Parashat Beshalach: Between the Sea and the Soil

Shabbat Shirah takes its name from one of the most powerful poems in the Torah: Shirat HaYam, the Song of the Sea, which we read in Parashat Beshalach. It is the song that bursts forth after the crossing of the Yam Suf, after the miracle, after salvation. Yet the Torah, faithful to its radical honesty, does not begin with music. It begins with fear.

The people are trapped. Behind them stand Pharaoh and his army; before them, the sealed sea. There is no strategy, no visible way out. Anguish turns into accusation: “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to die in the wilderness?” Moses tries to calm them, promising deliverance—but then God interrupts him with a startling command:

“Why do you cry out to Me? Tell the children of Israel to move forward” (Exodus 14:15).

Move forward—toward what? With what certainty?

The Midrash answers by placing a seemingly secondary figure at the center of the scene: Nachshon ben Aminadav. While everyone hesitates, he steps into the sea. One step at a time. The water reaches his ankles, his knees, his chest. And only when there is no turning back does the sea finally split. The miracle does not replace human action—it depends on it. There are moments when not moving forward is not caution but surrender. To move forward is to take a step without guarantees, trusting that solid ground will appear only after the step is taken.

It is no coincidence that this parashah resonates so deeply in the days surrounding January 27, the International Holocaust Remembrance Day. There, too, seas were sealed and horizons impossible. And yet, there were Nachshons: those who hid a book, protected a word, passed on a name, survived in order to rebuild. Mir zaynen do. We are here. Not as a triumphant slogan, but as an existential statement. We are here because we did not stop moving forward, even when the sea refused to open.

Only after the crossing does the song emerge—first Moses’ song, and then Miriam’s. The Torah presents the song not as a prelude to the miracle, but as its aftermath. Shirat HaYam is born after trauma, not before it. As if the Torah were teaching us that one must first walk out of fear; only then can the voice turn into music.

Moses sings in the first person: Ashirah—“I will sing.” Miriam sings differently: Shiru—“You Sing (in plural).”

She does not lead from the front, but from within. She does not replace voices—she awakens them.

The Torah devotes only two verses to Miriam’s song, yet grants it eternal presence:

“Miriam the prophetess, sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dancing” (Exodus 15:20).

Music is not an ornament in Judaism. We chant the Torah, the Prophets, and our prayers. And even when words fail, a nigun—a simple, wordless melody—can carry us. It is no accident that the cantor is called a ḥazzan in Hebrew—not merely a “singer,” but a visionary, one who sees deeply and helps others access meaning through melody in prayer.

That is why the Torah calls Miriam a prophetess, and why her leadership is expressed through rhythm and dance. When Miriam dies, the Torah immediately states: there was no water. From this emerges the Midrash of Miriam’s Well, the source that accompanied the people throughout the wilderness. Well water does not fall from the sky—it must be dug. It requires effort, persistence, and faith. Miriam does not offer magical solutions; she enables life to keep flowing.

Later in the Book of Numbers, Miriam is afflicted with tzara’at, that mysterious malady associated with lashon hara, harmful speech. The Torah tells us she was isolated for seven days until her healing was complete—but the people refused to move on without her. They waited.

We do not leave anyone behind—least of all our heroes.

That teaching has returned with painful immediacy. Not long ago, we learned that through relentless digging—literal digging—IDF soldiers were able to recover the body of Ran Gvili (z”l). This was no sudden miracle, but dangerous, painstaking, stubborn work. It was the refusal to surrender to oblivion, the insistence on dignity even amid horror. This, too, is digging a well. It does not restore what was lost, but it allows a measure of humanity to keep flowing.

Here is where Shabbat Shirah meets Tu Bishvat. The Jewish people learned early on that one of the deepest ways to endure is by planting. The Midrash teaches: “From the very beginning of creation, the Holy One, Blessed be He, was occupied with planting… so too, when you enter the land, occupy yourselves first with planting” (Vayikra Rabbah 25:3). Even before commanding the construction of the Temple, God commands the planting of trees.

This is not an agricultural detail—it is a worldview. We survived the destruction of the Temples, the shattering of the Tablets, and exile itself. But we know that without trees, there is no future. We did not conquer the land by devastation, but by cultivation. And it is no coincidence that in Shirat HaYam itself, Moses declares: “You will bring them and plant them”—Tevi’emo ve-tita’emo—“on the mountain of Your inheritance” (Exodus 15:17). God did not merely bring us; God planted us, like a gardener who believes in what is sown.

Nachshon teaches us to move forward when the sea has not yet opened. Miriam teaches us not to dry up afterward.

Tu Bishvat reminds us that faith is not only about crossing seas, but about growing roots.

In times of rupture, singing is not naïveté—it is resistance. Planting is not romanticism—it is responsibility. And moving forward, even in fear, is sometimes the most profound act of hope.

May this Shabbat Shirah and this Tu Bishvat find us with the courage to step forward without guarantees, the patience to dig when it is hard, and the wisdom to plant trees whose fruits we may never see, but others surely will.

For as long as we keep moving forward, digging, and singing, the water does not dry up—and hope continues to flow.

Shabbat Shalom u’Mevorach.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier