From the Sea to Sinai: Inspirations That Last — and Those That Fade
Moments of national crisis often awaken something deep within people. The war in Israel has been such a moment. Across the country, many experienced a renewed pull toward tefillah, mitzvot, and Jewish identity. Soldiers asked for tefillin and tzitzit, improvised minyanim were formed near bases and staging areas, and people who had long felt distant from observance found themselves drawn back to the shul.
This was not limited to isolated stories. Rabbanim, educators, and organizations working with soldiers and civilians reported a clear rise in requests for tefillin and tzitzit, increased attendance at shuls, and greater participation in learning and chesed. The awakening was widespread and genuine.
Jewish history, however, teaches us to look carefully at such moments—not only at their intensity, but at whether they endure.
At the Sea, the Jewish people reached an unparalleled height of inspiration. They witnessed redemption with their own eyes. Chazal describe that moment in striking terms:
“רָאֲתָה שִׁפְחָה עַל הַיָּם מַה שֶּׁלֹּא רָאָה יְחֶזְקֵאל בֶּן בּוּזִי”—a simple maidservant at the Sea saw what even Yechezkel ben Buzi did not see (Mechilta, Beshalach).
The experience was overwhelming, elevating, and real.
Yet only days later, at Marah, that inspiration collapsed.
At Marah, the test was immediate and physical. The water was bitter and undrinkable, and the people complained:
“וַיִּלֹּנוּ הָעָם עַל מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר מַה נִּשְׁתֶּה”—“The people complained against Moshe, saying: What shall we drink?” (Shemot 15:24).
The same mouths that had sung at the Sea now murmured in frustration. The shift was sudden—from exaltation to complaint, from vision to distress. Chazal note that the term וילונו reflects not only protest, but an inner weakening. The inspiration of the Sea, powerful as it was, had not yet been fixed into something concrete or binding, and therefore could not sustain them when difficulty returned.
At Sinai, something fundamentally different occurred. There too there was awe and revelation, but this time the inspiration was sealed with obligation. The people did not rely on feeling alone. They declared:
“נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע”—“We will do, and we will listen” (Shemot 24:7).
They accepted mitzvot, responsibility, and discipline. Inspiration was translated into action. That is why Sinai endured, while the inspiration of the Sea faded.
This distinction is already hinted at in Shir HaShirim, which warns:
“אַל תְּעֹרְרוּ וְאַל תְּעֹרְרוּ אֶת הָאַהֲבָה עַד שֶׁתֶּחְפָּץ” (Shir HaShirim 2:7).
The word תֶּחְפָּץ comes from חֵפֶץ—an object, something tangible and formed. The verse warns against awakening love or inspiration before it can take shape as something real: a commitment, an obligation, a concrete act. Inspiration that has not yet become a cheftza—something with substance—cannot endure.
This is the challenge of our moment.
The awakening we have witnessed is real, but inspiration alone does not sustain. For it to last, it must be anchored in something practical: a mitzvah strengthened, a fixed time for tefillah or learning, a concrete obligation taken upon oneself. Inspiration must move from the spiritual to the active, from feeling to deed, from moment to permanence.
There is also a shared responsibility. “כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל עֲרֵבִים זֶה בָּזֶה”—all of Israel are responsible for one another (Shevuot 39a). When we see others stirred and searching, we must not stand aside. We must encourage them, offer support, provide guidance, and help translate their awakening into action.
From the Sea to Sinai, the lesson is clear:
Inspiration that remains a feeling passes.
Inspiration that becomes a חֵפֶץ—something real and binding—lasts.
שחמט דיגיטל