Parashat Bo is often remembered for its drama: the final plagues, the splitting tension between Pharaoh and Moshe, and the midnight exodus from Egypt. But beneath the thunder and miracles lies something quieter—and perhaps even more radical. Parashat Bo teaches us that freedom does not begin with the collapse of empires. It begins inside homes, in memories, and in how a people tell their story.
This parasha marks a turning point. Until now, the story has been dominated by confrontation—God versus Pharaoh, power versus power. In Bo, however, the focus shifts. God turns to the Israelites and says, in effect: It’s time for you to become a people.
The very first commandment given to the Jewish people appears here: “This month shall be for you the first of months.” Before laws of justice, ethics, or even prayer, God gives the mitzvah of time. Freedom begins with owning your calendar. Slaves live on someone else’s schedule; free people sanctify time itself. By declaring months, marking holidays, and remembering sacred moments, the Jewish people claim authorship over their lives.
And then comes the Pesach ritual—performed not in public squares, but in private homes. The blood on the doorposts is not a magical charm; it is a declaration of identity. In Egypt, where the lamb was worshipped, the Israelites publicly reject the gods of their oppressors. Courage, Parashat Bo teaches, is not only loud rebellion—it is the quiet but firm decision to live differently, even when it’s risky.
One of the most striking features of this parasha is how much space it gives to children. Again and again, the Torah anticipates the moment when a child will ask: “What is this?” And again and again, the answer is clear: You tell the story. Not once, but endlessly. Freedom is fragile if it is not remembered. Liberation that is not transmitted becomes just another forgotten moment in history.
This emphasis on storytelling reveals a deep truth: miracles alone do not sustain a people. Meaning does. God could have taken the Israelites out of Egypt silently, efficiently, without ritual or explanation. Instead, God weaves memory into law. The Exodus must be eaten, spoken, asked about, and relived. Every generation must see itself as if it personally left Egypt—not because the past repeats itself, but because the struggle for freedom does.
Parashat Bo also redefines power. Pharaoh, the most powerful man in the world, is exposed as fragile—reactive, stubborn, ultimately broken. The Israelites, powerless slaves, prepare bread in haste and walk into the unknown. Real power, the parasha suggests, is not control over others, but the courage to move forward without guarantees.
Even the haste of the Exodus carries meaning. Matzah is not just “poor man’s bread.” It is the food of transition. Sometimes redemption doesn’t come when we’re ready – sometimes it comes when it’s time. And freedom often requires movement before certainty.
Finally, Parashat Bo reminds us that redemption is not only about leaving something behind; it’s about walking toward responsibility. The Israelites leave Egypt not as wandering individuals, but as a commanded people, bound by memory, mitzvot, and mutual destiny. Freedom without purpose is emptiness. Freedom with commitment becomes sacred.
In every generation, each of us has our own Mitzrayim—our narrow places, habits, fears, or narratives that keep us stuck. Parashat Bo whispers that change is possible, but it starts small: by marking time intentionally, telling our story honestly, and choosing, again and again, to step forward.
Freedom doesn’t begin when the world changes. It begins when we do.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Refael Cohen