When a large segment of a community is enduring similar challenges, we often borrow and utter a sentiment expressed in this week's portion when the Egyptians realized the full repercussions of the plague of the Firstborn, "There was no house that there was no corpse."
Why do we emphasize the 'house' being affected rather than a more accurate expression that there was simply no person that didn't suffer a loss?
We are taught that it wasn't just a mother's firstborn child that was doomed, but any child who was the first to be spawned by his father — even if his mother had previously given birth to others — was also doomed.
In one of the chapters in Psalms where King David records the marvels that transpired in Egypt, he mentions how, "He smote every firstborn in Egypt, ראשית אונים — the first fruit of their strength in the tents of Cham." (78,51)
This description of a firstborn as 'the first of strength' echoes the depiction of Reuven, the firstborn of Yaakov as ראשית אוני — 'my initial vigor', which we are told accents Reuven having been conceived 'from the first drop [of seed]' of Yaakov.
The portraying of the smiting of the firstborn in Egypt in this vein would seem to be focusing on those firstborns having been the initial child of their fathers, not necessarily the first to their mothers.
Rashi points out that the unnatural proliferation of firstborns in every house was in fact due to the 'Egyptian women who were unfaithful to their husbands, and they bore children from other unmarried men, and thus they had many firstborns, sometimes even five for one woman, each one being a firstborn to his father.'
This would also explain why in Psalms it refers to the firstborns 'in the tents of Cham', the lecherous father of Mitzrayim — the Patriarch of the Egyptian nation — who was cursed for his derisively lewd abuse of his father Noach in his drunken stupor and had violated the restriction from cohabiting in the ark during the deluge. His decadent progeny, the Egyptians, continued his promiscuous legacy.
The Maharal observes that when punishing the Egyptian firstborns, it is primarily the ראשית אונים — the first fruits of their strength — the paternal firstborns, which defines the status of a firstborn, whereas in Jewish tradition, the sanctity of the firstborn who requires redemption is determined solely by being a maternal one, the first child of a mother, regardless of the father's initial 'strength'.
He expounds on this dichotomy by discussing two types of ראשית — firsts.
There is ראשית הכח — initial potential, and ראשית המציאות — initial actuality.
A seed represents potential, but it is only significant in its actual blossoming into a fruit bearing tree.
A father introduces the 'initial potential' for a child which only becomes the 'initial reality' nine months later with the birth of a child.
An animal sees a seed and thoughtlessly and impetuously consumes it. An intelligent human plants the seed and patiently awaits the marvelous 'real' bounty the seed will produce.
In the lustful culture of Egypt, the passion of the moment blinds one to the consequence of an illegitimate child born from that lapse of consciousness.
In the world of קדושה — holiness, the potential and its associated joy and pleasure only has significance in the context of the valued result it will bring.
No wonder we venerate a mother's actual initial birth, for it underscores the noble objective and not simply potential that is often wasted.
The smiting of the Egyptians paternal firstborns, though, represent the indulgent urges that so often blur clear thinking and the pursuit for greatness.
In ancient Egyptian culture afterlife was merely a continuance of the pursuit of carnal pleasure. Their mummified bodies were preserved in pyramids and tombs, stocked with the accoutrements of physical pleasure and success.
For us the journey in this illusory physical world is merely the potential seed that we unwearyingly plant and cherish. We cultivate it with a perspective of growth, that will not only infuse meaning and purpose in all our endeavors but will reward us with an existence after our time on earth, reaping the 'fruits' of our labor in Eden, basking in the absolute 'real' joy of being in G-d's presence.
The holy Baal Shem Tov interprets our original verse in a most novel way.
The Talmud exclaims, Woe unto one who does not have a דרתא — dwelling, and who makes a fence for the dwelling, this refers to a person who lacks fear of Heaven and is nevertheless involved in Torah study.
One can engage even in Torah study yet never reach one's objective. If one does not elevate oneself — though observing the Torah — towards a heightened sense of closeness to G-d, it is as if one builds a fence but forgets the objective of building a house.
The way one attains fear of Heaven is by remaining conscious of our mortality, the day of death. Not simply fear, but a much greater goal beyond.
"There was no house that there was no corpse."
If a person ever wonders 'why there is no בית' — house, i.e. he lacks fear of Heaven, it is because 'there is no מת' — one hasn't pondered death, i.e. the reality of true existence beyond this world, that we can access and absorb even while we cultivate that future here on earth.
The Egyptians refused to fathom anything more than their carnal needs.
There indeed was 'no house' — no true purpose to their lives, because they perceived themselves as 'corpses' — corporeal beings, merely intelligent animals.
May we always remain cognizant that in every effort we exert here on earth we are building 'real' edifices of eternity.
באהבה,
צבי יהודה טייכמאן
