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As we begin this week’s Torah portion, Bo.  Seven plagues have come and gone, everything from frogs to lice to cattle disease.  Each time Pharaoh relents, then grows hard-hearted and stubborn.  And the Israelites remain enslaved.

Now, as the time for the Israelites’ freedom draws near, Pharaoh has grown even more stubborn, so much so that the Torah tells us God now hardens his heart, rather than Pharaoh hardening his own.  It’s as though in choosing to do the wrong thing again and again, he has now given up free choice and reached a point of no return.  It seems there is nothing anyone can do to talk him out of this path.

Or is there?  The beauty of coming to these ancient words as modern readers is that we bring our own questions, opinions… the material of our own hearts to all this ancient material that makes up our story.

Because this is not an image of God we’re necessarily comfortable with.  There’s God as celestial puppeteer to start… pulling the strings, pushing the buttons, manipulating our paths in this world before we’ve had anything to say about them.  Later words of Torah, and rabbinic commentary and the unpredictability of life all join forces to show us just how one-dimensional a worldview that is.

Then there is the image of a God who prevents someone, Pharaoh in this case, from being good... or at the very least from being better.  This is a far cry from the Divine love we espouse and try our best to connect with when we study and pray together.

But… given that our tradition is really a multiplicity of voices and opinions and hopes, there is what we might call this harsher quality on God’s part to contend with.  When we think about it, this idea of God hardening a human heart actually mirrors our experiences with each other, and within ourselves.  Every year when we approach the High Holidays, we’re taught that we are obligated to seek forgiveness directly from those we have hurt.  But if after sincerely trying three times, if the other person still stonewalls – the sage Maimonides teaches -- we have permission to let go.  Our efforts have to be real, and they have to demand something of us.  But if that other heart does not soften, we are not meant to browbeat ourselves forever.

Putting ourselves in Pharaoh’s shoes, here’s another mirroring moment to consider.  We have all at one time or another done the wrong thing… made a choice we shouldn’t have made, done something because we could and it was easier, not because it was right.  The first time it was probably hard, and came with some guilt.  But then, maybe the dust settled and we got away with it.  So it happened a second time, and it was smoother.  Less weighing out of the pros and cons, less guilt.  By the third time, our initial discomfort with our action and our high standards for ourselves are truly diminished.  After that?  Without even knowing it, we may well be forfeiting the likelihood of setting ourselves back on course.  When we ourselves close the door – and our hearts – to teshuvah, is it any wonder that God’s capacity to hear us and understand us is greatly diminished?

That’s a dark place to find ourselves, and in some way we all know it.  It’s no wonder that the ninth plague centers on is the plague of darkness, which may not sound so terrible given all the other plagues that had come already.

But this particular darkness was so dark, and so thick, that the people couldn’t even move for three whole days.  Think of the darkest room or road you can imagine with no hope of a light in the hall or an illuminating streetlight around the bend.

It’s as though the darkness was a physical thing, immobilizing the Egyptians and keeping them from connecting, from moving towards each other. 

All those years ago, Torah understood exactly how isolating and divisive dark times can be.

Torah, and by extension Jewish tradition understood this so well that it has gone on to teach us this. When we reach past darkness… when we find hope, find community, find ways to move towards each other, find ways of keeping our hearts from hardening in the face of struggle, then the plagues lessen.  And then we like our people before us will enjoy light in our dwellings, and can become sources of light ourselves.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Gutterman