Rabbi's Sermons

Based on Rabbi Dovid Fohrman

Imagine you are standing at the edge of the Sea of Reeds. Behind you, the thunder of six hundred chariots. Pharaoh's army, the most powerful military force in the ancient world, is bearing down on your family. Your children are crying. There is nowhere to run.

Now imagine something else. Imagine those same six hundred chariots—but instead of hunting you, they are escorting you. Instead of soldiers with weapons drawn, there are dignitaries in ceremonial dress. The children aren't crying; they're waving. The most powerful nation on earth has sent its finest to honor your family as you journey home.

Six hundred chariots. That was the ancient equivalent of a presidential motorcade, the Secret Service, and Air Force One—all rolled into one. Though, I should note, with considerably worse GPS and no rest stops.

Which scene is real? Here's what will surprise you: both of them are. Both are recorded in the Torah. And the difference between them—the hinge on which history turned from celebration to catastrophe—was nothing more than the choice of one man.

This week we read Parashat Vayechi, the story of Jacob's death and burial. It seems like a simple narrative: Jacob dies, Joseph mourns, and the family buries their patriarch in the Cave of Machpelah. But Rabbi Fohrman reveals something hiding in this text—a preview of the Exodus, and a haunting vision of the redemption that could have been.

The key is a strange verse at the splitting of the sea. ה׳ tells Moses:

וַאֲנִי הִנְנִי מְחַזֵּק אֶת־לֵב מִצְרַיִם וְיָבֹאוּ אַחֲרֵיהֶם וְאִכָּבְדָה בְּפַרְעֹה וּבְכָל־חֵילוֹ בְּרִכְבּוֹ וּבְפָרָשָׁיו

And I will stiffen the hearts of the Egyptians so that they go in after them; and I will gain glory through Pharaoh and all his warriors, his chariots and his horsemen.

This verse has always troubled commentators. Does ה׳ really take glory from death and destruction? The Talmud in Megillah teaches that ה׳ silenced the angels who wanted to sing as the Egyptians drowned:

מַעֲשֵׂה יָדַי טוֹבְעִין בַּיָּם וְאַתֶּם אוֹמְרִים שִׁירָה?

"The work of My hands are drowning at sea, and you wish to sing songs?"

If ה׳ doesn't rejoice over the Egyptians' downfall, what does it mean that He will be "glorified" through their chariots and horsemen?

Look carefully at the verse. It doesn't say ה׳ gets glory from their deaths. It says ה׳ will be glorified—וְאִכָּבְדָה—through the Egyptian warriors, chariots, and horsemen. And this precise language appears in only one other place in the entire Torah—in this week's parashah, at Jacob's burial:

וַיַּעַל יוֹסֵף לִקְבֹּר אֶת־אָבִיו וַיַּעֲלוּ אִתּוֹ כׇּל־עַבְדֵי פַרְעֹה זִקְנֵי בֵיתוֹ וְכֹל זִקְנֵי אֶרֶץ־מִצְרָיִם:

So Joseph went up to bury his father; and with him went up all the officials of Pharaoh, the senior members of his court, and all of Egypt's dignitaries,

וְכֹל בֵּית יוֹסֵף וְאֶחָיו וּבֵית אָבִיו רַק טַפָּם וְצֹאנָם וּבְקָרָם עָזְבוּ בְּאֶרֶץ גֹּשֶׁן:

together with all of Joseph's household, his brothers, and his father's household; only their children, their flocks, and their herds were left in the region of Goshen.

וַיַּעַל עִמּוֹ גַּם־רֶכֶב גַּם־פָּרָשִׁים וַיְהִי הַמַּחֲנֶה כָּבֵד מְאֹד:

Chariots, too, and horsemen went up with him; it was a very large troop.

Rechev and parashim—רֶכֶב and פָּרָשִׁים—chariots and horsemen. The same words. But notice the Torah's wordplay: in Genesis, the procession is described as כָּבֵד מְאֹד—"very heavy," or we might say, "very weighty," "very significant." In Exodus, ה׳ says וְאִכָּבְדָה—"I will be glorified." Same root: כ-ב-ד. The chariots that once brought kavod—honor—through partnership would now bring kavod through judgment. The glory that Egypt could have shared became the glory of their downfall.

Once we notice this connection, the parallels multiply. Consider how the local inhabitants react. At Jacob's burial:

וַיַּרְא יוֹשֵׁב הָאָרֶץ הַכְּנַעֲנִי אֶת־הָאֵבֶל בְּגֹרֶן הָאָטָד וַיֹּאמְרוּ אֵבֶל־כָּבֵד זֶה לְמִצְרָיִם:

And when the Canaanite inhabitants of the land saw the mourning at Goren Ha-Atad, they said, "This is a solemn mourning on the part of the Egyptians."

Again, that word: אֵבֶל־כָּבֵד—"a heavy mourning," "a weighty mourning." The Canaanites watch with reverent wonder. But at the Exodus, the Song at the Sea tells us:

שָׁמְעוּ עַמִּים יִרְגָּזוּן חִיל אָחַז יֹשְׁבֵי פְלָשֶׁת... נָמֹגוּ כֹּל יֹשְׁבֵי כְנָעַן:

The peoples hear, they tremble; agony grips the dwellers in Philistia... all the dwellers in Canaan are aghast.

The same Canaanites. The same watching. But wonder has become terror.

The parallel becomes even more striking when we consider what the Israelites left behind. At Jacob's burial, the text tells us explicitly: רַק טַפָּם וְצֹאנָם וּבְקָרָם עָזְבוּ בְּאֶרֶץ גֹּשֶׁן—"only their children, their flocks, and their herds were left in the region of Goshen." This was a willing arrangement, a sign of trust. But centuries later, Pharaoh tries to impose the very same arrangement by force:

וַיִּקְרָא פַרְעֹה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה וַיֹּאמֶר לְכוּ עִבְדוּ אֶת־ה׳ רַק צֹאנְכֶם וּבְקַרְכֶם יֻצָּג גַּם־טַפְּכֶם יֵלֵךְ עִמָּכֶם:

Pharaoh summoned Moses and said, "Go, worship your ה׳! Only your flocks and your herds shall be left behind; even your children may go with you."

Notice the almost identical language: צֹאן, בָּקָר, טַף—flocks, herds, children. What was once offered freely is now demanded as collateral. What was once trust has become coercion. And Moses, of course, refuses.

Jacob's burial procession takes a strange, circuitous route—through the wilderness, around the Dead Sea, crossing the Jordan from the east—the very route Israel would later take during the Exodus. The Torah is showing us what might have been. Jacob's burial was a dress rehearsal for redemption—a vision of how the Exodus should have looked.

Consider too the remarkable detail of the mourning period:

וַיִּמְלְאוּ־לוֹ אַרְבָּעִים יוֹם כִּי כֵּן יִמְלְאוּ יְמֵי הַחֲנֻטִים וַיִּבְכּוּ אֹתוֹ מִצְרַיִם שִׁבְעִים יוֹם:

It required forty days, for such is the full period of embalming. The Egyptians bewailed him seventy days.

Seventy days of Egyptian mourning for a Hebrew patriarch. Even the most devoted Jewish mother would eventually say, "Enough already. It's been ten weeks. Eat something." But this was Egypt honoring Israel—genuinely honoring Israel. The relationship was one of mutual respect.

Egyptian chariots and horsemen accompanying Israel in honor. The nations watching in awe, not terror. A great celebration as the chosen family processes to their promised destiny. This is how ה׳ wanted to be glorified through Egypt's military might—through partnership, not destruction.

But the Pharaoh of the Exodus made a different choice. Where his predecessor offered honor, he demanded enslavement. Where the earlier Pharaoh sent chariots to escort, this Pharaoh sent chariots to destroy. Moses asked only for what had been granted generations before—שַׁלַּח אֶת־עַמִּי וְיַעַבְדֻנִי, "let my people go to serve Me"—and Pharaoh refused. So the same chariots that once bore honor instead brought judgment. Not because ה׳ wanted it that way, but because hardened pride left no other path.

What does this ancient story say to us today? I believe it speaks to three dimensions of our modern lives.

First, it speaks to how we understand conflict. We live in an age of profound polarization. We speak of culture wars and political enemies, of unbridgeable divides between left and right, religious and secular, East and West. The Exodus story, as typically told, can feed this narrative: there are Egyptians and Israelites, oppressors and oppressed, and liberation comes only through the destruction of the enemy. But Jacob's burial tells a different story. It reminds us that the same chariots can escort or pursue. The same power can honor or oppress. The relationship between Egypt and Israel was not destined for tragedy—it was chosen. When we face those who seem to be our adversaries, we might ask: is this conflict inevitable, or is there a Pharaoh of Joseph's generation somewhere in this story? Is there a path where the chariots become an honor guard?

Second, this teaches us about the nature of divine glory. We often imagine that ה׳ is glorified through dramatic interventions—seas splitting, enemies vanquished, the miraculous and the spectacular. But the original vision suggests otherwise. ה׳'s deepest glory comes not from defeating enemies but from transforming them into allies. The Exodus that might have been—where Egypt honors Israel and the nations watch in wonder—would have brought greater glory than the one that was. The drowning of the Egyptians silenced even the angels. We glorify ה׳ most not when we triumph over others, but when we bring others along with us. In our families, our communities, our workplaces—every time we turn a potential adversary into a partner, we achieve something greater than victory. We achieve the Exodus that might have been.

Third, and perhaps most personally, this story speaks to the choices we make when we hold power over others. Pharaoh's predecessor had power over the Israelites—and he chose to honor them. The Pharaoh of the Exodus had the same power—and he chose to enslave them. The chariots were the same. The horsemen were the same. Only the choice was different. Each of us, in ways large and small, holds power over others. Parents over children. Employers over employees. The wealthy over those in need. Those with status over those without. In every such relationship, we face Pharaoh's choice. Will our chariots escort or pursue? Will we use our power to honor the dignity of those in our care, or to dominate them for our own benefit?

The consequences ripple further than we imagine. Pharaoh's hardened heart didn't only affect the Israelites—it destroyed his own people. The army that could have won honor drowned in the sea. The firstborn who could have lived alongside Israel's firstborn died in the night. When we use power to oppress rather than to honor, we don't only harm others; we destroy the best possibilities of our own lives. Every act of cruelty forecloses an Exodus that might have been.

There is a reason the Torah preserves both stories—the burial and the Exodus, the escort and the pursuit. It wants us to see them side by side. It wants us to know that tragedy was not inevitable. It wants us to understand that redemption through partnership is always ה׳'s first choice, and destruction is always the consequence of human refusal.

As we read Vayechi this Shabbat, we witness Jacob's final journey—Egyptians and Israelites together, chariots bearing honor, a funeral procession that embodies the dream of what human cooperation can achieve. That dream has never died. It awaits, in every generation, the leaders and the ordinary people willing to choose it.

The chariots are still here. The question is only what we will do with them.