Light from Within, Light from Without
Jonathan E. Blake

The Torah portion Bo describes the final plagues that befell the Egyptians, culminating in the death of their firstborn and the liberation of the Israelites from bondage.

Scientists, archaeologists, and historians have proposed various natural explanations for the phenomena described in the narrative of the plagues. An entry on the Ten Plagues in Wikipedia reports:

The redness in the Nile could have actually been pollution caused by volcanic activity. . . . The silt could make the Nile turn blood red, and would also render it undrinkable. Heavy rains in the red-soiled area of Lake Victoria could have caused reddened water to wash downstream. Alternatively, a red toxic algal bloom (red tide) could have produced large quantities of toxins that would kill fish. . . . Any blight on the water that killed fish also would have caused frogs to leave the river and, probably, die. Yet throughout the narrative of the plagues, the Torah and commentary endeavor to emphasize the supernatural features of the plagues. A “toxic algal bloom” could in no way account for the Torah’s own claim that Egyptian water turned to blood “even in vessels of wood and stone” (Exodus 7:19). The plague of hail describes “fire flashing in the midst of the hail” (Exodus 9:24), an unprecedented phenomenon that the Rabbis understood as a divine miracle, evidence that only God, Maker of peace, can harmonize and neutralize the antithetical elements of fire and ice (see Rashi on Exodus 9:24). Every plague evinces God’s hand.

So it is too with the ninth plague, the plague of darkness. This was no ordinary darkness. In the space of two verses, the Torah refers to “darkness,” choshech , three times, calling it “a darkness that can be touched” ( yameish choshech ) and “thick darkness” ( choshech afeilah ) so oppressive that “for three days no one could move about” (Exodus 10:21–23).

In contrast, “all the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings” (Exodus 10:23). Midrash points out that the light, like the darkness, was abnormal, miraculous. “It does not say ‘in the land of Goshen’ but ‘in their dwellings,’ to show that wherever a Jew went, light also went” ( Sh’mot Rabbah 14:3). The light was shone from within, not from without—not from the sun nor from torches. By inference, we conclude that the thick darkness—darkness that could be touched—arose not in the heavens but in the debased spiritual and moral condition of the Egyptians. Egypt, mightiest empire on earth, was laid low by the power of an invisible God heretofore unknown to them, the God of a ragtag band of Hebrew-speaking slaves. The rich households of the Egyptian masters stood entombed in darkness—their residents rendered immobile for three days—while the destitute Jews basked in light, moving about like free men and women.

Light and darkness thereby reflect conditions of interior space, the rich inner lives we rarely share with the outside world. Consider the import of this text as we interact with others. A thousand people could experience the same event and yet report its significance in a thousand different ways. For some, a beautiful sunset evokes joy, and for others the same sunset evokes the pain of a long-lost love. The maker of metaphors sees the poetry in the sunset, but the meteorologist sees only particles of pollution obscuring the sun.
I am often reminded that a synagogue sanctuary during services contains a microcosm of the world and every variation of the human experience. The words and melodies of our prayers do not change as they reach the ears of the worshipers, but their meanings mutate once they reach the heart. A prayer book meditation by the late Rabbi Chaim Stern announces:

Each of us enters this sanctuary with a different need.

Some hearts are full of gratitude and joy:
They are overflowing with the happiness of love and the joy of life; they are eager to confront the day, to make the world more fair; they are recovering from illness or have escaped misfortune.
And we rejoice with them.

Some hearts ache with sorrow:
Disappointments weigh heavily upon them, and they have tasted despair; families have been broken; loved ones lie on a bed of pain; death has taken those whom they cherished.
May our presence and sympathy bring them comfort. . . .
We sit in the same sanctuary. Yet some bask in light, while others sit encased in thick darkness. Some people live with unshakable sadness. One such woman was described to me by my friend Rabbi Alexis Berk, who has reflected on the darkness in her life:

Sometimes . . . she feels invisible. She feels that people bump into her a lot, like in the grocery store or in line . . . like she’s not there. Sometimes they say, “Excuse me.” Sometimes not. She feels this happens a lot. Also, she . . . often has trouble making automatic doors open. Sometimes she has to stand in front of them and do a little dance around in order to activate the sensor. She perceives herself in darkness. She is not seen.

How many go about their days feeling unseen? How frequently do we miss the opportunity to shed a little light? Not out of malice, but simply by being inattentive, unintentionally insensitive?

“Rabbi Yochanan said: ‘The eye is white with a black part in its middle. Out of what part would one be expected to see? Out of the white part, surely. But, no, one sees out of the black part. . . . You find that one who is in the dark can see what is in the light, whereas one who is in the light cannot see what is in the dark’” ( Yalkut Shimoni 378). Those who dwell in darkness—elderly people shut in their apartments, sick people lying on beds of loneliness or pain, sullen adolescents who want only to feel socially included, and mourners—often feel mocked by the simple pleasures of life and light. Meanwhile, we in the light often fear to peer into the dark.

The Israelites did not enjoy light only in their dwellings. “Wherever a Jew went, light also went.” This is what it means to be a Jew. We have an obligation not only to enjoy the light we have, but to share it and spread it wherever we go. (Return)

Rabbi Jonathan E. Blake is associate rabbi of Westchester Reform Temple in Scarsdale, New York. A graduate of Amherst College (1995), he was ordained at Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion in 2000 and was a regular contributor to 10 Minutes of Torah in 2005–2006.