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Heaven Besieged Egypt Like a Rebel Province

Judah stood in an Egyptian throne room and reminded the man on the chair what happened to the last Pharaoh who kept a woman of this family.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Judah Names the Precedent
  2. The King Sends His Army to the Water
  3. Noise Makers, Darts, and Barbarian Legions
  4. Naphtha, Ballistae, and Ladders on the Wall
  5. The Dungeon and the Magnates
Heaven Besieged Egypt Like a Rebel Province Click for full size

Judah Names the Precedent

Judah stood in a room in Egypt with his youngest brother under arrest for a stolen cup, and he did not beg. He told the man on the chair a piece of family history instead.

The boy's grandmother was taken into an Egyptian palace once, he said. One night. Against her will. Pharaoh and his whole household came out of that night covered in sores. The boy's mother is dead young because his own father said a hasty word over her without knowing what he was saying, and the word did what words like that do. So be careful what you make this man's father say about you.

Then Judah leaned in. Two of us wiped out an entire city over one woman. Work out for yourself what all of us would do for a man, and this man in particular, the one the Lord loves, in whose portion it is written that God will make His home.

The man on the chair was Joseph, and he said nothing, and the room stayed very quiet. But the threat was not a bluff and it was not new. Egypt had already been billed once for a woman of that family. The second bill was larger and it took ten instalments.

The King Sends His Army to the Water

A province rebels. Its sovereign does not burn the capital on the first day, because a burned capital pays no taxes.

He marches an army out, surrounds the walls, and cuts the water. Then he waits. If the people come out contrite, well and good, and everyone goes home. If not, he moves to the next thing on the list, and there is always a next thing on the list.

That is how God came at Egypt. A man of war, working through a siege in order, one stage at a time, with a door left open after every stage.

He cut the water first. The Nile went to blood and so did every pool and every jar in the country, and there was nothing to drink in the richest kingdom on earth.

If they are contrite, well and good.

Noise Makers, Darts, and Barbarian Legions

They were not contrite, so the noise makers went in. That is the second stage of a siege, the racket that runs a walled city out of sleep. Heaven's version came up out of the river croaking, and it did not stop at the doorstep. The frogs went into the ovens and the kneading bowls and then into the people themselves, into their stomachs, and the noise came from inside the bodies of the men who had refused.

Still nothing. So, darts. An archer's volley, thousands of small points arriving at once. The lice came down over Egypt and went through skin like that, and there was no armor for it because the thing piercing you was the size of a seed.

Still nothing. So the legions were sent in, the auxiliary troops a king turns loose when he has stopped caring about the city's condition. These were beasts. Mixed hordes of them, every kind at once, running through streets and houses in a country that had spent its whole history painting animals on walls.

Then the carnage stage, when a besieging army stops taking prisoners. The pestilence came and lay down in the fields, and the cattle of Egypt died where they stood.

Naphtha, Ballistae, and Ladders on the Wall

Next in the manual is fire. A besieger pours burning naphtha down onto the defenders and lets it stick and keep burning. God poured it, and it came up on Egyptian skin as boils, and it burned on the magicians so badly that they could not stand in front of Moses to be looked at.

After fire, artillery. The engines are wound back and the stones go over the wall. Hail came down on Egypt with fire inside it and broke everything standing in the open, every tree, every crop, every man and animal that had not been brought indoors.

After artillery, escalade. The ladders go up against the wall and the assault troops climb. The locusts came, and they went up the country like soldiers, over every barrier, into every room, and what the hail had left they took, until there was nothing green anywhere in Egypt.

The Dungeon and the Magnates

When a city has been broken open, the survivors are thrown into the dark under it.

The darkness came for three days and it was not the absence of light. It had weight. No Egyptian rose from his place. A man sitting stayed sitting, a man standing stayed standing, and the whole kingdom was in a cell it could not see the walls of.

One stage remained, the one a king keeps for last because after it there is nothing left to threaten anyone with. He kills the great men.

At midnight every firstborn in Egypt died in the same instant, from the son on the throne to the son in the prison, and the cattle in the byres with them. There was not a house without a dead body in it. Pharaoh got up in the dark and went looking for Moses himself, through a country that was screaming, and told him to take his people and his flocks and his herds and go.

Nine times the door had been left open. Nine times it was shut from the Egyptian side.


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The texts behind this telling. Some cards carry a translation of the source; others are our own retelling of it, and each card says which. Every card links out to the original.

Legends of the Jews 4:263Legends of the Jews

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg (1909) · Public Domain

It’s a cosmic battle, a divine showdown. This king is the Lord.

In Legends of the Jews, Ginzberg's masterful compilation of rabbinic lore, God operates a bit like an earthly sovereign when dealing with rebellious subjects. What's the first thing that king does? He sends his army. He cuts off their resources, maybe their water supply. He gives them a chance to surrender.

That's sort of what we see happening with the Egyptians. God, "a man of war," as the text puts it, doesn't just unleash plagues willy-nilly. He uses a series of escalating measures, almost like a king giving his rebellious subjects chance after chance to repent.

First, the water is affected. If the people are contrite, well and good. If not, he brings "noise makers into the field against them." I imagine that as a plague of locusts, swarming and deafening, a constant reminder of their transgression. If the people are contrite, well and good. But they weren't, were they?

So then come the darts – perhaps the plague of boils, an irritating, festering reminder. If the people are contrite, well and good. If not, he orders his legions to assault them. Perhaps that refers to the plague of wild animals, a chaotic and terrifying invasion. If the people are contrite, well and good. If not, he causes bloodshed and carnage among them. The death of the livestock maybe? A devastating blow to their economy and livelihood.

The pressure keeps mounting. According to Ginzberg’s retelling, the text continues: if the people are contrite, well and good; if not, he directs a stream of hot naphtha upon them. Naphtha is an archaic term for a flammable liquid, essentially liquid fire. A plague of hail, perhaps, mixed with fire, raining down destruction.

If the people are contrite, well and good. If not, he hurls projectiles at them from his ballistae. A ballista was an ancient weapon, a giant crossbow that could launch massive stones. Here, perhaps, we see the plague of darkness, a crushing, oppressive force. If the people are contrite, well and good. If not, he has scaling-ladders set up against their walls. The idea here is of an all-out siege, the final assault on their defenses. If the people are contrite, well and good. If not, he casts them into dungeons – a metaphor for utter despair and helplessness? If the people are contrite, well and good. If not, he slays their magnates – the final, devastating blow, the death of the firstborn.

What’s so fascinating about this is the idea that God, in dealing with the Egyptians, isn't just being vengeful. He’s offering them opportunities to turn back, to acknowledge their wrongdoing. It’s a pattern we see throughout the Hebrew Bible, a constant invitation to teshuvah (repentance), repentance and return. It’s a hard lesson, learned in the crucible of suffering.

It's a story of escalating conflict, a king giving his subjects chance after chance, and a powerful reminder of the consequences of refusing to listen. What does it mean to be contrite? What does it mean to truly listen? Perhaps that’s the real question the Exodus story asks us to consider.

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Legends of the Jews 4:264Legends of the Jews

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg (1909) · Public Domain

The familiar version gives us the broad strokes: Pharaoh, Moses, plagues, freedom. But the details… oh, the details are where things get truly wild.

The Torah recounts the ten plagues, each a devastating blow meant to persuade Pharaoh to release the Israelites from slavery. But the how and why behind these plagues, as expanded upon in Jewish legend, offer a richer, more visceral understanding of God's intervention.

First, the water turned to blood. the verse says, God didn't just make the Nile look bloody. He cut off their entire water supply. This wasn't just an inconvenience; it was a direct assault on their life source.

Pharaoh remained stubborn. So, what came next? Frogs. Not just a few hopping around, but noisy, croaking hordes invading their very bodies. The text specifies they went "into their entrails." Can you imagine the horror?

Still, Pharaoh hardened his heart. Then came the lice. Not just irritating bites, but piercing swarms, like tiny darts tearing at their skin. Each plague escalated the suffering, a relentless pressure on the Egyptians to yield.

And it didn't stop there. The text describes "barbarian legions" – mixed hordes of wild beasts unleashed upon the land. Ginzberg, in Legends of the Jews, paints a picture of untamed chaos, a natural world turned against them.

Refusing still, the Egyptians faced a devastating pestilence, a plague that decimated their livestock and weakened their population. Then, imagine the agony of burning blains, boils erupting all over their bodies, described as being caused by God pouring out naphtha, a flammable liquid.

The seventh plague brought hail, but not just any hail. These were "projectiles," as the text describes them, divine missiles raining down from the heavens.

The locusts arrived next, and here's where the imagery gets truly striking. They didn't just swarm; they scaled walls "like men of war," using "scaling-ladders" to reach every corner of the land. This wasn't a random infestation; it was a coordinated assault.

Then came the darkness. Not just night, but a suffocating, inescapable "dungeon darkness." A darkness so profound it paralyzed the Egyptians with fear.

Finally, the ultimate blow: the death of the firstborn. The text doesn't shy away from the grim reality – the slaying of "their magnates, their first-born sons." This was the culmination of God's wrath, the breaking point that finally shattered Pharaoh's resolve.

What does all this tell us? Beyond the literal plagues, the legends highlight the escalating nature of God's intervention. Each plague was a consequence of Pharaoh's continued defiance, a demonstration of divine power and evidence of the unwavering determination to free the Israelites. The Exodus story, as amplified by these legends, becomes more than just a historical event; it becomes a powerful narrative about resistance, justice, and the enduring struggle for freedom.

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Legends of the Jews 1:272Legends of the Jews

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg (1909) · Public Domain

This is the weight of the story

It begins with a warning, a plea really. "Therefore let these words of mine which I am about to speak find entrance into thy heart.." It’s a serious tone, setting the stage for something… well, legendary.

The speaker's essentially saying: Look, this young man comes from a line of powerful women. Remember the story of Pharaoh? How he and his entire household were afflicted with terrible plagues? It was all because of this young man's grandmother. Pharaoh dared to keep her in his palace for a single night against her will. One night! And the consequences were devastating.

It gets even more heartbreaking. The speaker continues, explaining that this young man’s mother met an untimely end because of a curse his father uttered, spoken in a moment of haste and anger. Words, spoken without thought, carrying the power of life and death.

So, the warning? "Take heed, then, that this man's curse strike thee not and slay thee." It’s a direct threat, but also a plea for understanding, for caution. A reminder that actions have consequences, ripples that extend far beyond the immediate moment.

The speaker then brings in reinforcements to the argument, invoking the power of divine justice. "Two of us destroyed the whole of a city on account of one woman.." A clear allusion, perhaps, to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, where the outcry over injustice led to utter destruction. The lesson: if they could obliterate a city for the sake of one woman, how much more would they do for this man?

And this isn’t just any man. This is a man beloved by the Lord, a man in whose destiny it is "appointed that God shall dwell!" This isn't just about protecting an individual; it's about safeguarding the very presence of the Divine.

It's a potent mix of family history, divine retribution, and the immense responsibility that comes with being chosen. " And what lengths will be taken to protect that sacred connection?

The power of words. The weight of legacy. The responsibility of divine favor. It’s all wrapped up in this one intense warning, a reminder that the stories we tell, the words we speak, and the actions we take echo through eternity.

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