Parshas Shemos 5781
My daughter and I both take our shoes off when we come home. But we do so for very different reasons. For me, it’s a simple consideration: the floors are clean, the shoes are dirty. But for my daughter, it’s different. She plops herself down on the floor as soon as she walks through the door and removes not only her shoes, but her socks. She’s not the least bit concerned with maintaining a clean space, as evidenced by her leaving a complete mess in her wake wherever she goes. For her, I think, it’s more about connecting to the space, to “dig in” to her surroundings, to feel bonded to the floor and the space around her.
Moshe stands in Hashem’s presence for the first time and is immediately told to remove his shoes. Why? The standard explanation is that shoes don’t belong on hallowed ground because they are full of the filth—both physical and spiritual—of wherever they have trod. But shoes are not only a vehicle for depositing unwanted muck into a pristine location, they are significant in of themselves as a barrier between the one wearing them and the environment. Hashem may well be commanding Moshe to remove his shoes not only for reasons similar to why I remove my shoes when I come home, but, in a way, for the reason that my daughter does. It is to invite Moshe into a closer, more intimate connection with the hallowed ground on which he stands. To connect to that holy space without the intrusion of a barrier that serves to separate him from ground now imbued with Hashem’s presence.
It is worth considering this approach specifically in light of the pesukim that precede the actual encounter between Hashem and Moshe. The Torah describes Moshe’s shepherding of his father’s flock and then noticing the oddity of a small bush that burns and yet will not be consumed. Moshe responds in a way that we could only presume we would have had we been in the same position: he turns aside to study this unusual phenomenon. And yet for something so typical, the Torah goes to great lengths to describe Moshe’s reaction to the scene:
וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אָסֻרָה־נָּא וְאֶרְאֶה אֶת־הַמַּרְאֶה הַגָּדֹל הַזֶּה מַדּוּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַר הַסְּנֶה׃ וַיַּרְא ה׳ כִּי סָר לִרְאוֹת וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו אֱלֹקים מִתּוֹךְ הַסְּנֶה וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה מֹשֶׁה וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּנִי׃
(שמות ג:ד)
Moshe said, “I must turn aside to look at this great sight; why does the bush not burn up?” When Hashem saw that he had turned aside to look, G-d called to him from within the bush, “Moshe! Moshe!” And he answered, “Here I am.”
(Shemos 3:4)
The simple act of turning aside to examine the bush is described twice, once when Moshe decides to do so, and again as Hashem takes note of what Moshe had done. So critical is this reaction that the pasuk describes Hashem as calling out to Moshe only once He saw that Moshe had turned to look at the bush.
Perhaps in assuming that anyone would have reacted similarly, we are giving the average person too much credit. The Torah praises Moshe for his noticing this event because in reality, people overlook important occurrences all the time. It is rare that whatever my kids catch me in the middle of is actually as important as reading to or playing with them, but breaking stride from whatever I’m wrapped up in at the moment requires a great deal of consciousness and intention. These are the qualities that Moshe demonstrates when he veers from his path, from his work, from his business, to further examine—to connect with—something remarkable.
The directive to remove his shoes is an invitation to Moshe to continue what he’s already begun. Moshe has proven himself a person who will stop what he’s doing to take stock of and engage with something holy. Hashem now instructs him to remove the barrier that will continue to separate him from it, so he can more fully interact with that holy place?
What are the shoes we wear that separate us from the hallowed ground we walk upon? Even as we follow in Moshe’s footsteps—turning aside from what occupies us to intentionally make time for what is more meaningful and important—do we take a moment to pause and remove the barriers that separate us from sanctity, even as it surrounds us? We may well push pause to make time for what’s holy—dinner with the family, time out with one’s spouse, a shiur, or minyan—but are we truly present when we’re there, or are there barriers that keep us from fully immersing in those spaces and moments?
If Moshe had to remove his shoes, we need to be better about removing our phones. The victory achieved in carving out time for children or Torah or Tefillah is only partially achieved if while we’re there, we’re actually elsewhere—in our inboxes, in our WhatsApp groups, and on our browsers. People are indeed busier now than ever, but we still sacrifice an awful lot of time to the unimportant, meaningless, and nominally entertaining. Is the text that’s sent out during Chazaras HaShatz truly critical, the email responded to during our kids’ bedtime actually life-altering, or the announcement posted while attending a shiur as imperative as we tell ourselves? Are these marks of productivity, or simply an expression of discomfort with sitting still? Would we not be better served in the long run if we set our phones elsewhere so we could be more present, more respectful, and fully marinate in the holy environments we often place ourselves in, but don’t fully engage with due to distraction?
Removing shoes is not just for keeping things sanitary. It’s for keeping things sanctified. We can be present and engaged, we can take a deep, immersive dive into life’s holiest moments and most sanctified spaces. But we have to remove our shoes to do so.