This Shabbat we study the Parshah Bo, meaning “Come [to Pharoah]” in Exodus 10:1. The last three of the Ten Plagues are visited on Egypt.  G-d commands the first mitzvah to be given to the people of Israel: to establish a calendar based on the monthly rebirth of the moon.

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The Israelites are also instructed to bring a “Passover offering” to G-d.  The blood of a slaughtered lamb or goat is to be sprinkled on the doorposts and lintel of every Israelite home, so that G-d should pass over these homes when He comes to kill the Egyptian firstborn. The death of the firstborn Egyptians finally breaks Pharaoh’s resistance, and he drives the children of Israel from his land. So hastily do they depart that there is no time for their dough to rise, and the only provisions they take along are unleavened. Before they go, they ask their Egyptian neighbors for gold, silver and garments—fulfilling the promise made to Abraham that his descendants would leave Egypt with great wealth.

Chabad.org

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In this week’s Parshah, the last three plagues befall Egypt before the people of Israel leave their slavery. The ninth plague, darkness, is described in these words: “No man saw his brother, neither did anyone rise from his place.” With this description, an event in history becomes current and contemporary. The plague of darkness becomes part of the timeless history of man, symbolic of analogous afflictions that admit no immunity. Simple physical darkness of the night becomes a malady of the individual, of the soul.

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There is no blindness like the selfishness that blots other men from one’s vision—the darkness that prevents one man from seeing his brother. This is the plague directed outwardly. Another aspect of the darkness affliction is satisfaction with what one is, the stagnation that keeps man from growing, from rising from his place. There is a smug arrogance in the very common statement people actually make, “I am a good man.” Such people, blind to their shortcomings, become insufferable; they never dare entertain the possibility that they might be imperfect.

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These are the universals in the plague of darkness: the self-centeredness that excludes other men from consideration, and the contentedness that assures us we have attained the epitome of goodness. Darkness keeps us from seeing others or ourselves.

Rabbi Zalman Posner

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In our century, we are witnessing the battle between the power of Esau and the power of Jacob. Esau is represented by the extremist elements who would like to destroy civilization as we know it—those who flourish in chaotic situations, where there is no calling to account. Jacob, on the other hand, is characterized by the tolerant, peace-loving citizens and nations of the world who cherish order, justice and a civilized society. Certainly, we must wage war against the extremists. However it is only by concurrently maintaining an orderly, tolerant, constructive, dynamic and peace-loving composure and philosophy, that extremism, and its byproduct, terrorism, will be defeated.

From an article by Rabbi Levi I. Brackman

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There is a fundamental difference between bo (come) and lech (go). To go to something may imply no more than a superficial involvement. For example, you may “go” to study Torah and do your learning, but it will not affect you to the fullest extent. You and the subject-matter may remain two separate entities. To come to something, however, implies that the subject-matter will “enter” your mind and heart, affect and influence you to the point of absorbing unification. Everything in the service of G-d must be done in a way of penetrating to one’s very core. The approach of bo (come) hastens the coming of Moshiach and the redemption from the galut, speedily in our very own days.

From an article by Rabbi J. Immanuel Schochet

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Since quarantine, I pull my sourdough starter out of the fridge each Thursday morning and then set it on the counter. It lies there idle. Flat. There is no sound. It’s dead. I feed it: flour and water. Slowly, it begins to spring up. I hear the bubbles, buzz and hum. I see the mass of goop rise.

I add the starter to water, flour and salt. It is a sticky substance; an amorphous blob. I leave it alone. I give it time. It begins to rise. It is synthesizing.  I pull it. This way; that way. It rises. A steady transformation. I roll it. Emerging is a beautiful shapely dough. There is a new form and consistency that each time astounds me. Each time. Each week.

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Is it a cliché to say that like the starter I rise? I shrink. I bubble. I deconstruct. I reconstruct. Or is it insightful? Amid pandemic-like conditions, right before the last of the 10 plagues in ancient Egypt, G-d pauses the narrative to inform Moses of time. Moses learns that the first mitzvah is to count the Jewish months according to the moon’s cycle. Latent in our nationhood is this idea of waxing and waning. Rising and falling.

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The moon teaches us about the passage of time: Just when the moon’s light diminishes so that even the tiniest sliver of light seems to disappear, when life feels flat and dark, lifeless and even deathly, there is rebirth. There is a steady rising—a transformation. Eventually, there is a robust and full circular moon, glowing.

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In my kitchen, I ponder my life in real-time. Does the moon’s concealment have to be perceived as negative? What if my inactive sourdough starter also tells me something about the rebirth? I remember that there is another message about the moon. I remember. I am like the moon.  I wax; I am busy, I produce and get things done. I am accomplished.

And then, inevitably, I wane. I need a minute. Or a day. Or longer. My contracting is purposeful.

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Each phase is expected—necessary, even. Having the courage to experience the inherent energy shifts of the active and the stillness is how you feel alive. Making sourdough bread during a pandemic might be basic. Knowing that our lives mirror the cycle of the moon might be basic, too. Is it a cliché? It is life.

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From an article by Dena Schusterman

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