Parshat Va’eira — When Redemption Is Spoken but Cannot Yet Be Heard

Introduction — When Words Are True but the World Still Hurts

Parshat Shemot ended in rupture. Moshe obeyed Hashem’s command, confronted Pharaoh, and spoke words of liberation — and the result was the opposite of what he expected. The workload intensified. The people broke. And Moshe, shaken and disoriented, turned back to Hashem in pain: “Why have You made things worse? Why did You send me?”

Hashem’s response at the end of Shemot is brief but firm: “Now you will see what I will do to Pharaoh.” It is not an explanation. It is a reassurance of direction. Something is about to begin — but not in the way Moshe imagines.

Parshat Va’eira opens by slowing everything down. Before plagues, before confrontation, before movement, Hashem speaks again — not to the people, but to Moshe. “וַיְדַבֵּר אֱלֹקִים אֶל מֹשֶׁה… וָאֵרָא אֶל אַבְרָהָם.” Hashem does not begin with strategy or outcomes. He begins with relationship, memory, and continuity. He reminds Moshe that redemption does not start in the moment — it unfolds across generations. The Avot lived on promise long before fulfillment. What is happening now is part of that same covenantal arc.

Only after reorienting Moshe does Hashem turn outward and speak to Bnei Yisrael. And when He does, He does not speak cautiously or partially. He offers everything at once: release from burden, rescue from domination, closeness, covenant, and future. Five complete promises. A full vision of healing and destiny.

And then the Torah delivers one of its most painful truths: “וְלֹא שָׁמְעוּ אֶל מֹשֶׁה מִקֹּצֶר רוּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָה קָשָׁה.”They could not hear. Not because the words were unclear. Not because the promises were insufficient. But because sustained suffering had constricted their inner world. Breath itself had become scarce.

Parshat Va’eira is the Torah’s teaching about what happens when redemption is spoken clearly — and still cannot yet be received. It is not a story about failure of faith. It is a story about human capacity and timing. About how Hashem continues to speak truth and remain present even when hearts are not yet able to absorb what is being said.

This parsha does not ask why people don’t believe. It asks what people need in order to hear.

Section I — Hashem Speaks All Five Promises Without Hesitation

After reorienting Moshe in covenant and continuity, Hashem turns to Bnei Yisrael — and what He offers them is striking in both scope and confidence. He does not speak cautiously. He does not pace His words according to their current capacity — not because capacity does not matter, but because promise is not contingent on readiness. He does not test how much hope they can tolerate. Instead, He speaks redemption in full.

“וְלָכֵן אֱמֹר לִבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל…”

What follows is not a partial vision or a softened promise, but a complete one. Hashem lays out release from unbearable burden, rescue from domination, closeness and reassurance, covenantal belonging, and a future of meaning and destination. Body, relationship, and future are all addressed at once. Nothing is held back.

This matters deeply. The Torah could have chosen a different path. Hashem could have limited His message to immediate relief. He could have said, “First, I will ease the suffering,” and left the rest unsaid for later. But He does not. He refuses to reduce the people to their pain or to address them only as victims in need of survival. He speaks to them as a people whose story extends beyond the present moment.

This is not pressure. It is not demand. It is Divine generosity. Hashem is not asking the people to believe, respond, or act on these promises yet. He is declaring that their identity and future are larger than the world that currently constrains them. Even while they are crushed by labor and fear, Hashem insists on naming the fullness of who they are and what belongs to them.

Chassidic teaching helps us understand why this matters so much. The Sefat Emet teaches that Divine speech does more than convey information; it sustains reality itself. Words spoken in truth do not disappear when they cannot yet be absorbed. They remain present beneath the surface, holding space for what is not yet possible. Even when a human heart is constricted, Divine words continue to work quietly, preserving future capacity.

Seen this way, Hashem’s speech in Va’eira is not premature. It is patient. He speaks not because the people are ready to receive everything, but because everything already belongs to them. The promises are not contingent on strength, clarity, or emotional availability. They are grounded in covenant.

Hashem speaks not only to who Bnei Yisrael are in this moment of suffering, but to who they will become when breath returns and space begins to open again.

Section II — The Five Lashonot as the Five Foundations of Human Repair

When Hashem speaks redemption in Parshat Va’eira, He does not offer a single promise or a general assurance that “things will get better.” He speaks in five distinct expressions of redemption. Each one addresses a different way slavery has damaged the human system.

These promises are often read as theology or future destiny. But the Torah is doing something far more intimate. It is mapping repair.

The five lashonot are not abstract ideas. They describe a sequence of human needs being restored. Not all of them are experienced at the same time. Not all of them are accessible at the same moment. But all of them are named at once — because healing requires a full vision, even when a person can only take in part of it.

Together, they form a complete picture of what it takes for a broken people to become whole again.

The first expression is “וְהוֹצֵאתִי” — “I will take you out from under the burdens of Egypt.” This is the promise of being seen. Before freedom, before rescue, before meaning, there is acknowledgment. The unbearable weight pressing down on them is named. Their suffering is real. It is recognized. It matters. A system that has been crushed cannot begin to heal until the pain itself is no longer denied.

The second expression is “וְהִצַּלְתִּי” — “I will rescue you from their servitude.” This speaks to safety. Slavery is not only labor; it is threat, domination, and constant fear. Rescue restores the possibility of breathing without vigilance. A soul that does not feel safe cannot open, trust, or listen. Before growth, the nervous system must know it is no longer under attack.

The third expression is “וְגָאַלְתִּי” — “I will redeem you with an outstretched arm.” Here the Torah introduces soothing. Redemption is not only a change in circumstance; it is closeness. Hashem draws near. The image of the outstretched arm conveys steadiness in the face of terror. Someone is holding the fear with them. Someone remains present while the system settles.

The fourth expression is “וְלָקַחְתִּי” — “I will take you to Me as a people.” This speaks to security. Covenant and attachment replace instability and disposability. Bnei Yisrael are not being helped temporarily; they are being claimed permanently. The relationship itself is no longer conditional on performance or worthiness. Security restores the ability to exist without the constant fear of abandonment.

The final expression is “וְהֵבֵאתִי” — “I will bring you to the land.” This is the promise of significance. It is not geography alone. It is direction, future, and meaning. It answers the question, Where is my life going? It affirms that suffering is not the end of the story, and that existence is moving toward something purposeful.

Yet the Torah quietly signals that not all of these promises are equally accessible at the same time.

Some address immediate survival. Others speak to future and becoming. The final promise asks the most of the inner world. It asks a people crushed by the present to imagine a tomorrow they cannot yet picture.

The Or HaChaim explains that each lashon addresses a different layer of collapse created by exile. Slavery did not harm Bnei Yisrael in one way. It fractured body, emotion, relationship, and spirit. Redemption, therefore, cannot be singular or instantaneous. It must be layered.

The Malbim adds that redemption unfolds gradually because healing must. Capacity does not return all at once. Each promise restores something essential that was taken away — even if it cannot yet be felt or integrated.

Taken together, the five lashonot form a complete vision of human repair. Hashem offers everything — not because the people can access all of it now, but because all of it belongs to them.

Hashem is not measuring what they can use in this moment. He is naming what will one day be possible again.

Section III — And Still: Kotzer Ruach

Only after Hashem speaks all five promises — fully, generously, and without hesitation — does the Torah reveal the most painful truth of the parsha: “וְלֹא שָׁמְעוּ אֶל מֹשֶׁה מִקֹּצֶר רוּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָה קָשָׁה.” They could not hear. Not because the words were unclear. Not because the vision was lacking. But because of kotzer ruach and crushing labor.

The order matters. The Torah is deliberate here. It does not say that the people failed to hear before redemption was promised. It says they could not hear after everything had already been said. The promises were complete. The vision was whole. And still, the people were unable to take it in.

Rashi is careful to protect Bnei Yisrael from misjudgment. Kotzer ruach, he explains, does not mean stubbornness or rebellion. It means constriction of spirit. Breath has become shallow. There is no inner room left to absorb hope, even when hope is spoken with love.

The Ramban deepens this understanding by teaching that exile does not only harm circumstances; it damages capacity. A person can be offered freedom and still be unable to imagine it. A people can be promised a future and still feel trapped in the present. Slavery narrows not only what a person can do, but what they can hold.

Chassidic teaching sharpens this insight further. The Sefat Emet explains that ruach is the inner expanse where speech, hearing, and vision reside. When suffering persists over time, ruach contracts. The first capacities to falter are not belief or loyalty, but the ability to listen, imagine, and respond. Meaning becomes inaccessible — not because it is rejected, but because the inner space to receive it no longer exists.

This is why not all promises are blocked in the same way. A crushed soul may still long for relief — for the burden to ease, for the threat to lessen, for someone to come close and help them breathe again. These hopes are tied to survival. They answer the question, How do I get through this moment?

Significance asks something more. It asks a soul to imagine itself not merely surviving, but becoming. That kind of imagining requires inner space. When ruach is constricted, the future collapses. Time narrows to the demands of the present. The question Where is my life going? can feel distant, abstract, or even painful.

Seen this way, kotzer ruach is not a failure of faith. It is a physiological and emotional reality. It is what happens when survival consumes every ounce of energy, leaving nothing left over for hope. The Torah is not criticizing Bnei Yisrael here. It is diagnosing them with compassion.

Even when truth is spoken clearly, and even when the promises are real, a person whose spirit is constricted may still be unable to hear. This does not mean that belief is absent or that faith has failed. It means that the inner space required to receive meaning is not yet available.

Kotzer ruach is not a rejection of what is being said. It is a state of breathlessness. And until a person can breathe again — emotionally and internally — even words spoken with care and truth will struggle to take hold.

Section IV — Moshe, Pharaoh, and the Limits of Speech

After the Torah reveals kotzer ruach among Bnei Yisrael, the narrative turns outward once again. Moshe is sent back to Pharaoh. He speaks. He warns. He repeats Hashem’s demand. And once again, the words do not land.

This moment matters because it shows that the failure of speech is not limited to the oppressed. Pharaoh, too, cannot hear — but for a very different reason.

Bnei Yisrael cannot hear because their spirits are crushed. Pharaoh cannot hear because his power is threatened. Yet the outcome is the same. Language fails. Meaning does not penetrate. Reality remains unchanged.

The Netziv explains that Pharaoh’s heart hardens not out of ignorance, but out of fear of losing control. The more his authority is challenged, the more rigid he becomes. Systems built on domination cannot tolerate uncertainty or vulnerability. They respond to threat by tightening their grip.

This creates a sharp contrast in the parsha. On one side is a people so constricted by suffering that hope cannot enter. On the other is a ruler so invested in control that truth cannot be admitted. Both are trapped — one by pain, the other by power.

At this point, the Torah teaches something essential. Speech alone cannot dismantle a system organized around fear. Words, no matter how true, cannot penetrate when the structures themselves reward denial, punishment, and control. Moshe can speak again and again, and nothing shifts — not because the message lacks authority, but because the environment itself is not yet capable of change.

This is where the parsha begins to pivot. Not because Hashem abandons speech, but because speech has reached its limit. When neither the crushed nor the powerful can hear, a different kind of intervention becomes necessary.

Section V — The First Seven Makkot: Changing the System to Allow Growth

When Moshe’s words fail — with Bnei Yisrael because of kotzer ruach, and with Pharaoh because of hardened power — the Torah does not abandon the project of redemption. Instead, it changes its method.

Va’eira introduces the first seven makkot. Not as sudden catastrophe, and not yet as total collapse — but as sustained disruption. Blood, frogs, lice, wild animals, pestilence, boils, and hail do not free the people overnight. What they do instead is destabilize the environment that has made freedom impossible to imagine.

The Ramban explains that the makkot are not random acts of force. They systematically dismantle Egypt’s worldview — its illusion of mastery, predictability, and permanence. Nature no longer behaves as expected. Health and economy become unreliable. Hierarchy no longer guarantees control. The world Pharaoh governs stops functioning as a closed, predictable system.

Until this point, Egypt has been defined by sameness. Suffering is constant. Power is absolute. Nothing changes. In such a world, kotzer ruach is inevitable — for slaves and rulers alike. When reality is rigid and unyielding, the soul contracts in order to survive.

The makkot begin to loosen that rigidity. They do not yet create safety, but they introduce instability. And that distinction matters. A system built on fear depends on predictability. Even unbearable conditions become normalized when tomorrow will look exactly like today. Disruption breaks that spell.

The Sefat Emet teaches that real change does not begin with persuasion, but with interruption. Numbness — whether born of trauma or dominance — thrives on sameness. When the world stops behaving as expected, cracks begin to form. Awareness can re-enter. Possibility can slowly return.

This is why the Torah does not move immediately to liberation. The first work is environmental. Hashem reshapes reality so that breath might someday return. So that fear is no longer the only organizing principle. So that hearing, imagination, and meaning can gradually come back online.

The makkot are not yet redemption. But they are preparation. They weaken the structures that produce kotzer ruach. They make space where none existed before.

Section VI — Why Va’eira Stops at Seven Makkot

The Torah’s choice to include seven makkot in Va’eira and leave the final three for the next parsha is deliberate. These are not interchangeable acts of punishment. They represent different stages in the process of change.

The first seven makkot loosen a closed system; the final three dismantle it.

The first seven makkot do not destroy Egypt. They destabilize it. They break certainty without yet forcing surrender. They loosen the system without collapsing it entirely. This is essential, because a system organized around fear does not transform under sudden annihilation. It tightens, resists, and escalates.

Va’eira is about making change possible. The first seven makkot undermine the illusion that the world is fixed, that power is permanent, and that suffering is inevitable. They introduce unpredictability into a reality that had crushed both slave and ruler into rigidity.

Only once that grip has weakened can the final stage occur. The last three makkot — which appear in the next parsha — do not merely destabilize the system. They end it. They remove the future itself. But collapse without preparation does not lead to freedom; it leads to chaos.

The Torah separates these stages because liberation requires more than force. It requires readiness. Va’eira does not yet bring redemption, but it prepares the ground for it. It teaches that when people cannot yet hear, and when systems cannot yet yield, the first task is not persuasion or explanation. It is changing the conditions that made growth impossible.

Hashem does not wait for people to be ready before speaking truth. But He also does not demand that they hear what they cannot yet hold. So He begins by reshaping the world itself — patiently, deliberately — until hearing becomes possible again.

Parenting Reflection — When Love Is Real but Still Unreceived

Parents often find themselves in a painful place where they are doing the right things and still not reaching their child. They offer reassurance. They express belief. They speak about hope, direction, and commitment. And yet, nothing seems to register. The child remains distant, shut down, or reactive.

Parshat Va’eira helps us understand why this happens without blaming either the parent or the child. When the Torah says that Bnei Yisrael did not listen to Moshe because of kotzer ruach, it is not describing rejection or lack of faith. It is describing an internal state. The message Moshe brought was real and meaningful, but the people were not in a place where they could take it in.

The same dynamic appears in parenting. When a child is overwhelmed by stress, fear, anxiety, or prolonged emotional strain, their capacity to receive words is limited. Even loving, thoughtful, well-timed messages may not land. This does not mean the words are wrong, and it does not mean the relationship is broken. It means the child’s inner world is still constricted.

In those moments, the work is often not to explain better or say more. It is to change the conditions around the child so that their system can begin to settle. Before a child can engage with meaning, guidance, or vision, their nervous system needs support. They need consistency, emotional safety, and reliable presence over time. Without that, even the right words can feel overwhelming or inaccessible.

Parshat Va’eira models this clearly. Hashem speaks all five promises, including future and significance, but He does not demand that the people respond to them immediately. Instead, He begins changing the environment around them. The makkot do not persuade or convince; they disrupt what has made fear and rigidity inevitable. Only once reality itself becomes less predictable and less threatening can hearing slowly return.

For parents, this means prioritizing the foundations. Before significance, a child must feel seen. Before direction, they must feel safe. Before growth, they must feel soothed and secure. These are not steps we rush through; they are conditions that must be established.

Sometimes the most supportive thing a parent can do is stop trying to convince a child of the future and focus instead on helping them feel stable in the present. This shift also relieves parents from the exhausting belief that they must find the perfect words. When breath returns, words can follow.

Closing — Hashem Speaks, and He Also Acts

Parshat Va’eira does not end with resolution. The suffering is not yet over, Pharaoh has not yet yielded, and Bnei Yisrael are still unable to hear what is being promised to them. But the parsha does end with movement.

Hashem speaks redemption even when it cannot yet be received. And when words alone are not enough, He begins to act. The makkot do not immediately free Bnei Yisrael, but they begin to change the conditions that made freedom impossible to imagine. They weaken systems built on fear and control and disrupt what had come to feel fixed and permanent.

This reveals something essential about how change actually happens. Meaning does not take root in an environment that remains threatening. Hope cannot be integrated while fear continues to dominate. Before understanding can grow, conditions must shift. Safety must increase. Space must open.

Va’eira teaches that Hashem does not wait for perfect readiness before speaking truth — but He also does not demand that people hear what they cannot yet hold. Instead, He reshapes reality itself, patiently and deliberately, preparing the ground for redemption before bringing it fully into being.

Healing does not begin when meaning is understood. It begins when the conditions exist to hear it.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar