The One Who Heard

The parsha that contains the Ten Commandments — the foundational moment of Jewish civilization, the voice of God at Sinai, thunder and lightning and a mountain on fire — is named for a Midianite priest.

Not Moses. Not Aaron. Not God. Yitro. The father-in-law. The outsider. The one who heard what had happened and came anyway.

וַיִּשְׁמַ֞ע יִתְר֨וֹ כֹהֵ֤ן מִדְיָן֙ חֹתֵ֣ן מֹשֶׁ֔ה אֵת֩ כׇּל־אֲשֶׁ֨ר עָשָׂ֤ה אֱלֹהִים֙ לְמֹשֶׁ֔ה וּלְיִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל עַמּ֑וֹ כִּֽי־הוֹצִ֧יא יְהֹוָ֛ה אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל מִמִּצְרָֽיִם׃

Jethro priest of Midian, Moses’ father-in-law, heard all that God had done for Moses and for Israel—God’s people: how the ETERNAL had brought Israel out from Egypt.

— Shemot 18:1

He heard. The Hebrew is vayishma — and he heard. The rabbis ask what exactly Yitro heard that made him pick up and travel to the desert, leaving behind his position, his home, everything familiar. Rashi cites the splitting of the sea and the war with Amalek. Others add the giving of the Torah itself. The point is the same: a lot of people heard. Yitro moved.

I think about that distinction more than I should. Wednesday morning I was at a coffee shop in Dunwoody — and the barista, making conversation, asked what I was reading. I had a Chumash open on the table, which even in Crema is unusual enough to draw a question. I said it was the Torah. She said, "Oh, are you studying to be a rabbi?" I said no, I'm just Jewish. She paused. "You just... read it? Like, on a Wednesday?" I said yes. She said that was cool. And that was it.

It was a nothing interaction. Ten seconds. But it caught something I've been sitting with all week, which is the strangeness of what Yitro did and what anyone does when they hear something and actually go toward it. The barista heard and thought it was interesting. Yitro heard and left Midian.

Parashat Yitro covers a lot of ground: Yitro's arrival and his advice to Moses about delegating judgment, the Israelites' arrival at Sinai, and then the main event — the aseret hadibrot, the Ten Utterances, spoken by God to the assembled people.

Two chapters of organizational logistics, followed by arguably the most famous scene in the Torah. The parsha moves from the mundane to the cosmic without a transition.

But before the thunder, before the commandments, there is a verse that carries more weight than its handful of Hebrew words suggest:

וַיִּסְע֣וּ מֵרְפִידִ֗ים וַיָּבֹ֙אוּ֙ מִדְבַּ֣ר סִינַ֔י וַֽיַּחֲנ֖וּ בַּמִּדְבָּ֑ר וַיִּֽחַן־שָׁ֥ם יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל נֶ֥גֶד הָהָֽר׃

Having journeyed from Rephidim, they entered the wilderness of Sinai and encamped in the wilderness. Israel encamped there in front of the mountain,

— Shemot 19:2

The verse uses two different verb forms for "encamped." The first — vayachanu — is plural: they encamped. The second — vayichan — is singular: Israel encamped. One word, one people. Rashi catches it: k'ish echad b'lev echad. As one person with one heart. Every other encampment in the desert, Rashi says, was marked by murmuring and dissension. This one was different. At the foot of that mountain, before the voice spoke, something aligned.

I drove to shul last Shabbat. Parked in the lot. Sat in the car for a minute or ten waiting for the doors to be unlocked and people to show up. I'm not yet operating on Jewish Standard Time, much to the chagrin of my husband. There is a moment I have almost every Saturday morning — small, not dramatic — where I notice that this is my week now. Not because it feels unfamiliar. Because it still feels chosen. Every single week, it still feels chosen. The engine off, the tallit in its bag, the walk across the parking lot into a room full of people who did the same thing I did: heard something once and kept showing up.

The Ten Utterances begin with a sentence that is not, technically, a commandment. Maybe the rest of the world can stop referring them as commandments? I'm not holding my breath.

אָֽנֹכִ֖י֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֑֔יךָ אֲשֶׁ֧ר הוֹצֵאתִ֛יךָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם מִבֵּ֣֥ית עֲבָדִ֑͏ֽים׃

I the ETERNAL am your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage:

— Shemot 20:2

No instruction. No prohibition. Just identification. I am. I brought you out. The relationship is established before the rules arrive. The medieval commentators argue about whether this counts as the first commandment — a commandment to believe — or whether it stands outside the count entirely, a preamble. Either way, it does the same thing: it names the bond before it names the terms.

I sat in shul and listened to these words, and the room got a little quieter than usual.

The chanting tradition for the Ten Utterances uses its own melody — ta'am elyon, the upper cantillation — and when it comes, you can feel something change. Everyone stands. Even those in the back who have been whispering for the last hour.

There is a midrash that says when God spoke at Sinai, every soul that would ever be Jewish was present — the ones already born, the ones not yet born, and the ones who would one day choose it. I don't know what I think about that theologically. But I know what it feels like to sit in a room on a rainy Saturday in Atlanta, hear those words chanted, and stand.

The parsha is named for the outsider who heard and came. The people arrived at the mountain and for once — for the only time in the wilderness — stood as one. The first words spoken were not a rule but a declaration: I am your God. I brought you out.

The joy in Yitro is the quiet kind. The kind you feel when something you've been carrying gets set down. A lot of people hear. Some of them move. The ones who move find out the mountain was waiting.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham