Jewish tradition wrestles with these questions constantly, and the story of the Exodus is a prime example.
Think about it: Pharaoh, right? He was the mastermind behind the oppression of the Israelites. According to Legends of the Jews, he was also the first to face divine retribution. The plagues, those terrifying displays of God's power, didn’t just randomly appear; they targeted Pharaoh's house first.
Can you imagine the chaos? Ginzberg tells us that a "mixed horde of beasts" descended upon Pharaoh's palace. Then, the rest of Egypt suffered. Yet, Goshen, the land where the Israelites lived, remained untouched. It was spared. "God put a division between the two peoples," the text emphasizes. A line was drawn.
But here's where it gets complicated, as it always does when we're talking about people and their relationship to the Divine. Were the Israelites entirely innocent? Not exactly.
As we find in Midrash Rabbah, the Israelites "had committed sins enough to deserve punishment." It's a sobering thought. So why were they spared the plagues? The tradition offers a challenging, even unsettling, explanation: "The Holy One, blessed be He, permitted the Egyptians to act as a ransom for Israel."
A ransom. Kofer in Hebrew. The Egyptians, in their suffering, somehow atoned for the sins of the Israelites.
It's a difficult concept, isn't it? Collective punishment? Vicarious atonement? It raises all sorts of ethical questions that we continue to grapple with today. The story isn't just about a miraculous escape from slavery; it's about the complex, often mysterious, ways that justice and mercy intertwine in the divine plan.
It forces us to ask: what does it truly mean to be deserving of salvation? And what responsibility do we bear for the suffering of others, even those who might seem to be our enemies?