The doorway of vulnerabililty

To be a Jew is to know vulnerability. From the moment when Bnei Yisrael stood at the edge of the Red Sea, trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the unknown depths, we have carried the weight of uncertainty, displacement and danger. Yet, time and again, we have not only survived but prevailed. From exile to oppression, from wandering to rebuilding, ours is a story of resilience.

Vulnerability is an intricate web of emotions, each thread tied to a different fear or insecurity. It’s that moment when you step into a room full of strangers, when you don’t know the language, or when you’re surrounded by a culture that feels alien.

It’s the quiet anxiety of being “the new one,” or the sting of loneliness that creeps in when you’re not quite connected yet.

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But what if vulnerability, despite its discomfort, is also a doorway? A space where growth happens, where we learn more about ourselves and others? Is it possible that our most vulnerable moments could lead to our most profound transformations?

After centuries of enslavement, the people of Israel are thrust into the unknown, their chains broken but their hearts knotted with confusion and dread. Freedom from the iron grip of Egyptian taskmasters may cost them dearly. They have witnessed a series of terrifying events — the plagues that ravaged the land, the oppressive darkness that swallowed the sky, and the haunting visitation of the invisible God of Moses, apparent in the death of the nation’s firstborn males, human and animal alike.

Now, as they stand on the threshold of freedom, these newly released slaves are confronted with unsettling thoughts. Why this circuitous route instead of the direct path to safety? Who is this invisible God demanding their trust, a deity they have never truly seen or known? And who are these leaders who speak with such conviction, guiding them through a wilderness that seems as much psychological as physical? The desert looms before them — its silence deafening with oppressive stillness. Here, they grapple with the most fundamental questions: Where are we going?

Who will sustain us? And above all, how will we survive without the most agonizing but still familiar comforts we’ve left behind?

Parshat Beshelach opens with the Israelites leaving Egypt, and in the third verse, Exodus 13:18, we read:

“Now the Israelites went up “ḥamushim” out of the land of Egypt.”

What is this word, ḥamushim? What does it mean about how the newly-released Israelites will go up out of the land?

The word ḥamushim is generally interpreted as “armed” or “equipped,” suggesting that the Israelites left Egypt prepared for battle. However, its meaning is not entirely clear, and has stumped generations of scholars, as far back as Rashi. Multiple interpretations have arisen to explain this mystery over time. The one that speaks most strikingly to me is from ancient Akkadia where the Akkadian cognate ḥamsu means “belly.” This interpretation clearly implies vulnerability. So by using this word, ḥamushim, our verse suggests that the Israelites departed feeling exposed or frail.

There is a powerful midrash that reflects Bnei Yisrael’s vulnerability after leaving Egypt, comparing them to a dove being pursued by a hawk. Mechilta d’Rabbi Yishmael describes how the Israelites, despite witnessing miracles, felt terrified and exposed at the Red Sea:

“To what were the Israelites comparable at that moment? To a dove that was fleeing from a hawk and entered a cleft in the rock, where a snake was lurking. If it entered, the snake would bite it; if it left, the hawk would seize it. So too, the Israelites — if they looked back, Pharaoh was there; if they went forward, the sea was before them.”

This midrash illustrates absolute vulnerability. Bnei Yisrael are cornered, terrified and powerless. They have just escaped bondage, but now they face death from two sides: Behind them, Pharaoh’s army and the source of their traumatic past, chases after them. In front of them is the Red Sea, an uncrossable abyss that threatens their very tenuous survival. They go up out of the land of Egypt “ḥamushim“/vulnerable/bellies exposed, like a dove being chased by a hawk. This midrash helps us understand their gut-wrenching fear — the moment when freedom was like another kind of helplessness. This is the way the text portrays them going up out of the land of Egypt.

The Israelites had no weapons, no clear path and no certainty — only faith and fear. And how does the God of Moses respond to their fear? God says rather sternly that the only way out is through (Shemot 14:15). And so the story goes. Bnei Yisrael successfully cross through the sea and eventually make it to the Promised Land. But do Bnei Yisrael endure despite their vulnerability, or because of it? Perhaps the very experience of being “hamushim“/vulnerable strengthens their resolve, deepens their faith and binds them together as a people.

Jewish history is a testament to this parable of vulnerability and strength. Time and again, our people have faced uncertainty and existential threat, yet these moments contribute to forging our resilience. Whether wandering the wilderness, rebuilding after destruction, or reclaiming sovereignty in the Land of Israel, we have not only survived but thrived. So, perhaps our endurance is not in spite of our vulnerability, but because of it. Because of it, we have learned to adapt, to hold fast to our identity and to build a future even in the face of the worst adversity. The story of the Jewish people is not merely one of survival, but of determination, faith, and the unwavering belief that no matter the challenge, we rise. PJC

Rabbi Kara Tav is a Pittsburgh-based educator, chaplain and counselor. This column is a service of the Greater Pittsburgh Jewish Clergy Association.