Parshas Bo: Before We Are Ready
This morning, what feels like a few hours ago, I stood at my son’s Bris.
A covenant made in the body.
Before understanding.
Before consent.
Before readiness.
Something that shapes you before you’ve had a chance to overthink it.
There is no negotiation at a Bris. No waiting until things feel settled. Identity is marked first, and only later does a person grow into what that mark means.
Holding that moment, Parshas Bo reads differently.
Parshas Bo is most often remembered for its drama. The plagues intensify. Egypt collapses. Freedom finally comes into view.
But if you slow down and read carefully, something quieter and more surprising is happening beneath the surface.
Before the Jewish people leave Egypt, before Pharaoh is finished, before the sea splits, God gives us a mitzvah.
Time. Not just linear, but in rhythmic cycles.
“This month shall be for you the head of months.”
Kiddush HaChodesh is the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people as a nation. Not after freedom. Not once things settle. Right in the middle of upheaval.
That timing matters.
Until this moment, history happens to us. From here on, we are taught how to stand inside it.
Kiddush HaChodesh isn’t just about counting months or fixing a calendar. It’s about learning how to live inside time consciously.
Not just watching days pass, but noticing when something in your life is growing, shrinking, or ready to change — and realizing that pretending otherwise would mean forcing it, not facing it.
Seen this way, Kiddush HaChodesh and Bris Milah are not separate ideas. They are the same structure expressed in two dimensions — one in the body, one in time.
Bris fixes identity in the body before understanding.
Kiddush HaChodesh fixes identity in time before freedom.
Neither waits for readiness.
Both create the conditions for growth by making retreat impossible by closing the door on endless delay or capability to undo.
Growth doesn’t come first.
Covenant does.
A covenant is a commitment that shapes you before you feel ready for it.
Only later does the person, or the people, grow into it.
This is what Parshas Bo is quietly preparing us for.
Freedom doesn’t begin when everything feels resolved. It begins when identity is anchored, even while the story is unfinished.
That’s also why the Torah is careful to draw a distinction here.
The plagues belong to Egypt.
The mitzvot belong to Israel.
The Torah is not asking Jews to suffer in order to grow. It’s asking Jews to live differently once suffering no longer defines them.
Chazal describe this by saying that the Jews did not fully adopt Egypt’s names, language, or dress. But that was never only about externals or appearances. It was about not letting Egypt decide who they were, how they understood themselves, or how they told their story.
Egypt can be loud, but it can also be subtle.
Sometimes it looks like chaos and pain.
Sometimes it looks like things working just fine.
Patterns that continue because they’re familiar.
Momentum that replaces presence.
Life moving forward without being questioned.
Israel, by contrast, isn’t defined by struggle. It’s defined by awareness. Egypt stays the same until it breaks. Israel learns how to begin again, by the willingness to notice when a cycle has run its course, and when something new is asking to begin.
That’s why Kiddush HaChodesh comes before the final plague.
Israel needs a framework for endings before witnessing one. Without that framework, loss looks like destruction. With it, an ending can be held as transition rather than collapse — like a moon that disappears only to appear again.
Egypt’s world is built on continuity that never questions itself. When that continuity breaks, it shatters.
Israel is taught something else.
Endings don’t erase life.
They make room for it.
That difference is the heart of redemption.
Our avodah is not to destroy ourselves. It’s to stop confusing Egyptian continuity with Jewish identity.
The part of us that insists we can stay exactly the same, protect every familiar pattern, and still step into freedom doesn’t make it out of Egypt. Not because God takes it away, but because freedom requires separation. Not separation from people, but from patterns that no longer fit who you’re becoming.
This past year, I’ve felt that truth very personally.
There are quite a few things I’ve let go of, not because they were forbidden, but because they no longer fit my life. Alcohol is one of them. Not because I can never drink again, and not because things would fall apart if I did.
I just don’t really want to anymore.
I like who I am better without it.
More present.
More available.
More myself.
Those changes didn’t come from pressure or New Year’s resolutions. They came from recognizing that certain patterns had run their course.
And once something truly ends, relief doesn’t undo it. There’s nothing to snap back to.
That’s freedom.
But the work hasn’t only been about one or two habits.
It’s been quieter and broader.
Apologizing.
A covenant made in the body.
Before understanding.
Before consent.
Before readiness.
Something that shapes you before you’ve had a chance to overthink it.
There is no negotiation at a Bris. No waiting until things feel settled. Identity is marked first, and only later does a person grow into what that mark means.
Holding that moment, Parshas Bo reads differently.
Parshas Bo is most often remembered for its drama. The plagues intensify. Egypt collapses. Freedom finally comes into view.
But if you slow down and read carefully, something quieter and more surprising is happening beneath the surface.
Before the Jewish people leave Egypt, before Pharaoh is finished, before the sea splits, God gives us a mitzvah.
Time. Not just linear, but in rhythmic cycles.
“This month shall be for you the head of months.”
Kiddush HaChodesh is the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people as a nation. Not after freedom. Not once things settle. Right in the middle of upheaval.
That timing matters.
Until this moment, history happens to us. From here on, we are taught how to stand inside it.
Kiddush HaChodesh isn’t just about counting months or fixing a calendar. It’s about learning how to live inside time consciously.
Not just watching days pass, but noticing when something in your life is growing, shrinking, or ready to change — and realizing that pretending otherwise would mean forcing it, not facing it.
Seen this way, Kiddush HaChodesh and Bris Milah are not separate ideas. They are the same structure expressed in two dimensions — one in the body, one in time.
Bris fixes identity in the body before understanding.
Kiddush HaChodesh fixes identity in time before freedom.
Neither waits for readiness.
Both create the conditions for growth by making retreat impossible by closing the door on endless delay or capability to undo.
Growth doesn’t come first.
Covenant does.
A covenant is a commitment that shapes you before you feel ready for it.
Only later does the person, or the people, grow into it.
This is what Parshas Bo is quietly preparing us for.
Freedom doesn’t begin when everything feels resolved. It begins when identity is anchored, even while the story is unfinished.
That’s also why the Torah is careful to draw a distinction here.
The plagues belong to Egypt.
The mitzvot belong to Israel.
The Torah is not asking Jews to suffer in order to grow. It’s asking Jews to live differently once suffering no longer defines them.
Chazal describe this by saying that the Jews did not fully adopt Egypt’s names, language, or dress. But that was never only about externals or appearances. It was about not letting Egypt decide who they were, how they understood themselves, or how they told their story.
Egypt can be loud, but it can also be subtle.
Sometimes it looks like chaos and pain.
Sometimes it looks like things working just fine.
Patterns that continue because they’re familiar.
Momentum that replaces presence.
Life moving forward without being questioned.
Israel, by contrast, isn’t defined by struggle. It’s defined by awareness. Egypt stays the same until it breaks. Israel learns how to begin again, by the willingness to notice when a cycle has run its course, and when something new is asking to begin.
That’s why Kiddush HaChodesh comes before the final plague.
Israel needs a framework for endings before witnessing one. Without that framework, loss looks like destruction. With it, an ending can be held as transition rather than collapse — like a moon that disappears only to appear again.
Egypt’s world is built on continuity that never questions itself. When that continuity breaks, it shatters.
Israel is taught something else.
Endings don’t erase life.
They make room for it.
That difference is the heart of redemption.
Our avodah is not to destroy ourselves. It’s to stop confusing Egyptian continuity with Jewish identity.
The part of us that insists we can stay exactly the same, protect every familiar pattern, and still step into freedom doesn’t make it out of Egypt. Not because God takes it away, but because freedom requires separation. Not separation from people, but from patterns that no longer fit who you’re becoming.
This past year, I’ve felt that truth very personally.
There are quite a few things I’ve let go of, not because they were forbidden, but because they no longer fit my life. Alcohol is one of them. Not because I can never drink again, and not because things would fall apart if I did.
I just don’t really want to anymore.
I like who I am better without it.
More present.
More available.
More myself.
Those changes didn’t come from pressure or New Year’s resolutions. They came from recognizing that certain patterns had run their course.
And once something truly ends, relief doesn’t undo it. There’s nothing to snap back to.
That’s freedom.
But the work hasn’t only been about one or two habits.
It’s been quieter and broader.
Apologizing.
Forgiving.
Sitting with things instead of escaping them.
Letting insight sink in slowly.
And sometimes needing to relearn it again.
Like the moon, there are still cycles.
Days of expansion and days of contraction.
Moments I handle well, and moments I’m not especially proud of.
The difference now is that a setback no longer feels like failure.
Another cycle is coming.
The work continues.
And each time something grows, the definition of what’s “enough” quietly changes too. Every threshold resets the bar to where you are.
Holding my newborn today, I’m struck by how much of real life begins this way.
Once a baby arrives, there is no reset button.
Letting insight sink in slowly.
And sometimes needing to relearn it again.
Like the moon, there are still cycles.
Days of expansion and days of contraction.
Moments I handle well, and moments I’m not especially proud of.
The difference now is that a setback no longer feels like failure.
Another cycle is coming.
The work continues.
And each time something grows, the definition of what’s “enough” quietly changes too. Every threshold resets the bar to where you are.
Holding my newborn today, I’m struck by how much of real life begins this way.
Once a baby arrives, there is no reset button.
Baby doesn’t care if things are calm or chaotic.
Responsibility doesn’t lift when things calm down.
You don’t go back to who you were before.
Something has begun that cannot be undone.
Life doesn’t wait for readiness.
It invites us into covenant first,
and then teaches us how to grow inside it.
That’s Kiddush HaChodesh.
That’s Bris Milah.
That’s Parshas Bo.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
Responsibility doesn’t lift when things calm down.
You don’t go back to who you were before.
Something has begun that cannot be undone.
Life doesn’t wait for readiness.
It invites us into covenant first,
and then teaches us how to grow inside it.
That’s Kiddush HaChodesh.
That’s Bris Milah.
That’s Parshas Bo.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
Unlike the dough our ancestors carried out of Egypt, Lechem Chein’s dough did rise this week.
