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.
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