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Thoughts on Parashat Bo 5786
The wine problem
Moshe says: I don’t have a drinking problem.
His friend, Shmuel, says: You just finished the entire bottle yourself!
Moshe answers: Yes, but I shared the guilt with my mother.
Rabbi Menachem Mirski
Yes, it’s possible that Pharaoh who had a hardened heart problem shared his guilt with his mother. But even if he had any guilt, sharing it, let alone putting the entire blame on someone, doesn’t help. What helps is making real change and being firm about it. But Pharaoh most likely didn’t like the word “change”, especially if it was to be used in reference to any of his traits or decisions.
Thus, he doubled down again and again, not really caring that the results of his hardened heart problem were becoming more and more horrific, reaching the climactic end of the plagues: locusts devour all the remains of Egypt’s crops, palpable darkness paralyzes the land for three days… until the death of the firstborn, innocent babies, finally breaks Pharaoh’s will. Did it really touch his heart or conscience or was he just terrified that perhaps Egyptians, including his courtiers, would rebel or assassinate him? We don’t know.
And we don’t actually care because among all these calamities good news is coming for our ancestors. The Israelites, after centuries of bondage, are commanded to prepare for departure—marking doorposts with blood, eating the Passover lamb with matzah and bitter herbs. This is the moment of redemption: God shatters the chains of slavery, declaring, “Let My people go.”
The Torah doesn’t portray freedom as an effortless gift. The Israelites don’t simply walk out; they flee in haste, their dough unleavened because there’s no time to wait. Freedom arrives amid chaos, terror, and divine intervention. Pharaoh’s grip was total—economic exploitation, cultural erasure, physical brutality. Breaking it required confronting overwhelming power; it’s a pattern that has been repeated many times throughout human history since then. That’s regarding the issue of freedom in the social/political dimension.
Because freedom, of course, has its individual, personal dimension, and this dimension is governed by somewhat different, but in a sense similar, rules. In our technologically advanced world, many of us face our own, internalized “Pharaohs”—modern chains that enslave not through whips but through way more subtle forces. Addiction to substances, screens, or compulsive behaviors robs us of agency, turning moments – that are unprecedentedly abundant in opportunities – into mindless cycles. Debt traps generations in endless labor, while toxic relationships or workplaces erode self-worth. Digital distractions—endless scrolling, notifications—mirror the locusts, devouring time and attention that could nourish meaningful life. These aren’t imposed by a single tyrant but by systems we willingly participate in: consumer culture promising fulfillment through more, algorithms designed to hook us.
The parashah reminds us that true freedom begins with recognition. The Israelites had light in their dwellings during the plague of darkness (Exodus 10:23)—a symbol that even in societal gloom, personal clarity is possible. We must identify our chains: What habits harden our hearts like Pharaoh’s? What distractions prevent us from choosing “kosher life” or opportunities to grow at each moment?
Redefining personal freedom means reclaiming agency through discipline and choice. Just as the Israelites marked their doorposts proactively, we mark our lives with intentional boundaries—limiting screen time, seeking therapy or support groups, prioritizing relationships over escapism. In Jewish tradition, free will is divine; God created us to choose. In our rapidly advancing world, with unprecedented opportunities, the stakes are high: technology multiplies distractions but also tools for growth.
For us Jews (and non-Jews alike), this is a call to spiritual and practical liberation. Freedom isn’t just political—it’s personal too! Breaking modern chains requires confronting discomfort, much like the plagues forced Egypt to face injustice. It demands humility: first admitting we’re enslaved to something and then acting decisively.
The Exodus wasn’t perfect—the people grumbled in the desert—but it started with a choice to leave. So too for us. In this polarized, anxious time, redefine freedom not as unlimited indulgence but as the courage to break free from what diminishes us. Choose life, choose growth, choose to step out of Pharaoh’s grip. Only then can we truly walk toward the promised land of a fuller, more authentic existence.
The ultimate Jewish addiction
A man says, “I’m addicted to improvement.”
His friend says, “That’s not an addiction.”
He answers, “Tell that to my wife.”
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Mirski
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