Serach bat Asher and the responsibility of remembering

Exodus 13:17 – 17:16

“In each and every generation, a person is obligated to see themself as if they left Egypt,” we read in the Passover Haggadah and in Mishnah Pesachim 10:5. We tell — we reenact — the story as if we ourselves knew the oppression of Pharaoh firsthand. On an evening of storytelling designed to provoke questions, wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to inquire directly of one who was there, someone who could offer a firsthand account? Perhaps this year, when we pour a glass for Elijah, we should also leave a chair for Serach bat Asher.

We know Serach is special from the moment we first meet her. Genesis 46:7 begins the enumeration of the descendants Jacob takes with him to Egypt, conceptually including his granddaughters (in the Hebrew u’vanot banav, explicitly uses the feminine plural). The names of 53 grandsons follow … and only one granddaughter. Being mentioned by name as one of the generation to descend into Egypt makes Serach anomalous, but it is her only other mention in the Torah that makes her extraordinary.

Serach bat Asher is mentioned again in Numbers 26:46 as part of the generation to enter the Land of Israel. Even if she were a small child when entering Egypt, she would have been at least 250 years old by the time the Israelites entered the Promised Land (remember that Rashi counts the years of bondage as 210 rather than 400-plus). This improbability leads the rabbis to place Serach in distinguished company: Together with Enoch and Elijah, it is believed that she never died, but instead ascended alive to Gan Eden.

Longevity in rabbinic literature is rarely about biology alone, but about responsibility. To live across generations is to be entrusted with memories meant to be shared, as we see in this week’s Torah portion. As Joseph’s dying wish, he made his descendants promise to carry his bones from Egypt when they would be redeemed by God (Genesis 50:25). Generations later, Moses faced a serious challenge. According to tradition (Sotah 13a), he knew of this responsibility but did not know where Joseph was buried. Only Serach bat Asher remained from that generation, and she could point Moses to where Joseph’s body had been placed by the Egyptians in a metal casket sunk into the Nile. It was her knowledge that enabled Moses “to take with him the bones of Joseph” (Exodus 13:19).

She was also willing to share her memories with subsequent generations. When Rabbi Yochanan attempted to explain the verse describing the Israelites’ crossing of the Sea of Reeds — “the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left” (Exodus 14:22) — he suggested that there had been some sort of impervious net. Serach appeared in the Beit Midrash to set the record straight, saying, “I was there, and it wasn’t like that — it was like a glass window” (Pesikta d’Rav Kahana 11:13). Serach does not contradict Rabbi Yochanan to diminish him, never making it personal, but to refine the story. Truth, she teaches, is not threatened by questions, but clarified through discussion.

Perhaps she would also be willing to share some of her knowledge with us, for I know that I continue to have questions. Why did it take 400 years for the Israelites to cry out to God? During their years of bondage, did the Israelites begin to adopt Egyptian worship and ritual customs, as some commentators suggest, or did they fiercely maintain their identities, as others insist? Why was the matzah baked in haste when the Israelites knew enough about their upcoming departure to collect the spoils of Egypt? Serach bat Asher knew where Joseph was buried and could testify to the experience of walking through the sea; we can only hope that, if invited, she would share some of her knowledge with us as well.

In lieu of her making an embodied appearance, perhaps her presence can still be felt in the questions we ask and the
care with which we answer them. To do so is to make the story our own in every generation — neither simplified, forgotten, nor distorted. We do not just tell the story; we guard it, and we deepen it, until its memories begin to feel like our own. PJC

Rabbi Aaron C. Meyer is the senior rabbi at Temple Emanuel of South Hills. This column is a service of the Greater Pittsburgh Jewish Clergy Association.