In Parshat Bo, we reach the dramatic climax of the Exodus story, as God brings the final plagues upon Egypt and commands the Israelites to prepare for their liberation. Among the mitzvot introduced in this parshah is the commandment to eat matzah during the festival of Passover: “And they shall eat the meat that night, roasted over the fire, with unleavened bread and bitter herbs” (Exodus 12:8). This simple food, matzah, carries profound significance, embodying themes of haste, freedom, and faith that define the Exodus experience.

When we recite the blessing “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al achilat matzah” during the Passover Seder, we affirm not only our participation in this ancient mitzvah but also our connection to its deeper spiritual lessons.

Matzah is known as the “bread of affliction” (Deuteronomy 16:3), a reminder of the suffering endured by the Israelites in Egypt. Simultaneously, it’s the “bread of freedom,” eaten in haste as they departed slavery. This dual identity reflects the tension of transformation: leaving behind the familiar, even if it is painful, for the uncertainty of redemption requires courage and faith.

The haste with which the Israelites prepared their matzah mirrors the urgency of faith. They had no time to let the dough rise, yet they trusted that God’s promise of redemption would sustain them. This trust in God urges us to act with conviction even when the path ahead feels unclear.

It’s matzah’s simplicity that we contrast with rich leavened breads we might associate with luxury. By eating matzah, we strip away excess and remember that liberation is not about material abundance but about spiritual purpose. The blessing over matzah reminds us to sanctify moments of simplicity and embrace the things that truly matter. Through this simple Passover blessing, we connect not only with our Israelite ancestors, but with the generations of contemporary Jews who came before us who’ve said the same words, affirming that their story is our story—a story of courage, trust, and redemption.

As we read Parshat Bo, think about the “matzah” in your life. What are the moments that require us to act with both haste and faith? How can we find meaning in simplicity, even on the complicated journey toward freedom? 

Some sections of the Torah are more challenging to interpret than others. For many people, these tend to be the parts with a lot of death and destruction. In this week’s portion in particular, we have the final plagues, including the angel of death taking the firstborn. However, it’s not the violence I struggle with, but the way these moments bring up the question of free will. Specifically, does God intend for human beings to have it, and more importantly, to act on it? 

This week we read Parshat Bo, which details the Exodus from Egypt. The Israelites are a traveling people, and in Parshat Bo the Israelites are steps away from leaving Egypt. Pharaoh refuses several more times to allow the Israelites to leave, and each of the three refusals brings with it one of the three final plagues. The narrative continues with the procedures for leaving Egypt, including putting lamb’s blood on the doorpost, packing up, and then in future generations, recreating these events by celebrating what we now call Passover.

For me, the puzzling question in this text concerns the scope of the final plague: even the firstborn of the Egyptian slaves would be killed. By definition, a slave has no say one way or the other in the freedom of the Israelites. If these are the indentured servants to Pharoah, why would God also punish them? 

We read quite a bit about God manipulating situations. As we see over and over again, God interferes plenty, but rarely when it comes to free will. God offers opportunities for human beings to do the right thing when they can. Did the non-Hebrew slaves choose to become slaves? Not likely. However, when they saw the outcry of the Israelites, they could have chosen to join forces with the Israelites and others who were oppressed to fight for a better future.

This week our nation honored the contributions of civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. In the letter he wrote from the Birmingham city jail in 1963, Dr. King said: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” Free will plays a role all throughout the Torah, but it’s especially evident when individuals rise up against injustice. Today too there are bystanders and upstanders, and the upstanders are the ones who know we’re in this together.

If there was one lesson that stuck with me the most through the pandemic, it might be not to think any plans are permanent. For two years it felt like every single time we made plans, they would get changed, canceled, or would come with five contingencies attached to them because everything else kept changing. At a certain point, I labeled everything on my calendar as “tentative” because we really didn’t know what would transpire. On the one hand, having to pivot has made me much more flexible, albeit a little dizzy. On the other hand, the last-minute nature of just about every plan can get old after a while. 

Needless to say, Covid didn’t invent the pivot, but it certainly heightened it. Even pre-pandemic, life gave us plenty of instances that required some resetting of expectations. It’s human nature to doubt and then have to scramble, and we see one example of this in our Torah portion this week. 

This week we read from Parshat Bo, detailing the Exodus from Egypt. The Israelites are a traveling people, and in Parshat Bo the Israelites are steps away from leaving Egypt. Pharaoh refuses again to allow the Israelites to leave, and each of the three refusals brings with it one of the three final plagues. The narrative continues with the procedures for leaving Egypt, including putting the lamb’s blood on the doorpost and packing up, events which are symbolized in Passover celebrations still today. 

In chapter 12, verse 39 we read about the rushed nature of the Israelites’ departure. We read that when the Egyptians finally let them go, it was a mad dash to get out. In fact, the Torah’s description of “nor had they prepared any provisions for themselves” is why we eat matzah on Passover. But here’s the question: Why didn’t the Israelites prepare? Had they not witnessed the plagues? Did they not believe that God would free them? Were they doubtful of Pharaoh? Was it an ingrained slave mentality to plan day-to-day instead of looking ahead? Or was it the numerous false starts that led them to simply sit and wait? 

Before the pandemic, it felt odd that the Israelites hadn’t prepared, and year after year I would lament the fact that they didn’t at least make some bread in advance so we could celebrate liberation with something other than matzah. Then, however, came Passover in 2020, when so many of us were not only unprepared, but couldn’t even get to the store. It was almost like the Exodus we read about this week. The lesson, of course, is that faith is not necessarily about preparation, but about how we react. It’s those pivots and adjustments that help us continue to move forward, despite what may lie ahead.

Every year as Passover rolls around I get out all of my recipes. Each one comes from someone in my family and must be made the exact same way as the person who taught me, and in the exact same order. First comes the charoset the night before. Then chicken soup goes on the stove, followed by chocolate chip cookies and mandel bread. While that’s going, I prepare the gefilte fish, veggie kugel, and main course. Just like my mama taught me. 

In particular, the soup has a very specific process to it, following the recipe of my Tanta, all the way down to the order in which I add the vegetables. And because the order matters to me, it must also matter to whomever is helping me make the soup that day. Of course it’s more about tradition than anything else. As much as the food should taste good, I worry that if someone doesn’t really understand the depth of the history of the food and the memories associated with this recipe, then everything will be ruined.

Is it just me, or does anyone else freak out about someone putting the parsnips in before the potatoes? Look no further than the Passover story itself to understand just how far back the notion of nuanced food prep goes. 

This week, Parshat Bo details the Exodus from Egypt. The Israelites are a traveling people, and in Parshat Bo the Israelites are steps away from leaving Egypt. Pharaoh again refuses to allow the Israelites to leave, and each of the three refusals brings with it one of the three final plagues. The narrative continues with the procedures for leaving Egypt, including putting the lamb’s blood on the doorpost, packing up, and recreating these events by celebrating Passover in future generations. 

As we read about their journey out of Egypt, the final meal of the Israelites takes center stage. The meal is delicious lamb, but not just any rack of lamb. This is lamb that serves a purpose, tells a story, and teaches a lesson. It is ritualistic eating, and as such, must be understood on a different level than flavor profiles and cooking techniques. 

In chapter 12, verse 43, we learn that “no foreigner shall eat of it.” What was this ruling against inviting others to partake of the Passover meal? The commentary teaches that unless someone outside of Judaism can identify with the community’s historical experiences, they should not partake in the obligations and restrictions imposed upon the group. Meaning, this lamb is not just a meal shared between people; it is a teachable story that can only be understood by those with an open mind and heart.

Sometimes lamb is just lamb, and sometimes soup is just soup. Other times, so much more. Reading Parshat Bo offers a yearly reminder that food is one way to understand a culture, and sitting and eating together can be just as filling spiritually as it is satiating.

One of the moments I try to be so careful of as a rabbi is getting in the middle of a debate between two partners, or between parents and their children. When families used to stop by my office on their way out, I always made sure the parents gave permission before I offered snacks to students. Or when someone comes to me seeking validation in an argument, I also try to understand the bigger picture so I don’t end up in an uncomfortable position. There’s an often used phrase, “between a rock and a hard place,” describing a choice no one really wants to make or one that has negative consequences no matter how you look at it. Think about all the decisions you’ve had to make when you knew either option had potentially challenging outcomes.

This week we read from Parshat Bo. Parshat Bo details the Exodus from Egypt. In this week’s Torah portion the Israelites are steps away from freedom, but Pharaoh refuses again to allow the Israelites to leave, and each of the three refusals brings with it one of the three final plagues. The narrative continues with the procedures for leaving Egypt, including putting the lamb’s blood on the doorpost, packing up, and recreating these events by celebrating Passover in future generations. 

As you might recall from the text, the tenth and last plague is the most severe. Chapter 11, verse 5 teaches that in the plague of the killing of the firstborn, it was the firstborn of all Egyptians, from the firstborn of Pharaoh to the firstborn of the poor Egyptians working the millstones to even the firstborn of the cattle. This plague makes no distinction between ruling class and slave class, or even animals.

So why such a broad approach? One commentary reminds us that there were Egyptian slaves too, and the Israelites were slaves alongside the Egyptian slaves. Moses stood up for those who he saw being hurt or displaced, but we have no record of an Egyptian slave (other than the midwives) making any sort of prolonged protest against the treatment of the Israelites. This, perhaps, is why the plague does not distinguish them from anyone else in the community. No Egyptian, leader or slave, took action to stand up for the oppressed. Thus, their punishment was the same as those who were doing the oppressing. 

What made Moses different? Given the choice between difficult things, Moses chose the more difficult one. We’ve all been given choices that leave us trying to decide between the best of the worst options. However, the Torah this week reminds us that our job is to think beyond ourselves, and sometimes the “hard place” for us is the place of freedom for generations to come.