During the last days of prophetic vision, some 25 hundred years ago, the sages divided the Torah into parshios – portions, and decreed that successive parshios should be read publicly as part of the Sabbath morning prayer service, so that the Jewish people would hear the reading of the entire Torah from year to year.  The divisions of these parshios followed either historical, philosophical, or narrative patterns, so that each was, to some extent, self-contained with a particular thematic focus.

It is curious, therefore, that the sages saw fit to place the first seven of the of the Plagues upon Egypt into last week’s parsha, while leaving the final three for this week’s Torah portion.  The commentaries discuss at length the arrangement of the plagues into three sets of three, with the final Plague upon the Firstborn in a class by itself.  Consequently, if it were necessary to divide the plagues at all, it would better have been placed the point of division after the sixth plague – which completed the second set of three – than after the seventh.

Nevertheless, a careful reading of the narrative reveals that the seventh plague does stand out from all the rest by virtue of Pharaoh’s unprecedented reaction.  After each of the previous plagues, Pharaoh had either stubbornly refused to yield or else promised to send the Jews out, only to revoke his permission once the plague had abated.  But after the plague of fiery hail, Pharaoh makes an astonishing admission:  This time I have sinned; God is righteous, and I and my people are wicked.

*****

In its discussion concerning the laws of marriage, the Talmud proposes an unlikely scenario, in which a man said to a woman, “You are betrothed to me on condition that I am a tzaddik – a righteous man.”  The Talmud concludes that the betrothal is binding and the woman is married, even if the man is a person of dubious reputation.  Why?  Because it is possible, the sages explain, that at the moment he spoke he may indeed have repented the sins of a lifetime and became a truly righteous man.

If so, perhaps Pharaoh’s sincere confession in the face of the extraordinary suspension of nature, whereby the incompatible forces of fire and ice were forced into partnership for the express purpose of punishing the Egyptians, opened a window of opportunity for him and his nation.

From the very beginning, it had been the Almighty’s plan that Pharaoh would not let the Jews go, so that God would have cause “to multiply My miracles upon the land of Egypt.”  After each of the first five plagues, Pharaoh cooperated by hardening his own heart.  In contrast, after each of the last plagues before Pharaoh’s capitulation, it was God who hardened Pharaoh’s heart:  because Pharaoh had discarded every opportunity to submit to the Divine Will, he forfeited the freedom to turn from the course he had chosen for himself through his earlier decisions.

After the seventh plague, however, we find both expressions:  first Pharaoh hardened his own heart; subsequently, God informs Moshe that He has hardened Pharaoh’s heart.  How can both be true at the same time?

*****

The power of tshuva – repentance – is unimaginable.  In an instant, any individual can rewrite his past, erase a lifetime of misdeeds, and transform himself into the most righteous of men.  Even Pharaoh, the paradigm of wanton evil, possessed the human potential to return to the path of justice and truth.  Having endowed every human being with the capacity for human renewal and redemption, God Himself cannot stand in the way of the truly repentant.

We might suggest, therefore, that when Pharaoh acknowledged both his own wickedness the justice of the Almighty, God had no power to further harden Pharaoh’s heart.  In that instant, Pharaoh had positioned himself at the threshold of true righteousness, and no force in the universe could stand in his way if he chose to take the final step forward.

No force, that is, except himself.  Pharaoh saw that the rain, the hail, and the thunder had ceased, and he continued to sin; and he made his heart stubborn…

The moment was lost and, having forfeited his chance, Pharaoh’s fate was assured.  Instead of seizing the moment and stepping forward into a new future, he stepped backward and toppled into oblivion of his past.

And so last week’s parsha ends:  by flirting with repentance, Pharaoh held in his hand the opportunity to end the siege of plagues and halt the systematic destruction of his country.  But he failed to follow through, and so the plagues resume as this week’s parsha continues on.

How often do we find ourselves looking through a window of opportunity, offered the divine gift of sudden clarity into the condition of our souls and direction of our travels upon this earth?  How often are our eyes granted the vision to look upon our lives with true objectivity, to recognize in sharp relief the contrast between what we could achieve and how far we have fallen short of our potential?

And what do we do with these opportunities?  Do we rise to the challenge and resolutely chart a new course into the future, or do we take notice only for an instant and then, like Pharaoh, return reflexively to the habits of the past?  Every such moment is ours for the taking or ours to discard.  The way we choose will determine our future, in this world and in the World to Come.

Students of Torah literature know that serious scholarship begins (and often ends) with the commentaries of Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, familiar to the Jewish world as Rashi.  His synthesis of Talmud, midrash, and kabbala, together with the multifaceted brilliance of his insights and his economy of language, sets Rashi in a class by himself as he draws our attention to nuances, forces us gently to consider scriptural anomalies, and weaves the breadth and depth of Torah philosophy into his pithy explication of Biblical and Talmudic passages.

Consequently, scholars grow nervous when Rashi appears to point out the obvious.  And nowhere does Rashi offer a comment more seemingly pointless than at the outset of this week’s Torah portion.

And Elokim spoke to Moshe, and He said to him, “I am HaShem; and I appeared to your forefathers, Avrohom, Yitzchok, and Yaakov, as Keil Shakkai, but My name HaShem I did not make known to them” (Shmos 6:2-3).

Rashi first explains that scripture’s use of the name Elokim – referring to G-d’s attribute of justice rather than His more dominant attribute of mercy – places our verse in its proper context as a response to Moshe’s complaint at the end of last week’s parsha, “My Master, why have you brought evil (i.e., injustice) upon this people, and why have you sent me?”

Rashi then addresses HaShem’s remark concerning the revelation of His name to the patriarchs.  The name HaShem represents mercy and therefore implies the fulfillment of promises; consequently, even though G-d identified Himself to the patriarchs using the name HaShem, He never revealed Himself to them as such through the fulfillment of promises that would only be honored in the time of future generations.

It is Rashi’s next comment, however, that confounds us.  On the words And I appeared, Rashi offers this insight:  to the patriarchs.

Since the verse continues to tell us that HaShem appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the only three patriarchs of the Jewish people, to whom else could Rashi have thought we might mistakenly suppose HaShem had appeared?

*****

The Zohar explains that Torah wisdom is both inherited and acquired.  Even if a scholar eventually surpasses his parents or his teachers in wisdom, it is the wisdom of his parents and teachers – which they themselves received through their link to Sinai – that has enabled their child and their student to reach whatever heights he has attained in Torah.  Even Moshe the Lawgiver, whose unique mastery of piety and spiritual wisdom sets him apart from every other figure in Jewish tradition, built his own accomplishments upon the spiritual foundations of his forebears.

However, to this rule there are three exceptions:  the patriarchs – Avrohom, Yitzchok, and Yaakov – so called because they had no one else from whom to learn and no one else’s accomplishments upon which to build.

Born into a generation in which all knowledge of HaShem had been effectively forgotten, Avrohom came on his own to a recognition of his Creator and spent his life developing within himself the attribute of chesed – lovingkindness – the perfection of mitzvos bein adam l’chaveiro, commandments between man and his fellow.  And although Yitzchok inherited from his father a knowledge of the Almighty, he nevertheless labored to develop within himself the entirely different quality of gevurah – spiritual self-discipline – with no model from whom to learn the process of perfecting mitzvos bein adam L’Makom, commandments between man and G-d.

Finally, as much as Yaakov learned chesed from Avrohom and gevurah from Yitzchok, he had no model for how to perfect within himself mitzvos bein adam l’atzmo, commandments between man and himself, by blending these two mutually exclusive qualities into a new attribute called emes – ultimate spiritual truth.

From this point on, with the establishment of these three qualities woven into the spiritual fabric of the universe and infused into the spiritual DNA of the Jewish people, all Torah accomplishment rests upon the foundations of the patriarchs.

*****

Where does Rashi find an allusion to this profound and mystical lesson in the beginning of our parsha?  Maskil L’Dovid explains that this idea is essential to understanding HaShem’s reply to Moshe.

According to Sfas Emes, Moshe complained that G-d had brought evil upon this people because he, Moshe, had calculated that the Jews had endured all the suffering necessary for them to earn redemption.  If the accounts balanced, reasoned Moshe, then to make the people suffer further was not only pointless but unjust.

What Moshe could not have realized was that, even if the Jews of this generation did not deserve any further suffering, the survival of future generations would one day depend upon the collective Jewish suffering the people were experiencing now.  To become stronger through continued tribulations, and to have undeserved suffering “on credit” against future transgressions, the continued oppression of the Jews in Egypt would provide shelter from the harshness of divine judgment later on.

Consequently, HaShem rebukes Moshe, not for his reasoning but for his lack of trust.  “I appeared to the patriarchs,” says HaShem, “not because of what they inherited but because of what they made themselves.  And yet, without the advantages you have as their beneficiary, they never lacked in trust that I would ultimately fulfill the promises I made to them.

“That trust,” explains HaShem, “is the basis of how they became great, how they became the patriarchs whose merit now stands by you, just as the merit of your generation will stand by those who come later.”

Three times a day, we begin our silent prayer by acknowledging our relationship with HaShem – our G-d and the G-d of our fathers.  By standing upon the shoulders of our forebears, we benefit from the connection and the resources we have inherited; at the same time, we acquire our own merit from which our children will benefit as we have.  The power of each, and the power of both together, is beyond our comprehension.  And the trust we have in that power, especially in the darkest of times, is the key to our ultimate redemption.