Va’eira opens with a declaration that is both grounding and unsettling:

I am the LORD. I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as God Almighty, but by My name, the LORD, I did not make Myself known to them.
Exodus 6:2–3

God does not speak as one distant from their pain. He begins by affirming that He has heard the cry of His children and remembered His promises. What follows is not a reaction to events, but the steady movement of a faithful God acting in continuity with His covenant.

This is not a new God stepping into history. It is the same God who bound Himself to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob through an everlasting covenant, one rooted in peoplehood, responsibility, and land. The Scriptures then record a statement of profound weight:

I have heard the groaning of the sons of Israel… and I have remembered My covenant.
Exodus 6:5

God’s “remembering” is not about recall. It is about movement. When God remembers, history shifts. Redemption begins not with changed circumstances, but with covenantal faithfulness.

And yet, when Moses delivers God’s words to the people, the response is sobering:

But they did not listen to Moses, because of their broken spirit and harsh labor.
Exodus 6:9

This verse invites empathy, not criticism. The people are not defiant; they are depleted. Prolonged suffering shrinks the human capacity to hear hope. Trauma does not always reject faith; it often exhausts it. When pain becomes routine, even promises grounded in Scripture can feel distant.

That dynamic is not confined to the past. We live in a moment when Israel’s story is frequently stripped of context and reframed through modern slogans. The language of covenant is dismissed as irrelevant, while history is flattened into accusations. A people who returned to their ancestral homeland after exile are spoken of as intruders. Confidence replaces comprehension, and repetition replaces understanding.

Yet the Scriptures refuse to separate God from history, or faith from place.

God does not only promise redemption from Egypt. He promises arrival into something specific:

I will bring you to the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I will give it to you as an inheritance.
Exodus 6:8

This is not the language of conquest. It is the language of covenant. An inheritance is not seized by force; it is received through faithfulness. It is remembered, not invented.

Still, Scripture is honest. Knowing this does not eliminate suffering. Many in Israel today live with what Scripture calls a “broken spirit.” Recent years have brought grief that resists neat explanations: Lives lost with cruelty; families shattered; young men and women carrying wounds, some visible, many not; communities displaced; a constant awareness that the future remains uncertain. In such moments, belief is not abandoned. It is tested.

The prophetic reading from Ezekiel speaks directly into this tension:

When I gather the house of Israel from the peoples among whom they are scattered, and show Myself holy among them in the sight of the nations, then they will live on their land which I gave to My servant Jacob.
Ezekiel 28:25

The order matters. First, comes gathering. Then, the sanctification of God’s name, and then dwelling in the land. The prophet does not promise uninterrupted calm or immediate security. He speaks instead of purpose, of a God who remains faithful even when circumstances feel unstable.

Ezekiel then sharpens the message by addressing a different danger: misplaced trust.

Then all the inhabitants of Egypt will know that I am the LORD, because they have been only a staff made of reed to the house of Israel.
Ezekiel 29:6

The image is precise. Egypt is described as a staff made of reed, something that appears supportive but collapses under pressure. The Hebrew word used for “staff” is מִשְׁעֶנֶת (mishenet), meaning something to lean on. It refers not merely to assistance, but to dependence.

Yet, reeds break.

Ezekiel exposes a recurring temptation: when fear rises, Israel looks for security in visible power, alliances, empires, political guarantees. Egypt seemed strong. It appeared reliable. But it was never meant to carry the weight of Israel’s hope.

Later, Ezekiel declares that Egypt, despite its greatness, will become “a lowly kingdom” (Ezekiel 29:14). The message is unmistakable: No nation, no system, no external power, however impressive, can replace trust in God Himself. God will not come second to anyone - not to alliances, not to armies and not to institutions that promise stability while quietly demanding allegiance.

This is not only a lesson for ancient Israel. It is a warning for every generation.

For those of us who follow the Messiah, the challenge is no less demanding. Faith does not deny responsibility or action, but it does demand clarity about where ultimate trust rests. Support systems have their place, but they cannot be our foundation.

The Scriptures are uncompromising: God alone is the source of redemption, hope, and endurance, for Israel and for the nations. Anything else we lean on may feel sturdy for a moment, but when real weight is applied, only covenant holds.

Va’eira reminds us that redemption often begins when people are least able to imagine it. God speaks covenant most clearly when spirits are crushed. Faith is not measured by ease, but by endurance.

The question is not whether God remembers His covenant. The Scriptures leave no doubt about that. The harder question is whether we will continue to listen, especially when exhaustion tempts us to lean elsewhere.

Shabbat Shalom,
Moran