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.

I have a love-hate relationship with Passover. This isn’t because of the cooking, cleaning, separate dishes, or any other preparation. But because Passover only comes once a year, past holidays stick out in my memory. My mind has this way of reliving the painful memories along with the joyous ones.

I have vivid memories of Passover, starting from when I was five and received a plastic toy camcorder, and I recorded Elijah coming into the house for his wine. Seders were a time of celebration and family coming together. We’d host as many as 35 of my relatives for a seder, and my father would spend months (literally) preparing a new game and working to make the seder fun. We’d laugh, sing out of key, and have the best time telling the story of our history.

As the years went by, my grandparents passed away, and the seder, while still fun, marked the years and the losses in our family. By far the most painful seder was the one the year after my father died. The seder was his gift to our family each year. No matter how ill he was in past years, somehow he managed to pull it together to create an experience that everyone looked forward to (perhaps even my mom, who still did the cooking and cleaning and preparation).  

But the year after he died, the seder was excruciating. A part of me wanted to cut myself off from the entire holiday. It’s hard to find personal space when the whole family is together, and I needed space from an experience I know would be raw, painful, and generally emotional. It turns out there’s a biblical precedent for this feeling, and it comes in this week’s Torah portion, Bo. 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. 

Among the laws of Passover, chapter 12, verse 15 teaches, “For whoever eats leavened bread from the first day to the seventh day, that person shall be cut off from Israel.” This may sound like a harsh sentence for simply eating bread; however, Passover is the fundamental story of Jewish identity. Its celebration and the purpose behind it are what it means to be Jewish. To not celebrate is to cut yourself off from the narrative of our people, to disregard the experience of moving from slavery to freedom. 

Of course it’s important to note that everyone celebrates Passover in their own way. And, as was the case for me, personal emotions and situations may make the experience painful and make you want to step back from your community. What I’ve come to learn, especially now that I have children of my own, is that the celebration is so much bigger than me. Despite the challenges we may face, I’m part of a larger, longer narrative, and the celebration of that is what I want to pass on to the next generation.

I usually avoid straying into overtly political territory in my weekly writings. I tend to stick to moral issues that might allude to the current political scene, but rarely do I actively condemn or condone. However, the story of the government shutdown/standoff over the proposed border wall has been in front of us every day since the end of the year, and it’s increasingly difficult to ignore.

I keep coming back to the news of the migrant caravan that started working its way north several months ago from war-torn, gang-ridden, violent countries. When news broke that our borders were shut down, and the pictures of mothers and diapered children running from tear gas flooded the internet, my heart stopped. My entire family came to America as immigrants. They moved from Europe in the early 1920s to find safety and a better future. We are the “lucky” ones who were safely in America before World War II. Others did not have the same good fortune and were turned away, only to return to their peril and sometimes death in their countries of origin. Why do we vow “never again,” yet when we’re faced with the opportunity to save lives and create a safe haven, especially when there are thorough vetting processes in place, we say no?

Realistically, as citizens there’s only so much we can do. We can write our representatives to express approval or disapproval, and we can donate to aid organizations. But then what? The feeling of helplessness is paralyzing. The shadow of depression hovers low over the things we feel powerless to change. I have so many emotions, knowing that my family was able to seek freedom and security here, while countless others won’t have that opportunity.

This feeling of darkness is not mine alone to bear. We read in the Torah this week from Parshat Bo, which speaks of a similar feeling among the Egyptian people during the time of the plagues. 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, and the instruction to recreate these events by celebrating Passover in future generations.

During the plagues, there was nothing the average Egyptian could have done to end the misery. That’s the case for all of the plagues except one: darkness. Why is it, our Torah scholars ask, that during the plague of darkness, no one thought to light a candle? Wouldn’t that have ended the darkness? The commentary answers this question by imagining an entire group of people in a deep depression, a psychological or spiritual darkness. People suffering from depression often lack the physical energy to move or the emotional energy to get out of their own heads. This is exactly how the Egyptians are described. We can only guess what the emotional state of the Egyptians might have been, but the Torah is clear in its message. When we are enveloped in the plague of darkness, we lose reason, we lose compassion, we lose ourselves.

The stalemate that resulted in the current government shutdown feels like a plague of darkness. From the federal employees whose payroll has been affected, to the complicated issue of border security versus humanitarian aid, the lack of movement is paralyzing.

I certainly don’t claim to have all the political answers for how to solve the immigration crisis, but I know that darkness is not it. I know that an immobile, uncompromising Congress is not it. I know that verbally and physically attacking people who are simply looking for a better life for their children is not it. I don’t have the solution, but I remain hopeful that at some point soon we will remember we still have the power to end the darkness by turning on a light.