Rabbi Bentzion Shafier

Comedy in Egypt

The Chofetz Chaim was once learning Chumash late on a Friday night when suddenly, in the middle of his learning, he began to laugh.

“Rebbe, why are you laughing?” his students asked, curiously. “I was reading the Pesukim about Tzefardea, the plague of frogs, and imagining the mighty Pharaoh, the strongest ruler of the world at the time, while frogs were jumping under his shirt and over his shoulders. It struck me as almost comical.”

If you pause for a moment, it is comical.

Each of the plagues carried a precise and deliberate message. Hashem declared, “Asher his’alalti b’Mitzrayim—I made a mockery of Egypt” (Shemos 10:2). It was not a battle between equals. It was Hashem showing Egypt: “I am the Creator and I am the Master. You are not in control.”

Let us take a tour through a few of the plagues and marvel at some of the uncanny aspects of each.

Consider the plague of Frogs.

The Pasuk states, “Vata’al hatzefardea—And the frog came up and covered the land of Egypt” (Shemos 8:2). According R’ Elazar and R’ Akiva (Sanhedrin 67b), one single frog ascended from the Nile and each time an Egyptian struck it, it increasingly proliferated. Before long, the entire land was swarming with frogs.

The commentaries make a keen observation. If each time you hit it, it multiplied, why didn’t the Egyptians stop hitting it? If you have sixteen frogs in a land the size of Egypt, that’s manageable. Why continue?  Moreover, the Midrash suggests these frogs were relentless creatures. They leapt into ovens, hurled themselves into homes and forced confrontation. You couldn’t ignore them.

Imagine for a moment a hardened Egyptian named Muhammad. He is not easily shaken, but it is day three of the plague and frogs are everywhere. They are tucked in his bed, all over his clothing, and have infested every morsel of his food. He resolves, thinking to himself, “I’m not swallowing one of these things.” So he tapes his mouth shut. He is determined.

But he hasn’t slept in days and he is exhausted and irritated. Before he thinks any further, a frog is stalking him. He moves right, it moves right. He moves left, it moves left. He mutters something under his breath, forgets for a split second, opens his mouth—and in it goes. For the next four days, he lives with that frog croaking inside him.

And then, there is another so-called anomaly. At precisely at the appointed hour—exactly when Moshe Rabbeinu said—the plague ceases. Every frog dies simultaneously. Silence.

Except now there is another problem. The putrid smell of rotting frogs piled in heaps across the land is overwhelming.

In addition to this, once the plagues began, the Jewish slavery effectively ended. The Egyptians were so consumed by their crises that the enslavement dissolved. While Egypt suffered, Klal Yisrael stood apart.

Now let us move to Kinim, lice.

At first glance, it sounds trivial. What harm could such tiny insects inflict? But the Torah describes that all the dust of Egypt turned into lice. Three tefachim deep—nearly a foot into the ground—was filled with crawling lice. The sorcerers themselves could not stand before Pharaoh because their bodies were covered. It was seven days of relentless, inescapable irritation.

Notice the pattern. Each plague lasted seven days and each was followed by a warning. Each demonstrated control, either over water, over animals or over the earth itself.

By this stage, Egypt, the wealthiest empire of its time, was unraveling. Crops had been destroyed, livestock compromised and commerce disrupted. The pillars of its economy were collapsing.

And then came Arov, wild animals.

Imagine throngs of predatory beasts flooding the streets. Lions, wolves, packs of animals descending upon Egyptian homes. If an Egyptian walked outside, he was attacked. If he barricaded himself indoors, even his domesticated animals turned against him.

But when a Jew walked through the same streets? The animals parted. They were docile and harmless. The separation was unmistakable. At some point, you would think a reasonable Egyptian would conclude that something extraordinary is happening here. This is not coincidence or random nature. And yet, astonishingly, they did not change.

That is perhaps the deepest lesson of the Makkos. It is not merely about Divine power, but human stubbornness and what happens when ego refuses to yield, even and especially in the face of overwhelming evidence.

The plagues were not random punishments. They were measured demonstrations, Hashem revealing mastery over everything on earth, and life itself. Each plague stripped away another illusion of control. And still, Pharaoh hardened his heart.

Pesach poses a question for us today and demands that we ask ourselves: when life sends us unmistakable messages, do we recognize them? Or do we strike again and again, only to watch the frogs multiply?

The Makkos were Hashem’s declaration to Egypt. But they are also a modern mirror for us.

Rabbi Joey Haber

Of Dreams and Destiny

My father would frequently share the following original insight.

If you think about it, the Four Sons are not symmetrical. The opposite of a chacham (wise person) is a tipesh (fool), not a rasha. And the opposite of a rasha (wicked person) is a tzaddik, not a chacham.

And then we have a tam (simple person) and one who is she’eino yodea lish’ol (does not know how to ask), descriptions that do not form neat opposites at all. Why then does the Haggadah group them this way? Chacham, rasha, tam, and she’eino yodea lish’ol?

My father explained something remarkable.

The Four Sons correspond to four figures in the Torah, each of whom had two dreams, and whose dreams ultimately brought Klal Yisrael down to Egypt: Yosef HaTzaddik (Bereishis 37:5-7; v. 9-10); Pharaoh (ibid. 41:1-7); Yaakov Avinu (ibid. 28:12-15; 31; v. 10-13); and the Sar HaMashkim (butler) and Sar Ha’Ofim (baker; ibid. 40:9-11; v. 16-17), which are counted together as one.

Now watch how this unfolds.

When Yosef is brought before Pharaoh to interpret his dreams and offer counsel for Egypt’s survival, Pharaoh declares: “Ein navon v’chacham kamocha—There is no one as discerning and wise as you” (ibid. 41:39). Yosef is explicitly called a chacham.

Next is the rasha.

Later in the Torah, Pharaoh himself says to Moshe:

“Hashem ha’tzaddik, va’ani v’ami ha’resha’im—Hashem is righteous and I and my nation are wicked” (Shemos 9:27). Pharaoh identifies himself as a rasha.

Now the Tam. How does the Torah describe Yaakov Avinu in his youth? “Yaakov ish tam—Yaakov was a simple man” (Bereishis 25:27). Yaakov was a wholesome, complete person.

Finally, the subtlest of all: She’eino yodea lish’ol.

When Yosef encounters the butler and baker in prison, the Torah tells us they appeared troubled. Yosef noticed their distressed expressions and asked them what was wrong (ibid. 40:7). They had dreams, but they did not even articulate their distress until Yosef initiated the conversation.

They are the ones who “do not know how to ask.”

Four titles in the Haggadah. Four individuals in the Torah. Each with two dreams and each playing a role in bringing Klal Yisrael down to Egypt. Yosef, the chacham. Pharaoh, the rasha. Yaakov, the tam. And the butler and baker, she’eino yodea lish’ol.

What does this teach us?

The descent into Egypt, the exile that defined our nation, did not come from one personality type alone. It involved wisdom and wickedness, wholesomeness and confusion, leadership and vulnerability. And so at the Seder, when we look around the table, we see all four types within our children, within our families, and within ourselves. Each one plays a role in the unfolding of Jewish destiny.

Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

Golden Handcuffs

There are famously four major exiles that Klal Yisrael endured: Bavel (Babylonia), Paras U’Madai (Persia), Yavan (Greece) and Edom (Rome). Chazal underscore that we are still in Galut Edom until today.

Looking through this list, something stands out at you. Why is Galut Mitzrayim, the very first exile, not counted among the four exiles? Why don’t we speak of five exiles?

The Torah repeats again and again: “Zecher l’Yetziat Mitzrayim—In remembrance of leaving Egypt.” We wear tefillin to remember Egypt. We redeem our firstborn because of Egypt. Many mitzvot are structured around the remembrance of Egypt. Even at the very opening of the Aseret HaDibrot, Hashem declares: “I am Hashem your God who took you out of Egypt.” The commentaries explain that Hashem introduced Himself that way, instead of saying, “I am Hashem Who created Heaven and earth,” because they had witnessed Yetziat Mitzrayim and it was a more powerful and personal statement than had it been about creation.

But the Maharal explains that Egypt is not counted among the four exiles because it is the mother of all exiles. Each exile had its own spiritual flavor and challenge. Bavel represented political and spiritual displacement. Persia embodied indulgence and physical excess. Greece challenged us intellectually. What if there can be wisdom divorced from kedushah and instead of focusing on G-d, we turn to human self-deification? And Rome continues as a prolonged, complex exile of power and dominance. Each had a specific ideological battle.

But Egypt was different. Egypt was not merely another exile. It was the root condition of exile.

Chazal describe Yetziat Mitzrayim as being like the birth of a child, as if Hashem extracted a fetus from its mother’s womb. A fetus has no independent agency or separate oxygen because everything comes through the mother.

In Egypt, Klal Yisrael had no psychological independence. Not only were we enslaved physically; we were enslaved mentally. When Egypt said, “You cannot leave,” we believed them. When Egypt controlled the narrative, we absorbed it and freedom was unimaginable.

That is why when Moshe came with the message of redemption, the Torah says, “And they did not listen to Moshe from shortness of breath and hard labor” (Shemos 6:9). “Kotzer ruach,” shortness of breath, means that the Egyptians kept them running, distracted and exhausted, and when someone has no moment to pause, they cannot think. And when you cannot think, you cannot choose.

This dynamic exists today.

In the business world, we call it “golden handcuffs.” A person earns a large salary and feels trapped. “Maybe I could start my own firm… But it’s risky. What if it fails?” So they stay. Not because it’s right, but because it feels safe. The chains are gold, but they are still chains.

Egypt was the mother of all exiles because it represented the loss of agency and the inability to step back and think independently. Before we can overcome Greece’s ideology or Rome’s power, we must conquer the inner Egypt: the belief that we cannot choose differently.

Leaving Egypt means therefore means thinking for yourself. Leaving Egypt means reclaiming agency. It means stopping long enough to breathe and recognizing that you are not a fetus and are not tethered to the worldview around you. Sometimes people live lives that don’t fit them. Careers. Relationships. Belief systems.

Egypt is that paralysis. But redemption begins when you realize that you can choose, you can think and you can leave. 

With this, we can understand why Hashem introduces Himself at Sinai not as Creator of the World, but as Redeemer from Egypt. Recognizing Hashem as Creator requires intellectual clarity, whereas recognizing Hashem as Redeemer requires existential transformation. “I am Hashem who took you out of Egypt” means: I am the One who gave you back your ability to think, to choose, to stand independently.

Zecher l’Yetzias Mitzrayim is a reminder: Do not surrender your agency. Do not allow the culture around you to become your umbilical cord. Do not live so fast, so distracted, so exhausted that you forget to think.

Redemption begins the moment you realize… I am not trapped. And you let your freedom begin.

Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

The Sentinel

Egypt is not merely a place in history; it is a presence just beyond our front door. Each time we step outside, each time we cross the threshold of our homes, we encounter a world strikingly similar to ancient Egypt: a society driven by unrestrained pursuit of pleasure. It feels, in many ways, all too familiar.

In the language of the four elements, pleasure is associated with water. Egypt itself was sustained by the Nile, which the Egyptians deified. Water, by its nature, has no fixed form. It is endlessly fluid, always conforming to the shape of whatever contains it. Perhaps this is why the Hebrew word for water, mayim, appears in the plural; it resists singular definition. Egypt embodied this very quality, namely a culture of constant flux, of “going with the flow,” where boundaries dissolved and moral anchors weakened.

This ethos manifested most powerfully in the realm of relationships. Egyptian society came to symbolize eshes zenunim—a faithless partner, endlessly seeking novelty, untethered by commitment. It was a civilization of infinite variation, but also of profound instability. That same cultural current, in many respects, continues to surround us today.

Where, then, can one find refuge from such a world?

The answer lies within the home.

Each time one leaves the house and touches the mezuzah, it is more than a gesture. It is a quiet prayer: a request for protection and for the strength to guard one’s eyes and values amidst the moral ambiguity of the outside world.

The mezuzah itself embodies a profound duality. On its exterior are inscribed the letters shin, daled and yud, forming the Divine Name Shakkai, which connotes limitation, from the word dai, “enough.” It is the power to establish boundaries, to say: this far and no further. Yet within the mezuzah, written on the parchment, appears the ineffable Name of Hashem, representing infinity, transcendence, and boundless spiritual potential.

This contrast reflects a deeper halachic and philosophical truth. The reshus harabim, the public domain, spreads outward without limit, extending horizontally in every direction, yet it remains halachically low—extending only until ten tefachim—confined in its vertical reach. By contrast, the reshus hayachid, the private domain—the home—may be physically bounded, but halachically it ascends without limit, reaching toward the heavens (see Shabbos 7b).

The mezuzah stands precisely at this boundary. It is the silent guardian of the threshold, marking the transition between two worlds. Outside, the message is one of endless possibility, going anywhere and doing anything, and follow every impulse. Inside, the mezuzah whispers a different truth: through restraint, through the courage to say dai, one creates the conditions for true infinity.

It is only within a space of sanctified boundaries that the Divine Presence—represented by the Four-letter Name of Hashem—can elevate a home, and the lives within it, beyond all limits.

Rabbi Label Lam

The Noblest and Highest

Here is a loaded word: freedom. But what does it truly mean?

Freedom is not the license to do whatever one desires. A person is not a single impulse, but a complex inner world composed of competing drives, values, and aspirations. When one simply follows every urge, there is often another, deeper part of the self that feels diminished, even violated.

Freedom is the ability to give expression to the noblest, highest, and holiest dimensions of our being. It is the courage to say “yes” to what elevates us, and the strength to say “no” to what degrades us. It is not the absence of restraint, but the mastery of it.