Bo
Exodus 10:1-13:16 

By Jen Smith 

Every Erev Shabbat, we eat challah. Each week (except for Passover…) 

This is one of the most ordinary Jewish rituals we have: flour, water, yeast, time, heat. No drama. No fireworks, no spectacle. And yet, every week, we watch the dough change. It rises, rests, and deflates a little. It bubbles, reshapes, and then it becomes something else entirely. 

Is it a cliché to say that, like dough, I also rise? Similarly, I shrink, bubble, and deconstruct. And then I reconstruct. 

In Parsha Bo, amid what feels like ancient, pandemic-esque conditions of darkness, fear, loss, and uncertainty, God pauses the story right before issuing the final and most devastating of the Ten Plagues. As the narrative slows, so too does History hold its breath. And instead of instructions for escape or survival, Moses is taught something seemingly abstract: the sanctification of time. 

This month shall be for you the first of the months. (Exodus 12:2) 

Before freedom, before nationhood, before law, comes the Jewish relationship to time. 

The very first mitzvah given to the Israelites is not about belief or behavior; instead, it is focused on how we measure our lives. We are commanded to sanctify the months according to the moon’s cycle. Not the sun (which can be described as steady, predictable, and constant) but rather, the moon, which waxes and wanes, appears and disappears, hides and returns. 

Latent in our origin story is the radical idea that fluctuation is not failure – diminishment is not disappearance. The darkness is not the end of the story. 

The moon teaches us how time actually works, not as a straight line, but as a rhythm. 

Just when the moon’s light diminishes so fully that even the tiniest sliver seems to vanish, when the world feels flat and dim, lifeless and even deathly, there is rebirth. Quietly, faithfully, and inevitably, creation begins again. 

The moon does not argue with its phases. Nor does it apologize for them. The moon simply returns. Eventually, there is fullness again; a glowing, robust circle, that is both luminous and whole. 

Standing in my kitchen watching my son devour the Shabbat challah, I find myself wrestling with the hidden in real time. Does concealment always mean something is wrong? Or is something happening beneath the surface that we can’t yet see? 

Jewish mysticism teaches that creation itself pulses, ratzo v’shov, through expansion and contraction, movement and return. The soul, like the moon, cannot remain constantly illuminated. Even the Shekhinah, God’s Divine Presence, goes into exile and returns. Sacred energy flows, recedes, and flows again. 

What if our moments of stillness are not spiritual failures, but spiritual necessities? 

Many of us remember learning as children that the moon reflects light that it does not generate. Its beauty is a result of the relationship, from knowing when to receive and when to shine. And suddenly, I remember that I am like the moon. 

There are times when I wax, when I am productive, creative, maybe even unstoppable. I build, plan, and accomplish. I show up as a human engaged in the business of doing and achieving. 

And then, inevitably, I wane. Sometimes, I need a minute. I need a day – or maybe longer.  

Jewish tradition reminds us that this contraction of the soul is purposeful. The stillness is not rooted in retreat or denial. My soul seems to know this truth before the rest of me catches up: this quiet is preparation. Judaism insists that both phases are holy. Shabbat itself is a weekly act of waning, a sacred pause that insists on celebrating our worth even when we are not producing. It is a visceral reminder that our value is not measured solely by output, but by our presence. 

Sometimes I am human who is busy Doing. And sometimes, I am a human just being. And, as difficult as it is for my type-A, firstborn perfectionist to accept, I have learned that both are necessary to feel alive. 

Challah and moon cycles seem basic. Even my insight feels basic. But Judaism has never confused “basic” with “meaningless.” Sometimes, the most profound truths are often those we need to relearn repeatedly.  

Parsha Bo reminds us that freedom begins with self-awareness, not with escape. It begins when we honor the rhythms of our soul, and trusting that even when we feel diminished, we are still moving toward light. 

Is it a cliché? Maybe. But most importantly, it is Life. 

Shabbat Shalom!