Beth Shalom
Oceanside Jewish Center

Makot: of Plagues, Tsunamis and Other Disasters
Parshat Bo 5765

By Rabbi Mark B Greenspan

We like to refer to them as “The Ten Plagues.” But we might, just as easily, call them “natural disasters.” With each Makah, as they are called in Hebrew, Egypt was devastated, the people suffered, and the land decimated. No one was immune.

Except for the final “plague” or “disaster,” the ten makot are rooted in the natural order of things. There’s nothing implicitly supernatural or miraculous about them. Of course, Moses knows when they are going to occur even before they happen but that can be written off as a product of his keen perception of nature or maybe just plain luck. Some of the plagues affect the Egyptians and not the Israelites, but that too is also the nature of natural disasters: some people are affected by disasters and others aren’t. Some live and some die.

The Hebrew word, Makot, however, changes the way we perceive these tragic occurrences. By referring to them as Makot, they become more than just natural disasters – they become a product of God’s powerful hand in the world. They are an expression of din, judgment. The Makot are punishments and not simply some natural phenomenon. God strikes the Egyptians down and discomforts Pharaoh. Even the Egyptians come to recognize the finger of God in these terrifying events.

At the beginning of Parshat Bo, God reiterates the reason for the Makot: “I have hardened the heart of Pharaoh and his courtiers in order that I might display My signs among them, and that you may recount to your children and your children’s children that I am the Lord.” Besides the problem of God hardening the heart of Pharaoh (which we discussed last week) we are left with another problem here. It would appear that the Makot served some higher theological purpose: they were meant to convince Pharaoh of God’s power and teach the Israelites about God’s presence in the universe. The Makot gave the people of Israel something that they could tell their children about for generations to come.

The idea, however, that we learn about God through the suffering of others troubles us and it troubled the sages too. Wasn’t there another way to teach the Israelites and the Egyptians about God? Why must we do so through nature? And when nature inflicts devastation and suffering on us, is it right to assume that those who suffer had it coming; that they are somehow deserving of God’s punishment?

Harold Kushner calls this the second injustice: it’s bad enough that people sometimes suffer unfairly; it’s even worse when others tell them that they are deserving of such suffering.

So what’s the difference between a plague and a disaster? Is there really any difference at all? Most likely there were innocent people in Egypt who suffered because of Pharaoh’s decisions. The Torah says that the final plague affected every family, “from the first born of Pharaoh who sat on the throne to the first born of the captive who was in the dungeon and even the first born of the cattle!” Pardon the pun but surely this is overkill! Why should the cattle have to die? Why should the first born of the captives become a victim of the angel of death? Did they make the decrees against the Israelites? What are we to make of all of this?

These are all good questions; unfortunately there are no simple answers. Maybe there are no answers at all! Some people explain that the conflict between Pharaoh and God is a little like a war. Just as there are innocent victims in every war, there were people and even animals who suffered because of Pharaoh’s cruel and stubborn decisions. Bombs don’t distinguish between the guilty and the innocent. And plagues don’t distinguish between people either.

Others would argue that there were no innocent people in Egypt. There were perpetrators of the crimes against the Israelites and those who were bystanders and apathetically did nothing to stop Pharaoh and his courtiers. Apathy is a crime too!

In the end, I believe that there is no distinction between a plagues and a disaster, and the sages were very much aware of this fact. When they suggested that we should dip our finger into the cup of wine at the Passover Seder to lessen the amount of wine in our cup while reciting the plagues, they were trying to teach us an important lesson: suffering is suffering. It doesn’t matter who is suffering or what they have done or what the cause of the suffering might be. When we witness suffering, compassion is called for. It is not our place to judge others. It is our responsibility to lessen the pain that we see in their lives. The Israelites didn’t rejoice in the suffering of their oppressors. They are silent throughout the ten plagues. It is only at the Sea that they sing and then they turn to God grateful for their redemption, not vindictive or angry at their enemies.

Maybe that is why the Israelites were allowed to plunder the Egyptians before they left Egypt. By taking property as payment for their years of service in Egypt, the Israelites were able to leave Egypt without anger or animosity. They did not bear a grudge. In fact the Torah commands not to hate the Egyptian because we were strangers in the Land of Egypt. What an extraordinary statement this is! Of course we had every reason to hate Egypt but we are commanded not to do so. Hatred adds nothing to our lives.

It is like the story that I have told before about Shlomo Carlbach. He once went to Austria from which his family had fled to put on a concert. Someone asked him: “Shlomo, how can you perform in Austria? Don’t you hate the people of that country for what they did to your family during the Holocaust?

Reb Shlomo answered: “If had two souls I might use one of them to hate those who hurt me but God only gave me one holy soul. How can I waste it on hatred?

We Jews truly have an extraordinary tradition. We have our faults just like everyone else. But if we have learned anything from our tradition it is that life is too short to hate and even those who have hurt us deserve our compassion.

Plagues, tsunamis, or disasters: whatever they are and for whatever reason they happen, they deserve our compassionate response. We can never know the reasons for things: only that they happened. These days when we are so focused on East Asia we need to remember that there are others in need of our compassionate care.

It’s easy to become overly concerned about the dramatic events that appear on the front page of the newspaper – there are other quieter, but no less devastating disasters closer to home taking place all the time.

Do we hear the cry of our neighbor?

Shabbat Shalom