This week we’re beginning the book of Exodus – in Hebrew, called Shemot, “Names.” We open this book with the names of those who came down to Egypt with Yosef. And then we read that a new Pharaoh arises who did not know Yosef, and in his eyes the children of Israel are teeming multitudes, like vermin, the “enemy within.”

(Pharaoh actually says that. “Let us deal shrewdly with them… otherwise they may join our enemies in fighting against us and rise from the ground,” Ex. 1:10. This is not a subtle part of our story.) Torah tells us that our ancestors were in Egypt for 430 years, but for this Pharaoh we were still foreigners. Not “real” Egyptians.

Pharaoh described the children of Israel with dehumanizing language that evokes swarms of bugs. That same metaphor was used by Hitler before rounding up and slaughtering six million of us. It was used in Rwanda against the Tutsis in the 1990s. It’s used sometimes today, though I really wish it weren’t.

Calling any group of people vermin, or claiming they don’t deserve rights, is so far from Jewish values I can’t find words. This is a place where I think Torah and our tradition are very clear. Jewish tradition honors and uplifts many perspectives, but none of our sages ever say: hey, y’know what, we should be more like Pharaoh.

The story of this new Pharaoh and his fear of the Jews could be enough for one week. Dayenu! But also in this week’s parsha Moses is born, and floats down the river in a basket. He’s adopted by Pharaoh’s daughter, and grows up, and strikes an overseer who is mistreating a Hebrew. He flees from Pharaoh’s wrath. And then this happens:

וַ֠יֵּרָ֠א מַלְאַ֨ךְ יְהֹוָ֥”ה אֵלָ֛יו בְּלַבַּת־אֵ֖שׁ מִתּ֣וֹךְ הַסְּנֶ֑ה וַיַּ֗רְא וְהִנֵּ֤ה הַסְּנֶה֙ בֹּעֵ֣ר בָּאֵ֔שׁ וְהַסְּנֶ֖ה אֵינֶ֥נּוּ אֻכָּֽל׃ וַיֹּ֣אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֔ה אָסֻֽרָה־נָּ֣א וְאֶרְאֶ֔ה אֶת־הַמַּרְאֶ֥ה הַגָּדֹ֖ל הַזֶּ֑ה מַדּ֖וּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַ֥ר הַסְּנֶֽה׃ וַיַּ֥רְא יְהֹוָ֖”ה כִּ֣י סָ֣ר לִרְא֑וֹת וַיִּקְרָא֩ אֵלָ֨יו אֱלֹהִ֜ים מִתּ֣וֹךְ הַסְּנֶ֗ה וַיֹּ֛אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֥ה מֹשֶׁ֖ה וַיֹּ֥אמֶר הִנֵּֽנִי׃

A messenger of יהו’’ה appeared to [Moses] in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame, yet the bush was not consumed. Moses said, “I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn’t the bush burn up?” When יהו’’ה saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush: “Moses! Moses!” He answered, “Here I am.” (Ex. 3:2-4)

There’s a lot I could say about angels in Judaism; two friends of mine taught a whole rabbinic school class on the subject! For now I’ll just offer these two small datapoints:

Angels take many forms in our tradition. In Midrash Rabbah (10:6) we read that every blade of grass has an angel beside it encouraging it to grow. Our tradition considers many unnamed figures in Torah to be angels – by which I mean not some kind of winged being with a halo, but a messenger. Someone we need to hear.

Our tradition invites us to treat everyone we meet as though they might be an angel bearing a message our souls need to receive. But this angelic encounter seems to be both more abstract and more intimate. This isn’t a person, it’s a voice in a thornbush. What inner readiness does it take to see God’s presence in a fire in the literal weeds?

Becoming aware of divine Presence in unlikely spaces feels to me like: dayenu, that’s amazing, what a spiritual gift for us this week. Let’s stay open to the miraculous, let’s cultivate our capacity for wonder, let’s be alert for transformation! And yet even this is just the precursor to the real action, which is what God says from the bush.

God says to Moshe: go to Pharaoh and tell him to let My people go. And Moshe says: whoa, wait, who am I to do this? But God is not deterred. God says, I will be with you. So will your brother. You got this. I can tell you that, confronted with the world’s injustices, I often feel: whoa, wait, who am I to repair this? This is too big for me!

Moses felt that way too, and it didn’t get him off the hook. And like God said to Moses, we’re in this together. Our tradition is clear: we know the heart of the stranger for we were strangers in the land of Egypt. As Jews, we are called to stand in opposition to the arbitrary, cruel, or unjust use of power. These are Jewish values.

This year, this part of our story asks me: what am I reluctant to notice, because if I noticed it I might have to do something about it? What are the injustices I don’t want to see, because I don’t feel up to tackling them? What is the call to action I don’t want to hear, because I’m tired or I’m overwhelmed or I’m not sure I’m up to the task?

This part of our story challenges us to be like Moses: to notice injustice, to bear witness, to pay attention. And it asks us to respond, hineini – here I am. Here we are. Ready to pick up whatever tools are at our disposal to call for justice, to stand against dehumanization, to insist that every human being is made in the image of God.

And that includes poet Renée Nicole Good, killed this week by ICE. The one poem of hers I’ve been able to find online took my breath away when I saw that she had imagined “the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita” lovingly tucking her hair behind her ear and whispering, “make room for wonder.” Like the angel in the thornbush.

The bush, while burning, is not consumed. Like that thornbush, may we burn with the fire of justice, the fire of standing up for the vulnerable, the fire of our highest ideals – and may our fire not burn us up, but rather enable our souls and our actions to shine.