This week’s Torah portion, Bo, concludes the dramatic description of the Ten Plagues brought upon the Egyptians as the precursor to the deliverance of the Israelites from slavery. The final three plagues — locusts, darkness, and the terrifying annihilation of the Egyptian firstborn — lead to the decree of expulsion for the Israelites by the defeated Pharaoh. The promised deliverance finally occurs.

The events of the Exodus, including the giving of the Torah at Sinai and the eventual arrival and settlement of the Israelites in the Land of Israel, is the root experience of the Jewish people. It is the act by which the covenantal promises to the patriarchs are realized.

For generations, perhaps even from the period of the Exodus itself, the Jewish tradition has both celebrated and struggled with the implications of this extraordinary act of redemption. On the one hand, we rejoice at the release of our ancestors from the cruel bondage of their oppression, knowing full well that had they not been freed, we too might be enslaved.

Yet we know the price that was paid for this freedom: the destruction of much of Egyptian society, the devastation wrought by the plagues, and the death of innocent Egyptian civilians, including the children caught in the final plague.

Annually, when we recollect the plagues at the Pesach seder, we delete by 10 drops the wine in our cups, out of respect, if not necessarily affection, for the innocents whose death was the price of our freedom.

The story is complex, although regrettably understandable, from a purely human perspective: This was not the first time in history — nor did it prove to be the last — when innocent people paid a price for the decisions of the powerful who control the machinery of politics and war.

What makes the story both puzzling and troubling, however, is the Torah’s theological suggestion that Pharaoh’s ability to exercise choice was gradually eroded by divine decree. This is seen in the observation by ancient as well as contemporary scholars that during the first five plagues, the Hebrew text indicates only that “Pharaoh’s heart was hardened,” while during the final five plagues, “God hardened Pharaoh’s heart.”

A classical midrash states the problem this way: “[The Torah states that] ‘God hardened the heart of Pharaoh.’ Rabbi Yohanan said: This verse gives an opening to heretics who will say, ‘It was not possible for him to repent.’ But in reply, Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish quoted Proverbs 3:24: ‘Surely God scorns those who are scornful,’ and interpreted it to mean that God offers the opportunity to repent once, twice, even up to three times. Yet if one still refuses to repent, God shuts the heart so that repentance is no longer an option — in this way they are punished for their sins. So after God gave Pharaoh five warnings, He said: ‘You remain obstinate and unrepentant; therefore I will multiply your degree of sin.’”

We can see in this ancient argument all the essential elements of the religious-ethical ambiguity inherent in the story of the Exodus. Of Pharaoh’s cruelty we need no convincing; by his defeat we need not be dismayed. There have been, and continue to be, people of power whose inclination to evil renders them undeserving of forgiveness or compassion.

What is troubling, however, is the implication that if Pharaoh had decided to release the Israelites — even if only to alleviate the suffering inflicted on his own people — God had removed his ability to do so.

The Jewish view of human behavior as susceptible to correction is the basis of our belief in teshuva — the acceptance of responsibility for one’s actions coupled with the ability to repent and reorient one’s life in accord with higher moral standards. If God, as it were, “hardens the heart,” then as Rabbi Yohanan correctly assumed, people can no longer be held responsible for their actions.

But no matter how one twists the text, we cannot avoid the uncomfortable conclusion that for some actions there can be no repentance; from some patterns of behavior there can be no escape.

Perhaps the ancient writers who chose to speak of God’s hardening the heart of Pharaoh were trying to communicate, in their own way and in a language suitable to their setting, an observation that we moderns have also made with regard to certain people: that certain behaviors, perhaps especially those that are self-destructive, seem unsusceptible to treatment, whether religious or psychological.

Like characters in a Greek drama, some people seem intent on fulfilling a destiny that they have created for themselves or that they believe has been created for them. Pharaoh’s reluctance to heed the message of Moses, his emphatic insistence on resistance even as his people and his court associates become convinced of the futility of their efforts to resist the power of God, all bespeak a personality driven to destruction and incapable of comprehending the consequences of his actions on others.

Far too often, no matter how obvious the outcome, the directions leading to destruction will be followed unceasingly more often than we care to admit. It is equally easy to become numb to the symptoms and symbols of social decay and human need that daily populate the streets of our cities.

A contemporary Jewish poet has asked “How many times can a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?” The answer of tradition, according to Rabbi Shimon, is three times; after that, he no longer can “pretend that he just doesn’t see” — he in fact no longer can see, for his heart has been hardened.

God indeed “hardened Pharaoh’s heart,” as God hardens all hearts that, having been taught to know better, remain blind to injustice, deaf to pain, and speechless in the presence of suffering.