The book of Genesis offered many promises. God makes promises to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph and all the children of Israel. God promises relationship, nationhood, land. These are big promises, maybe impossibly big. And by the beginning of the Book of Exodus, things are looking bleak. Far from being prosperous and secure in their own land, the Israelites are enslaved to harsh taskmasters and their babies are being drowned in the Nile by a murderous and all-powerful Pharaoh.
But in this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Vaera, God remembers — and not only remembers, but acts, telling Moses: “Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: I am God. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary judgments.” (Exodus 6:6) Rashi tells us that “I am God” means I am the same God who made all those promises, and now I’m here to make good on them. I will free you just like I said I would. Parashat Vaera offers us a God who shows up, an active God ready to fulfill all those early commitments, to show they were more than just words.
One chapter later, we read almost the same line: “I will lay My hand upon Egypt and deliver My ranks, My people the Israelites, from the land of Egypt with extraordinary judgements” (Exodus 7:4). Here, Rashi goes out of his way to tell us that the reference to God’s “hand” is meant to indicate that God’s promises will be delivered not through any messenger, but directly, through God’s actual hand.
What does it look like when God raises a hand or outstretched arm? It looks like plagues. The Nile turns to blood and then fills with frogs. The dust of the earth turns into lice, insects swarm, livestock are struck by disease, boils afflict people and animals alike. And in case we thought those plagues were natural, the next one — hail — is unambiguously supernatural, bending the laws of nature by blending fire and ice. This is what an active God looks like — awesome, but terrifying.
We revisit this story twice a year — first when we read it in the weekly Torah cycle, and again at the Passover seder. Sitting around our holiday tables, we recite these plagues in call and response style, share an ancient acronym to help us commit them to memory, and read from a midrash that amplifies the number of plagues (because 10 is evidently not enough). Then, late in the evening, as we open the door to let in Elijah the prophet, we recite a short paragraph that invites God to rage at our enemies (many newer Haggadahs leave this out): “Pour out Your rage upon the nations that do not know You, and on regimes that have not called upon Your name … Pour out Your great anger upon them, and let Your blazing fury overtake them. Pursue them in Your fury and destroy them…” We implore God to deal with our enemies of today in the same way God destroyed the Egyptians.
At my childhood seders, the plagues were a joke. We used fizzies to turn the water pitcher red and covered the table with little plastic frogs. One year we wore plastic plagues masks. We also didn’t spend much time worrying about our enemies. But being Jewish feels different today. The idea that Jews have enemies no longer seems like a playful fantasy. There were moments in the past few years when I found myself surprisingly and uncomfortably drawn to this ancient story of a God who smites enemies on my behalf. Asking God to unleash unbridled fury once seemed dated and unnervingly violent, but today it might be appealing, even urgent.
But I read this story today not as comedy, but as horror. Reading this week about the nightmare of each plague, I must admit I am grateful not to be living through it. All those promises God made in Genesis still speak to me, and I do long for a God whose covenant is alive. But I think I prefer the less active God of 2026.
Rabbi Yitz Greenberg teaches that Jewish history has different eras, and the era of God’s direct intervention — the actual hand of God — is over. Today, God acts through us. This is a more complicated way to relate to God. It asks more of us. The responsibility of knowing how many plagues are enough falls to us.
This is our mandate, and we have no choice but to rise to the occasion. For better or worse, there is no more divine intervention. When I close my eyes and picture those fire-filled balls of hail, I am willing to say that’s better.
This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on January 17, 2026. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here.
