Exodus 7:8–10:29

Second Plague: Frogs (8:1–15)25

8:1Then the LORD said to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh and say to him, ‘This is what the LORD says: Let my people go, so that they may worship me. 2If you refuse to let them go, I will plague your whole country with frogs. 3The Nile will teem with frogs. They will come up into your palace and your bedroom and onto your bed, into the houses of your officials and on your people, and into your ovens and kneading troughs. 4The frogs will go up on you and your people and all your officials.’”

5Then the LORD said to Moses, “Tell Aaron, ‘Stretch out your hand with your staff over the streams and canals and ponds, and make frogs come up on the land of Egypt.’”

6So Aaron stretched out his hand over the waters of Egypt, and the frogs came up and covered the land. 7But the magicians did the same things by their secret arts; they also made frogs come up on the land of Egypt.

8Pharaoh summoned Moses and Aaron and said, “Pray to the LORD to take the frogs away from me and my people, and I will let your people go to offer sacrifices to the LORD.”

9Moses said to Pharaoh, “I leave to you the honor of setting the time for me to pray for you and your officials and your people that you and your houses may be rid of the frogs, except for those that remain in the Nile.”

10“Tomorrow,” Pharaoh said.

Moses replied, “It will be as you say, so that you may know there is no one like the LORD our God. 11The frogs will leave you and your houses, your officials and your people; they will remain only in the Nile.”

12After Moses and Aaron left Pharaoh, Moses cried out to the LORD about the frogs he had brought on Pharaoh. 13And the LORD did what Moses asked. The frogs died in the houses, in the courtyards and in the fields. 14They were piled into heaps, and the land reeked of them. 15But when Pharaoh saw that there was relief, he hardened his heart and would not listen to Moses and Aaron, just as the LORD had said.

Once again Moses goes to Pharaoh fully armed with God’s power in order to announce the coming of the second plague: “This is what the LORD says” (8:1). One distinctive mark of the frog plague when compared to the first plague and the preceding sign is that here Moses warns Pharaoh of the coming catastrophe if he does not heed the command to let the people go. Turning the Nile into blood should have convinced Pharaoh to comply.

This is also the first plague that involves the animal kingdom. Plagues 1 and 9 affect the elements (water and the sun) whereas plagues 2, 3, 4, and 8 unleash the animal kingdom on human victims. Turning the animal kingdom against humanity is, as we have seen with the first plague, a reversal of creation. In the ideal pattern of creation, humanity is to have dominion over the animals (Gen. 1:28). The “chaotic” behavior of animals in these plagues is God’s measured unleashing of “anti-creation” forces on the helpless Egyptians. In this respect, the use of the Hebrew term šaraṣ, to teem, also calls to mind creation in Genesis. The teeming of God’s creatures was originally something good, something that exhibited God’s creative work (1:20–21). But now this chaotic, teeming mass of frogs (Ex. 8:3) is a destructive abundance.26

The frogs are not just here and there, but everywhere, throughout the entire country (v. 2). They are in every nook and cranny: in homes, in bedrooms, even in ovens and kneading troughs (vv. 3–4). Such a scene should not evoke images of cute little animals popping out of sock drawers or cushy slippers. Rather, the environmental effects would be disastrous.27 They are clearly a threat to the sanitary preparation of food. And when they begin dying (vv. 13–14), their rotting bodies not only send up a horrible odor but also pose a public health catastrophe.

As with the first plague, the relevance of frogs is usually thought to reflect a polemic against Egyptian religion. Heqet (also spelled Heqt, Hekt, Heket, or Heqat), a goddess of childbirth, is depicted in Egyptian art with the head of a frog. Although perhaps we cannot make a direct connection between all ten plagues and the specific gods of the Egyptian pantheon, such a connection seems justified here.28 A plague of frogs can be understood as an attack on the Egyptian fertility goddess for the Egyptians’ previous attempt at eradicating the Israelites’ male infant population (Ex. 1).29 Furthermore, note that the frogs come from the Nile and its associated waters (8:5; cf. 7:19). The Nile, therefore, is the source of the first two plagues, which is fitting retribution to Pharaoh for attempting to use the Nile against the Israelites. In light of this, it is best not to think of this plague as presenting merely a “nuisance and annoyance” to the Egyptians.30 It is, like the first plague, a pointed theological statement: Yahweh is bigger than the gods of Egypt and will unleash the forces of creation to drive this point home.

This is only the second plague, but it is the last one that Pharaoh’s magicians are able to reproduce. But what purpose is there for them to do so? Would not duplicating this plague severely add to Egypt’s misery?! Apart from the recurring question of how Pharaoh’s magicians are able to make “frogs come up on the land of Egypt” (8:7), it is somewhat curious why they choose to increase the number of frogs rather than rid Egypt of this menace.31 Furthermore, it is after the magicians have their turn that Pharaoh asks Moses to make the plague stop. Apparently, this double dose of frogs is too much for him, for why else does he ask for help after demonstrating that his magicians can duplicate the feat?

With the second plague we see the first sign of Pharaoh’s weakness. He sees that Israel’s God, despite his magicians’ ability to mimic the plague, is a power to be reckoned with. But if Pharaoh is now convinced by the plague of Yahweh’s might, why does he capitulate only after his magicians produce frogs on their own? It may be that Pharaoh has recognized not only that God has the power to produce frogs, but that only God has the power to get rid of them. Note that in the plagues narrative, the cessation of the plagues is as much a sign of God’s power as the plagues themselves. Pharaoh now sees the great problem he has and goes to the only source of help—not his magicians but the God of Israel. To show the king the extent of Yahweh’s might, Moses gives him the choice of when the plague will stop—“Tomorrow.”32 This timing demonstrates to Pharaoh that this is no trick manipulated by Moses, no bit of magic contrived to pull the wool over his eyes. Pharaoh gladly takes Moses up on the offer (v. 10).

Verse 9 is unusual when seen in the context of the plagues narrative as a whole: Moses addresses Pharaoh directly (cf. 8:1, where God tells Moses, “Go to Pharaoh and say to him . . .”; also cf. 7:16). The issue here is that previous conversations between God and Moses make it clear that Aaron is to be the spokesman to Pharaoh, relaying to Pharaoh the word of God given to Moses (see esp. 7:2). How should the command in 7:2 be understood in light of the obvious speaking role that Moses now seems to hold? Note too that as the narrative unfolds, Aaron’s role diminishes and Moses’ increases, and in fact, much of the theology of the narrative is played out precisely in the interchanges between Moses and Pharaoh.

There is no obvious solution to this problem, and facile attempts should not be made to explain it away. Perhaps having Aaron as a spokesman was only a temporary concession on God’s part. Once the action starts, in the heat of battle, God throws Moses into the fray, and, as God has planned all along, he rises to the occasion and performs his prophetic task admirably. Such an explanation, however, is not confirmed by any text in Exodus. In any case, it does demonstrate God’s sovereignty over Moses. God’s choice of a messenger is a good one, despite feelings (real or feigned) of his own inadequacies. God, like a father, takes Moses by the hand at first and says, “OK, OK, don’t worry. I’ll have Aaron help you.” But like a father who knows his own son’s abilities better than the son himself, God nudges Moses into the very situation he fears most. In all this, it becomes apparent how fully in control God is in bringing Israel out of Egypt. He has his way with Pharaoh and Moses, to harden the one but to build up the other.

Moses intercedes for Pharaoh and God listens to Moses, his messenger. The frogs die more or less right where they are. They are piled into heaps and begin to stink.33 This should be a lesson for Pharaoh: “We’re serious, Pharaoh. We’ll play ball if you will.” But at this stage in the narrative, the final outcome is to be expected: Pharaoh hardens his heart. He brushes off God’s salvation. The confidence he had earlier in his own power has started to wear down, but he quickly forgets his weakness. As soon as the plague is out of sight, it is also out of mind. Yahweh’s second display of his control over creation is not enough to convince the king of Egypt that he is no match. But in the end, we will see that Pharaoh’s reluctance to capitulate is less a result of his own stubbornness and more a result of God’s desire to keep him pinned against the ropes, long after the bell should have rung. God will not allow Pharaoh to quit so easily.

Bridging Contexts

CREATION IN SERVICE of redemption. These nine plagues against Egypt are not just a display of God flexing his muscles. They are, as we have seen, the unleashing of God’s creative forces against the enemies of God’s people (and therefore the enemies of God himself). In the abstract one can imagine God using a variety of other means to bring Egypt to its knees, ways that have biblical precedent elsewhere. He could have sent an angel dressed in armor and girded with sword. He could have used a foreign army as his pawn to plunder. But this was not the tactic he takes. He chooses, rather, to fight with weapons that no one but he has at his disposal and that only he can command. After all, what defense is there against the forces of creation itself? This series of attacks on Egypt removes all doubt as to who the victor will be.

It has already been mentioned that the reason God chooses such a means of punishment is due, at least in part, to the nature of the crime perpetrated against Israel, namely, Pharaoh’s posing as an anti-God force whose decree in chapter 1 is nothing less than a challenge to God’s creation mandate in Genesis 1. Furthermore, throughout Scripture there is a close relationship between creation and salvation; when God saves, it is a re-creation of sorts. This is why the narrative of the departure from Egypt—the central, paradigmatic salvation event in the Old Testament—is permeated with creation language. Whatever hints of this creation-salvation connection we see in early chapters of Exodus are given clearer expression in the narrative of the plagues and reach their pinnacle in chapter 14 and the parting of the Red Sea.

With the departure of Israel from Egypt, Israel has a new beginning. This is where the nation of Israel truly has its start. From now on it will be a recognizable national entity, much like the surrounding nations. Israel will have its own God and accompanying religious trappings, its own system of law, its own land, and, eventually, its own king (though the monarchy does not begin for several hundred years). When seen in this light it is no surprise that creation plays an active role in Israel’s emancipation.

Creation is at God’s command both to deliver his people and to destroy his enemies. The plagues are creation reversals: Animals harm rather than serve humanity; light ceases and darkness takes over; waters become a source of death rather than life; the climax of Genesis 1 is the creation of humans on the last day, whereas the climax of the plagues is the destruction of human beings in the last plague. The plagues do not run rampant, however. They eventually cease, and each cessation is another display of God’s creative power. He once again restores order to chaos as he did “in the beginning”: The waters are restored, the pesky insects and animals retreat. Each plague is a reminder of the supreme power of God who holds chaos at bay, but who, if he chooses, will step aside and allow the chaos to plague his enemies.

The Exodus narrative is not alone in linking creation and salvation. In fact, on the pages of the Old Testament creation often “goes ballistic” when God seeks to punish or save. Perhaps the most obvious example is the Flood. This is the first creation reversal, and (the force of this observation should not be lost) it appears in the Genesis narrative only moments after the majesty of the creation itself (see comments on ch. 14 for further discussion of the Flood).

Prophetic literature frequently states how God is in complete command of his creation and uses it to effect his goals. The description of such events bears strong similarity to the plague narrative. God’s judgment on Babylon, for example, will be accompanied by celestial upheaval: “The stars of heaven and their constellations will not show their light. The rising sun will be darkened and the moon will not give its light” (Isa. 13:10; see also Joel 2:10, 31). “I will make the heavens tremble; and the earth will shake from its place” (Isa. 13:13). The nations, who are likened to “the raging sea,” God simply rebukes and they “flee far away” (17:13).

Prophecies against Egypt in particular are imbued with allusions to the Exodus, although many of these allusions refer more specifically to the crossing of the sea than to the plagues (Isa. 19:5–6, an allusion to the stinking waters of Egypt after the first plague; see also Jer. 46 and Ezek. 29–32). Hail and locusts are often signs of God’s judgment on Israel’s enemies (Josh. 10:11; Isa. 28:2; 30:30; Ezek. 38:22; Joel 1:4; Hag. 2:17).

It is hard not to think of the events surrounding the Exodus as providing a paradigm for subsequent acts of deliverance by God. We will examine later (see comments on Ex. 14) how the Exodus pattern as a whole is appealed to at a number of crucial junctures in redemptive history, specifically the return from Babylon and the coming of Christ. But even in these brief examples we see, in a manner reminiscent of the plagues, God’s use of creation as he pronounces judgment. Note especially the ironic twist of Joel 1:4, where the object of God’s creation-reversal anger is not the wicked nations, but unrepentant Israel. Although they are the beneficiaries of the creation reversals in Exodus, Israel is not immune from the punishment once intended for her oppressors.

We do not do justice to this theme if we limit our observations to those passages that echo the specific language of the plague narrative. The famous encounter between Elijah and the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel is another example (1 Kings 18:16–46). This story, too, is about the power of Israel’s God versus a foreign god (Baal, the Canaanite storm god). It is Yahweh, the true God, who shows control over the elements by bringing fire down from heaven (reminiscent of the lightning of the plague of hail, esp. since the Hebrew word in Exodus for lightning is “fire”) to ignite the water-saturated altar (see also Num. 11:1–3, where fire from heaven is directed against the grumbling Israelites).

Another example is the famous incident of the sun standing still in Joshua 10:1–15.89 The net result was Israel’s victory over Adoni-Zedek and the proclamation, “Surely the LORD was fighting for Israel” (10:14), a conclusion at which the Egyptians also arrive in Exodus 14:25. Again, both instances could have been handled differently. The warrior God could have mounted his chariot and swept the enemy away with his mighty sword. But he took another approach, one that allows those present, on both sides of the conflict, to reflect on the power of the only God.

More closely associated with the Exodus is the miraculous provision of manna, quail, and water from the rock (Ex. 16:1–17:7; Num. 11:4–35; 20:1–13). The normal exigencies that accompany desert travel (lack of food and water) present no barrier to the God of creation. Just as he is capable of casting darkness over light and turning water into blood, he can make the skies rain quail, the dew of the earth bring forth bread, and water come from a most unlikely source, rocks. Like some of the plagues, these examples show that it is not simply a matter of God using creation to serve his ends. He is rather suspending the normal operations of his creation to show that he is Lord of all—and all this to benefit his beloved people: Fire consumes water, the earth yields bread, there is darkness during daytime, and water becomes blood. Creation serves its Maker by behaving in ways that are contrary to all reason and expectation.

In view of the connection between creation and salvation in the Old Testament, the presence of creation language with respect to the coming of Christ seems obvious. As Exodus is the paradigmatic salvific event in the Old Testament and serves as a paradigm for other redemptive acts, the coming of Christ is the climactic salvific event; thus, we see creation behaving in ways that resemble the passages mentioned above. At the beginning of his earthly life, creation announces Christ’s birth through a special star that leads the Magi to him. His first miracle involves changing the natural properties of water and making it wine. This is no mere trick to impress the witnesses or to show them how special he is. This is, rather, a first hint at what Jesus’ life and death are meant to do: turn creation upside down.

Like Moses, Jesus has command over the elements. He walks on water; he commands the storms to cease; he provides a miraculous supply of fish and bread; he makes a fig tree wither. These well-known incidents show that he, like the God of the Exodus, has creation at his disposal. He can command it at will to serve whatever purpose he has in mind. That he is able to do these things is nothing less than a clear indication that the God of the Old Testament is walking among his people, once again manipulating the created order to bring blessing and relief to his people. Christ has the entire created order at his disposal. It is of him that Paul wrote, “All things were created by him and for him” (Col. 1:16). This is the Christ who came to change the hearts of people.

At Jesus’ death we see an inversion of this theme. The Gospel writers tell us that darkness came over the earth, the earth shook, and rocks split (Matt. 27:51; Luke 23:44). Here, too, creation signals the deliverance of God’s people, but only by means of the punishment of God’s Son, against whom God’s anger is directed. He bears in his body the punishment God formerly inflicted on the enemies of his people, such as Egypt and Babylon. Now Christ has become the enemy of God. With his death, God is on the move for the last time. He has come to bring his people out of bondage, at whatever the cost. Creation bears witness to this fact.

Even the resurrection of Christ takes on a new dimension when seen in light of this theme: It is the ultimate creation reversal. God has control over that most intractable of the laws of creation. When people die, they are dead. But even death is of no account to God. The power that controls the elements can break into the very core of human mortality and bring life from death. Our knees should shake.

The book of Revelation remains a difficult and controversial book to interpret. Without wishing to enter the fray, I would suggest that we are on safe ground when we say that this book is a highly symbolic work that deals with the final, ultimate victory of Christ over sin and death and with God’s bringing all of history to its final goal, edenic blessing in the presence of the Lamb. John’s vision is filled with allusions to plagues and creation upheavals, a point to which Jesus himself seems to hint (e.g., Mark 13:24–25). The angel’s warning to the church at Laodicea is prefaced as being “the words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the ruler of God’s creation” (Rev. 3:14). These believers are to heed his warning, since creation is at his disposal.

The seven seals and the seven trumpets (6:1–17; 8:1–9:21; 11:15–19) allude to well-known biblical descriptions of cosmic cataclysm. The third seal upsets the agricultural cycle. In the fourth seal, plague and wild animals contribute to the death of over a fourth of the population. The sixth seal brings us a blackened sun, stars falling from the sky, the sky rolling up like a scroll, and the removal of mountains and islands.

The first trumpet brings hail and fire mixed with blood, which destroy a third of the earth, trees, and grass. With the second trumpet a huge blazing mountain is hurled into the sea, bringing great maritime destruction, not the least of which is the sea turning to blood, a clear reminder of the first plague. The third trumpet signals the star Wormwood, turning sweet waters to bitter (a reversal of Ex. 15:22–27?). With the fourth trumpet, the sun is once again darkened, along with the moon and stars. The fifth trumpet brings darkness and locusts; the latter receive power to agonize the enemies of God (those without his seal on their foreheads). The sixth trumpet brings plagues of fire, smoke, and sulfur to kill a third of humankind. With the seventh trumpet, heaven is opened, and lightning, rumblings, thunder, an earthquake, and hailstorms occur.

The seven bowls of God’s wrath (16:1–21) largely repeat the symbolism of the previous sevenfold series of judgments: sores break out; the seas, rivers, and springs turn to blood; the sun alternatively scorches and is darkened; lightning, thunder, and earthquakes take place. We even see frogs (v. 13) and the drying up of waters (v. 12).

It is, in my view, beside the point to invest energy in defending the literalness of these descriptions. They are powerful, symbolic descriptions of ultimate reality, which, not surprisingly, utilize biblical themes and images that had become part of the first-century Jew’s religious worldview. God’s final judgment on his enemies will bear no mere coincidental resemblance to his other acts of judgment in the Old Testament (the Exodus in particular). In this sense, the power God displays at the Exodus is a foretaste of the forces he will use to bring about his judgment. The symbolism of Revelation is a not cheap, nonliteral representation of what God “really” did in Exodus. If anything, the opposite is the case: Exodus is a down payment and earthly depiction of the final cataclysm, one that is so powerful, so ultimate, so final, that it can only be described in a manner reminiscent of these earlier earthly acts.

At the consummation, when all is set aright, creation will be intimately involved. Perhaps this is in part what Paul is driving at in Romans 8:18–27. The most relevant portion is verses 18–23:

I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. (italics added)

Creation is “waiting” for God to move; it yearns to be “liberated”; it “groans” for the end. Creation has always figured into God’s plans whenever he appeared on the scene. And in the end, it will once again—finally—be so. Creation will participate in the final act of redemption, and thus will itself experience liberation from the bondage to decay in which it has been held. It is perhaps in this broadest of contexts that the participation of creation with salvation should be understood. Creation has a vested interest in the outcome. All things will be made new. Redemption and re-creation are two sides of the same coin.

Contemporary Significance

THE PLAGUES AND YOU. As mentioned at the outset of this section, it seems to me that there is little literal contemporary significance in the nine plagues recounted in Exodus 7:8–10:29. We are not Israelites, and we are not oppressed by Egypt. We must resist the temptation to “apply” the plague narrative by ascribing to God’s judgment any natural catastrophe or other similar disasters that happen along and fit them into our personal views of how God acts. We all know of individuals—some well-intentioned, some charlatans—who cram the earthquakes, floods, and diseases that occur regularly and have always been so much a part of our world, into pet end-times theologies. But God does not speak to us as he did to Moses and bring about natural calamities to punish our enemies. In fact, those who claim special knowledge and predict such things are rightly dismissed as overzealous literalists at best and crackpots at worst.

Nor will the lesson of the plagues be found in distilling moralistic principles. It certainly misses the point to argue, as one commentator does, that one of the lessons of the plague narrative is to caution us against making vows that we have no intention of keeping—a reference to Pharaoh’s recurring change of heart. Such an approach is problematic, not only because the text itself gives no indication whether Pharaoh’s promise to let the Israelites go was intended to be sincere, but especially because the point of the hardening episodes is to drive home in no uncertain terms that Yahweh is in complete control of the process of Israel’s release.

Whatever approach we may take to understanding the plague narrative, its intention is certainly not to teach the Israelites, “Don’t be like Pharaoh.” Something much more fundamental, much more significant, is happening here. The story of the plagues is not telling us about a bad man, Pharaoh, whose example we are to avoid. Nor is it a morality play with Moses as the positive example of how to act, since he himself does not rise to saintly status in the narrative.

The key to applying the plagues is found in struggling with the theology of the plagues and how the significance of that theology is given fuller expression in the person and work of Jesus Christ. The answers are not straightforward and obvious. It takes study, contemplation, and patience. We must look again and again at what this theme has to tell us about the nature of God and how we, in Christ, are to respond to that God.

On one level, we apply this theme simply by saying, “Wow!” We should not feel short-changed if our understanding of a passage does not translate directly into some overt, specific behavior. The point of the plagues for today is not so much in what we do with it, but in having our hearts and minds opened to what God has done and thereby understanding him better. Who else but the supreme judge of the universe can make the heavens and the earth do his bidding?

I know I have the tendency to read over the Exodus story without considering thoughtfully the implications of what God is capable of doing. When we read that old story of frogs, gnats, rivers turning to blood, and so forth, perhaps scenes of the famous movie The Ten Commandments come to mind. We are so familiar with it that we do not allow it to strike us deeply, which is the effect it had some three thousand years ago. At the end of the day, when the masks come off and we are left to our own conscience, do we really believe in the God that the biblical narrative is presenting to us? Do we believe that this God is somehow connected to his people several thousand years removed from these events?

This story was not taken for granted by the generations of Israelites living after the Exodus. It was rather intended to be a gripping reminder of who God is. In the final analysis, the story of the plagues is not about what God does to save you, or perhaps even so much a story of how he saved Israel. It is about God, period; for when all is said and done, we all need to be reminded of him now and then. The question, then, to ask of our passage is not, “What does this have to do with me?” We must at least first ask, “What does this tell me about who God is?”

Perhaps the application is, in a word, doxological. We praise, that is, worship God for his fearful might and great love, both of which he has employed for the sake of his beloved children. Praising God is not a lesser form of application. Rather, it is what so much of the Bible is driving us toward. It is the goal of redemption itself—not to feel self-important by being part of God’s club, but to turn ourselves away from our sinful inclination toward self-centeredness and toward God. This, I suggest, is how the ancient Israelites properly “applied” the plagues (e.g., see the Song at the Sea in Ex. 15 and Ps. 105). They saw what God had done for them, and they fell back in awe—and they remembered.

This is why a moralistic reading of the story falls far short of the mark. The Israelites came to know God better by what he had done, and it is this knowledge that formed the basis for their morality. When our hearts and minds are imbued with a personal knowledge of our Creator, proper morality will follow. Our actions flow from who we are at our very core. And who we are is determined by whom we worship—whether God, the world, or ourselves. The plague narrative—indeed, the book of Exodus and the entire Bible—is a call to worship the true God, and it calls us to that goal by telling us who he is.

There are a number of elements in the plague narrative that strike me in particular as I seek to know God better through his Word. It is the recognition that personal salvation, however important, is only part of the big picture. God’s purposes are broader than what we sometimes think in modern, evangelical America. The nature of the plagues helps us catch a glimpse of that broader purpose. They are, as we have seen, not just muscle flexing. Rather, God arms himself with creation to bring creation itself to its ultimate goal. Our salvation is a part of that goal. I am not for one moment diminishing the importance of the atoning work of Christ in reconciling fallen humanity to the holy God. The point here, however, is that we miss something of the wonder of our own salvation if we do not see it in light of the grand scope of salvation. In the plagues, God manipulates the created order and thereby reaches back to the dawn of time and ahead to the consummation—the death, resurrection, and return of Christ. And he does this ultimately for his glory, not for ours.

Our redemption is a piece, albeit a large piece, of a puzzle that extends beyond our personal eternal state. It is about the restoration—re-creation, if you will—of what was lost in the Garden of Eden. This is why salvation, whether the deliverance from Egypt or through the death and resurrection of Christ, is often described in creation language. The coming of Christ re-creates humanity, and this re-creation is part of a plan that has the widest of possible implications. Jesus came to inaugurate a new world order, which he called the kingdom of God. It is an order in which all creation will eventually be restored to the glory God intended at the beginning.

Another element, touched on earlier but more prominent in the plague narrative, is the fact that God has complete control in the process of salvation. We should be careful not to try to fit these passages too neatly into our theological constructs, as if God’s sovereignty can be tamed (!). This goes for people of all theological stripes, whether Calvinist or Arminian. The almost playfulness with which God handles Pharaoh despite his apparent repentance, and the determination with which he brings Israel out of Egypt despite their less than full support, should give everyone reason to pause.

Who is this all-loving, merciful God who, rather than fanning Pharaoh’s nascent obedience into a flame, seems to direct him in a completely opposite direction? Who is this God who chooses a people for himself, through no merit of their own, and then determines to mold them into his own image despite their repeated shortcomings and rebellions? A proper reaction to reading this story is simply to sit back and shake our heads in disbelief. God is beyond our understanding.

A tension that all Christians deal with sooner or later is having an understanding of God while at the same time recognizing that he is always open to directions that we have not anticipated. We feel this tension acutely, for example, when we find ourselves coming to grips with an understanding of a doctrinal issue that at an earlier time we would have found problematic or unorthodox. This tension is often difficult to hold in balance, but it is one that all Christians must try to respect. Knowledge of God is a powerful commodity, which is why it is so susceptible to abuse. It is always a temptation to think that you “understand” who God is and how he works. God has revealed himself to us, to be sure, and most clearly in his Son, but too often the wonder of his revelation is reduced to a narrow dogmatism that has everything in its place. It is the kind of faith that favors heated theological debate rather than unity in love.

For some, it seems that all the mysteries of the gospel and life have been entrusted to them. This is not just a danger for famous Christian thinkers (or cult leaders!) who make their livelihood from expounding the deep mysteries of the gospel, but for everyone. We all know Christians like this and, if we are honest, we would admit to similar transgressions. Yet there are others for whom the Christian life is shrouded in mystery to the point that dogma is an intrusion. Although theological systems have been exploited to the detriment of the gospel, it is also true that eschewing any sort of theological system can be detrimental to one’s faith. Such a view emphasizes the mystery of the gospel so that its revelatory content is not taken seriously.

The lessons of the plague narrative are a merciful slap in the face to both these extremes. The plagues are revelation. They are not done in private, but for all the world to see. They tell us, in no uncertain terms, who God is and what he can do. But God’s dealings with Pharaoh are also beyond our understanding. They cannot be contained in a series of tidy propositions handed down like a math formula or grocery list. We have in the Bible at once the openness of God and his hiddenness. The paradox we see hinted at already in the plagues is fully embodied in Christ, for the fullness of God dwells in him (Col. 1:19), but he is also like us in every way (Heb. 2:17).

All those who “have come to share in Christ” (Heb. 3:14) share in this tension, and we would do well to keep this in mind as we journey toward a deeper knowledge of Almighty God. God is in our midst, yet he is beyond us. We should be humble in our knowledge, for we are dealing with a God of boundless depth, who has creation at his fingertips. But we must also be bold in our limited understanding, for the same God has gone to great lengths to make himself known to us.