Rabbi YY Jacobson

In Prison With You

This story took place several years ago in North Carolina, and to this day, it has left a lasting impression.

Joe Serna was arrested for driving under the influence. As part of his probation, he was required to abstain from alcohol for a specified period of time. When it was later discovered that he had violated this condition and had been untruthful about it, he was summoned back to court—this time before Judge Lou Olivera.

Judge Olivera felt he had little choice. A violation of probation required consequences, and so, Joe was sentenced to spend one night in jail. The sentence was carried out immediately.

As Joe was escorted into the cell and the door shut behind him, his body was overcome with terror. In his words, “It came back.”

What came back? We so often know very little about the hidden stories people carry.

Joe is a decorated American combat veteran. He served three tours in Afghanistan and was awarded two Purple Hearts for bravery. His Green Beret unit survived bombings and even a suicide attack. Yet the most terrifying moment of his life did not occur in battle.

One night in Afghanistan, Joe was traveling in a military truck with three fellow soldiers along the edge of a creek. Without warning, the road collapsed beneath them and the truck plunged into the water and began to sink.

They were trapped.

Joe remembers the water rising—first to his legs, then his chest, then his neck—until it stopped just beneath his chin. The night was long and pitch black. By morning, Joe was the only one who made it out alive. His three closest friends drowned beside him.

When Joe returned home from war, he suffered from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Confined spaces, especially locked ones, triggered the terror of that night underwater.

So when Judge Olivera sentenced Joe to a night in jail, he was unknowingly sending a war veteran straight into one of his deepest fears: confinement, helplessness, and suffocation.

The judge later explained: “I knew Joe’s history. I knew accountability mattered. But I also knew that a jail cell could be horrific for him.”

And so Judge Olivera did something extraordinary. Shortly after Joe was locked inside the cell, the door opened again. Joe looked up in shock as someone else stepped inside.

It was the judge himself.

Judge Olivera chose to spend the entire night in the cell with the man he had just sentenced. He arrived with a change of clothes and a homemade meatloaf, and he stayed.

They talked through the night about family and life, dreams and disappointments, fears and hopes. They spoke not as judge and defendant, but as two human beings.

Joe later said: “With the judge there, the walls disappeared and my anxiety melted away. I was no longer trapped in a truck underwater in Afghanistan. I was back in a room in North Carolina, speaking with an intelligent, compassionate human being.”

By morning, Joe promised there would be no more mistakes. When the cell door opened, the two men embraced like old friends reunited after many years.

Judge Olivera later reflected: “Sometimes jail is not what a man needs. Sometimes the best sentence is compassion.”

We often rush to discipline. But if we fail to understand the inner world of the person standing before us and lack the humility and empathy to enter their distress, we may win the moment but lose the person. At times, our responses do not heal; they deepen anxiety and pain.

Real leadership requires stepping off the high horse and into the cell. It means being present with someone in their fear, meeting them with warmth, and saying, “I am here with you.”

When we show people that we are not afraid of them, they begin to believe they do not have to be afraid of themselves.

And this truth applies inward as well. Can we sit with our own frightened inner child—our own darkness, pain, and turmoil—without judgment? Can we offer ourselves the same compassion we would offer another?

The peace we seek often lies beyond the pain we are avoiding. The connection we long for exists on the far side of the solitude we resist. And authenticity emerges only when we stop trying to become someone else to earn love.

Do not fear the darkness. Enter it and bring light with you. Kindle compassion and embrace every part of yourself.

Because that is where real change begins.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

When Justice Meets Redemption

The Pasuk in this week’s Parsha says, “And Moshe said, ‘Thus says Hashem: At about midnight I will go out within Egypt’” (Shemos 11:4).

This wording immediately raises a fundamental question.

Hashem Himself told Moshe that the final plague—the Death of the Firstborn—would occur precisely at midnight, “Ba’chatzos halailah.” If so, why does Moshe Rabbeinu convey the message to Pharaoh that the plague will occur “Kachatzos,” at about midnight? Why the imprecision?

Rashi addresses this question directly. He explains that Moshe intentionally avoided absolute precision so as not to give the Egyptian astrologers an opportunity to discredit him. Should they miscalculate the exact moment of midnight, and the plague not occur according to their reckoning, they would accuse Moshe Rabbeinu of falsehood. To preempt such distortion, Moshe said, “Around midnight.”

But the Zera Shimshon offers a different explanation, one that reveals the metaphysical drama of that night.

That night was governed by two distinct mazalos, two cosmic influences. Until midnight, the world was under the influence of Tzedek, a mazal associated with kindness, righteousness, and beneficence. After midnight, the governing force shifted to Din—judgment, severity, and destructive power.

Had the plague occurred before midnight, the Egyptians could have claimed: “The Jewish people were spared not because they were worthy of redemption, but because the mazal of Tzedek, righteousness, was ruling at the time. It was merely good fortune.”

And had it occurred after midnight, they could have said the opposite: “The Egyptians were struck not because of Divine justice, but because the mazal of Din was dominant. It was bad luck.”

Either way, redemption would be reduced to astrology. Fate, not G-d. Mazal, not truth. Therefore, Hashem orchestrated the moment with infinite precision.

The redemption occurred exactly at chatzos, after the mazal of Tzedek had ended, and one instant before the mazal of Din took hold. In that infinitesimal moment, Hashem demonstrated that neither kindness nor judgment, neither fortune nor fate, rules history, but only Him.

It was a double revelation: Klal Yisrael was redeemed not because of luck, but because Hashem chose them. And the Egyptians were struck not because of a harmful cosmic force, but because Divine justice demanded it.

This idea finds a haunting echo in modern Jewish history.

A survivor of the Holocaust, who endured the horrors of Bergen-Belsen, once stood up on the day the Nuremberg Trials began and the Nazi leaders ym”s were finally being brought to justice.

“Today I am witnessing a double miracle,” he said. “First, that I and my brothers and sisters survived and were redeemed. And second, that Jewish spilled blood was not ignored. Justice has come.”

Redemption is incomplete without justice. And justice is hollow without redemption. That night in Egypt, at midnight, Hashem taught the world that history does not hinge on chance or constellation. It turns on Divine will.

And that lesson still speaks to our past, our present, and our future.

Rabbi Berel Wein zt”l

Seeing the Light

This week’s Parsha marks the culmination of the events that lead to the Jewish people’s liberation from Egyptian bondage. Moshe Rabbeinu leads them toward freedom, as the final three plagues unfold, and all the foundational laws of Pesach are introduced.

One of the plagues described is choshech, darkness. But this was not merely the absence of light. The Torah describes a darkness so thick and overwhelming that a person could not rise if seated, nor sit if standing. It was a palpable darkness, a physical, immobilizing force. For three days, Egyptian society was paralyzed.

Rashi, citing the Midrash, reveals something even more sobering. During these days of darkness, a large portion of the Jewish population in Egypt also perished. This tragedy preceded the plague of the firstborn. Jews, too, died, quietly and mysteriously, in a way the Torah does not fully describe.

Later we read that the Bnei Yisrael left Egypt chamushim. While the simple meaning is “armed,” the Midrash understands it as echad me’chamishim—only one out of fifty. Even according to the more generous interpretation, only one out of five Jews left Egypt. That means that the overwhelming majority of Jews died in Egypt.

Why?

Because they no longer believed. They had abandoned Moshe and relinquished their traditions and identity. They chose to remain former slaves who assimilated into the lower strata of Egyptian society. When Pharaoh and his army were destroyed at the sea and slavery was abolished, those Jews who remained behind disappeared from Jewish history altogether.

This moment becomes a painful paradigm for Jewish history.

Throughout the generations, we see a recurring process of attrition. Not everyone who begins Jewish history remains part of it. Over time, numbers diminish and entire branches fall away. It is estimated that tens of millions of people in Europe today have Jewish ancestry, yet are no longer Jewish. In the 19^th century alone, massive waves of conversion erased whole communities from the Jewish future.

This is not accidental. The Torah itself states explicitly: “Lo merubchem mikol ha’amim… ki atem hame’at mikol ha’amim” (Devarim 7:7). Hashem did not choose us because we are many, because we never would be. We are destined to be few.

Even today, the pattern continues. Traditional communities grow, while assimilated communities struggle to sustain themselves. This, too, is part of the darkness.

And yet, the Torah tells us something astonishing: “U’lechol Bnei Yisrael haya ohr bemoshvosam—And for all the Jewish people, there was light in their dwellings” (Shemos 10:23). The commentators explain that this is not merely physical light; it is symbolic. There are people who live in full daylight and still cannot see, like the blind person feeling his way at noon, surrounded by sunlight yet unable to perceive it. That is the deepest darkness of all.

The irony of choshech is precisely this: for those willing to see, there was light everywhere. But for those who refused to see, the light meant nothing. That influence lingered. Throughout the desert journey, whenever hardship arose, voices cried out, “Let us return to Egypt.” Egypt was no longer a place, but a mindset, an inability to rise to challenge, a refusal to trust the future.

This pattern repeats throughout exile.

There is a segment of the Jewish people who live in light, and when one lives in light, one can see one’s shadow. “Hashem tzilcha al yad yeminecha.” Hashem is your shadow. As you move, the shadow moves. You shape your own destiny.

But for those who cannot see, there is no shadow at all. No awareness of Divine presence. No sense of responsibility or direction. Those are the ones who remain in Egypt.

That is what it means “to see the light.”

Rashi adds that one of the purposes of the plague of darkness was to allow the Jewish people to bury their dead without the Egyptians noticing. Had the Egyptians seen Jewish suffering as well, they would have dismissed the plagues as random tragedy. It would have been viewed as something that happens to everyone and the message would have been lost.

The darkness therefore concealed, but also revealed. It revealed to the Jewish people a truth that echoes through every generation: survival requires vision. Faith requires choice. Light must be sought. We cannot control what happens to everyone. But we are responsible for ourselves and for our families and our communities.

That is the enduring message of the ninth plague.

May we merit to be among those who see the light, choose the light, and walk forward with clarity and faith.

Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff

Light Amidst the Darkness

In this week’s Parsha, Hashem commands Moshe, “Bo el Paro— Come to Pharaoh.” He is not told to “go,” but to “come.”

The message is profound and comforting. Hashem is telling Moshe, “You are not going alone. I am already at your destination. Come there and you will find Me. Do not be afraid. I am with you.”

This is a message that echoes across generations. When we strive to live higher, to do good, to make a difference, we often feel hesitation. We worry about what others will say. We fear standing out. Perhaps you are the only Jew in your office or it feels uncomfortable to stop lashon hara at your Shabbat table. You want to live with integrity, but it’s hard.

Bo. Come, Hashem says. You do not walk alone. I will walk with you.

In this Parsha, Pharaoh’s resistance is finally shattered. The mighty ruler of Egypt runs through the streets, desperately searching for Moshe and Aharon, urging the Jewish people to leave Egypt immediately. But within this dramatic turning point, the Torah offers a profound insight into the nature of choshech, darkness.

When the plague of darkness descends, the Torah describes it with chilling words: “Lo ra’u ish es achiv—One person could not see his brother.”

This, the Torah teaches us, is true darkness. Darkness is not merely the absence of light. Darkness is when one human being cannot see another. When a man cannot see his brother. When a woman cannot see her sister. When a child cannot see another child.

We live in a “selfie” world. Who could have imagined a time when people would take pictures not of others, but of themselves? And what happens right after the selfie is taken? The image is enlarged and magnified, so one can see oneself even more clearly.

When all we see is ourselves, we lose the ability to see others and we stop noticing pain. We fail to recognize joy, grief, disappointment, or quiet courage. When our eyes are turned inward alone, this is called choshech. This is darkness.

In context, the Torah then uses a striking phrase: “Vayamesh choshech—The darkness was tangible, thick, paralyzing” (Shemos 10:21).

My mother, of blessed memory, would speak about this verse every year when we reached this Parsha. She would ask: When does darkness become tangible and so heavy that it immobilizes a person?

There is a chilling allusion hidden within the word vayamesh, a reference to palpable darkness. If you take the letter that precedes each of the letters in the Hebrew alphabet from the word vayamesh (vav, yud, mem, shin), it spells a single name: Hitler (hei, tes, lamed, reish).

That was one of the darkest eras in Jewish history. A time of absolute choshech, when darkness ruled and humanity itself seemed paralyzed.

When I returned from an unforgettable trip to Vienna, where I had the privilege of speaking to a beautiful and resilient Jewish community, a particular incident stayed with me. As we had entered the grand and historic hotel where the event was being held, our hosts told us something astonishing. This was the very hotel where Hitler once stayed, and where he stood on the balcony and addressed the masses.

They had chosen that location deliberately.

Where he once stood spreading hatred, we now stood sharing words of emunah. Where darkness once emanated, we gathered to celebrate Jewish strength, faith, and continuity.

We have endured terrible and unspeakable darkness. And yet, we are still here. We have carried light into the world and we have pushed back the darkness with faith, with courage and with connection.

The Torah is alive and it speaks to us in every generation. And in this week’s Parsha, it reminds us that we are never alone, that Hashem walks with us, and that even in the darkest moments, light can—and must—be brought forth.