| Dear Yeshiva Family:
In this week's parshah we finally reach the moment of Yetziyas Mitzrayim, when Hashem takes us out and, through a breathtaking series of miracles, reveals something fundamental about reality itself. Until then, humanity could believe that Hashem created the world. But creation alone does not yet mean relationship or ongoing involvement. Through the makkos and the splitting of the sea, Hashem showed that He is not only the Creator, but the One who actively runs the world at every moment. Every locust, every frog, every change in nature was not random and not symbolic, but precisely directed by Him. The world is not on autopilot. It is guided, watched, and governed down to the smallest detail[1].
And yet, Hashem does not reveal Himself in such an open and overwhelming way in every generation. Once He revealed His hand in history so clearly, we are now meant to recognize His presence even when it is hidden, to learn how to see Him in the quieter patterns of life and in the unfolding of our own stories. That is why, in this parashah, there is a special mitzvah: "And you shall tell your child." We are commanded to transmit the story of Yetziyas Mitzrayim from parent to child, to make it part of our living memory and identity. This is something we speak about as a people who say, "This is what happened to us. This is what our nation experienced. This is how we know that Hashem runs the world."
A child is born with no knowledge of anything. Everything he knows is given to him by his parents. The mesorah, the chain of transmission, if transmitted properly then becomes a fundamental part of his core inner information he goes around life with. By telling our children the story of the Exodus, again and again, we ensure that the revelation of Hashem in Mitzrayim does not remain locked in the past, but continues to shape how every new generation understands the world, themselves, and the Hand that guides all of history.
'VeHigadeta Levincha'
As an aside, this also helps us understand something about the mitzvah of "vehigadeta levincha" as it is fulfilled on the night of the Seder. Sometimes people become so involved in explaining side details of the Haggadah — why Rabbi Akiva was in Bnei Brak, how long the Tannaim spoke, historical questions, and various commentaries — that the central point can become blurred. The heart of the night is not analysis for its own sake, but the simple, powerful act of telling the story: how Hashem took us out of Mitzrayim, how He revealed His hand in history, and how we became His nation. The goal is to say it, and say it again, and let it sink in. The main focus of the night, no matter how old, knowledgeable or smart one is, should be on the telling over of the story and Hashems involvement in it.
Repetition is how faith is built. No matter how many times a truth is heard, it becomes more deeply embedded when it is reviewed, relived, and spoken aloud again and again. This is why we recite Krias Shema twice daily, declaring Hashem's unity morning and night. This is why once a week we stop all creative work and enter into Shabbos, a living reminder that the world has a Creator and a purpose. This is why the calendar is filled with Yamim Tovim, each one returning us to the same foundational truths. As the Chinuch and the Ramban explain, these mitzvos are not merely commemorations; they are a system of spiritual education. They are meant to engrave the awareness of Hashem into our consciousness through constant repetition.
A fascinating nuance in the Passuk
There is a fascinating nuance in the pasuk that commands this mitzvah. The Torah says, "And you shall tell it over to your children… so that you will know that I am Hashem" (Shemos 10:2). At first glance, this ending is puzzling. The entire verse is speaking about transmitting the story to the next generation, about preserving the mesorah so that Judaism continues from parent to child. So why does the Torah conclude with, "and you will know that I am Hashem"?
That sounds backwards. Knowing Hashem should be the starting point, the prerequisite for teaching our children. Yet the pasuk seems to suggest the opposite: that through the act of telling it over, through the transmission itself, "you will know that I am Hashem." How are we to understand this reversal?
Perhaps the answer lies in something we see all the time in real life and I have noticed when working with people over the years. People who are tasked with something that they become responsible for, step up to the plate. There are many people who, during their teenage years and even into young adulthood, relate to Judaism mainly as a system they are moving through. They are told what to do, where to be, what the rules are. They comply, more or less, but it often feels external. Nothing truly depends on them. If they grow, fine. If they stagnate, life goes on. The chain will continue without them. In fact, sometimes it can come with some resentment. People don't like to always be told what to do. People like to be in the drivers seat. If the entire infrastructure is set up with no ability for me to shine, for me to innovate, it becomes hard to stay in the lane. Then something changes.
A child is born. And later, that child goes off to school. And suddenly, the person realizes that standing in front of him is not just a cute child, but a blank canvas. A soul that will be shaped, colored, and formed by what it sees at home. And the thought hits: this is on me. If I take Torah seriously, my child will take it seriously. If I believe deeply, he will absorb belief. If I treat Judaism as routine, as burden, as background noise, that is what he will inherit. I am important. I am a link in the chain, and it is solely up to me to keep up this link!
That responsibility has a strange power. It awakens something dormant. A person who never opened a Gemara seriously begins to think, "How can I give my child something I do not possess?" A person who davened casually begins to care about a minyan. A person who coasted on habit begins to learn again, to ask questions, to grow. Not because anyone told him to — but because someone now depends on him.
I have noticed that the most opportune time to get people to look inwards is when they send their first child to school for the first time. It is a time of deep awakening. And that recognition is what galvanizes him to study.
And perhaps this is what the pasuk means. Not that first you know Hashem and then you teach your child. But that through being commanded to teach your child, through realizing that you are now a link in the chain, you come to know Hashem more deeply yourself. The responsibility creates the knowledge. The obligation creates the faith. Being entrusted with the future forces a person to take the present seriously.
"You shall tell your child" — and through that very act, "you will know that I am Hashem." When people are given real responsibility, something remarkable happens. They rise to it. Human beings do not naturally shy away from importance; they yearn for it. They want to feel that they matter, that something depends on them, that their choices carry weight. What people resist is not obligation itself, but the feeling of being a passive participant, merely following instructions in a system where nothing truly hinges on them. But place someone in the driver's seat — not necessarily in control, but in a position where their actions genuinely count — and seriousness awakens.
I see this clearly, if I may say so, among Chabad bochurim. I was once chatting with Rabbi Elisha Prero and we were discussing why is it that so many of these young men are so alive, so motivated, so ready to give? And the answer is because from a young age they are taught that one day a community will depend on them. They grow up knowing that they are future shluchim, future rabbanim, future leaders somewhere in the world. Long before the responsibility actually arrives, its shadow already shapes them. They study differently. They daven differently. They live differently.
And this is a message we would do well to bring into our own schools and to our young adults. Even before a person has a family, even before anyone formally depends on him, he must be taught that his life already carries weight. That his learning affects the world. That his mitzvos ripple outward. That he is part of something far larger than himself. When a young person internalizes that he is not just passing through Judaism, but carrying it forward, his entire relationship to Torah changes.
This knowledge would change the face of education everywhere.
Have an amazing Shabbos,
Rabbi Moshe Revah Rosh HaYeshiva Mrevah2@touro.edu
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[1] See the famous Ramban at the end of our Parshah. | 
