Then Miriam the prophetess, Aaron’s sister took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dancing. And Miriam chanted for them, “Sing to the Lord, who has triumphed gloriously. Horse and rider were thrown into the sea.”
Such relief at escaping such danger. The gratitude is palpable and physical. They danced. They sang. They played their timbrels. Often I play a game with children—sometimes even adults at the Passover seder. If you were leaving Egypt in haste—what would you take with you. I get the usual answers—food, water, sunscreen. It is the desert after all. My family, my stuffed animals, my dog, my GameBoy, camera, photos, books. No one has ever said timbrel—or frankly any musical instrument. But somehow these women knew, they took food, lamb and matzah baked in haste, their neighbors’ gold and their timbrels. They knew that out there in that desert there would be opportunities to celebrate, to rejoice, to be grateful. How did they know?
Miriam, for whom I am named in Hebrew, only appears four times but she has much to teach us. Her name, which usually gets translated as Bitter Waters can be translated as Rebellious Waters, according to Marsha Mirkin in her book, The Women Who Danced By the Sea. I like that better. Miriam is not embittered by what occurs to her and her people—despite great trauma. That simple change of framework changes the equation for me and rescues her. Miriam is courageous and outspoken. Her whole life seems to be connected with water and speaking out. We first meet her when she is following Moses in the basket when Pharaoh’s daughter pulls him out the Nile and volunteers her mother to be Moses’s nursemaid. We meet her again at the Sea of Reeds, when she leads her people in Song. When the Israelites complain about the lack of water, Miriam nourishes them with water, living waters, mayyim hayyim. And upon her death this well of living waters—in fact the opposite of bitter waters, disappears. Mirkin points out she is not passive in her nourishing. She is a rebel, willing to confront injustice, willing to find the joy that is not so hidden in adversity. I want to be like that too. I want to be courageous and outspoken. I want to be joyful and grateful not bitter because it is nearly impossible to be both grateful and bitter.
Let’s set the stage for this scene. The Israelites have fled Egypt. They are scared, still trapped in their slave mentality, thinking that maybe returning to the comfort of Egypt, even as slaves might be better than certain death from thirst in the wilderness. Then they are pursued by the Egyptian army—trapped by the advancing army and the Sea of Reeds, death seems inevitable. Then the miraculous occurs. The sea parts. The Israelites cross through. The Egyptians in hot pursuit drown. What must the Israelites be feeling now? How do they react to seeing so many people die and their own survival? They seem frozen, stunned into silence. They are awestruck, scared, uncertain. Miriam leads them in song and dance, both the women as the text explicated states and perhaps the men as well we learn from its use of the word lechem—the masculine form of “to them.”
This singing and dancing, her singing and dancing, is emblematic of her deep gratitude. They are her prophesy. She chooses life over death, gratitude over bitterness, joy of the moment over fear.
However, she is not alone in this. Biblical scholars believe that Miriam’s song maybe a fragment of a larger poem that has been lost. However, we do have its parallel—Moses’s song which has made its way into our daily liturgy—both in its entirety as Az yashir in the morning service and as Michamocha, asking “Who is like You, O Lord”. He and the Israelites are grateful too.
The full text includes two verses that I want to comment on both of which are personal expressions of gratitude to God.
Ozi v’zimrat Yah, vayahi li yeshua
The Lord is my strength and my might. And He was my salvation (or deliverer). Zimrat can either be read as my might which Rashi does or as my song, Either way it is an expression of deep gratitude and I suspect the double entendre was intentional.
Zeh eli
This is my God. Zeh as the demonstrative pronoun is seen as a finger pointing to what is seen, what is real, not just a vision. Usually when we pray in Judaism, the words of our liturgy are written in the plural. Notice that here, in the midst of great communal redemption that this prayer is written in the singular—The Lord is MY strength and MY might, MY salvation, MY God. Why?
In the Michamocha itself, we say, Zeh Eli anu v’amru—This is MY God, THEY answered and said.
Mekhilta teaches us that while Ezekiel and Isaiah had visions of the Divine, “even a slave woman at the shore of the sea, saw directly the power of the Almighty in splitting the sea All recognized in that instant their personal redemption and therefore all of them opened their mouths to sing in unison.
We learn from this that gratitude itself is personal first and then it gets incorporated into communal prayer. When we recite Michamocha we should think about the redemption in our own lives, just like we are bid for Pesach to see the Exodus from Egypt of how we personally were removed from the narrow straits, how we were personally freed from Egypt. Then when we recite, Zeh Eli, we are not just repeating the historical liturgy but acknowledging God as our own personal redeemer.
I am thankful for Miriam, as a namesake for me and role model for all women. I am thankful that Miriam could take a timbrel in her hand and dance, celebrate and praise, be courageous and outspoken, be joyful and grateful, even in the midst of her fear. May we be like Moses and Miriam—able to sing of gratitude overcoming their bitterness. May we be like the People of Israel who joined in the song and recognized their personal redemption in the midst of the communal. And may those living waters continue to nourish us all. Ken yehi ratzon.