The Darkness of the Womb

Rabbi Sarah Weissman
Jan 9
4 min read

On November 9, 2016, a Sikh activist and author named Valarie Kaur wrote a prayer for America. She said, “In our tears and agony, we hold our children close and confront the truth: The future is dark. But my faith dares me to ask: What if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb?” I was reminded of Kaur’s words this week after the strike on Venezuela and capture of their president, the killing of Renee Good by ICE agents in Minneapolis, and the shooting of two other people by Border Patrol in Portland, and noticed that this torrent of terrible news coincides with this week’s Torah reading from the beginning of the Book of Exodus. In the darkness of this week, thank God, we begin the journey to redemption.

It’s amazing how quickly things can go so very wrong. In just seven verses, we learn of the rise of a new pharaoh who “knew not Joseph,” his fear of the growing number of Hebrews in his land, and his subsequent enslavement of them. Twice in those verses are the Egyptians described as oppressing the Israelites “b’farech,” translated as “ruthlessly,” but also read by the Sages as “b’feh rach,” “with soft words.” That is, the Israelites’ enslavement begins with Pharaoh’s sweet-talking and dissembling, coaxing the people to work for him until they find themselves completely at his mercy (BT Sot. 11b). What begins with soft words ends, however, with the threat of violence, as Pharaoh commands that all the Israelite baby boys shall be put to death.

But the darkness of the tomb turns out to be the darkness of the womb. Enter our heroines Shifrah and Puah, who are, appropriately enough, midwives. “When you deliver the Hebrew women,” Pharaoh says, “look at the birthstool: if it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live” (1:16). And then we read, “The midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live (17).”

They did not do as the king of Egypt had told them. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks argues that, “This is the first recorded instance in history of civil disobedience: refusing to obey an order, given by the most powerful man in the most powerful empire of the ancient world, simply because it was immoral, unethical, inhuman.” And why do these two women dare stand up to Pharaoh? Because

“.וַתִּירֶ֤אןָ הַֽמְיַלְּדֹת֙ אֶת־הָ֣אֱלֹהִ֔ים”

“The midwives feared God.” Like the makers of the Hebrew National hotdog, Shifrah and Puah answer to a higher authority.

The disobedience of the midwives is the first of many examples in Jewish tradition and history of resisting oppressors, from Mordechai’s refusal to bow down to Haman to the partisans of World War II. As Rabbi Jonah Winer explains, “The Jewish relationship to state power has never been one of simple obedience. Our tradition has consistently elevated moral clarity above compliance. The halachic principle of dina d’malchuta dina [the law of the state is the law] binds us to the social order only insofar as that order remains just and universal; when it is corrupt, partial, or cruel, the same tradition commands us to resist. Our obligations to the Melech Elyon [King on High] transcend any earthly power.” Or as Benjamin Franklin memorably put it, “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.”

Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God, and it is also the key to our redemption. In Exodus, God famously begins the liberation from Egypt only after the Israelite people have cried out “Enough!” The 20th-century chasidic rabbi known as the Slonimer Rebbe writes, “All the miracles and wonders that have occurred for Israel have been drawn forth through our refusal to accept our circumstances. This refusal is our eternal strength—…it is the kusta d’chiyuta [the spark of life] that brings forth the light of [hope and possibility]. Or as Rabbi Sharon Brous puts it, “What is the key to our redemption? Refusing to accept the inevitability of the trajectory that we are on. Refusing to accept that there is simply nothing we can do to turn the tide, from a future of violent extremism…to a shared future, driven not by our basest instincts but our greatest aspirations.”

It is a mitzvah, then, a sacred Jewish obligation, to resist – to resist our own resignation and despair and to resist tyranny and injustice in our country and our world. Our acts of resistance may not be obvious or have an immediate impact, at least for those of us who aren’t members of Congress or university presidents. But with every rally we attend, every letter we write, and every dollar we spend to protest the immoral and illegal actions of our government and to protect the most vulnerable among us, we inch our way towards the rebirth of our nation and the repair of our world.

Rabbi Sharon Brous argues – and I pray that she is right, “While we have all been busy with our plotting and planning, our preening and protesting, the Holy One has been busy carefully gathering up the shattered pieces of our hearts, and from that anguish, that brokenness, that barrenness, birthing something new in this world. A new seed, a new spirit that will help us heal, that will lead us toward the light of peace.” What if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb? If God is birthing something new in this world, then let us be Shifrah and Puah, God’s midwives, whose strong yet gentle hands will guide that new life into the light.

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