Our parsha, Shemot, begins with names: “And these are the names of the children of Israel who came to Egypt…” Why does this parsha, the parsha of the Egyptian exile, begin with the names of the Jewish people when the Torah already counted all 70 Israelites by name in last week’s parsha?
Rashi is bothered by this and gives his usual answer, that God counts and recounts them to show His love for the people. But then Rashi adds an extra line: “For they are like stars, which go and come according to their numbers and names, as it says, ‘Who brings forth their number by count, to each He calls by name’” (Isaiah 40:26).
The stars and the Jewish people are both represented by names and numbers. A name represents individuality and a number represents being an integral part of something larger. Both are important, but what is most essential is the balance between them. When Jews go to war, we must be counted; when we pray communally, we must count for a minyan. But we are also each infinite individuals with names and so we must resist counting the people as numbers alone.
In the Torah, the epitome of numbers without names is the Tower of Babel. The same is true of Egypt, which is a place of building projects and large-scale agribusiness. In fact, in this Egyptian dystopia of production, not only do the slaves lack names but everyone does also. People in Egypt are referred to mainly by their titles: the Egyptian, the Hebrew, Pharaoh, the daughter of Pharaoh, Potiphar, the wife of Potiphar, the baker, the wine steward. When Joseph rises to power in Egypt and becomes part of the Egyptian machine, they take away his name and give him a descriptive title—Tzafnat Pa’neach, ‘the revealer of secrets,’ because he interprets dreams. He is called by his actions, that is, what he does for the state, not by his individual name.
Only one person in Egypt is given a fully foregrounded name in the Torah: Moses. The act of naming Moses is an act of rebellion. Moshe is named by the daughter of Pharaoh, and his name is explained. He is named after a subversive act. He is a Hebrew child who, by Pharaoh’s decree, was to be thrown into the water, not drawn out from it. But this is his name, “Moshe, because I drew him out of the water.” Thus, Moshe will become the redeemer; he understands the value of the individual. He learns from his birth mother and adopted mother to rebel against the slavery and number culture of his grandfather, Pharaoh.
Why does Moshe have to run away when he kills a taskmaster? After all, he is the Prince of Egypt. He killed a taskmaster—who would care? The answer is that Moshe is upending the status quo. Pharaoh’s Egypt is a vast building project. It is a Tower of Babel-like culture of numbers and cogs in a wheel, not individual names. But Moshe goes out and is attentive to the needs of individuals, and so he must flee due to his rebellion.
Egyptians and Jews come from different sons of Noah. Egyptians come from Ham, but Moses is a Jew whose progenitor is Shem, a name that itself means ‘name.’
In Jewish thought, peoplehood and the needs of the community are vital. In that sense, we are numbers, like the stars, part of a greater, important whole. But in Judaism, we are also names. The key is not one extreme or the other but the balance.
Our descent into Egypt is foreshadowed by Joseph’s dream, which is precisely about the stars coming out. Joseph threatens to erase the individuality of the brothers for the greater good, to be like stars, or a bundle of sheaves. So in return, the brothers take away Joseph’s name—they do not refer to him as Joseph but as ba’al ha–chalomot, ‘the dreamer.’
A people’s greatness is achieved through each of us being part of a larger whole, understanding that we are significant only as a member of the community and the people. We each have our work to do for the greater good. But if we lose sight of the value of the individual then all is lost. It is this balance between the individual and the nation which is so vital and indeed is the lesson of slavery and the Exodus which itself begins with names. There cannot only be the enslavement, the extreme of numbers; we must have shemot, names, but also we must spend 210 years in Egypt, which Chazal describe as the crucible which forms the Jewish nation, teaching us that the greater good, the people of Israel, is indeed the highest of values. Ultimately, it is this balance, this synergy between the name and number, my individuality and my role as a cog in the functioning of the greater people, which makes the Jewish people and any nation one that is both productive and moral.
In 50 generations, nobody will remember us as individuals, but the difference that we made as part of a larger number, as a part of the larger system which resonates onward, will make a difference. At the same time, Judaism believes that we as individuals are made in the image of God. It is this balance that is so essential.