Shabbat Weekly Dvar Torah

In normal times, I approach Parashat Bo in the usual way. I dive deep into fine points of the story and the language of the text. I contemplate the specific meaning of each of the plagues described in this climactic parashah: locusts, darkness and the smiting of the firstborn Egyptians… This is, after all, how we Jews study text, assuming that every detail of the text, even the smallest turn of phrase, contains profound meaning for us. But these are not normal times. This year the text invites me to take a different look. I feel called to zoom out from the fine points of the text and ask: What is the overall message of this portion for me this year? What do the broad strokes of this story teach about a time of massive social upheaval?

There’s an idea I return to often: the word “Torah” comes from the root for the Hebrew word hora’ah, which means instruction or teaching. In other words, the Torah isn’t only a story we read - it’s something meant to teach us, again and again, in every generation. There is always something to learn, if we’re willing to listen closely. In this week’s parsha, Va’era, we are still at the very beginning of the Exodus story. The Israelites are enslaved in Egypt. Their labor is relentless. Their lives are tightly controlled. And Moshe has only just stepped into his role as a leader. Hashem sends Moshe back to Pharaoh with a message we all recognize: “Let My people go.” But at this point in the story, nothing dramatic happens. There is no sea splitting. There is no mass exodus. In fact, things don’t improve at all. Pharaoh refuses. The system tightens. The people remain trapped.

This week, as we conclude the book of Bereshit (Genesis) and turn the page to begin Shemot (Exodus), we experience a profound shift in the narrative of the Jewish people. There is a natural tinge of sadness in leaving the intimate, personal dramas of our ancestors—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—whose lives, full of both soaring faith and relational mistakes, have shaped our identity. Yet, this transition is more than just a change of books; it is a fundamental transformation in our collective identity: the move from being a large, extended, complicated family to becoming a small, yet complicated nation.

There is a heart-wrenching story that took place in a DP camp, on erev Yom Kippur with the Klausenberger Rebbe. He was about to do some internal preps for the coming holiday, when he heard a knock on his door. He opened it to a young girl. With tears in her eyes, she said, ‘Please Rebbe, I am part of the orphans here. I remembered that my father used to bless me right before Yom Kippur, but now I am all alone and am wondering if you could give me the traditional blessing that a father is supposed to give his daughter.’ The Rebbe, much moved, said, ‘I will be your father. He took out a kerchief and placed it on the girl’s grateful head, and recited the blessing. She left, very appreciative. A few minutes later there was another knock, and this time, a whole slew of little girls appeared.

About a decade ago, I encountered what I believe to be one of the most challenging and powerful nuggets of wisdom in our Jewish tradition. This is a midrash that tells the story of how Joseph returns to the pit his brothers threw him into when he was 17. He returns to the location of the worst moment of his life and recites the prayer that one says over a miracle. This is an extraordinary act! Joseph turns the hardest part of his life into a blessing. When I first heard this, I didn’t think this was relevant to me. Why would I want to turn the worst moments of my life into blessings? Aren’t some things just really hard and we should leave it at that? I initially responded negatively to this message, but it stayed with me in the years to come. It somehow became my spiritual work. I didn’t know how to do it, but I knew this was my task. I had to find a way to think of the worst moments of my life as blessings. I thought about Joseph.

Some Torah portions reassure you that things will work out. Miketz says, ‘not so fast.’ Dreams collide. Families disappoint. Plans fall apart. Years pass with no resolution. If your life has ever taken a turn you didn’t order, Miketz is speaking directly to you. Joseph’s story works on me because it isn’t tidy. He dreams big, gets misunderstood, disappears for a while, reinvents himself, and then has to figure out who he actually is once people finally start listening. It’s not a success story. It’s a “how did I end up here and what do I do now” story. I used to think Miketz was about achievement. Look, he made it. Now I realize it’s about preparation. Joseph doesn’t rise because he’s lucky. He rises because when things get complicated, he does something very Jewish. He plans…

Quick, who found the cruse of oil that lasted eight days? On Chanukah we celebrate two miracles: our military victory over the Greeks and the one small cruse of oil that kept the menorah in the Temple lit for eight days. Between the two miracles, our tradition holds that finding the oil is more important. The re-dedication of the Temple capped by the eight days of menorah light is the real Chanukah miracle. That’s why the holiday is called Chanukah, which means “dedication,” and why we light a menorah to commemorate the events. If I started with the question of who led the victory over the Greeks, everyone would know that the answer is Judah, the Maccabee. But the hero who brought about the critical miracle goes un-named. Why is that? This is one of Chanukah’s lessons. Who the hero was isn’t important; it’s what they did that matters. And to appreciate what they did, let’s look at what they didn’t do…

Let’s set the scene. Jacob is on his way home after twenty years with his trickster father-in-law, Laban.The exile is over. Jacob has wealth, wives, children, and — perhaps for the first time — a sense that life might finally be settling into something like normalcy. And then, reality intrudes. Jacob remembers that he has unfinished business. Namely: Esau — the brother he cheated, the brother who vowed to kill him, the brother whose anger has echoed in Jacob’s mind for two decades. Jacob sends his entire family across the Jabbok River. He is left alone on the far bank — a man with nothing but the night and his thoughts.