Edited and adapted from Ari’s Grill and Torah series.
Parshat Bo is a very packed parsha. There is a lot going on here. It’s one of those parshiyot where almost every section could stand on its own, and yet it’s all connected. And if there is one experience, one scenario in Jewish history that is supposed to stay with us forever—at all times and in every generation—it is Yetziat Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt.
We are commanded to remember it constantly. We mention it every day. We structure holidays around it. So the question is obvious: why is it so important? What is it about the Exodus that we’re meant to carry with us forever?
What do we actually learn from it?
And another question we need to ask is about Pharaoh. How could Pharaoh possibly do what he did? He saw miracle after miracle. He saw reality change in front of his eyes. How could he keep going against HaKadosh Baruch Hu? How could he possibly believe he could win? And why would he keep a nation that was causing him nothing but pain?
And then there’s a very personal question. If God runs the world—if God is involved—what do I need to make effort for? Why do I need to act at all? Why doesn’t God just do everything?
“Bo el Paro” — Come, Not Go
At the beginning of the parsha, HaKadosh Baruch Hu says to Moshe Rabbeinu:
“Bo el Paro.”
Come to Pharaoh.
That’s strange. It should say lech el Paro — go to Pharaoh. But it doesn’t. It says come.
And then God explains why:
“Ki ani hichbadti et libo.”
Because I have hardened his heart.
In other words, God is telling Moshe: go speak to Pharaoh even though I’ve already hardened his heart and he’s not going to listen to you.
So why go at all?
Why continue?
Why all the miracles?
And the answer is: because the miracles aren’t just for Pharaoh.
Negotiations That Make No Sense
Pharaoh eventually says, “Go. Serve your God.”
But every time, there’s a condition.
First, only the men.
Moshe says no — men, women, and children.
Pharaoh says: fine, take the men, women, and children — but leave the animals.
And Moshe responds:
“Gam ata titen b’yadeinu zevachim v’olot.”
Not only are we not leaving our animals behind — you, Pharaoh, are going to give us animals for sacrifices.
And Moshe continues:
“Gam mikneinu yelech imanu… lo tish’er parsa.”
Not a single hoof will remain in Egypt.
And then Moshe adds something that seems completely unnecessary:
“Lo neidah mah na’avod et Hashem ad bo’einu shama.”
We don’t even know how we’re going to serve God until we get there.
Why say that?
From Pharaoh’s perspective, this is insanity.
You don’t know where you’re going?
You don’t know what you’ll need?
Then you’re irresponsible. You’re irrational.
But Moshe Rabbeinu is not speaking Pharaoh’s language.
Two Foundations, Two Realities
Pharaoh represents logic — or at least what he calls logic. Everything must make sense. Everything must be orderly. Everything must be physical and measurable.
Moshe Rabbeinu’s base is different. His anchor is spirituality.
To Pharaoh, Moshe makes no sense.
To Moshe, Pharaoh’s worldview is broken.
The worst thing Moshe could say to Pharaoh — the most destabilizing thing — is: “We don’t know where we’re going, and it doesn’t matter.”
Because Pharaoh needs control.
Moshe needs truth.
And that’s the clash.
Logic That Isn’t Logical
Pharaoh thinks he’s logical.
But if you see supernatural miracles again and again, and a nation is destroying your economy and humiliating your power, the logical thing to do is to kick them out.
Keeping them is not logic.
It’s irrational.
And this is the key: when morality is based on comfort, logic becomes hypocrisy.
Comfort, Morality, and Justification
Here’s the problem.
Everybody wants to be good. Nobody wakes up wanting to be evil. Even the worst people in history didn’t say, “I enjoy doing evil.” They justified themselves.
Why do people justify things? Because people have a drive to be good.
That sounds positive—but it becomes dangerous when you define good and bad yourself, based on comfort level.
When morality is based on comfort, you will never choose morality over comfort level. Instead, you will change your definition of morality to match your comfort level.
And this is not theoretical. We see it in real life.
Fifty years ago, abortion was widely understood as murder. Today, it’s called “pro-choice.”
Now, I’m not here to get into policy, and obviously there are tragic and extreme cases—that’s not the point. The point is the shift.
Murder didn’t become less severe. People became more comfortable redefining it.
And here’s the irony: the people who redefined it now call those who disagree immoral.
So morality didn’t disappear. It just moved—to serve comfort.
That’s exactly what Pharaoh does.
The Child You’d Never Sell
Here’s another example.
I hope there is no one who would sell their child for a hundred million dollars.
Even when your child drives you crazy. Even when you’re furious. Even when they make your life miserable. You wouldn’t sell them.
Why?
Because there is something intangible, something you can’t measure or touch, that is more important than comfort, money, or ease.
That’s morality.
You can’t see it.
You can’t quantify it.
But it governs your decisions.
Judaism says: live your entire life that way.
When you compromise morality for comfort, you’re doing the same thing—selling your child for a moment of ease.
And then you justify it.
Justification doesn’t mean it’s right.
It means you’re protecting your comfort.
Pharaoh and Denial
Pharaoh didn’t deny the miracles because he didn’t see them.
He denied them because accepting them would require change.
And change is uncomfortable.
So he justified.
He rationalized.
He hardened his heart.
That’s why the Torah keeps repeating this story. Because it’s not ancient history—it’s human nature.
The Blood on the Doorposts
Now comes something that really makes no sense.
God tells Bnei Yisrael to take a lamb — the Egyptian god — slaughter it, and put its blood on the doorposts.
Why?
Does God need a sign? Can’t God tell who’s Jewish?
If a Jew did not do this, that household would die with the Egyptians.
Why?
Because redemption requires action.
You don’t get redeemed by closing your eyes and waiting.
Even after 210 years of slavery.
Even with a slave mentality.
Even when people can barely think for themselves.
God demands effort.
“What Is This?” — The Child’s Question
The Torah says:
When your child asks you, “What is this service?”
It’s a completely logical question.
Everything looks strange. Slaughtering gods. Blood on doors. Matzah. Firstborn redemption.
And what is the answer?
Hashem took us out of Egypt with a strong hand.
That seems unrelated.
But it isn’t.
Because these mitzvot rewire how we see reality.
Tefillin, Mezuzah, and the Mind
At the end of the parsha, we’re given tefillin and mezuzah.
Why the head and the arm?
Because the brain and the heart are where decisions are made.
Two people can see the same thing and understand it completely differently. Same eyes. Same ears. Same world.
But different foundations.
Why We Left Egypt
We did not leave Egypt to do whatever we want, to just be free.
We left Egypt to be free to do what’s right, to do the Mitzvot. That’s a big difference.
The freedom to do what you want with your time does not mean you should do anything. It means you do what’s important and right.
The Torah says we keep the mitzvot because we left Egypt.
We didn’t leave Egypt to be free. We left Egypt to be relevant.
Shabbat shalom from the beautiful rolling hills of Judea, Israel.