Shabbat Greetings
Our portion this week, Parashat Bo (Exodus 10:1–13:16), brings us to the climax of the Exodus story: the final plagues, the first Passover, and the moment when a group of enslaved individuals begins to understand itself as a people. Freedom is no longer only a dream. It is something they must now learn how to live with.
What is striking is that before the Children of Israel even leave Egypt, God already gives them laws — laws about memory, identity, and responsibility. Freedom, the Torah teaches, is not just about crossing a border. It is about what kind of society you become once you cross it.
That message feels especially relevant as we continue to wrestle with immigration issues in our own country. Like the Israelites, many today are fleeing hardship, seeking dignity, safety, and opportunity. And like the Egyptians, we as a society often struggle with fear — fear of change, fear of loss, fear of the unfamiliar. The Torah does not ignore those fears. But it insists that our moral compass must be shaped by memory: “You were strangers in the land of Egypt.” And even more powerfully, our portion declares: There shall be one one law for the citizen and for the stranger who dwells among you. (12:49)
In Parashat Bo, that memory is institutionalized through Passover — a ritual designed to make every generation feel as though they personally left Egypt. Not as tourists. Not as observers. But as refugees who became free. And that has consequences. If we truly remember ourselves as former strangers, then the stranger in our midst cannot be invisible.
At the same time, Bo is honest about complexity. Not everyone can participate in the Pesach offering automatically. There are rules about inclusion, about commitment, about joining the covenant. The Torah acknowledges that building a people requires boundaries — but it also insists on pathways inward. That tension is exactly what we feel today. How do we balance security and compassion? Law and humanity? Identity and openness?
The Torah does not give us easy answers. But it gives us a guiding value: human dignity must always come first. On a more personal level, Parashat Bo also speaks to the experience of movement and return. This Shabbat marks my annual journey to Florida to reconnect with our snowbirds — friends and loved ones who live in between places, between climates, communities, and chapters of life. Each year, they leave. And each year, they return. And when I join them, something sacred happens. We reconnect with friends, with fellow congregants, with shared memories and stories. We remember who we are by remembering who we belong with.
In that sense, my annual snowbird journey echoes the Exodus in miniature — not in suffering, but in the truth that movement reshapes identity, and return deepens gratitude. Every reunion reminds us that community is not just geography. It is relationship.
Parashat Bo teaches us that freedom is not only about leaving something behind — it is about building something better. Memory is meant to soften our hearts, not harden them. And a people is sustained not only by laws, but by relationships. As we navigate the complexities of immigration in our country, and as we cherish the joy of reconnecting with old friends and familiar faces, may we carry the Exodus story not only in our words, but in our choices. May we be a people who remember what it feels like to be strangers — and who never forget how holy it is to finally feel at home.
SHABBAT SHALOM