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Dear TBZ Community,
In memory of my father, Rabbi Angel Kreiman-Brill z”l whose twelfth yahrzeit I commemorate tonight.
In Parashat Bo, this week’s Torah portion, we arrive at the final stage of the plagues and the moment of the Exodus itself. Pharaoh’s resistance finally collapses, and the people of Israel are released from generations of enslavement. What stands out most powerfully in this section of the Torah is not only what happens, but when it happens.
The Exodus takes place at night.
Chapter 12 returns to this detail again and again:
וַיְהִי בַּחֲצִי הַלַּיְלָה וַה’ הִכָּה כל־בְּכוֹר בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם
In the middle of the night, the Eternal struck down the firstborn of Egypt (Exodus 12:29).
וַיָּקָם פַּרְעֹה לַיְלָה הוּא
Pharaoh arose in the night (Ex. 12:30).
וַיִּקְרָא לְמֹשֶׁה וּלְאַהֲרֹן לַיְלָה
Moses and Aaron were summoned in the night (Ex.12:31).
And finally, the Torah names the night itself:
לֵיל שִׁמֻּרִים הוּא לַיהֹוָה לְהוֹצִיאָם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם הוּא־הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה לַה’ שִׁמֻּרִים לְכׇל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל לְדֹרֹתָם
That was for the Eternal a night of vigil to bring them out of the land of Egypt; that same night is the Eternal’s, a night of vigil for all the children of Israel throughout the generations (Ex. 12:42).
The Torah could have told this story differently. It could have described redemption unfolding at dawn, when vision is clear and fear has subsided. Instead, liberation begins when people are exhausted, frightened, and unsure of what lies ahead. Redemption begins not when everything is resolved, but when staying where you are is no longer possible.
In Moses: The Prince, The Prophet, 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 the 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 fright. As a popular saying reminds us, ‘It is always darkest before the dawn’.”
This teaching connects directly to the plague that precedes the Exodus: the plague of darkness.
וִיהִי חֹשֶׁךְ עַל־אֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם וְיָמֵשׁ חֹשֶׁךְ
A darkness that can be touched (Ex. 10:21).
Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitchaki, a French commentator in the 11th century) explains that this was not ordinary nighttime darkness, but a darkness more intense than night itself; a darkness that thickened and intensified until it became something with substance (mamash). The midrash (commentary) imagines a darkness so heavy that it immobilizes people entirely.
The Torah then adds a devastating detail:
לֹא־רָאוּ אִישׁ אֶת־אָחִיו
People could not see one another… (Ex. 10:23)
This is not simply a physical description, it is a moral one. When darkness reaches this level, people lose the ability to recognize one another’s presence and humanity. Ramban (Rabbi Moses Ben Nachmanides, a Spanish 13th-century scholar and philosopher) explains that this darkness extinguished every source of light. Even a flame could not survive within it. People remained frozen, unable to rise, unable to move.
And then the Torah offers a quiet counterpoint:
וּלְכל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל הָיָה אוֹר בְּמוֹשְׁבֹתָם
But for all the Israelites, there was light in their dwellings (Ex. 10:23).
On the surface, this verse explains who was spared the plague. But read more deeply, it sounds like a call. When darkness makes people invisible to one another, when fear overwhelms moral clarity, someone must choose to preserve the light. Someone must refuse to let darkness define the whole world.
This brings us directly back to my Shabbat N’kabla message last week, when I wrote about the danger not only of pain, but of adaptation. Not only of despair, but of learning to live with injustice. When the unbearable becomes bearable, when injustice becomes routine, when cruelty becomes policy, and when fear becomes a guiding principle, something essential in the human spirit is at risk. This week, the Torah deepens that warning: Darkness does not only frighten. It isolates. It narrows vision. It convinces people that paralysis is inevitable.
The Exodus disrupts that assumption. The people of Israel leave Egypt not because the danger has disappeared, but because movement becomes possible again. They leave quickly, without provisions, carrying dough that has not yet risen. They step into uncertainty because remaining frozen in place is no longer an option.
Yesterday I joined a call with faith leaders from across Massachusetts, alongside faith leaders in Minnesota, to learn what our siblings of faith on the ground are enduring there and how they are responding to the intensifying actions of ICE. Across the country, federal actions are placing immigrant communities and other vulnerable neighbors at risk. In Minnesota, faith leaders have refused to remain silent, stepping into the moral gap with prayer, public witness, and courageous leadership. The question before us now feels urgent and unavoidable: now Minnesota, next Massachusetts?
That conversation was part of our preparation for a public gathering of prayer and witness taking place tomorrow in Boston. We are gathering because faith does not wait for harm to arrive; faith shows up before. Tomorrow morning, Friday, January 23, I will be joining other faith leaders for a Faithful Presence and Public Witness, gathering at the Cathedral Church of Saint Paul, 138 Tremont Street in Boston, with doors opening at 9:15 a.m. and the program running from 9:30 a.m. to noon. We will begin by joining virtually with faith leaders in Minnesota, who have called for a march there, before walking together to the State House to pray for our governor; to assert that protecting the vulnerable is a core faith value; and to affirm that executive power can be used as a shield, not a sword. While this action is organized by faith leaders, lay leaders and community members are welcome to stand in support. Later that same day, at 3:00 p.m., there will be another opportunity to stand in solidarity with our siblings in Minnesota through a Minnesota Walk-Out solidarity rally at the South Bay Mall in Dorchester, gathering near Home Depot, offering a public moment of presence and witness.
This, too, is part of the Exodus story. Redemption begins when people refuse paralysis, when they insist on seeing one another, and when they act – even without certainty – out of moral responsibility.
Tonight is the twelfth yahrzeit of my father, Rabbi Angel Kreiman-Brill. I offer this teaching and this call to action in his memory.
As you know, I grew up in Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship, in a society shaped by curfews, fear, and enforced silence. Disagreement carried risk. Dissent could cost one’s life. Many who dared to speak were forcibly disappeared.
And yet, I watched my father and other faith leaders refuse to surrender their moral vision. I learned early on that courage does not mean the absence of fear. It means refusing to let fear dictate one’s values. When Chile eventually emerged from dictatorship, I experienced what it means for darkness to lift – not all at once, but enough for people to gather, to sing, and to believe again in the possibility of change. I learned that history is not fixed, and that human beings acting together can transform reality.
This is what the story of the Exodus comes to teach us. Redemption is not neat or immediate. It unfolds through fear, loss, and uncertainty. But darkness is never the final word.
The psalmist teaches:
בָּעֶרֶב יָלִין בֶּכִי וְלַבֹּקֶר רִנָּה
We may lie down weeping at nightfall, but joy comes in the morning (Psalm 30:6).
The psalm does not promise an easy dawn, but it insists that night is not where the story concludes.
May we remember that even when vision is limited and fear is real, paralysis is not inevitable.
May we continue to see one another.
May we hold the light where we are able.
And may we trust that even now, deep in the night, redemption remains possible.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia