Seeing Through the Darkness: A Call for Unity

How many words are there in the English language? The answer is approximately 600,000. However, the average person only knows about 25,000 to 30,000 of them. Now, how many words exist in modern Hebrew?

One of my Israeli friends once remarked that Hebrew is a “thin language” with far fewer words than English. In truth, modern Hebrew contains about 90,000 to 100,000 words, yet, just like in English, the average speaker only knows around 25,000 to 30,000 of them.

Now, here’s the astonishing part: How many words are in the Hebrew Bible? The answer varies depending on how one counts, as Hebrew words often share roots, leading to different interpretations. However, the best estimates suggest there are between 6,000 and 9,000 words in the Hebrew Bible—roughly 100 times fewer than in English.

The Thesaurus Game

English, as a vast language, offers numerous synonyms for common words. I recall an exercise from third grade where we attempted to list as many synonyms as possible for the word “big.” There were plenty. Today, let’s try something different—how many synonyms can we think of for “darkness”?

We might come up with words like blackness, gloom, murkiness, and sunless. But despite Hebrew’s limited vocabulary, it offers a surprisingly rich selection of words for darkness. There’s חֹשֶׁךְ (the standard word for darkness), חֲשֵׁכָה (a bitter darkness), עֲרָפֶל (a darkness specifically associated with God’s presence), אוֹפֶל (nightliness), צַלְמָוֶת (a shadow of death), and אֲפֵלָה (a deep, obscure darkness).

One of the most fascinating words is עֲלָטָה, which appears only once in the entire Hebrew Bible, in Genesis. It describes a unique kind of darkness Abraham experienced during the day. This isn’t merely the absence of light but a deeper, more profound form of darkness—one that feels inescapable even when the sun is shining.

The Ninth Plague: A Darkness That Divides

This concept of darkness leads us to a pivotal moment in the Torah—the ninth plague of Egypt. The plague of darkness, חֹשֶׁךְ, wasn’t just a physical absence of light. The Torah describes it as a darkness so thick that “people could not see one another.”

What does it mean that they “could not see one another”? Surely, the Torah isn’t just talking about visibility. It suggests a deeper, more troubling blindness—one where people were so consumed by darkness that they could no longer recognize each other. They were trapped, isolated in their own worlds, unable to move toward one another for three days.

Yet, there was a contrast. While the Egyptians were enveloped in this darkness, the Israelites could see each other. This is a profound lesson: Darkness is not just about an absence of light—it’s about the inability to see our fellow human beings.

A Lesson from King David

Fast forward to another biblical story that illustrates this kind of blindness. Before David became king, he was anointed by the prophet Samuel while Saul still reigned. Naturally, Saul saw David as a threat.

David, fleeing for his life, hid in the caves of Ein Gedi. One day, Saul entered the very cave where David and his men were hiding. David’s men urged him to kill Saul, but David refused. Instead, he stealthily cut off a piece of Saul’s cloak. When Saul left the cave, David called out to him:

“אָבִי, my father, it is I, your servant David!”

Saul, however, couldn’t see him—not physically, but in a deeper sense. He could only see David as a political rival, a usurper, a threat. Even though David stood right before him, pleading to be seen, Saul remained blind.

This is עֲלָטָה—darkness in broad daylight. And this, I believe, is the plague we are living through today.

The Plague We Live In

If we were to ask, “Which biblical plague are we experiencing in our country right now?” I would argue it is the ninth plague—the plague of darkness.

Political polarization has created an environment where two people can be in the same room, even in the same family, yet be unable to truly see each other. Conversations about politics, world events, or social issues devolve into conflict and anger. People refuse to engage with those who hold different views, choosing instead to remain in the comfort of their own ideological darkness.

Some people even prefer the darkness. They thrive on division, finding energy in having an enemy to rage against. This brings to mind the old joke:

A Jewish boy calls his mother and asks how she’s doing.

“Oh, not so well,” she says.

“Why not, Mom?”

“I haven’t eaten all day,” she replies.

“Why haven’t you eaten?”

“Well, I was hoping you would call and take me out to dinner.”

The punchline? “It’s okay, son. I’ll just sit here in the dark.”

Some people are content to sit in the dark—both metaphorically and literally. They do not wish to bridge divides; they would rather nurse their grievances in solitude.

Seeing One Another Again

But what our country needs now is not more people arguing over who is right. What we need is the ability to truly see one another again. To step out of the plague of darkness and into the light of understanding.

How do we do this? By asking each other real, meaningful questions.

Here are three questions you can ask someone whose views are different from your own:

  1. What is an experience in your life that has shaped how you see the world?
  2. What do you value most in this world?
  3. What do you think people most misunderstand about you?

Instead of avoiding difficult conversations, we should be initiating them with these questions. Instead of seeing those who disagree with us as enemies, we should be listening to their stories, understanding their values, and seeking clarity on their perspectives.

Yes, the world is dark. But we have the ability to bring light into the darkness. We can see through the divisions and recognize our fellow Americans, our fellow friends, our fellow family members—not as opponents, but as people.

Let us not be like the Egyptians, trapped in darkness, unable to move toward one another. Let us instead be like the Israelites, who, even in the midst of that darkness, could still see each other.

Because the true plague of darkness is not the absence of light—it is the inability to see one another. And only by striving to see, understand, and listen can we find our way out.

Symptomatic Myopia

Symptomatic Myopia: Seeing Beyond the Surface

The ultra-Orthodox Jewish community, or Haredim, faces many challenges. One that I’ve noticed is physical myopia—nearsightedness—which is remarkably common in this population. Why might this be? There are a few theories, but one compelling idea relates to their lifestyle. Ultra-Orthodox Jews spend a great deal of time studying texts, often with tiny letters, held close to their faces for hours on end. This habitual close focus may lead to a physical condition where they can see what’s right in front of them but struggle with long-distance vision.

But this issue of nearsightedness isn’t just physical. I’d argue it extends metaphorically into their worldview and even into how many of us approach life. I call this phenomenon symptomatic myopia. It’s a condition where we focus so much on immediate symptoms that we fail to see the bigger picture or the root causes of the problem.

The Trap of Symptomatic Thinking

Let me give you an example. Have you ever gotten into an argument with your spouse about something as seemingly trivial as how to load the dishwasher? If so, you probably know the fight isn’t really about the dishwasher. It’s about something deeper—misplaced frustration or unresolved emotions elsewhere in the relationship. Fixating on the surface disagreement about dish placement misses the real issue, and until you address that, the arguments will keep coming back.

This kind of myopic focus happens in other areas too. Think about weddings. Some couples get so obsessed with planning the “perfect” wedding—every detail of the event, every flower arrangement, every menu choice—that they forget to nurture their relationship. They end up with a spectacular celebration but a shaky foundation for their marriage.

This tendency to focus on symptoms rather than underlying causes extends to health as well. In the 1980s, Dr. Jonathan Sarno conducted a study on chronic back pain. His findings were groundbreaking: many patients with persistent, unexplained back pain were actually suffering from unresolved emotional stress. Their bodies manifested the pain as a distraction from their inner turmoil. Sarno’s patients often sought relief through medications or physical therapy, but these approaches rarely worked because they targeted the symptom, not the root cause.

This principle—that addressing symptoms without tackling the core problem leads to frustration and failure—appears everywhere in life.

Lessons from Pharaoh

Let’s look at Pharaoh in this week’s Torah portion. Pharaoh’s refusal to free the Israelites is a textbook case of symptomatic myopia. He sees the escalating plagues as a challenge to his gods’ power rather than a call to resolve the deeper issue: the injustice of slavery. His focus on maintaining control blinds him to the broader moral imperative.

One particular plague sheds light on this myopia: the plague of frogs. Or, as the Torah puts it, the plague of tzfardea—a singular “frog.” The Hebrew word for frogs is tzfardaim, but here, the text uses the singular form, sparking centuries of rabbinic debate and creative interpretation.

I’ll admit, I love one particular midrash about tzfardea. Imagine a massive, Godzilla-like frog terrorizing Egypt. The Egyptians, understandably terrified, attack the giant frog, hoping to eliminate the threat. But every time they strike it, the frog splits into more frogs. They hit those frogs, and even more appear. Soon the land is overrun by tzfardaim, an infestation far worse than the original giant frog.

What’s fascinating about this midrash is how it illustrates symptomatic myopia. The Egyptians are so fixated on attacking the frogs that they don’t stop to consider why the plague is happening. The frogs are a symptom of a deeper problem: Pharaoh’s stubbornness and refusal to let the Israelites go. By focusing only on eliminating the frogs, the Egyptians worsen the situation instead of addressing the root cause.

Spiritual Myopia in Our Own Lives

This tendency to miss the bigger picture isn’t just Pharaoh’s problem—it’s ours too. Even within the Haredi community, where I grew up, I’ve observed another kind of symptomatic myopia: spiritual myopia. This manifests in an overemphasis on the minutiae of halacha (Jewish law) at the expense of its broader purpose.

Take Shabbat, for example. Some in the Haredi world become so preoccupied with avoiding minute violations—like tearing toilet paper or ensuring no threads on a towel might rip—that they lose sight of what Shabbat is supposed to be. Shabbat is meant to nurture our souls, provide rest, and deepen our spiritual connection. When we hyper-focus on the details to the point of stress or inconvenience, we risk missing the point entirely.

Many of us grew up in homes where we pre-tore toilet paper before Shabbat. While that might be a valid way to observe the laws, it’s also a striking example of how focusing on the letter of the law can sometimes distract from its spirit. In striving to avoid technical violations, we might lose sight of the joy and peace Shabbat is meant to bring.

Seeing Beyond Perfect Vision

Here’s an interesting note about vision: I have 20/15 eyesight, which is better than the standard 20/20. Despite this, I wear glasses for reading. Why? As I’ve aged, the lenses in my eyes have become less flexible. Even with perfect vision, my eyes sometimes struggle to adjust. The glasses help me focus, reducing fatigue and headaches when I read.

This experience has taught me something profound. Even with “perfect vision,” I can miss things. And the same goes for life. We might think we see clearly, but without stepping back to consider the broader perspective, we risk missing the root causes of the challenges we face.

The Challenge of Shabbat

This Shabbat, I invite you to reflect on your life through this lens. What are the things causing you stress, frustration, or anger? Are you focusing too much on symptoms, like Pharaoh with his frogs, instead of looking at the bigger picture?

Try to zoom out. If you’re feeling stuck in an argument or situation, ask yourself: What’s really going on here? What’s the deeper issue I’m not addressing?

Symptomatic myopia isn’t just a condition of the eyes; it’s a condition of the soul. And like physical myopia, it requires intentional effort to correct. Let’s use Shabbat as an opportunity to step back, refocus, and see the bigger picture.

Shabbat Shalom.

The Finger of God

The Finger of God: Finding the Divine in Everyday Life

This week’s Torah portion introduces the ten plagues, one of the most dramatic stories in the entire Torah. Each year, I find myself revisiting the plagues, seeking new angles and lessons. While the final plague—the slaying of the firstborn—commands the most attention, I like to reflect on the earlier plagues and consider their significance.

Let’s pause and examine the first three plagues: blood, frogs, and lice. The first two are particularly fascinating because the Egyptian magicians were able to replicate them. When Aaron turned the Nile into blood, Pharaoh’s magicians performed a similar feat. The same thing happened with the frogs; they summoned their own amphibian swarms. It’s as if the magicians were saying, “See? We can do that too.”

But then we get to the third plague—lice—and something changes.

The Plague of Lice

For the third plague, Aaron strikes the sand with his staff, and it transforms into lice that infest both people and animals. This plague is overwhelming, relentless, and entirely unique. The magicians try their tricks but fail to replicate it. Frustrated and defeated, they finally admit, This is the finger of God” (etzba Elohim).

This moment is pivotal. The magicians, who had confidently mimicked the first two plagues, now confront something beyond their abilities. They recognize that this plague is no trick, no sleight of hand, but rather a phenomenon that cannot be explained by human means. This realization marks a turning point not just in the story of the plagues but in the broader tension between science and faith.

The Intersection of Science and Faith

As science advances, it uncovers explanations for phenomena that once seemed miraculous. We understand the laws of nature in ways that were unimaginable centuries ago. For some, this progress makes faith seem less relevant. If science can explain the “how,” why do we need the “why”?

I would argue that science and faith are not in competition. Instead, they complement each other. Science reveals the mechanics of the natural world, while faith reminds us to marvel at its beauty and purpose. There are moments in life that science can’t fully explain—moments that feel like they’re touched by the divine.

The magicians’ admission during the plague of lice is a perfect example of this. They were experts in their craft, skilled in illusion and manipulation, but they reached a point where they had to acknowledge something greater at work. They called it the etzba Elohim—the finger of God.

A One-in-a-Million Encounter

Let me share a story that illustrates this idea. After seventh grade, I lost touch with my best friend. His parents had divorced, and he moved away. This was before cell phones and social media, so when he left, I had no way of finding him. For years, I wondered about him. Where had he gone? Was he okay?

Fast forward to my college years. I was visiting family in New York City and found myself at Grand Central Station. Out of nowhere, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and couldn’t believe my eyes—it was my best friend from childhood. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade.

What makes this moment even more remarkable is that he wasn’t living in New York. He had moved to Florida and was visiting the city for the first time in years. I wasn’t living there either; I was attending college in Massachusetts. Yet, at that exact moment, in a station filled with thousands of people, our paths crossed.

We reconnected, exchanged numbers, and caught up on everything that had happened in our lives. The odds of this happening were astronomical—one in a hundred million, perhaps. But here’s what makes the story even more extraordinary: that very day, I had been thinking about him, wondering what had happened to my old friend.

Was this pure coincidence? Or was it something more? I believe it was the finger of God, guiding us to that moment.

Recognizing Divine Nudges

Stories like this one happen all the time. You might call them coincidences, but I see them as divine nudges. There are moments in life when everything aligns in ways that defy logic. These are the moments that remind us of the divine fingerprints in our lives.

The magicians in Pharaoh’s court recognized this during the plague of lice. When they failed to replicate it, they realized they were witnessing something extraordinary, something beyond human capability. They named it for what it was: the finger of God.

Finding God in Everyday Life

As we navigate our modern world, it’s easy to dismiss moments of wonder as coincidence or chance. Science has given us tools to understand much about the universe, but it hasn’t diminished the presence of the divine. Faith reminds us that not everything can be explained, and that’s okay.

For me, faith is about recognizing the sacred in the everyday. It’s about seeing the hand of God in a chance encounter, a meaningful coincidence, or even an unexplainable moment of connection. These are the moments that remind us there is something greater guiding our lives.

A Shabbat Challenge

As Shabbat approaches, I invite you to reflect on your own life. What moments stand out as more than just coincidence? Have you ever experienced something that felt divinely guided?

Open your eyes a little wider this week. Pay attention to the nudges, the moments that seem too perfect to be random. When you do, you might find yourself saying, as the Egyptian magicians did, This is the finger of God.”

Not everything can be explained by science, and that’s okay. Some things are meant to remind us of the divine, to draw us closer to faith and wonder. The finger of God is always at work in the world—we just need to learn how to see it.

Shabbat Shalom.