Stubborn. Wooden-headed. Inflexible. Intransigent. These are the words that come to mind when reflecting on the folly of the Pharaohs of Egypt.
The warning signs were already present. At first, Pharaoh claimed ignorance. He had never heard of Hashem and dismissed the demand to release millions of slaves. From his perspective, it was absurd. Why surrender the backbone of Egypt’s economy for the sake of an unseen Master of the world and a powerless people?
But denial could not endure. Hashem began to act, and Egypt was struck again and again. Plague followed plague, weakening the land, shattering the economy, and draining the country of its strength. Once confident and stable, Egypt became barely functional. Ordinary Egyptians understood what was unfolding. They could see where this was headed. Hold on any longer, and there would be nothing left – no economy, no stability, no value even in the slaves Pharaoh was so desperate to keep.
Still, Pharaoh would not relent. He refused to listen – not to Hashem, not to Moshe, not to his own people, who pleaded with him to stop before everything was lost. He was convinced that he knew better. He held out until the very end, even as the cost became unbearable.
His certainty was absolute. And it destroyed him.
Deaf in Egypt
Pharaoh could not listen because he was trapped behind a powerful barrier: the combination of long-standing success and absolute authority. Egypt had flourished for centuries. Yosef’s foresight and careful planning had transformed it into a regional superpower, capable of withstanding drought and famine and sustaining the surrounding world. Ironically, it was by listening to Yosef’s counsel that Egypt first rose to greatness. The tragedy is that success eventually erased the very habit of listening that had made that success possible.
Success breeds arrogance, and unchecked success breeds excess confidence. Egypt could do no wrong. Its leaders were regarded as infallible – chosen by false gods, endowed with superior wisdom, and elevated beyond ordinary judgment.
That success was paired with absolute power. No one dared challenge Pharaoh. The royal cupbearer was elevated from prison, while the royal baker was executed—caprice masquerading as justice. Infants, even Egyptian infants, were cast into the Nile to ensure that no Jewish redeemer could arise. The population recoiled, but who would dare object? Any dissent was silenced through fear, often through execution.
This is the danger of absolute power fused with unchallenged success. It cuts leaders off from honest input and meaningful counsel. Rulers grow accustomed to always being right. Their victories convince them of their own infallibility. They stop listening, and in doing so, they doom their country, their society, and their people to ruin.
Kings and Prophets
The Torah built in safeguards – at least in the ideal – to prevent Jewish monarchs from closing their ears. The navi serves as a moral conscience to the king, confronting him when authority drifts into moral failure. Natan HaNavi fulfilled this role with David HaMelech. Yeshayahu did the same with Chizkiyahu toward the end of the First Temple period.
A king who wields supreme authority must keep his ears open and allow space for humility and self-doubt. Differing voices cannot be silenced or smothered through intimidation. These safeguards only function when leaders remain willing to hear rebuke and challenge.
Unfortunately, the son of Shlomo HaMelech fell into precisely this trap. He inherited too much success and too much confidence. After his widely admired father passed away, he assumed the loyalty of an entire nation and believed he could press it further still. He increased an already heavy tax burden and refused to listen to counsel. He could not imagine that the people might reach a breaking point, that they would choose secession over submission.
They did. His stubbornness tore the nation in two, and we have never been whole since.
The Road to Ruin
History is filled with rulers who wielded supreme authority, tasted success, and silenced dissent. In every case, that combination proved fatal. Cut off from criticism and correction, they led their societies toward destruction.
In the first century, Nero became infamous for his tyranny. He crushed opposition, intimidated advisers, and drifted steadily away from reality. His rule plunged Rome into chaos and hastened its decline.
The modern era offers even darker examples. Figures such as Hitler and Stalin assumed their judgment was flawless and eradicated all opposing voices. Expressing disagreement under their regimes was often a death sentence. Each enjoyed early success, but their warped logic and refusal to listen led to catastrophic decisions that ultimately sabotaged their nations.
This pattern did not vanish with ancient empires or twentieth-century dictatorships. We are witnessing a contemporary version unfold in Iran. For decades, ruthless rulers have governed through fear. Protesters are murdered in cold blood, and public disagreement is crushed. The result has been disastrous decision-making, transforming what should be one of the world’s wealthiest nations into an economic cripple. The current leader appears increasingly isolated and paranoid, unable – or unwilling – to see the writing on the wall as his regime slowly crumbles.
The danger of not listening is not limited to kings, tyrants, or political leaders intoxicated by success. It confronts all of us.
Who Are We Listening To?
This past Shabbat, I sat with several talmidim who asked about the idea of Da’at Torah, whether great Torah scholars should be consulted on matters beyond halacha. Should their guidance extend to political judgment, or even to financial or medical decisions?
I shared something extraordinary that I once heard from my rebbe, HaRav Aharon Lichtenstein. He acknowledged that he believed in the concept of Da’at Torah in principle. A deep and comprehensive mastery of Torah can generate chochmah that extends beyond strictly halachic questions. At the same time, Rav Lichtenstein maintained that he did not believe anyone alive today, despite immense Torah knowledge, possesses that all-encompassing level of insight. He affirmed the ideal, but felt that we are too far removed from such towering Torah stature to imagine it being exercised properly.
It is therefore fair to ask whether granting any individual – no matter how learned or spiritually impressive – unquestioned authority in areas far removed from their expertise risks narrowing perspective and drifting away from lived reality.
I then turned the question inward. I rhetorically asked the talmidim whether a community that does not generally submit to Da’at Torah in an absolute sense nevertheless listens enough to rabbanim and other moral voices. Are we too confident in our own opinions? Too certain of our moral reasoning, until we appoint ourselves moral arbiters?
Ideally, our identities should be anchored in enduring values and character traits, shaped by yirat Shamayim and lived religious commitment. Political views and ideologies should remain just that: views, not identities.
Have politics and ideology become so tightly bound to who we are that we can no longer question them? When a position hardens into identity, challenging it feels like an assault on the self. Convictions should remain positions we hold, not definitions of who we are – ideas we can examine, refine, and even revise without feeling undone.
History teaches that societies unravel not only through wickedness, but through certainty without humility. Pharaohs, emperors, and modern rulers fall when power dulls their ability to listen. Jewish history carries the same warning. Avodat Hashem demands conviction, but it also demands openness – to rebuke, to doubt, and to voices beyond ourselves. When listening disappears, even the strongest societies begin to fracture. The lesson of history is not only about who held authority, but about who remained capable of listening when challenged.