This Home Knows Tragedy: A drash on Parshat Bo
A Drash on Parashat Bo
In Parashat Bo, we read about the final three plagues and that pivotal night of the Exodus when our ancestors marked their doorposts with blood, so the Angel of Death would pass over their homes. The usual explanation is that this sign protected the Israelites from tragedy. But I see it differently: the blood on the doorposts wasn’t a promise that suffering would never return. Rather, it was a proclamation that this home already knows tragedy and has discovered how to endure it. After all, these Israelites had been enslaved, and they had witnessed the murder of their firstborn sons. By marking their doors, they effectively declared, “We’ve endured heartbreak—and we’ve built a system to survive it.”
I believe Judaism never claims that once we suffer, we’re immune from future pain. If anything, our history—from ancient enslavement to pogroms and the Holocaust—proves that heartache can, unfortunately, repeat. Yet our tradition gives us a blueprint for how to cope. Over many generations, we’ve crafted mourning rituals, shiva, and communal support, so we don’t have to reinvent the wheel every time disaster strikes. When we follow these established scripts, we demonstrate love, resilience, and our capacity for collective perseverance.
This blueprint for healing isn’t meant just for the Jewish community. Our experiences have taught us invaluable lessons about how to rebuild after catastrophe. Much like the organization “After the Fire,” which unites survivors of major blazes to guide new communities in crisis, we Jews share knowledge accumulated through centuries of adversity. Time and again, I’ve said, “We know pain. We can help you weather it.” This principle animates our commitment to tikkun olam—to repair the world wherever we can. When tragedy occurs, I believe we must leverage our hard-earned wisdom in acts of justice, compassion, and community-building. We know firsthand how fragile life can be; I say we dare not waste that awareness.
Ultimately, the ritual of placing blood on the doorposts becomes, for me, a living call for empathy and preparedness. Like our ancestors’ homes, our synagogues and communities can stand as centers of resilience. We can say, “This place understands heartbreak. Let us be a support to those who suffer.” Faith doesn’t guarantee a life free from adversity. Rather, it reminds us that hardship will come and go—and that we can face it more bravely when we face it together. This is the essence of being part of an evolving, sacred story: we inherit from the past the tools we need in the present, and we pass them on to future generations, ensuring that none of us must confront sorrow alone.
