The story of our exodus from Egypt feels almost like a fairy tale. For centuries, we endured suffering under a harsh and oppressive ruler. Trapped in a cycle of hardship, we cried out to Hashem for help. He responded, intervening in history to free His chosen people, who had long been enslaved.
Hashem led us out of Egypt, guiding us into the wilderness, where He provided for our basic needs—food, shelter, and care. With unconditional trust, we followed Him into the desert embracing His Torah at Har Sinai, marking the beginning of our journey as a nation, bound to His mitzvot.
Our trusting and loving exodus, along with our dreamy journey through the desert, laid the foundation of our national identity and continues to shape and define our relationship with Hashem. In Sefer Shemot, yetziat Mitzrayim is presented as an idealized, almost mythical story of divine hashgacha and unwavering emunah.
Parallel Stories
However, there are other depictions of yetziat Mitzrayim that are far less idealized and far more complex. In Chapter 20, the navi Yechezkeil describes Hashem’s invitation for us to “take the first step” by purging the foreign gods we had collected in our homes. Yet, stubborn and resistant, we refused. In response, Hashem considered annihilating us and starting anew with a different nation. Ultimately, we were redeemed solely for the sake of His name — to avoid a chillul Hashem — so that other nations would not question His power to liberate His people.
Similarly, in perek 106 of Tehillim, Dovid Hamelech emphasizes our rebellion at the Yam Suf: “Your parents in Egypt did not heed My miracles, and they rebelled against Me at the sea.” This paints a stark picture of disobedience and doubt during a critical moment of our redemption.
Evidently, the story of our liberation from Egypt is multifaceted containing aspects of faith, loyalty and deliverance, coupled with moments of rebellion, doubt and defiance. For various reasons, Sefer Shemot presents a more optimistic and rosy narrative, omitting the darker elements. By contrast, several prophets highlighted the less favorable aspects of our redemption, revealing that it was not only a tale of triumph but also one of struggle and challenge. Everything depends upon the chosen narrative.
Personal Narratives
These differences in the various narratives of the exodus serve as a reminder that our “perception shapes reality.” We possess the power to create our own stories in life. We can choose to fixate on problems and negativity, crafting a narrative marked by bitterness and pessimism, or we can embrace the more harmonious aspects of our lives, creating a narrative of hope. Our experience is defined by the narrative we create, and we have the power to shape it.
Striking a balance between living within our personal narrative and staying grounded in reality is a delicate task. If we become too cocooned in our idealized stories, we risk detaching ourselves from the truth, and slipping into naivety. Alternatively, we must also be cautious about what we expose ourselves to, the aspects of life we emphasize, and the prominence they hold in our narratives.
Honesty or Inspiration?
Take, for example, the trend in many Orthodox circles to craft hagiographic biographies of Torah leaders, omitting any reference to their human limitations or flaws. Many oppose this approach, arguing that it lacks intellectual honesty. For sure, intellectual honesty is essential for growth and authenticity. When we deceive others or withhold truth, we lose the ability to recognize the truth about ourselves.
On the other hand, by carefully curating the profiles, we create images, construct narratives, and idealize values through the lives of these towering figures. What is compromised in terms of intellectual honesty is compensated for by the inspiration these stories provide, by the powerful ideas they bring to life.
It is a delicate balance—between intellectual honesty and the construction of healthy, uplifting narratives. There is no simple right or wrong answer for the complex interplay between honesty and inspiration.
When the Gemara states, “Whoever claims that Dovid sinned is himself a sinner,” it isn’t denying the facts of Dovid Hamelech’s actions. Rather, it encourages us to build a narrative around Dovid Hamelech that doesn’t center on his sin. If we focus only on his shortcomings, we diminish his greatness and deprive ourselves of an inspiring role model. By elevating his virtues and sidestepping his failures, we preserve the idealism that can motivate us.
Similarly, the Gemara reports that after Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi’s passing, a decree was issued that anyone who declares his death should be punished. The community’s intention was not to resurrect Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi but to protect the collective consciousness from dwelling on the pain of his loss. By avoiding discussions of his death, the narrative would not be one of irreparable loss, but of triumph and of recognition of his monumental achievements.
Life, relationships and faith are deeply layered and intricate and our experience is framed by the narratives we construct. We must be discerning in what we choose to include and what we choose to leave out in these narratives. Avoiding certain aspects is not an act of cowardice or dishonesty—it is a deliberate choice in how we write our own stories.
Narratives and Moral Clarity
We are currently immersed in a deeply challenging war that is forcing us to reevaluate the narratives we build. We have achieved remarkable victories, but these are precarious and can be swiftly undone. We fight a righteous battle, even as we are branded as colonizers and accused of crimes against humanity.
We must tread carefully in shaping our narrative. We must remain open to all facts, yet also consciously curate the story we tell ourselves and the world. In an era where news is decentralized by social media, we possess the power to choose the sources through which we receive information. By isolating ourselves or excessively limiting our information flow, we risk creating unrealistic echo chambers. On the other hand, if we expose ourselves to every narrative without discernment, we risk losing control of the story we tell ourselves and which we live.
Be mindful of what you watch, who you trust, and the lens through which you view the world. Many of us have already exercised control over the information we consume. We chose not to gaze upon the horrific images that disrespected the victims of the atrocities of October 7. We resisted being manipulated by Hamas’s psychological warfare, refusing to gawk at their staged videos of hostages. This same discernment must guide how we process this righteous war that we have fought with immense courage, ensuring that our victories and the miracles that have accompanied us are not mischaracterized as failures.
The Narrative of Achdut
This deliberate shaping of our narrative must also guide how we perceive ourselves from within. We are a deeply divided people, yet we are also deeply united. We have come together as one to defend ourselves, even as internal divisions linger. Some, whether for political reasons or simply by nature, will always focus on social fissures and magnify them. But unity or achdut depends largely on the narrative we choose to construct. If we focus on the points of convergence, on what binds us together, we live as a united nation. If we fixate on the sharp disagreements and fractures, then perception becomes reality, and we risk splintering further.
The stories we tell ourselves define our reality—especially in turbulent times, when a clear narrative can be the difference between confusion and clarity, between despair and resilience.
The writer is a rabbi at the hesder pre-military Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush, with Yeshiva University ordination and an MA in English literature from the City University of New York. His most recent book, Reclaiming Redemption: Deciphering the Maze of Jewish History (Mosaica Press), is available in bookstores or at www.reclaimingredemption.com.
