Dear TBZ Community,
I have a particular memory from summer camp that I’ve shared before: I was probably 6 or 7 years old at Camp Ramah in Chile, where my father served as the camp director, when we had an activity to re-enact the Exodus from Egypt. The campers were the Israelites and the counselors played the Egyptians who enslaved us.
Our Moses led us, and I remember how we had to walk quickly, racing to leave the camp and reach the water. I can’t recall whether it was the ocean or a river. One of the counselors played Pharaoh, pursuing us. I still have a vivid memory of that counselor, and I remember feeling a sense of fear, unsure if we would be okay. More than 40 years later, what stands out most is how frightened I was. Even though I knew my father was overseeing the activity — probably making it as intense as possible to ensure we’d never forget the story — and even though I understood it was all just pretend, I was scared. I still remember the feeling…
This week, we read Parshat Bo, which continues the story of the plagues, culminating in the tenth plague and Pharaoh finally allowing the Israelites to leave Egypt. Chapter 12 offers a dramatic description of this pivotal moment, and the word לַּיְלָה (night) is repeated several times:
וַיְהִי בַּחֲצִי הַלַּיְלָה וַיהֹוָה הִכָּה כָל-בְּכוֹר בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם מִבְּכוֹר פַּרְעֹה הַיֹּשֵׁב עַל־כִּסְאוֹ עַד בְּכוֹר הַשְּׁבִי אֲשֶׁר בְּבֵית הַבּוֹר וְכֹל בְּכוֹר בְּהֵמָה
In the middle of the night, Adonai struck down all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sat on his throne to the firstborn of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the firstborn of the cattle.
וַיָּקם פַּרְעֹה לַיְלָה הוּא וְכל־עֲבָדָיו וְכל־מִצְרַיִם וַתְּהִי צְעָקָה גְדֹלָה בְּמִצְרָיִם כִּי־אֵין בַּיִת אֲשֶׁר אֵין־שָׁם מֵת
And Pharaoh arose in the night, he and all his courtiers and all the Egyptians, for there was a loud cry in Egypt; for there was no house where there was not someone dead.
וַיִּקְרָא לְמֹשֶׁה וּלְאַהֲרֹן לַיְלָה וַיֹּאמֶר קוּמוּ צְּאוּ מִתּוֹךְ עַמִּי גַּם־אַתֶּם גַּם־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וּלְכוּ עִבְדוּ אֶת־יְהֹוָה כְּדַבֶּרְכֶם
And he summoned Moses and Aaron in the night and said, ‘Up, depart from among my people, you and the Israelites with you! Go, worship the LORD as you said!’
After these verses, the account of the Israelites leaving Egypt continues. Exodus 12:42, we read:
לֵיל שִׁמֻּרִים הוּא לַיהֹוָה לְהוֹצִיאָם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם הוּא־הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה לַיהֹוָה שִׁמֻּרִים לְכל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לְדֹרֹתָ
It was for Adonai a night of vigil, to bring them out of the land of Egypt; that same night is for Adonai, a night of vigil for all the children of Israel throughout the ages.
The Exodus, the liberation, the redemption, takes place deep in the night.
In his book, Moses: The Prince, the Prophet – His Life, Legend and Message for Our Lives, Rabbi Levi Meier, a hospital chaplain, author, and psychologist, writes:
“When does redemption come? We learn that the Israelites were delivered from Egypt at midnight, in the middle of pitch-black darkness. At a time like that, people are usually frightened. So, from the story of the Israelites, we can see that redemption does not come when things are going well. Rather, it occurs at moments of agony, darkness, and fear. As the saying goes, ‘It is always darkest before the dawn.’”
At times, and perhaps especially now, it is difficult to hold onto this belief. Can we truly trust that redemption comes when it is darkest? In moments of crisis, darkness, brokenness, and hopelessness, we often feel less capable of moving forward or trusting that we will emerge from these places. This is true not only in our personal lives but also in the larger realities of the world around us. For many, this resonates deeply as we witness the changes in our country and the challenges unfolding in the early days of the new administration.
Yet this teaching reminds us that, as difficult and radical as it may seem, the act of trust and hope, the act of imagining that redemption is possible, is necessary. It is not an easy lesson to hold, but perhaps it is one we must embrace if we are to walk this uncertain path with faith and courage.
I am writing this message from Israel, where I am spending ten days at the Hartman Institute as part of a winter seminar for my rabbinic leadership fellowship. Our first sessions have focused on peace and how our tradition understands it. Coincidentally, the first day of our program coincided with a day of learning in honor of Rabbi David Hartman, z”l. The theme of the day was “War and Peace,” exploring how we can talk about peace in the midst of war.
Through many of the sessions I have attended, it became clear that talking about peace in Israel right now is a radical act — an act that feels disconnected from the reality many are living. To imagine peace, to genuinely think about it, is often considered not just delusional but irresponsible. Yet, the discussions — which have included textual, religious, educational, and psychological conversations (not political or strategic ones) — have deepened my understanding of what it means to imagine redemption amid darkness.
Psalm 34:15 pleads:
בַּקֵּשׁ שָׁלוֹם וְרָדְפֵהוּ.
Seek peace and pursue it.
The word רדְפֵהוּ means “to run after, to chase.” We usually chase something or someone fleeing from us. Yet we are commanded to chase peace, even when it feels distant and elusive.
As I write this, here in Israel, eight hostages are being released — three Israelis (Arbel Yehoud, Agam Berger, Gadi Mozes) and five Thais (Suwannakham, Bannawat, Surasak, Watchara, and Pongsak). It is a day of joy as families embrace their loved ones. It is a day of confusion, anger, and fear as the release is part of a complex deal involving high-profile terrorists and as we see the hostages released in ways that feel like trophies for Hamas terrorists. Yet it is also a day of hope, as the ceasefire holds, allowing Gazans to return to their homes and we expect more hostages to come home this coming Shabbat. It is a day of resilience, as four female soldiers released last Shabbat embrace the fifth survivor of their group, Agam Berger. In her first message, written in the helicopter on her way to the hospital, she said:
I chose the path of faith, and in faith, I returned
בדרך האמונה בחרתי ובדרך האמונה שבתי
In the midst of darkness, Agam chose trust and faith.
The choice of trust and faith, and the choice of radical hope amid darkness, is perhaps what it means to leave Egypt in the middle of the night. We need, now, to learn to exercise that radical hope and trust.
In darkness, it’s hard to see the possibility of redemption. My prayer is that we can remember the courage of the people of Israel leaving Egypt in moments of darkness. Even when afraid, even when the darkness feels overwhelming, redemption is within reach. It’s not an easy journey, for there is no magic, but darkness is never absolute.
May this Shabbat bring us peace, strength, and clarity. May we find the courage to forgive, heal, and move forward together, knowing that we do not walk this journey alone.
May God grant blessing and comfort to all of us and our loved ones. May we discover strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts generously. May those who are ill find healing.
May all the hostages soon return to their families and friends; may peace prevail, and may our leaders prioritize life. May those working for peace be granted strength and courage to continue their sacred work, and may we soon witness peace and dignity for all.
Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,
Rav Claudia