Exodus begins in trauma. A Pharaoh comes to power who willfully forgets Joseph, forgetting that one of the Jewish people was the architect of Egypt’s salvation.
Oppression follows. Then murder.
And then, finally, the struggle for liberation led by three remarkable siblings: Moses, Miriam, and Aaron.
Struggle and suffering—for our Israelite ancestors, to be sure, but also for Pharaoh and all Egypt—lead finally to freedom at the shores of the sea.
And then the Israelites arrive at the purpose of their liberation: Sinai, the moment when they receive the law, sacred obligations that bring meaning to their lives.
But freedom is not enough.
Responsibility and meaning are not enough.
The rest of the book of Exodus is about something else: building something beautiful and holy together, giving back to God and to the community itself.
This Shabbat we read of the project’s completion. The Tabernacle—the portable sanctuary our ancestors carried with them through all those years of wandering—is at last finished.
There is something holy in creating together, especially when the objects are dedicated to divine service. The beautiful fabrics they wove. The Tabernacle itself. The altar. The Ark of the Covenant adorned with cherubim. The vestments for Aaron and the priests.
Everyone contributed. All those with skills—men and women alike—helped fashion these sacred items.
The most special object was the lampstand, the seven-branched menorah made of gold, a symbol of hope and renewal. Each day the great candelabrum was lit with pure, pressed olive oil.
The Torah tells us that at the top of each branch was a calyx shaped like an almond blossom (Exodus 37:20).
וּבַמְּנֹרָ֖ה אַרְבָּעָ֣ה גְבִעִ֑ים מְשֻׁ֨קָּדִ֔ים כַּפְתֹּרֶ֖יהָ וּפְרָחֶֽיהָ.
Rabbi Dr. Rachel Adler notes that the menorah is, in fact, a representation of a flowering almond tree aflame.
Why an almond tree?
As Adler writes:
“The almond tree is distinctive not only in that it blossoms early, but also in that it then rapidly buds leaves, develops new branches, and forms its sustaining fruit—all before the flowers’ calyx drops off… Its Hebrew name, shaked, means ‘the early waker,’ and it may symbolize God’s watchfulness or the speed with which God responds (see Jeremiah 1).”
And why aflame?
Perhaps this echoes the bush that burned unconsumed, the moment that began this entire journey of liberation.
As Adler puts it:
“We cannot relive the moment when a startled shepherd sees a terrible and wonderful sight: a tree on fire, unconsumed. We can only make a memory tree to remind us of that moment, an artifice that we ourselves ceremoniously set afire amidst song and liturgy. The memory tree is a tree of wonder only and not a tree of terror. We take our chances, stubbornly continuing to set our memory-tree on fire—real fire, with all its potential for enlightenment and danger—reproducing the encounter with that fiery presence we seek and yet fear: the revealer of mysteries, the dweller in the bush.”
At a moment like this—when Israel is again under attack and war with Iran has spread instability across the region, with missiles shaking the Middle East—it can feel as though the world is engulfed in darkness and disorder.
And yet the final chapters of Exodus remind us that our task is not only to survive history’s storms, but to build something holy together in their aftermath. Like our ancestors, we are called to fashion light—to create communities of dignity, compassion, and faith where the Divine presence can dwell.
That may be the most enduring lesson of Exodus: freedom is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of the work of building a world illuminated by light.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yoshi