The Fragility and Responsibility of Freedom (Bo)
Today, as we mark day 480 of war, we stand in the tension of profound joy and unrelenting grief. Families embrace loved ones miraculously returned to them. Yet, we now know that eight of the first 33 hostages will not come home. This harsh reality leaves their families and our collective heart shattered.
We celebrate the release of seven young women and pray for the freedom of all those still captive. But we must also hold space — space for the mourning of families who have learned their loved ones are gone, space for the anguish of those who wait without answers. This is the moment we are in: joy and pain woven together, a tapestry of survival and loss.
This week’s parasha, Bo, lands with a resonance that feels almost unbearable. It is here, in the midst of the final plagues, that we are commanded to mark the first Pesach. The Torah instructs us to eat matzah, to internalize it as the bread of freedom and affliction, reminding us of suffering even as we recall liberation.
“Seven days you shall eat matzah,” the Torah says, “and on that day, you shall tell your child: ‘It is because of this that God acted on my behalf when I left Egypt.’” (Exodus 13:7–8)
Notice the Torah’s language. Because of this, God acted for me. Not for our ancestors, not for some distant generation — but for me, for us. We are commanded not only to tell the story but to live it, to feel it in our bones, to see ourselves as if we, too, were freed from Egypt.
And why? Because freedom is fragile. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks quotes Judge Learned Hand, who said, “Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women. When it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can save it.” True freedom, Rabbi Sacks reminds us, is not unbridled will. It is the discipline of self-restraint, the moral commitment to live in service of something greater.
The matzah we eat is more than a symbol; it is an act of internalization. We take in the story of suffering and liberation, of affliction and hope, reminding ourselves that freedom is both incomplete and a perpetual responsibility.
This week, as we witness liberation in our time — hostages brought home — we cannot forget those still waiting, nor the weight borne by those whose waiting has ended in unbearable loss. We are called to hold all of it. To celebrate, to grieve, to remember.
The liberation of our ancestors was incomplete until it became our responsibility. And our work remains unfinished. “Until all are free” is not a slogan — it is a sacred charge.
As we mark this moment, let us be a people who live the story, who eat the matzah, who carry the weight of memory and the burden of responsibility. Let us act with the conviction that freedom is not yet complete but that we are part of its unfolding.
In this fragile, fractured world, may we call forth our better angels and bring every captive home. May we honor the memory of those we have lost by building a society worthy of their dreams.
Let us remember: the work of freedom is not done until it is complete.