The ninth plague - darkness - comes shrouded in a darkness of its own.
What is this plague doing here? It seems out of sequence. Thus far there have been eight plagues, and they have become steadily, inexorably, more serious. The first two, the Nile turned blood-red and the infestation of frogs, seemed more like omens than anything else. The third and fourth, gnats and flies, caused discomfort, not crisis. The fifth, the plague that killed livestock, affected animals, not human beings.
The sixth, boils, was again a discomfort, but a serious one, no longer an external nuisance but a bodily affliction. (Remember that Job lost everything he had, but did not start cursing his fate until his body was covered with sores: Job 2). The seventh and eighth, hail and locusts, destroyed the Egyptian grain. Now there was no food. Still to come was the tenth plague, the death of the firstborn, in retribution for Pharaoh's murder of Israelite children. It would be this that eventually broke Pharaoh's resolve.
So we would expect the ninth plague to be very serious indeed, something that threatened, even if it did not immediately take, human life. Instead we read what seems like an anticlimax:
Then the Lord said to Moses, "Stretch out your hand toward the sky so that darkness will spread over Egypt-darkness that can be felt." So Moses stretched out his hand toward the sky, and total darkness covered all Egypt for three days. No one could see anyone else or leave his place for three days. Yet all the Israelites had light in the places where they lived.(10:21-22)
Darkness is a nuisance, but no more. The phrase "darkness that can be felt" suggests what happened: a khamsin, a sandstorm of a kind not unfamiliar in Egypt, which can last for several days, producing sand- and dust-filled air that obliterates the light of the sun. A khamsin is usually produced by a southern wind that blows into Egypt from the Sahara desert. The worst sandstorm is usually the first of the season, in March. This fits the dating of the plague which happened shortly before the death of the firstborn, on Pesach.
The ninth plague was a miracle, but not an event wholly unknown to the Egyptians, then or now. Why then does it figure in the narrative, immediately prior to its climax?
The answer lies in a line from Dayyenu, the song we sing as part of the Haggadah: "If G-d had executed judgment against them [the Egyptians] but had not done so against their gods, it would have been sufficient." Twice the Torah itself refers to this dimension of the plagues:
"I will pass through Egypt on that night, and I will kill every firstborn in Egypt, man and animal. I will perform acts of judgment against all the gods of Egypt: I (alone) am G-d." (Exodus 12: 12)
The Egyptians were burying all their firstborn, struck down by the Lord; and against their gods, the Lord had executed judgment. (Numbers 33: 4)
Not all the plagues were directed, in the first instance, against the Egyptians. Some were directed against things they worshipped as gods. That is the case in the first two plagues. The Nile was personified in ancient Egypt as the god Hapi. Offerings were made to it at times of inundation. The inundations themselves were attributed to one of the major Egyptian deities, Osiris. The plague of frogs would have been associated by the Egyptians with Heket, the goddess who was believed to attend births as a midwife, and who was depicted as a woman with the head of a frog.
These symbolisms, often lost on us, would have been immediately apparent to the Egyptians. Two things now become clear. The first is why the Egyptian magicians declared "This is the finger of G-d" (Ex. 8: 15) only after the third plague, lice. The first two plagues would not have surprised them at all. They would have understood them as the work of Egyptian deities who, they believed, were sometimes angry with the people and took their revenge.
The second is the quite different symbolism the first two plagues were meant to have for the Israelites, and for us. As with the tenth plague, these were no mere miracles intended - as it were - to demonstrate the power of the G-d of Israel, as if religion were a gladiatorial arena in which the strongest god wins.
Their meaning was moral. They represented the most fundamental of all ethical principles, stated in the Noahide covenant in the words "He who sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed". This is the rule of retributive justice, measure for measure: As you do, so shall you be done to.
By first ordering the midwives to kill all male Israelite babies, and then, when that failed, by commanding "Every boy who is born must be cast into the Nile" (Ex. 1: 22), Pharaoh had turned what should have been symbols of life (the Nile, which fed Egyptian agriculture, and midwives) into agents of death. The river that turned to blood, and the Heket-like frogs that infested the land, were not afflictions as such, but rather coded communications, as if to say to the Egyptians: see what it feels like when the gods you turned against the Israelites turn on you.
Hence the tenth plague, to which all the others were a mere prelude. Unlike all the other plagues, its significance was disclosed to Moses even before he set out on his mission, while he was still living with Jethro in Midian:
You shall say to Pharaoh: This is what the Lord says. "Israel is My son, My firstborn. I have told you to let My son go, that he may worship Me. If you refuse to let him go, I will kill your own firstborn son." (Ex. 4: 22-23)
Whereas the first two plagues were symbolic representations of the Egyptian murder of Israelite children, the tenth plague was the enactment of retributive justice, as if heaven was saying to the Egyptians: You committed, or supported, or passively accepted the murder of innocent children. There is only one way you will ever realize the wrong you did, namely, if the same thing happens to you.
This too helps explain the difference between the two words the Torah regularly uses to describe what G-d did in Egypt: otot u-moftim, "signs and wonders". These two words are not two ways of describing the same thing - miracles. They describe quite different things. A mofet, a wonder, is indeed a miracle. An ot, a sign, is something else: a symbol (like tefillin or circumcision, both of which are called ot), that is to say, a coded communication, a message.
The significance of the ninth plague is now obvious. The greatest god in the Egyptian pantheon was Ra or Re, the sun god. The name of the Pharaoh often associated with the exodus, Ramses II, means meses, "son of" (as in the name Moses) Ra, the god of the sun. Egypt - so its people believed - was ruled by the sun. Its human ruler or Pharaoh was semi-divine, the child of the sun-god.
In the beginning of time, according to Egyptian myth, the sun-god ruled together with Nun, the primeval waters. Eventually there were many deities. Ra then created human beings from his tears. Seeing, however, that they were deceitful, he sent the goddess Hathor to destroy them; only a few survived.
The plague of darkness was not a mofet but an ot, a sign. The obliteration of the sun signaled that there is a power greater than Ra. Yet what the plague represented was less the power of G-d over the sun, but the rejection by G-d of a civilization that turned one man, Pharaoh, into an absolute ruler with the ability to enslave other human beings - and of a culture that could tolerate the murder of children because that is what Ra himself did.
When G-d told Moses to say to Pharaoh, "My son, my firstborn, Israel" He was saying: I am the G-d who cares for His children, not one who kills His children. The ninth plague was a Divine act of communication, that said: there is not only physical darkness but also moral darkness. The best test of a civilization is: see how it treats children, its own and others'. In an age of suicide bombing and the use of children as instruments of war, it still is.
The true answer to those difficult questions
The Times – Credo –February 1998
I had given a lecture on faith after the Holocaust. Some days later a young woman wrote to me asking a simple but unsettling question. "Why," she asked, "is faith so difficult? Why does G-d not give us a sign of His presence?"
I replied: "It is not that faith is difficult. It is that listening to the voice of reality is difficult, and faith is the courage to live with that difficulty."
Think of the relationship between a parent and a child. If the parent is always there, doing whatever the child wants, the child will never mature.
If the parent is never there, the child will never develop the ability to love and trust. So parenthood is the art of presence and withdrawal; presence when the child is young, withdrawal as it grows older. Two years ago, an American scholar, Jack Miles, wrote an unusual book entitled G-d, a Bio - graphy . In it he noted that G-d, so active in the affairs of human beings in the beginning of the Hebrew Bible, gradually retreats into silence by the end. It was a wonderfully insightful analysis, but Miles drew the wrong conclusion, namely that G-d gradually lost interest in the world He had created. G-d - the G-d of the Hebrew Bible - does not get bored by, or indifferent to, the affairs of mankind.
What misled Miles was a failure to come to terms with the central metaphor of Jewish (and Christian) faith, that G-d is "our father". He is above all a parent. In the childhood of civilisation, He was sensed by our ancestors to be continually present, in signs, wonders and miracles. This was the period of revelation, disclosure, presence. However, almost from the beginning, G-d signalled that He wanted us to mature, to internalise His ideals and make them our own, so that instead of being dependent on His actions, we ourselves acted in the light of His truth. He chose as his prophets strong personalities, individuals capable of arguing with Him - Abraham, Moses, Jeremiah, and Job. He gave us laws to live by, but insisted on the primacy of education - "You shall teach these things diligently to your children" - so that they became our truths as well.
Gradually, faith passed from the age of revelation to the age of interpretation; from the era of prophets to teachers; from Divine action to an emphasis on human action conducted in the light of Divine will. At that point the relationship between G-d and humanity moved from childhood to maturity. The Jewish mystics used the word tzimtzum , "withdrawal" or "contraction", to signal the way in which G-d conceals Himself to make space for man to grow. That required faith - G-d's faith in us and ours in Him. But G-d did not leave us alone, unaided in our search for Him. He left us His word, transmitted, interpreted and lived by a hundred generations. It is there, in the sacred texts of our tradition that, if we learn to listen, we will hear the voice of G-d across the distances of time. Where then was G-d in the Holocaust? In the words, "You shall not murder". In the words, "You shall not afflict the stranger". In the words, "Your brother's blood cries to me from the ground". When G-d speaks and man does not listen, G-d himself is powerless. But G-d does not give up His faith in man, nor may we give up our faith in Him. His word still lives wherever we still listen.