Parshas Shemos 5786
I understood the videographer’s plight, trying to ensure that he got the footage he needed to ultimately produce a truly compelling promo video. But it was annoying. Two bunks were facing off in a competitive game of kickball, and campers were being shuffled around and told to stand in completely unnatural spots, all in the hopes of manufacturing the perfect shot. It had been a long day of this, and the head counselor was irritated.
The call for yet another take was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back and he screamed, “There are real kids in this camp!”
The director called off the videographer. The boys went back to playing actual kickball. Hopefully the video was good enough anyway. The camp is still in business.
Considering the enormous role he ultimately filled, the Torah is alarmingly stingy in its description of Moshe Rabbeinu. What, precisely, were the attributes he possessed that qualified him for leadership at the highest level?
Though muted, the Torah does provide a bit of insight in the moments immediately prior to Moshe’s selection, framing a seemingly innocuous gesture as perhaps the very item that made Moshe worthy of serving as Rabban Shel Yisrael.
The vehicle through which Hashem first communicates to Moshe is, of course the Burning Bush. The Torah describes that Moshe noticed the unusual sight: “וַיַּרְא וְהִנֵּה הַסְּנֶה בֹּעֵר בָּאֵשׁ וְהַסְּנֶה אֵינֶנּוּ אֻכָּל—And he saw that the bush was burning but that the bush would not be consumed.” (Shemos 3:2) This catches Moshe’s attention, and he goes to investigate.
And yet that simple act—turning aside to investigate the bush—is given what seems to be undue emphases. The next pasuk proceeds, “וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אָסֻרָה־נָּא וְאֶרְאֶה אֶת־הַמַּרְאֶה הַגָּדֹל הַזֶּה מַדּוּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַר הַסְּנֶה—And Moshe said ‘I will turn aside and see this great sight. Why does the bush not burn?’” (Shemos 3:3)
Undoubtedly that bit of inner monologue would surely exist. But it seems like an awfully odd thing for the Torah to harp on. Wouldn’t anyone have the same reaction? Wouldn’t anyone who saw something as bizarre as a burning bush turn aside to investigate? What is so remarkable about Moshe’s thoughts, and his decision that followed?
The answer lies in the context. In setting the scene, the Torah is careful to inform us of precisely what Moshe Rabbeinu was doing that day out in the wilderness. “וּמֹשֶׁה הָיָה רֹעֶה אֶת־צֹאן יִתְרוֹ חֹתְנוֹ—And Moshe was shepherding the flock of Yisro his father-in-law” (Shemos 3:1) Moshe wasn’t just strolling through an open meadow, taking in the landscape. He was at work, entrusted with caring for his father-in-law’s sheep. He had significant assets under management and was expected to provide returns.
The pressures of work, of getting the job done can create a sort of tunnel vision. We construct a fortress around the task at hand and nothing else may vie for our attention. Yet Moshe Rabbeinu acts otherwise. He extends his antennae beyond the walls of the fortress. Yes, he’s busy with work, but not so busy as to not pivot when appropriate.
To be a leader—a role that everyone fills is some capacity or another—this is precisely what’s demanded. Productive and successful people—precisely the ones cut out for leadership in the first place—will always be burdened by their projects and their goals, their dreams and their ambitions. But if space isn’t made for those around us who need our attention and assistance, even while we’re in the thick of the madness, then what’s it all worth anyway?
We can become so swept up in the demands of getting the perfect promo video, that we forget that there are real kids in the camp. Not just avatars on a screen choreographed to give an impression of what it’s like to have fun, but actual, real life kids who just want to play some kickball, and to whom we owe that small indulgence.
That’s not to say that any progress we’re making towards a goal is rightfully sidetracked by every one of our children who wants a cup of hot cocoa at two o’clock in the afternoon. But if we’re perpetually deaf to those requests, perpetually inattentive to every bid for our attention from those who need it and deserve it, it’s time to reconsider what the value of having those other goals is in the first place.
Amid the vague portrait the Torah paints of Moshe Rabbeinu, there is one quality that is articulated with great clarity. His humility. Commenting on Moshe’s character in the wake of Miriam having spoken of him in a manner lacking the respect he was owed, the pasuk famously notes, “וְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל־פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה—The man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more than anyone on the face of the earth.” (Bamidbar 12:3)
The two, of course, are related. When we inflate ourselves, then the task we’re busy with becomes inflated in kind. This is my job, my goal, my ambition, and, if I stand at the center of my own universe, what could possibly be more important than that? It’s when we view ourselves with humility that our antennae are sensitive enough to hear the signal produced by others. And it is then that that signal is compelling enough to gain our attention. That the campers who want to have some fun are correctly seen as a burning bush, beckoning us to pause, turn aside, and give them the attention they need.