, in the same room, where I could fulfill the mitzvah of not rebuking you.”

Astonished, the bank president blurted out, “But what could it be?”

“Ah,” smiled the Vizhnitzer, “That’s the thing. Since I know you won’t listen, I can’t tell you.”

“Please,” the bank president pressed on, “Please tell me so that I will know what you think I am doing wrong.”

Shaking his head, the Rebbe said, “Because you insist, I will tell you: there is a widow, with four young children, who is struggling to make ends meet; she is behind on her mortgage and will soon lose the roof over her family’s head. Your bank holds the mortgage, and I thought if the good gentleman would forgive her debt, her family could keep their home.”

“Oh no,” he replied, taking a step back, “I feel for her, but I just couldn’t — that money belongs to the bank’s depositors and shareholders, not to me, I have no right to forgive a debt like that, and furthermore—”

With one last, sad smile, the Rebbe said, “I know, I know. As I imagined, you didn’t listen. Still, I wish you a peaceful shabbes.” And with that, he went into his house.

All through Shabbat, the bank president couldn’t shake the thought of this young widow and her children. At night he tossed and turned, and during the day he stared into space, unable to read any book he pulled down from the shelf. Finally, when the bank reopened after the weekend, he went straight to his office, took out his checkbook and, from his own funds, paid of the widow’s mortgage.

The most prominent verb in this morning’s Torah reading is שמע. It’s a familiar word to most of us from the siddur: שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל, “Hear, O Israel,”[3] as our Siddur Sim Shalom translates the verse. But that translation doesn’t quite capture the essence of שמע; for that, we need to distinguish between “hearing” and “listening.” While it’s a subtle difference, I’m sure we’ve all encountered it. Hearing is, essentially, a physical or biological function — sound vibrations enter the ear, where they are converted into electrical pulses sent to the brain for processing. Barring any hearing impairment, you will hear everything around you without even trying.

Hearing happens constantly, but we can’t listen by accident. Listening requires intent, focus, and attention. Rather than a biological process, listening is a cognitive and social process. We organize the things that we hear based on our prior experience, our understanding of the present situation, and our desired goals for the future. The act of listening involves interpreting the things we hear, fitting them into a larger narrative we already hold about our lives and the world around us.[4]

Applying this understanding of the word שמע to the parshah yields some striking insights. To begin with, when God tells Moses וְגַם אֲנִי שָׁמַעְתִּי אֶֽת־נַֽאֲקַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל, instead of our humash’s translation, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites,”[5] we would take this verse to mean that God has listened to the Israelites’ moaning. It’s hard to justify the the interpretation that God only “heard” the Israelites just now, after hundreds of years of slavery. Did God have earbuds in, listening to the new hit song? Was the vacuum cleaner too loud? Of course not. I find it deeply troubling to think that God heard the Israelites all along but, for whatever reason, only began to listen to them now; but it’s a difficulty we must reckon with, because it makes no sense to think that God actually couldn’t hear our ancestors.

Reading שמע as listening clarifies the rest of the parshah as well. When Moses relays God’s message to the children of Israel, וְלֹא שָֽׁמְעוּ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה מִקֹּצֶר רוּחַ וּמֵֽעֲבֹדָה קָשָֽׁה, “they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.”[6] If שמע meant hearing, we should expect the cruel bondage to crush their ears, not their spirits. The problem here is not that the Israelites can’t physically hear Moses; rather, their experience of slavery and oppression prevents them from listening, from absorbing his message and connecting it with their memories, present experience, and anticipated future.

Likewise, it makes little sense to suggest that Pharaoh didn’t hear Moses, when he responds and engages in multiple dialogues. It quickly becomes evident, however, that Pharaoh won’t listen.[7] Pharaoh regards himself as a divine being, and God doesn’t fit into that narrative. Pharaoh won’t allow for Moses, Aaron, or God to boss him around, insist that he free his slaves and make restitution for their oppression. He hears Moses just fine, but he is so deeply invested in the story of his power and Egypt’s might that he won’t, and quite possibly can’t, listen to what God has to say. As the story proceeds, as the children of Israel slowly begin listening to Moses’ message of redemption, Pharaoh digs deeper, resisting God and Moses with increasing fury. After each of the first three plagues, the Torah tells us explicitly that Pharaoh refused to listen.[8] From then on, however, that theme drops. It’s as if the Torah stops telling us that Pharaoh didn’t listen because, by the fourth plague, it has become self-evident that he won’t.

We can go another level deeper. The second-most prevalent verb this morning is ידע, a word often translated as indicating knowledge. Here too, it’s important to distinguish the knowledge connoted by ידע from the cognitive understanding indicated by a word like מבין. The activity encompassed in ידע runs deeper; it is the verb used by the Torah to indicate the strongest intimacy,[9] a comprehensive understanding on emotional and relational levels as well as the intellectual level. Throughout God’s conversations with Moses, they return again and again to God’s intent to make Godself known to the Israelites and Egyptians.[10] Over and over, God reinforces the notion that the plagues themselves are meant to compel the Egyptians, and especially Pharaoh, to know, ידע, God.[11] 

From the way our parshah plays these two words, שמע and ידע, off of one another, we can infer a reciprocal relationship between the two concepts: we know, on the deepest levels, those things to which we actively listen; and we listen through a filter of the things we already know. Pharaoh’s continued refusal to listen hardens his heart; his whole conflict centers on what he will not, and perhaps can not, accept into his emotional and psychological worldview. I’m not sure I even fault Pharaoh personally. He is heir to a long-established image of Egyptian sovereignty; as such he is heavily invested in outward signs of his worth and station. He has nearly limitless power, but very little strength as a person. Without the tools to adapt his self-perception to new and emerging circumstances, any alternative perspective threatens him to the core. In a sad irony, his refusal to listen brings about the very things he so desperately seeks to avoid.

The Israelites move in the opposite direction; their path is slower and more subtle, but no less clear. When our parshah opens, they won’t listen to Moses either. By next week, they carry out his instructions to prepare their houses for Pesah Mitzrayim, the original Passover; the week after, they will follow him across the Sea of Reeds and then to Sinai. The rest of the Torah tracks their tumultuous and imperfect growth into the people whose mantra will be שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל, “Listen, Israel.”[12]

What accounts for the difference? How are the children of Israel able to listen, where Pharaoh is not? Honestly, they don’t do a whole lot better. Almost immediately after crossing the sea, communication breaks down again, and their relationship with God bumps in and out of rough patches for pretty much the entire Bible. Still, we’re dealing with a growth process and not a quiz. More important than the overall track record are the lessons we learn along the way.

We see most clearly just how hard it can be to listen effectively — not only on the Israelites’ side, but also from God. They have the most success at times when a sense of partnership and shared vision defines their relationship; and throughout the stories, the Israelites who listen best are always those who keep the faith with God’s vision. The same holds true in reverse: God listens better — with more patience and compassion, less anger — in times when the Israelites show their faithfulness.

It’s probably not a surprise that the dynamic is more circular than linear: it’s easier to listen when we feel a sense of togetherness, and we feel most together when both sides are listening. Ultimately, this week’s parshah and the Torah as a whole leave us with an ambiguous picture — some success, but still largely aspirational. Rather than viewing these stories as an instruction manual for relationships, it can be more valuable to see them as object lessons to help us understand just how difficult it can be to get outside our preconceived notions and listen carefully to what we hear from others. Pharaoh’s demise comes directly from his refusal to listen, whereas the Israelites’ efforts to listen — however imperfect — bring about redemption. Reading the parshah this way, we see that it takes a lifetime to hone our listening skills, and we probably never fully get it down. On the other hand, even a limited ability to listen and absorb what we hear from the people in our lives allows us the capacity to live meaningful, engaged lives. From here, each of us must be willing to answer the question: are you listening?


[1]        Lev. 19:17.

[2] Yevamot 65b.

[3]        Deut. 6:4.

[4]        Chalmers Brothers, Language and the Pursuit of Happiness (Naples, FL: New Possibilities Press, 2005), 88-89.

[5]        Ex. 6:5 (New JPS Translation).

[6]        Ex. 6:9 (also NJPS, here translating שמע as “listen” instead of “hear;” cf. 6:12, where they translate “heed”).

[7]        cf. Ex. 7:16, 22; 8:11, 15.

[8]        Ex. 7:22, 8:11, 8:15.

[9]        See, e.g., Gen. 4:1.

[10]        Ex. 6:3, 7:5, 7:15.

[11]        Ex. 8:7, 9:14, 9:30-31; 10:2.

[12]        Deut. 6:6.

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