​In a number of ways, these few weeks when we tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt are the time when we feel most connected to the story of the Israelites. The story of Pesaḥ is, more than many other parts of the Torah, our story. It is perhaps the most salient piece of Jewish collective memory and identity - we recall it daily in our tefillot, multiple times. We devote an entire holiday to reenacting it and putting ourselves in the shoes of the Israelites in this moment. The continuing relevance of this part of who we are doesn’t exist only in how we place ourselves into the story and see ourselves as having left Egypt. It also lies in how we see the story in our own lives today, how we look at the world now through its lens.
 
Parashat Bo begins right on the heels of last week’s reading, the end of which tells us that Pharaoh had hardened his own heart. While this week’s reading returns to the phrasing of God hardening Pharaoh’s heart, it seems clear that there has been a shift, that Pharaoh is a partner in the process.
 
And Pharaoh’s self-imposed stubbornness has devastating consequences, in the form of the final three plagues, the most severe of them all: locusts, darkness, and the killing of the firstborn. The Torah tells us of the horror of each of these plagues. The locusts darken the land and decimate it, eating all of the remaining crops, leaving it bereft of food. Darkness descends upon the Egyptians, terrifying the people and keeping them from being able to see one another. The killing of the first born touches every household in Egypt and has the survivors fearing for their lives. 
 
The plagues, described literally in the parashah, also hold symbolic meaning. Locusts: the devastation of the natural world, compromising one’s ability to provide for self and family. Darkness: the metaphor here is obvious - the loss of community, of the ability to see and find common ground with one another. The killing of the firstborn: the loss of one’s future, the destruction of legacy. 
 
Each of these plagues, read metaphorically, feels ominously present in our world today. Our natural environment is in grave danger. We have stopped really seeing each other, and approach those who differ from us with suspicion and defensiveness. The risk to both the material and social fabric of our communities threatens our very future. 
 
The message here is clear:  we cannot harden our hearts in this chaotic and contentious time. Instead of letting these plagues take hold, we need to see them as motivation to do things differently. This starts with paying attention - to what’s happening in our world and to each other. We can take our heads out of the sand and take steps to alleviate the risks to our environment. We can push away the darkness expanding between us and approach each other with curiosity and empathy, remembering that we are part of one community, one nation, one world. We can reclaim our future. 
 
The opposite of a hardened heart is an open one. Let us open our hearts and really hear how and where the world is crying out to us. Let us listen to and love each other. Let us work toward a future of greater justice, greater unity, greater understanding. 
Shabbat shalom.

I’ve been vacillating about how much I want to pay attention to the news these days. With the inauguration following on the heels of the emotionally charged release of three hostages, my capacity for taking in the overwhelming coverage of every single moment surrounding the installation of the new president has been limited. And yet, I know that I cannot and must not look away. Over these past few days, I’ve been taking it in snippets - 10 minutes on the New York Times website here, a glance at a television report there. So it came to be that I caught a clip of Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde’s sermon during the national prayer service on Tuesday. 

I’ve heard Bishop Mariann speak before - she delivered the sermon at my friend Father Aaron Dunn’s ordination service this past summer - and I’ve written and spoken with us about what I learned from her words. I have found her to be erudite and accessible, with an approach that is both rooted in tradition and speaks from a place of love and compassion. I was not, therefore, surprised by the depth of the words I heard in that small excerpt. 


What did blow me away, though, was the way she earnestly and deliberately spoke truth to power. Later on, I went and found the video of her whole sermon (you can watch it here if you haven’t seen it yet - and I recommend that you do). Hearing her words in their entirety only reinforced my sense of awe and gratitude. 


We look to our religious leaders to be a voice of moral clarity, to help guide us through challenging times. Bishop Mariann did exactly this, speaking passionately about the importance of fostering unity. She explained that unity is not uniformity or conformity, that the truest form of unity exists across diversity. For such unity to take root, it must be based on three principles: recognizing human dignity; commitment to honesty; and humility. 


While the words of her sermon are broadly applicable and relevant to any moment of leadership transition, they also had a clear subtext, a message to the incoming leaders about the task that lies ahead for them as they work to govern a deeply divided country. Bishop Mariann also spoke directly to the president, beseeching him to show mercy to the people in our country, specifically the LGBTQ+ community and immigrants and asylum seekers, who are feeling frightened about the promised policy changes of the new administration. 

Her words were heartfelt and straightforward, and they have had an impact. Her bravery in speaking so boldly to the newly elected leaders, in speaking truth to power, revealed her own power. Hers is the power to influence hearts and minds, to teach people to lead and live with compassion. 

Having listened to her sermon, I can’t help but wonder how she prepared herself, emotionally and spiritually, for that moment. While I’m not sure that our parashah this week, Parashat VaEra, can answer that question, it does give us a window into Moshe’s emergence as a leader who also found the fortitude to speak boldly to one in power.

From the moment we “meet” Moshe as an adult in the book of Exodus, he is uncomfortable with his role as a leader of the people. He worries that he won’t be heeded, that he’s not the right one for the job, that his speech difficulties will prevent him from succeeding. God’s plan for Moshe, however, is unwavering, and God continues to encourage him to lead, offering him both divine and human support, as well as new skills in working wonders. 

But Moshe still struggles with his confidence. Throughout most of the parashah, he continues to express doubt about his effectiveness. Moreover, we don’t hear his voice at all in the initial contacts with Pharaoh and the onsets of the first two plagues. We read of God’s script for him, the instructions for what he should say to Pharaoh, and then the text simply reports that Moshe and Aharon did as God commanded. This happens several times - until the horror of the second plague drives Pharaoh to come to Moshe and beg for it to stop. 

In this moment, we see a different Moshe. He responds to Pharaoh’s plea: “You may have this triumph over me: for what time shall I plead on behalf of you and your courtiers and your people, that the frogs be cut off from you and your houses, to remain only in the Nile?” (Exodus 8:5) These are the first words to Pharaoh that we hear in Moshe’s voice. He starts calmly, in an almost conciliatory tone.

After he and Pharaoh agree that the plague would come to an end the next day, Moshe concludes their interaction, his words leaving no question as to his (or God’s) power: “As you say—that you may know that there is none like Adonai our God.” (Exodus 8:6) This is not the Moshe of previous chapters. He is confident and bold in approaching Pharaoh, clearly and courageously making his point. 

After Moshe prays for the plague to end, it does end, and the text gives us something remarkable. Earlier, when God had given Moshe instructions for what to say and do, the Torah simply tells us, as I mentioned before, that Moshe and Aharon did as God commanded. Here, after Moshe steps fully into his role representing God’s opposition to Pharaoh, we read: “And Adonai did as Moses asked.” (Exodus 8:9) The power of his words not only cowed Pharaoh, but also spurred God into action. 

May Bishop Mariann’s words be accepted and enacted in the same way.

Shabbat shalom. 

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Yesterday, I had the honor of attending a Baltimore Board of Rabbis meeting where our special guests were Senator Ben and Myrna Cardin. We hosted them, as Senator Cardin begins his retirement, to take the opportunity to offer our gratitude for his decades of public service and to both appreciate and learn from the ways his calling to serve is motivated by his deeply held Jewish values.

In his remarks to us, Senator Cardin reflected on the experiences that had been most powerful, most meaningful in his long career. Over and over again, he spoke about the importance of engaging deeply in conversation with people who have different perspectives than we do. He attributed much of his success as a lawmaker to his willingness to reach across the aisle - something he did with great frequency and skill. And he offered us a charge, reminding us that our divided and highly-charged political climate permeates all corners of American life, and that the only way to combat the mistrust that has taken hold is to be willing to talk and listen to one another.

In essence, he told us that we need to have the hard conversations.

Senator Cardin spoke about how he sees his role that he’s now out of the Senate - he’s on a crusade, he said, to get young people to learn history. Studying history gives people a window into the lives of others. It provides students with a sense that their own experience of the world is not the only experience. It enables us to see outside ourselves and to approach others with curiosity and openness. 

When you know that your way is not the only way, you can hear what others have to say without being defensive. You can build relationships and coalitions. These relationships between people and communities of diverse backgrounds, said Senator Cardin, are the path toward creating an alternate narrative of what it means to be American right now. 

His message could not have been more timely or more needed, given where we are as a nation and what we see just ahead on the horizon. 

It also resonates deeply with our work as a community to practice engaging in conversations across our differences. We spoke extensively about this over the High Holidays this past fall, made it a key feature of our community meeting in November, and have begun to engage in addressing the issues that have historically driven a wedge between us. Even though we’re really just getting started with this work, I was heartened to hear from Senator Cardin that he sees having difficult conversations as essential to the ongoing health, not only of our individual communities, but also of our nation. 

Having these kinds of conversations is hard work and will likely make us all at least a little bit uncomfortable in the process of drawing us more closely together. Hearing Senator Cardin’s reflections at this mile-marker in his tremendous career served as a reminder to me that having difficult conversations has long been an important part of strengthening communities. Being able to engage with each other deeply and honestly through our differences is not at all a new idea. It 
is, however, one to which we should devote renewed effort and attention. Over the coming months, I’m looking forward to continuing our learning together and finding more and more opportunities to open our minds and our hearts to each other.

Shabbat shalom.

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