Miracles and Memory

Three days after the splitting of the Red Sea, Israel is already complaining about
water. Later, about not having food. Then, about having food, but only the Man.
And then water again. Several (if not all) of the great commentators address how
this could happen so soon after witnessing the greatness and glory of G-d. Some
commentaries even claim that during the magnificent event of the Red Sea itself,
the angels called the Israelites idolators (Yalkut Shimoni 1:238).

Indeed, this obstinacy is what characterizes Israel for most of the Bible.

In many ways, you might say that the wonderous displays performed and
orchestrated by G-d had little lasting emotional effect on the psyche of Israel.
Surely they were vitalized and emboldened by the plagues and ultimate
redemptive wonders. But gratitude, faith, and patience eluded the nation. Their
memories lapsed.

Pharaoh, too, proves difficult to teach. Miracles and wonders do move him, even
to a state of abject confession, but he reverts, each time, unyielding and
unaffected.

HaRambam explains (Yesode
ha-Torah 7), that the miracles recorded in the Bible
were never intended to provide evidence for believing in Hashem’s authority for
Moshe’s mission. They were performed in order to achieve particular concrete
results: to save the Israelites, to provide food and drink in the wilderness, to
suppress the rebellion of Korah. After the direct encounter between Israel and
G-d at Sinai, the necessary qualifications of a prophet were that he uphold the
teachings of the Torah. Should he fail to do so, even the performance of miracles
could not give him credibility (Devarim 13:2-4). The talmudic rabbis ruled that
the ability to perform miracles is no proof of the correctness of one's halakhic
views (Baba Metiza 29b). They also ruled that one must not rely on a miracle
(Pesahim 64b). HaRambam held that the future Mashiach will not be asked to
validate his claims by the performance of miracles.

To suggest, on the other hand, that a rational, information-rich approach devoid

of any wonder or emotion may be overcompensating.

A “flashbulb memory,” a phrase coined in psychology, refers to the phenomenon

of knowing where you were and what you were doing at the time that you
learned about a major and often shocking public event, such as the September 11,
2001 attacks or the death of John F. Kennedy. Somehow, because of the emotions
accompanying the experience, the event is now bound up in one’s memory with
what they were doing at the time they heard it.
While not a proven absolute, it seems that because of an emotional “stamping in”
of a memory, that memory becomes more embedded, or clearer to recall and
easier to retrieve. Either way, it seems to have a greater impact on the human
brain.

More applicable, our own Jewish system of learning and memory has always
shown a preference for hands-on experiential learning over text book
historiography. We learn history by re-living it, like in the Passover Seder. We
feel our past by engaging our senses, not our intellect. By tasting, smelling, and
hearing it.

But that sensory experience in Judaism comes not from the drama of Yisiat
Misrayim itself, but much later, only after the story or telling of Yisiat Misrayim
takes their place amid our tefilot and holidays.

And that is the irony of the miracle. To experience something extraordinary, to

be on a “high” is so marvelous and so engaging, but it can only reach the surface
of the intellect. Long term, it never penetrates without something more.
Something taught to Israel while they were still in Egypt, but not learned by
them until much later – that the telling and re-telling were as integral as the
event itself.

In the final plague, G-d doesn’t even explain the course of events as with the first
nine plagues, but instead explains how future generations will look back on it—a
flashback in the making. G-d asks Israel to guard its commemoration forever.
G-d will depend on His people to retell the Exodus and engender in future
generations the awe and gratitude they’ve been made to experience. Children
will inquire of their parents. Questions and answers will replace eyewitness
accounts and faith will replace “otot” and “mofetim.” Instead of revisiting each
future generation with extraordinary wonders of their own, G-d will entrust His
sacred and treasured message to us, each parent in each home. Somehow, in the
mundane interaction between parent and child, holiday dinners and school
plays, we play the greatest role in bringing ourselves and our families closer to
G-d and Judaism.

In a recent animated Pixar film, “Up,” an 8 year old boy Russell recalls how his
estranged father used to take him out for ice cream. He remembers his Dad’s
favorite flavor and his own, and remembers that they would sit together,
slurping their melting treats and counting passing red and blue cars. “That might
sound boring,” says Russell, a little embarrassed. “But I think the boring stuff is
the stuff I remember most.”

Jeffrey Dweck
Miracles and Memory (Unabridged)

Think for a moment of the birth of the Nation of Israel in our Torah. Think of the
nation’s formative years and most powerful moments. Think of the images that
solidify Israel’s nationhood – Egypt, Sinai, the Torah.

Think of the faces, thoughts and words of the common Israelite.

And what comes to mind?

“Am kishei oref.” A stiff-necked, stubborn, and complaining people.

Three days after the splitting of the Red Sea, Israel is already complaining about
water. Later, about not having food. Then, about having food, but only the Man.
And then water again. Several (if not all) of the great commentators address how
this could happen so soon after witnessing the greatness and glory of G-d. Some
commentaries even claim that during the magnificent event of the Red Sea itself,
the angels called the Israelites idolators (Yalkut Shimoni 1:238).

Indeed, this obstinacy is what characterizes Israel for most of the Bible.

“And G-d said to Moses, ‘I have seen this people, and behold, it is a stiff-necked
people; now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may burn hot against them
and I may consume them’” (Shemot 32: 9-10, and again in 33:3, 33:5, 34:9).

Israel is stubborn and slow to change and is warned against having any illusions
about it: “Don’t say in your heart – ‘because of my righteousness has God
brought me to inherit this land and because of the wickedness of these other
nations’ – (but) in order to fulfill God’s promise to your ancestors Abraham,
Isaac and Jacob – for you are a stiff-necked people…” (Devarim 9:4-6).

The midrash, unwilling to reconcile a redeemed nation and their failure to really
absorb what they had been witnessing, blame the “erev rav” or “mixed
multitude,” who the Zohar (Ki Tisa) explains consisted entirely of all the
sorcerers of Egypt and all its magicians (as it is written, “And the magicians of
Egypt, they also did in like manner with their enchantments” (Ex. 7, 2)). Yet
even this midrash concedes that Israel was fragile in their faith and susceptible.

In many ways, you might say that the wonderous displays performed and
orchestrated by G-d had little lasting emotional effect on the psyche of Israel.
Surely they were vitalized and emboldened by the plagues and ultimate
redemptive wonders. But gratitude, faith, and patience eluded the nation. Their
memories lapsed.
Pharaoh, too, proves difficult to teach. Miracles and wonders do move him, even
to a state of abject confession, but he reverts, each time, unyielding and
unaffected.

One of the approaches to the celebrated dilemma of the hardening of Pharaoh’s

heart is that of the Bet HaLevi, who explains that Pharaoh really did not want to
free Israel, but that G-d’s wonders had a coercive effect. To allow Pharaoh his
true intent, G-d hardened his heart, and neutralized the effect of the plagues.

The early display of wonders and signs have no lasting effect on Pharaoh. Even
the later ones might achieve a short term result – in this case the desired result of
freeing Israel – but would fall short and likely fade.

The plagues, thus, were limited in purpose. They were intended to carry a
message and start a process. Hence the terms “ot” and “mofet” and not “nes,”
which would better connote a supernatural event. According to Rabbi Jonathan
Sacks, for example, the plague of darkness was not a mofet, but an ot. It was
meant to teach something. The obliteration of the sun signaled that there is a
power greater than the Egyptian sun-god Ra.

HaRambam explains (Yesode
ha-Torah 7), that the miracles recorded in the Bible
were never intended to provide evidence for believing in Hashem’s authority for
Moshe’s mission. They were performed in order to achieve particular concrete
results: to save the Israelites, to provide food and drink in the wilderness, to
suppress the rebellion of Korah. After the direct encounter between Israel and
G-d at Sinai, the necessary qualifications of a prophet were that he uphold the
teachings of the Torah. Should he fail to do so, even the performance of miracles
could not give him credibility (Devarim 13:2-4). The talmudic rabbis ruled that
the ability to perform miracles is no proof of the correctness of one's halakhic
views (Baba Metiza 29b). They also ruled that one must not rely on a miracle
(Pesahim 64b). HaRambam held that the future Mashiach will not be asked to
validate his claims by the performance of miracles.

To suggest, on the other hand, that a rational, information-rich approach devoid

of any wonder or emotion may be overcompensating.

A “flashbulb memory,” a phrase coined in psychology, refers to the phenomenon

of knowing where you were and what you were doing at the time that you
learned about a major and often shocking public event, such as the September 11,
2001 attacks or the death of John F. Kennedy. Somehow, because of the emotions
accompanying the experience, the event is now bound up in one’s memory with
what they were doing at the time they heard it.
While not a proven absolute, it seems that because of an emotional “stamping in”
of a memory, that memory becomes more embedded, or clearer to recall and
easier to retrieve. Either way, it seems to have a greater impact on the human
brain.

More applicable, our own Jewish system of learning and memory has always
shown a preference for hands-on experiential learning over text book
historiography. We learn history by re-living it, like in the Passover Seder. We
feel our past by engaging our senses, not our intellect. By tasting, smelling, and
hearing it.

But that sensory experience in Judaism comes not from the drama of Yisiat
Misrayim itself, but much later, only after the story or telling of Yisiat Misrayim
takes their place amid our tefilot and holidays.

And that is the irony of the miracle. To experience something extraordinary, to

be on a “high” is so marvelous and so engaging, but it can only reach the surface
of the intellect. Long term, it never penetrates without something more.
Something taught to Israel while they were still in Egypt, but not learned by
them until much later – that the telling and re-telling were as integral as the
event itself.

Through the first nine plagues, the Israelite people had been spectators; quiet
bystanders in their fate, a people emerging as a nation. In the tenth and final
plague, a shift of the narrative occurs and G-d asks Israel to join as the
protagonist. The rituals and commandments surrounding “remembering” -- the
festival, the sacrifice, and its “signs” set the redemption and, in turn, our religion
in motion. Israel was to paint their doorposts with lamb blood. The Midrash
explains that the blood was painted on the inside of the Israelite homes and
thereby a sign “for you.”

In the final plague, G-d doesn’t even explain the course of events as with the first
nine plagues, but instead explains how future generations will look back on it—a
flashback in the making. G-d asks Israel to guard its commemoration forever.
G-d will depend on His people to retell the Exodus and engender in future
generations the awe and gratitude they’ve been made to experience. Children
will inquire of their parents. Questions and answers will replace eyewitness
accounts and faith will replace “otot” and “mofetim.” Instead of revisiting each
future generation with extraordinary wonders of their own, G-d will entrust His
sacred and treasured message to us, each parent in each home. Somehow, in the
mundane interaction between parent and child, holiday dinners and school
plays, we play the greatest role in bringing ourselves and our families closer to
G-d and Judaism.
In a recent animated Pixar film,1 “Up,” an 8 year old boy Russell recalls how his
estranged father used to take him out for ice cream. He remembers his Dad’s
favorite flavor and his own, and remembers that they would sit together,
slurping their melting treats and counting passing red and blue cars. “That might
sound boring,” says Russell, a little embarrassed. “But I think the boring stuff is
the stuff I remember most.”

Jeffrey Dweck

1
Some of this paragraph taken from a published film review.