Ramaz Passover Offerings 5784

This Pesach Torah publication is dedicated in memory of the IDF soldiers who have fallen in battle, and in honor of all those who continue to fight on the front lines.

We remember and honor their love and dedication to our country and we will preserve their memories and legacies in our hearts forever.

Am Yisrael Chai.

Avi, Evelyn, Isaac, David & Jack Spodek

Table of Contents

Rabbi Joshua Lookstein '88 Introduction

Ms. Miriam Krupka V’nahafoch Hu: A Purim Idea in Passover Clothes

Rabbi Kenny Schiowitz The Conversion of the Converted

Rabbi Dani Ritholtz Zaida, ikh vil bah ir fregn Fir Kashyas?

Ma Neshtanah: Why a Grandfather Also Asks Questions

Rabbi Dov Pianko Matzah: The Simple Food of Faith

Rabbi Jeremy Teichman Matzah and the Race Against Time

Ms. Miriam Gedwiser Chew on This: The Meaning of Matzah

Dr. Daniel Stein Kokin “Avadim Hayinu”: Yetziat Mitzrayim and the Western Philosophical Tradition

Rabbi Aaron Frank Dayeinu and Who Knows 15?

Mr. Jonathan Cannon Time Travel as the Fourth Dimension of the Seder

Cover Art: The seder scene from Zürich, Braginsky Collection, B314, p. 42 – Passover Haggadah, with German tranlation (Charlotte Rothschild Haggadah) (https://www.e-codices.ch/en/list/one/bc/b-0314)

Introduction

Dear Reader,

How is this Pesach different from all others? On all previous ones, when we said ךְָתְָמֲָחֲ ךְֹפֹשְׁ

לֹׁא, pour out your wrath on those who did not know you, some said it wholeheartedly and some half-heartedly. On this Pesach, everyone will say it wholeheartedly. Ok, maybe not everyone, but more. Even if it’s just me.

October 7th and its aftermath have brought added meaning to the phrase ךָוּעָדְָיְ אֹלֹ רׁשְׁא. The paragraph always referred to those who have actually waged a physical war on the Jewish People, those who וּמַּשְׁ הַ וּהֵַוֵָנָ־ תְׁאוֵ בֹקֲֹעֲַיְ־ תְׁא לַֹכַָא. But where once ךָוּעָדְָיְ אֹלֹ רׁשְׁא connoted nations who didn’t acknowledge God, it now also connotes willful, opportunistic, and herd-mentality ignorance by individuals and groups. Today our minds easily conjure those who don’t acknowledge the crimes of Hamas, the suffering of the hostages and their families, the toll on Israelis, and Israel’s right to exist and defend itself. We’ve seen too much, too close to our two homes.

In Bava Metzia 32b, the Gemara discusses the commandment to ease the burden of a donkey that is suffering under its weight, and in the analysis of one of the many possible scenarios where this law could apply, it asks a question: How do I know who the owner of the donkey is? And it answers: the person who is walking behind it, because לֹיְֵזֵָא הּיְרָמֲָחֲ רַתְָבָּ

. Typically, a person follows his donkey.

The Gemara was prophetic, as, sadly, that seems like a pretty accurate description of the times in which we live.

New York Times columnist Bret Stephens, in the commencement address last year at his alma mater, the University of Chicago, focused on what he hoped the graduates received during their time on campus: the capacity, the desire, and - above all - the courage to think for themselves, and to express and behave themselves accordingly. “This is more than just the purpose of an education. It is what the world you are entering most desperately needs from you.”

And, to continue the animal motif, he mentioned the “herd of independent minds,” a phrase used by the art critic Harold Rosenberg, in Commentary magazine in 1948, to refer to people who say they make up their own minds, and yet somehow, and generally without exception, arrive at precisely the same long list of conclusions as millions of others. “To yell stop when everyone else says go - or go when everyone else says stop - takes guts, and guts aren’t part of any kind of normal college curriculum.”

Stephens gave this speech months before October 7th. What we are witnessing now is just another application of the “herd of independent minds,” but more personal and therefore more painful: swarms jumping on the donkey-drawn wagon of anti-semitism.

Anti-semitism can’t be fully defeated. But, at a minimum, we can each look internally and ask ourselves if we are part of a herd or do we have guts. Do we follow or do we lead?

Ramaz was founded on guts, epitomized by my grandfather, Rabbi Joseph H. Lookstein, of blessed memory, who - all five feet of him on a good day - would fearlessly confront members of the German American Bund who gathered on Upper East Side street corners in the 30’s and 40’s. It was epitomized by my father, and my mother! - yibadlu l’chaim - who walked the streets of Moscow in 1972, followed closely by a black car filled with KGB agents.

A history of leadership, though, must become a future of leadership. Thank God, it has. Today, Ramaz’s guts are epitomized by its students, who, among countless examples of Israel advocacy, unabashedly and unafraid, place and replace pictures of hostages around Manhattan, no matter how many times those ךָוּעָדְָיְ אֹלֹ רׁשְׁא rip them down. As Stephens said in describing his alma mater, “Institutions become and remain great not because of the weight of their traditions or the perception of their prestige, but because they are places where the sharpest thinking is given the freest rein.” And, I will add, where thought is nurtured to lead to action.

Zechariah 9:9 describes Mashiach as רוֹ֔מֲָחֲ־ לֹעֲ בֵ֣כַ ר. Not following the donkey but driving it, leading it. That pasuk begins םִַלָֹשְׁוּרְיְ תְַבָּ יְעֲיְרהַ ,ןוֹיִּצִ-תְַבָּ

(“Rejoice greatly Zion, raise a cheer Jerusalem”).

May the thoughts of Ramaz educators shared in this publication enhance your chag, may we each be blessed with a truly independent mind, the courage to proudly defend the State of Israel and the Jewish People, and may our efforts speedily lead to peace and joy in Zion and Jerusalem.

Chag kasher v’sameach

Associate Head of School, Rabbinic Leadership, Jewish Life and Learning

The Ramaz School

V’nahafoch Hu: A Purim Idea in Passover Clothes

“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

I’ve always hated this expression. I am uncomfortable with the moral equivalencies that are part of its faux logic and calm demeanor. I dislike the perceived shrug that comes along with the “oh well” nature of such a statement - the “you want yours and I want mine” and the “is there really a difference between one kind of violence and another?” type of attitude. I don’t believe that something so morally complex and powerful can be so relative. Morality cannot be about subjective vision. There must be a standard by which we judge the lies of one person against the lies of another. The violence of one against that of another.

Immanuel Kant, the 18th-century German philosopher, is perhaps best known for his moral theory of the Categorical Imperative. Amongst other features of the Imperative, Kant defines moral law as commands or laws that all persons must follow, regardless of their desires or extenuating circumstances. Some things are wrong no matter the circumstances. Stealing and murder are wrong. Finished. This law must be followed in all cases and all circumstances.

As you can imagine, the Categorical Imperative is often criticized as not providing the tools for a person to resolve a conflict between two “laws” such as “never tell a lie” and “avoid harming someone.” What if telling the truth were to harm someone? What if lying were to help them? In some scenarios, such as one famous one known as “the murderer at the door,” Kant seems to imply that one should show a murderer knocking at the door where his victim is hiding, rather than lie to him, thus breaking the moral code of “do not lie.” It seems as if Kant is setting up a scenario in which normal society would never be able to function properly. After all, it would seem, a little bit of rational rule-breaking is not only okay, but in some cases should be morally required. Or at least one should have to struggle between the two values - one should be forced to ask some questions and not just to shrug and say “a rule is a rule.”

There are many ways to understand what Kant meant here, and much discussion has taken place analyzing the Categorical Imperative. But my takeaway from all the analysis is that one of humanity’s biggest challenges is not figuring out the rules themselves, but deciding when it is right and good for them to be broken. When is discretion within a rule morally required and when is it morally dangerous? It is the very analysis of the rules (which we as Jews are very good at, as one can tell from the nature of our halakhic system and the thousands of dapim of Gemara that we learn) that defines our morality. Can I lie to spare my mother pain over my failed math test and just tell her I got a 100? It will make her so happy! It seems like this isn’t a great idea… but what about lying to my friend and saying “It’s gonna be fine” when they got into real trouble for something? I should do it if it will make them feel better, right? But what if I know it isn’t going to be fine? We go through every day

of our personal and communal lives both living by the rules and deciding where and when to shift the rules, considering whom to ask beforehand about breaking them, and whom for forgiveness after doing so.

It seems clear that the midwives’ breaking of Pharaoh’s rules falls into the category of rule breaking for a moral purpose. The text is clear on this point when it says that God rewarded them for breaking Pharoah’s law of killing the males. But other situations in the Pesach/Egypt narrative are not so clear. When Moshe kills the Mitzri hitting a Jew, did he do the right thing? The text is silent, so the commentators rush to fill the void. Midrashim work hard to establish that the Egyptian was about to kill the Jew, that he was a thoroughly evil person, or that circumstances demanded that Moshe kill this Egyptian. They ask, analyze, and question in order to preserve the morality of Moshe’s act because they struggle with how he could do this given that the Egyptian was “hitting the Jew.” The moral and halakhic understanding of Moshe’s act takes up many pages of discussion. Why? Because, in a strange way, the response to Kant’s categorical imperative is that Kant was right - there is a universal ‘law’ at play. The law is the sanctity of human life. We believe that the death of a human life is a hard and sad thing. That doesn’t mean the death was a wrong thing. But if we believe in the law that all human life is sanctified, then it must always leave us with “why?” We must always ask and analyze. Even when it is justified.

The next level, once one learns the law, is not to say that the law is true at all times and forever. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t just or that it didn’t have to happen or that there isn’t an answer to the ‘why.’ But the next level is to ask the question of ourselves - how and why? Why does the action apply here? Should it? Should it apply next month, next year? We must always ask that question. Perhaps that is why the Haggadah focuses so thoroughly on the asking of questions. Never assume that you know the answer to everything, that you are justified in all that you do, that we have the reason and the right. We must go ahead and do all that we need to do for our everyday lives and our nation, but let us also always continue to examine, to ask, to ponder. Let’s go over for maybe the thousandth time - is this the best way to do it? Yes? Ok, great. If not, let’s think about that. What are other ways it could be done? What are new answers and new perspectives? What more can we learn from this dilemma, this challenge, this piece of history? It’s the Pesach אוה ךופהנו - Take something you’re certain of, that you think you know well, and then turn it around and upside down and inside out, decipher and analyze it from every perspective and every angle. Remind your children to ask questions before and after you embark on the well-known story, the law that is a given, the accepted truththat is how they, and you, will learn.

Don’t start the process with answers or with telling. Start with questions. What are we searching for? What is our goal? Is this right? Can we do it better? And then move forward into the story. For it is when we stop asking the questions entirely that the answer, the moral law itself, may be lost.

The Conversion of the Converted

Pesach contains more rituals, practices, and customs than any other time of the Jewish year. Central among these, and the source of the holiday’s (and this publication’s) name, is the Korban Pesach (the Passover offering). While we do not currently have the opportunity to partake of this sacrifice, which was offered on the 14th of Nisan (that is, erev Pesach) and eaten on the evening of the 15th (seder night), I believe that a deeper understanding of its message can shed light on the spiritual goals and opportunities that Pesach offers.

Rashi (to Shemot 12:48) presents a surprising hava amina (logical thesis to be rejected) that every convert should offer a Korban Pesach immediately after his or her conversion. This requirement, however, is rejected based on the fact that the Torah describes a convert as “like any citizen of Israel” to indicate that converts bring the Korban Pesach on Pesach only, and not as part of the conversion process. We must wonder, though, what was the rationale of such a hava amina in the first place? The Korban Pesach is specifically meant to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt and is offered on the anniversary of the original Korban Pesach. How can a case be made for a convert to bring it at another time of year, attached to the conversion process? Why would the Torah need to address this flawed thesis?

Later on in the Torah’s description of the Korban Pesach, we are told that the sacrifice is to be offered “miyamim yamima” (“from days and days”). Rashi (to Shemot 13:10) interprets this to mean that the Korban should be brought each and every year (based on Rabbi Akiva’s interpretation in Menachot 36b). Here, too, we can ask a similar question: What was the hava amina? Every mitzvah that is tied to a specific day in the calendar is brought every year. What would we have thought otherwise? Why did the Torah need to specify this?

Rabbi Menachem Genack (in Sefer Birkat Yitzchak) suggested an answer based on a ruling of Rav Meir Simcha HaKohen of Dvinsk (Meshech Chochma, Beha’alotcha). During the time of the Beit HaMikdash, every Jewish conversion process was finalized with the offering of a sacrifice. If this sacrifice is outstanding, the convert is deemed Jewish and must perform mitzvot, but cannot eat from any sacrifice. However, if such a convert brings a Korban Pesach on Pesach, that alone suffices, in place of the conversion sacrifice. His proof is the fact that the Jewish People themselves underwent a conversion process in Egypt, and ate from the sacrifice of the Pesach in Egypt without any other conversion offering. Thus we see that the Korban Pesach can serve as a conversion sacrifice.

With this understanding, we can solve our two problems. Just as a convert only converts once in a lifetime, similarly we would have thought that every Jew has to demonstrate a commitment to Judaism, like a conversion, once in a lifetime. This would be reflected and represented by the offering of a Korban Pesach, the conversion sacrifice. We might then think that each Jew should do this only once in a lifetime. Therefore, the Torah must specify that this is to be done each and every year (“miyamim yamima”). Why? Because it is not sufficient to ritually demonstrate our commitment to Hashem only once in a lifetime; it must be renewed and refreshed each and every year as we “renew our vows” with Hashem.

Similarly, we can explain the reasonable argument to require a convert to bring a Korban Pesach at the final stage of his or her conversion, since it is the quintessential conversion sacrifice and is relevant at any time in the calendar when a Jew commits to Judaism. Though rooted in a historical event that occurred on a particular day in the calendar, it is always a relevant method of proclaiming our commitment to Hashem. Thus, the Torah must specify that the convert is “like the citizen of Israel,” who brings it only on the holiday of Pesach. This indicates that this unique conversion sacrifice is truly meant for all Jews who have a responsibility and opportunity to commit and recommit to our history, our future, and our Torah each and every year.

While we cannot currently offer a Korban Pesach in the correct manner, the annual Pesach seder continues to center around this theme. It is our annual opportunity to deepen our commitment to our tradition, to reflect on our personal and national history, and to ensure a strong and fresh commitment to the future of the Jewish People, both the nation and the religion.

Zaida, ikh vil bah ir fregn Fir Kashyas (or Ma Nishtanah: Why a Grandfather Also Asks Questions)

Rabbi

Dedicated in loving memory of Mordechai Yidel ben Baruch Leib Hakohen.

Every seder has its own traditions, inside jokes, and songs that make it memorable. I imagine anyone reading the previous sentence running through recollections of their family seder, and smiling at everything that makes it unique and magnificent. A Ritholtz seder, for example, features beautiful singing, divrei Torah, the shouting out of certain words like “saraf” and “rigorous,” and getting your pinky ready for spilling out wine for

the ten plagues, to name a few aspects. But, traditionally, probably the most significant staple of a Ritholtz seder is “Ma nishtanah.” We have the classic elements–the youngest kids getting up with various levels of enthusiasm, cheering when someone finishes, etc. However, the final part was what everyone eagerly awaited, when my grandfather would recite “Ma nishtanah” in Yiddish, just as he did with his father in the 1930s, in his childhood.

“Tate, ikh vil bah ir fregn Fir Kashyas.” (“Dad, I want to ask you the Four Questions.”) My zaida led our seder down to his ninety-seventh year of life, asking in his singsong way questions for his father, even though he had passed away in 1954. We could not help but smile as we were transported to the Ritholtz sedarim of old, where these famous questions were asked time and time again.

His “Fir Kashyas” touches on a larger question: What are the questions of “Ma nishtanah” trying to accomplish in the larger context of the seder? Most believe it is a pedagogical tool; the Mishnah, the source for “Ma nishtanah,” directs us to teach our children how to ask questions. Asking questions is the major theme of the night; many of the strange practices we have are based on the dictum, “to get the children to ask questions.” Queries, especially from kids, get the questioner involved and are the best way to maintain the interest of all the members of the seder so we can accomplish the task “vehigadetah levincha” (“and you shall tell your child [the story of the redemption from Egypt]”).

However, modeling for kids is not the only rationale for “Ma nishtanah.” That becomes obvious when we see the Gemara in Pesachim that says (116a) that a person who is alone for the seder must ask himself the questions, and even if there are two Torah scholars who are sharing the seder, they should still pose them to each other. If the sole purpose of the questions is to create a context for a pedagogical lesson for the children, why is there an obligation for one person to ask the questions of himself; or for two scholars, who presumably know the story of the redemption backward and forwards, to do so as well?

Abarbanel answers that a person must ask the question to himself in order to realize that there is never an age where we cannot learn, where we cannot be introspective and learn about our story. From the youngest age to the oldest, teaching and learning are a joyous, never-ending process.

My grandfather, Arthur Ritholtz (z”l), typified this ongoing yearning for knowledge and openness to new ways of learning our story. He was someone who, in many ways, did not need a lesson on slavery or freedom, especially when it came to the Jewish story. Zaida had a life experience that was unmatched in our generation. His childhood was defined by the Great Depression. He saw the battlefields of Europe as a soldier in WWII and helped liberate a work camp filled with Jewish prisoners. He saw the creation of a Jewish state and saw that state survive attack after attack, including October 7th, and despite that, continue to thrive. He was the pillar of his community that still thrives today and, along with his wife, raised children and grandchildren who are leaders in their respective communities and emulate his unbelievable sheim tov (good name). Arthur Ritholtz experienced terrible pain, the loss of a brother in his younger years and of a son in his older ones. He also had cause for jubilation, not only seeing his children and grandchildren, but even great-grandchildren, who accomplished much in his lifetime.

With all of this experience, one would think there would be no need for this special man to ask juvenile questions like “Ma nishtanah.” However, my zaida showed that everyone must ask questions, both simple and challenging, on that magnificent evening. Age, wisdom, or experience does not exempt you from asking the basic questions, and unlocking being a student and teacher simultaneously. My grandfather excelled in this area, always wanting to learn more about Judaism and life, and he manifested this every seder night. This year, after his passing last November, my family’s sedarim will have a deep hole without him. The Yiddish that would ring out into the night, transporting us back years and years to our ancestors’ tables, will be a faint echo. But, at the same time, we will fill that emptiness with his example, always asking the four questions, always being the student eager to learn about our life and freedom. Every person–both those who had the privilege to meet him and those who did not (but who may be missing their own special family members at their table this year)–should learn from this great student and teacher. I know I will, and will say “Zaida…ikh vil ba ir fregn Fir Kashyas.”

Matzah: The Simple Food of Faith

Rabbi Dov Pianko

The Hebrew names of all people, places, and things encapsulate their essence and purpose (Rabeinu Bachye to Bereishit 2:19). Colloquially, we refer to this holiday as Pesach, but the Torah (Vayikra 23:6) employs a different name, “Chag HaMatzot.” What is it about matzah that encapsulates the essence of this holiday?

The Netziv, Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Berlin (1817-1893), in his Chumash commentary Ha’amek Davar, elucidates the significance and symbolic meaning of matzah. He says (to Shemot 13:3) that matzah takes no advantage of human technological ingenuity and creativity, which allows man to leaven dough beyond the simple flour and water created by God. Chametz is the epitome of human involvement in nature. Thus, unleavened bread is the symbol of the survival and ongoing existence of the Jewish people as they rely solely on the spirit of God.

Accordingly, the primary reason we eat matzah and remove chametz is to enable us to focus on simplicity, thus allowing us to more clearly perceive the involvement of Hashem. The ability to discern all that Hashem does, and to rekindle our faith, is fundamental to the holiday of Pesach. As we sit at the seder recounting the story of yetziat Mitzrayim and engaging in various rituals, it is ultimately for us to realign ourselves with our commitment to, and relationship with, Hashem.

The Gemara in Brachot (17a) states: “Master of the Universe, it is revealed and known before You that our will is to perform Your will, and what prevents us? The yeast in the dough…May it be Your will that You will deliver us from their hands…that we may return to perform the edicts of Your will with a perfect heart.”

Rashi understands that when the Gemara refers to yeast, it is alluding to the yetzer hara, the evil inclination. We can understand that at times our ingenuity, creativity, and desires can lead us astray, causing us to believe that we do not need Hashem, that we can accomplish things on our own without Hashem’s help. Pesach is a

time for us to pause, reflect, and refocus to prevent such thinking from taking root. While our desire to better the world can be commendable, without pausing to consider it, it can be easy to overlook Hashem’s role in the equation.

The Torah calls Pesach by the name Chag HaMatzot to highlight this message. On this night, when it’s easy to get caught up in all the complexities of family dynamics, seder rituals, and the retelling of the story of Mitzrayim, we should not forget that, ultimately, everything we are working towards is to reaffirm our simple and intimate faith in Hashem.

Matzah and the Race Against Time

יֵכְֵלְַמַ ךְֶ לְמַ םֶהֶיֵ לְֲעֲ הֶלְְגְּנִּשֶׁ דַ עֲ ץיּמַ ֲחֲַ הְֶלְ וּניֵתֵוֹבֲאֲ לְֶשֶׁ םָקֵָצֵבְּ קָיּפְִּסְּהֶ אֲּלֹּשֶׁ םוּשֶׁ לְעֲ ?הֶַמַ םוּ שֶׁ לְעֲ ,םיּלְכֵוֹאֲ וֹנָאֲשֶׁ וֹז הֶָ צַָּמַ וּשְֶׁרְ ּגְ יּכִּ ,ץֵמַחֲ אֲּלְ יּכִּ ,תֵּוּצַָּמַ תֵּגְעֲ םּירְצֵּמִּ ּמַ וּאֲיּצֵוֹהֶ רְֶשֲֶׁאֲ קֵָצֵָבְּ הֶ־תֵאֲ וּפאֲּיַֹּוַ :רְַמֱַ אֲֶנִֶּשֶׁ ,םָ לְאְֲגְוּ ,אֲוּהֶ ךְוּרְָבְּ שֶׁוֹדקַָּהֶ

This matzah that we are eating, for the sake of what [is it]? For the sake [of commemorating] that our ancestors’ dough was not yet able to rise, before the King of the kings of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He, revealed [Himself] to them and redeemed them, as it is stated (Exodus 12:39); "And they baked the dough which they brought out of Egypt into matzah cakes, since it did not rise; because they were expelled from Egypt, and could not tarry, neither had they made for themselves provisions" (Pesach Haggadah, end of Maggid).

The Haggadah emphasizes the necessity of acknowledging the theme represented by matzah. It is easy to argue that, especially without the Korban Pesach, matzah is the key feature and theme of our seder. The Haggadah teaches that matzah is eaten to commemorate the fact that Bnei Yisrael left Egypt with such haste that they were unable to wait for their dough to rise for their intimidating journey into the wilderness.

At first glance, the message behind this theme seems a bit underwhelming. First, why is this detail significant to the overall story of the Exodus? Why is the hurried nature of Bnei Yisrael’s departure so meaningful to justify classifying it as the highlight of the story of the Exodus? Second, why did this detail even need to be the case altogether? Once it was that there were supernatural occurrences allowing for the Exodus, why did it need to happen in such a frightful and frenetic way where Bnei Yisrael had to rush out without adequate food for their trip through the desert?

It is possible that the answer to these questions is implicit in the words of the Haggadah in this passage. The Haggadah doesn’t simply refer to the fact that God redeemed Bnei Yisrael from Egypt. Instead, the Haggadah stresses that “the King of all kings” redeemed Bnei Yisrael. Additionally, the Haggadah doesn’t only say that “the King of all kings” redeemed Bnei Yisrael. Rather, the Haggadah adds that “the King of all kings” both redeemed and was revealed to Bnei Yisrael. It must be understood what the significance of these two nuances is.

The Haggadah appears to be conveying that the Exodus was meant to reveal to the entire world, and particularly to Bnei Yisrael, that God is the ultimate Master of the Universe. God was demonstrating to Bnei Yisrael that no longer were they the servants of Pharaoh, for now they were becoming the servants of God, their Redeemer. Accordingly, it is possible to suggest that this hurried nature further accentuated this point, as this was God’s way of communicating to Bnei Yisrael that they would leave on God’s schedule and according to God’s command, not their own. Therefore, the central theme of matzah, and arguably the key takeaway of Sippur yetziat Mitzrayim, is to instill within ourselves that the goal of the Exodus was to become the servants of God, and it is thereby incumbent upon us to realize our obligation to fulfill His will. Bnei Yisrael were not

freed to live life according to their own wishes. Instead, Bnei Yisrael were redeemed to become God’s people and ultimately bring His presence into this world to be experienced by humanity, as Ramban (1194-1270) underscores in his introduction to his commentary on Sefer Shemot.

Related to this point, Rabbi Yaakov Loberman (1760-1832), in his commentary on the Haggadah Ma’asei Nisim, asks a series of questions on the introductory passage of Maggid, Ha Lachma Anya. In this passage, we acknowledge in Aramaic that in front of us are uncovered matzot, which we refer to as the bread of the poor that was eaten in Egypt by our forefathers. Then we invite anyone hungry to join our seder and partake in our Korban Pesach. Afterwards, we declare that although this year we are in exile, in the year to come we will be in Jerusalem. Some of the many questions that Rabbi Loberman asks are: Why is this passage in Aramaic? Why are we inviting guests in the middle of the seder which seems to be too late? How do we invite these guests to partake in our Korban Pesach if we don’t have one? Why is the Haggadah focusing on the fact that we are in exile on the night on which we celebrate our redemption and freedom? Lastly, what is the connection between this and specifically the theme of matzah representing the bread of the poor?

Rabbi Loberman answers all these questions with one underlying notion: matzah models that despite Bnei Yisrael’s unworthiness to experience a miraculous redemption from slavery in Egypt, God rescued them nonetheless for the sake of His name. Rabbi Loberman elaborates, saying that God’s honor was being desecrated as Bnei Yisrael, His people, were in bondage to Pharoah, who did not allow them to serve God. Moreover, God had also promised to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov that Bnei Yisrael would be given the Land of Israel where they would become a great nation. With Bnei Yisrael suffering in Egypt, this promise was going unfulfilled. Therefore, God had to redeem Bnei Yisrael for the sake of His honor. This poor spiritual status is symbolized by matzah being the bread of the poor, and it serves as a symbol of hope for us that we too will be redeemed from our current exile, where we speak a foreign language, even if we are undeserving. God will return us to Jerusalem, where we will serve God by eating the Korban Pesach in a rebuilt Beit HaMikdash. The same reason Bnei Yisrael were redeemed from Egypt will be the reason for our future redemption. We celebrate this realization by spontaneously inviting guests to eat from the Korban Pesach that we believe will be imminently present at our tables.

Internalizing that God, the King of all kings, can reveal Himself to us and the world even in the most difficult times is imperative this year considering all that has befallen the Jewish people. We believe God will redeem us in order to allow us to radiate His light to the dark world around us, just like in the Exodus. By internalizing this message, may we already begin to celebrate both our personal and national redemptions at our seders!

Chew on This: The Meaning of Matzah

I once knew a little boy who, when asked what he wanted to do when he grew up, answered “learn Torah and eat much.” Even if we might summarize our own life goals slightly differently, this is in some ways an apt description of the seder, at least as it is often conducted. We tell the story of the Exodus, and often children share prepared divrei Torah that they learned in school, sometimes picking up on obscure textual or legal points in order to be innovative. Who does not want their child, like the “wise son” of the Haggadah, to pick up on all the “testimonies, statutes, and judgments that the Lord our God commanded you?” (Deuteronomy 6:20). So our story-telling experience often takes on some form of “learn[ing] Torah.” As for “eat much,” well, most sedarim include a full, multi-course meal preceded by significant portions of ritual foods (matzah, maror, and charoset). Perhaps summarizing part of this experience, the Talmud in Pesachim (115b) teaches that matzah is called “lechem oni” (Deuteronomy 16:3) because it is “bread over which one answers many matters” (from the Hebrew oneh, meaning “answer”). I’d like to explore the “learning” and the “eating” through the lens of a Hasidic commentary on the wise son.

What does the wise [son] say? “What are these testimonies, statutes and judgments that the Lord our God commanded you?” (Deuteronomy 6:20) And accordingly you will say to him, as per the laws of the Pesach sacrifice, “We may not eat an afikoman [a dessert or other foods eaten after the meal] after [we are finished eating] the Pesach sacrifice (ein maftirin achar ha-pesach afikoman)” (Mishnah Pesachim 10:8).

The wise son is detail-oriented. He asks about “testimonies, statues, and judgments” (edot, chukim, and mishpatim), and receives what seems to be a detailed halakhic answer, down to the last moments of the seder, and the nearly-last halakhot in Mishnah Pesachim (10:8) about when to stop eating. Rabbi Nachman of Breslov (as recorded by Rabbi Nosson in Likkutei Halakchot, Orach Chayim, Laws of Passover, 9:10) offers a fascinating and counter-intuitive reading of this passage. The wise son, according to Rabbi Nachman, recognizes God’s presence in the world, and takes for granted that we must do God’s will. He therefore asks “what” the laws are, so he can understand the reason and meaning of the whole Torah. Unlike the “wicked” son, he is brought in, and seeks to deepen his understanding rather than demand justification for the mitzvot. The father in turn is instructed to respond with robust details, but one law is singled out: “Tell him that according to the laws of Pesach, they do not eat afikoman after the Pesach.”

Rabbi Nachman sees in this simple phrase not one directive to teach all the laws, but two separate imperatives: One must teach the laws of Pesach, meaning one must speak robustly of the Exodus. The “laws of Pesach” here include the attribute of peh sach, a speaking mouth, telling the story. And yet, at the same time, there are things that should remain unspoken. There is an afikoman, something hidden, that lies “after the peh sach,” after the speaking mouth: a spiritual reality that cannot be accessed by words. Elsewhere (see e.g. Likkutei Moharan 64), Rabbi Nachman expands more on the dangers of trying to understand the universe with

language and logic alone. There will always remain a gap between what we can understand and God’s ultimate truth, and our best approach to that gap is silence. How does this approach play out in our sedarim, where we seem to talk so much? Can we cultivate moments of silence and contemplation even as we give voice to the story and to Hallel? On a practical level, the seder already has some built-in pauses, where we operate less on the plane of rational analysis, namely the eating. In Rabbi Nachman’s reading, the afikoman may become a metaphor for that which we can never understand about God, but the afikoman is also a real food at our real seder. In fact, matzah is referred to as “faith food,” a “medicine” of sorts that helped the Israelites access a deeper faith as they were leaving Egypt (see Zohar, Tetzaveh 9).

What is it about matzah? It’s low on volume and on taste, and perhaps that is the point. Eating matzah offers us an opportunity to chew over what we know and what we do not. To appreciate that just as sometimes a basic food, stripped of all its pretension, is what is called for, so too sometimes a basic religious disposition, stripped of philosophy and even language, is what we require.

“

Avadim Hayinu”:

The

Exodus from Egypt and the Western Philosophical Tradition

Dr. Daniel Stein Kokin

The Maggid or “Telling” at the heart of the Haggadah is virtually framed by the fantasy that every Jew, each one of us, was personally redeemed from slavery in Egypt. Opening–after Ha Lachma Anya (“This is the bread of affliction”) and the Four Questions–with the affirmation Avadim hayinu le-far’oh be-Mitzrayim (“We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt”), this section of the seder then proceeds to remind us of the Torah’s injunction to “remember the day you left Egypt all the days of your life” (Devarim 16:3), before nearly concluding with the obligation “in every generation…to regard oneself as [having come] forth out of Egypt.”1 If initially this claim is somewhat qualified by the acknowledgement that it was actually our fathers whom God brought out (“And if the Holy One, blessed be He, did not bring our fathers out of Egypt”), the Haggadah subsequently doubles down, insisting: “The Holy One, blessed be He, did not only redeem our fathers, but also us with them.” Indeed, we might conclude that a central purpose of the Maggid as a whole is to awaken our acceptance of this point.2

Yet at first–and even after repeated–glance, this teaching is strange. Neither we, nor our fathers, were ever slaves; and the further suggestion that “we would still be avadim to Pharaoh in Egypt” today had it not been for the Exodus seems patently ridiculous. No Pharaoh has reigned along the Nile for millennia, today’s Egypt is a far cry from the Mitzrayim of Sefer Shemot, and slavery–at least as an institution–has largely and thankfully disappeared from the world. Surely some political upheaval would have eventually facilitated Israelite liberation, even in the absence of God’s “mighty hand and outstretched arm,” no?

How then are we to make sense of the Haggadah on this matter? One strategy, that we might label liturgical and experiential, regards the fiction of our personal slavery and redemption as essential for the symbolic reenactment of the Exodus that we undertake at the seder. We adopt the pose of liberated slaves in order to relive both the abasement of slavery and the acquisition of freedom. The alternative philosophical approach that I wish to pursue here analogizes the fantasy to the numerous original or foundational situations of humankind presented by prominent thinkers in the Western tradition.

According to Plato’s famous parable from The Republic, the default condition of humankind is to reside in a cave, mistaking the shadows that appear on its walls for reality. For Thomas Hobbes, by stark contrast, our collective starting point is “the state of nature,” where life is (terribly, if also famously) “nasty, brutish, and short.” Then there is Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who opened his On the Social Contract with the declaration that though “man is born free…everywhere he is in chains.”

1 This section of the Haggadah directly cites Mishna Pesahim 10:5.

2 Note the chronological inversion that characterizes the two passages. In the first case, we, our children, and grandchildren are not slaves, but might well have been; in the second, we in fact were slaves, together with our fathers

That these accounts of the human condition are not subject to proof should come as no surprise–they are, in essence, akin to Euclid’s postulates. Just as these postulates give rise to the theorems that constitute the basis of geometry in general, so the varying positions introduced here inform the respective antidotes, likewise developed by the above-referenced thinkers, to address them. Thus, only through the pursuit of dialectic, so says the ancient Athenian, can the individual escape the constraints and deception of the cave and come to know the world as it truly is. The seventeenth-century Englishman’s depiction of the destructive strife to which humans are inclined points toward the all-powerful sovereign–compared to the biblical Leviathan (title of his most famous work)–who alone can truly protect us from it. And in bemoaning the universal constriction of our natural freedom, the eighteenth-century “citizen of Geneva” enabled the restoration of freedom by reconceptualizing it.

I propose we view our tradition’s insistence that “we (all) were slaves” and its corollary establishment of Egypt as the ever-present counterfactual in a similar light.3 The veracity of these notions is no more demonstrable than that of Plato’s cave, Hobbes’ state of nature, or Rousseau’s natural freedom; at the same time, they respond to the human situation no less than these corresponding Western conceptions. In short, for the Haggadah (and Judaism writ large), the Jew’s innate condition is that of a slave to Pharaoh. This transhistorical insight applies to you, me, Isaiah, Maimonides, our great-grandchildren, even the Messiah. That we were slaves whom God liberated is the fundamental story of our lives, taking precedence over all others.

What are the consequences of this view? They are many and profound, but I will limit myself here to two. 1) While Plato, Hobbes, and Rousseau’s thought revolves around what the human or humans should do (e.g. Will we leave the cave? Will we grant the sovereign the requisite powers? Will we form a social contract?), for Judaism the key task has unequivocally already been done, and not by us. This foregrounds gratitude and obligation as central to our lives. 2) Our status as slaves liberated by God cannot be stripped from us, no matter what befalls us, regardless of what new forms of slavery entrap up. This lends us an inherent, inviolable dignity and signals that redemption–personal and collective alike–is ever possible.

There is of course one obvious problem with everything I have written thus far. What Plato, Hobbes, and Rousseau wrote applies to every person, everywhere, at every time. By contrast, the story of the Exodus by definition does not, since we were liberated from our Egyptian taskmasters. In short, the price of God’s intervention in history on behalf of one people vis-à-vis another is a story that cannot ever fully be universalized.4 And yet that does not mean that it cannot be widely shared and inspire others. Dare I close with a confession? My favorite Pesach song is an African American spiritual.

3 In remembering the Exodus every day, we to a certain degree re-imagine it as a daily occurrence.

4 To be sure, one can metaphorize slavery in Egypt and the Exodus therefrom to apply universally. But this is still different from Plato’s cave, which is inherently metaphoric, and from the Hobbesian state of nature and Rousseau’s birth into freedom, to which by definition all humanity is necessarily subject. I would further submit that a Jewish identity invested in its own continuity will insist upon the Exodus as fundamentally a particular Israelite event (even as it includes subsequent converts in the roster of its participants and acknowledges the presence as well of the erev rav, or mixed multitude, mentioned in Shemot 12:38).

Dayeinu and Who Knows 15?

Chamisha Asar Ani Yodeah: Dayeinu and the Most Central Number in the Pesach Experience

I never understood why Echad Mi Yodea stops at just 13. Yes, the hour is getting late around our seder tables, but there are so many more significant numbers, and wouldn’t it be great to get to Chai and end at 18 to celebrate life as we conclude the evening?

We can definitely count 14 as 14 are the books of Rambam’s Yad Chazakah, the Mishneh Torah.

And that would take us to 15. At 15, we would have a whole host of choices on how to best answer the question of chamisha asar mi yodeah?

Rabbi Eli Sadan, head of the mechina Bnei David, discusses Dayeinu in his Hagadat Kamah Maalot. He tells us that Dayeinu has 15 lines and he takes the opportunity to tell us many concepts that are significant to the number 15, elements that teach us so many lessons needed for Pesach and beyond.

Fifteen is the Story of our National and Religious Journey

Rabbi Sadan begins by telling us that the Dayeinu elucidates fifteen levels from the Exodus to the building of the Temple: שדָקֹמָהַ תְיְב ןיְיְנָב דָעוֵ םיְרצִמָ תְאיְצִיְמָ תְוֵלֹעמָהַ.

When we read the Dayeinu, we realize that we are part of a bigger picture, part of a people who were able to rise, step by step, to the highest step, which is the encounter with the Shekinah.

He points out that there are three sets of five in the Dayeinu. From leaving Egypt (םיְרצִמָמָ וֵנָאיְצִוֵהַ) to the miracles in the desert and the destruction of our enemies (םיְהַ תְא וֵנָלֹ ערקֹ), all culminating in the spiritual gifts of Shabbat, Torah, and the building of the Beit HaMikdash (הַריְחֲבהַ תְיְב תְא וֵנָלֹ הַנָב). The 15 steps took us from slavery to a life of gratitude and of serving the Divine.

On the broader level, 15 reminds us of the trajectory of our national religious development, as there are 15 generations from Avraham Avinu to Shlomo HaMelekh. There are 15 steps from the birth of the idea of ethical monotheism to the culmination of a Temple to serve God (whose name yud-heh is 15) here on earth.

Fifteen Represents the Ups and Downs of the Human Condition and of our National Story

As we are a people whose calendar is so connected to the phases of the moon, Rabbi Sadan points out that the moon grows לֹדָגוֵ ךלֹוֵהַ חֲריְהַ. From the tiniest sliver at the beginning of the month, it grows for 15 days until it reaches its fullness. The 15-day cycle of the moon reminds us of the nature of the human condition and of our national story.

As we know so well from this most trying year, the life story of Am Yisrael and of individuals has phases of joy, war, sorrow, desperation and laughter. Life waxes and wanes. The fifteen-day rhythm of the moon reminds us of this ongoing dynamic of ups and downs.

It is no wonder that the two longest, and arguably most central chagim in the rhythm of our year, chagim which teach of God’s protection and strength and the fragility of our lives, Sukkot and Pesach, both take place on the 15th day.

Fifteen Steps of Elevation and Emotion

According to Chazal, there were 15 steps leading up to the Beit HaMikdash. For each one of these ma’alot, there is a shir. These Shirei HaMa’alot, of which we are all familiar, were sung, according to some, by the Leviim as they ascended the steps to the Beit HaMikdash. Many also say that these songs were sung as “travel songs” recited on the way to Yerushalayim by Am Yisrael as they would make a pilgrimage to the Beit HaMikdash.

These Shirei HaMa’alot are a critical part of the fabric of our lives, especially these last few months. From the lows of Esah Einay of 121 and MiMa’amakim of 130 to the triumph of return to Israel, B’shuv HaShem et Shivat Tzion of 126, these Shirei HaMa’alot connect us to the big picture of the Jewish story.

This year on Pesach, when we sit for the 15-step experience of the seder, let us constantly remember the 15’s, rededicating our personal, familial, national, and religious selves to a life of appreciation of our many gifts, recognition of our deep challenges, and strong connection to our bigger story.

It's a rededication that we can achieve by ascending one step at a time.

Time Travel as the Fourth Dimension of the Seder

Mr. Jonathan Cannon

Early in the Maggid section of the Haggadah, we read the very well-known story of the five rabbis gathered in Bnei Brak: קָרְב־יֵ נבבְּ ןיּבְּסְמַ וּיָהֶֶשֶׁ ןוֹפְרְַטַ יּבְּרְוַ אֲביּקָ ֲעֲ יּבְּרְוַ הֶיְרְַ זֲעֲ־ןֶבְּ רְזעְֲלְֶאֲ יּבְּרְוַ עֲֻשֶׁוֹהֶי יּבְּרְוַ רְזעֲיּלְאֲ יּבְּרְְבְּ הֶֶשֲׂעֲַמַ תֵאֲיּרְ קָ ןַמְַ ז עֲיּגִּּהֶ וּניֵתֵוֹבְּרְ םֶהֶָ לְ וּרְמַאֲוַ םֶהֶיֵדיּמַ ְלְַתֵ וּאֲָבְֶּשֶׁ דַ

It happened once [on Pesach] that Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Yehoshua, Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, Rabbi Akiva, and Rabbi Tarfon were reclining in Bnei Brak and were telling the story of the Exodus from Egypt that whole night, until their students came and said to them, "Our masters, the time of [reciting] the morning Shema has arrived."

There are many unusual aspects to this gathering, not least that the seder took place in the absence of disciples and, more to the point, of the families and children who are the very essence of the evening. This atypical setting must have been driven by the need for a private, and possibly secret, discussion. It is often suggested that the secrecy and the location (the city where Rabbi Akiva lived) indicated that the gathering was a planning session for the Bar Kochba rebellion. However, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks (z”l), in a shiur that he gave in tribute to Rabbi Norman Lamm (z”l), offers a different perspective, and that perspective—with some embellishments and original ideas from me—is at the core of this article.

Rabbi Sacks analyzes this event by looking at the attendees, the content of the discussion, the location, and the seating plan, and concludes that it could not have related to a discussion about the rebellion and must have been about something else. He starts by noting, not the presence of the five rabbis, but the absence of Rabban Gamliel. At that time, the religious leadership of the Jewish community was comprised of a series of pairs, known as zugot. The senior of the pair was the Nasi, the junior the Av Beit Din. For the period during which this gathering took place, the Nasi was Rabban Gamliel, and the Av Beit Din was Rabbi Yehoshua. This raises the question as to how it could be that the leading rabbis of the time, including Rabbi Yehoshua, were attending this seder, but that Rabban Gamliel was not. Of further note is the seating arrangement. The most important rabbi present sits in the middle. Therefore, in the absence of Rabban Gamliel the Nasi, one would have expected Rabbi Yehoshua, the Av Beit Din, to hold the place of honor. At the very least, it should have been Rabbi Akiva, who was the Chief Rabbi of Bnei Brak. However, our source lists Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah third, indicating that he was the “gadol” of those present.

How can this be? In order to explain this scenario, some background concerning the relationship between Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Yehoshua is needed. There were three occasions on which Rabban Gamliel humiliated Rabbi Yehoshua in the public domain. After the third occasion, the Talmud recounts in Berakhot 27b:

They said, "How long is [Rabban Gamaliel] going to continue heaping indignities upon [Rabbi Yehoshua]?

Last year he slighted him on the question of the New Year; he slighted him on the question of the firstborn in the incident of Rabbi Sadok; and here again he has slighted him. Come, let us depose him!

And with that, Rabban Gamliel was removed from his position and a discussion ensued as to who would be the Nasi. It was felt that giving the position to Rabbi Yehoshua would be too embarrassing for Rabban Gamliel and, for various reasons, it was decided that Rabbi Akiva should not be given the position even though he was universally acknowledged as the greatest scholar and posek among them. And so, at the tender age of eighteen, Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah was appointed Nasi. Soon thereafter, for reasons of courtesy and respect, Rabban Gamliel was reappointed, albeit with the caveat that for one week in every four Rabbi Elazar would act in that role. (It is unclear whether this rotation was ever implemented.)

Taking all of this into account, Rabbi Sacks concludes that this seder must have taken place in the very short period between Rabban Gamliel’s deposition and reappointment. Only this can explain why Rabbi Elazar was in the seat of honor. This time frame precludes a connection with rebellion as the revolt only erupted several decades later.

If it was not about military planning, then what was the purpose of this gathering? For one thing, it brings some resolution to a dispute between Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah and Rabbi Akiva as to the final time to eat the Korban Pesach, which also determines when the afikoman is eaten and when the Maggid narrative is supposed to conclude. According to the Talmud at Berakhot 9a, Rabbi Elazar took the view that it had to be eaten by midnight because that is when God unleashed the killing of the firstborn, thereby setting in motion the Exodus from Egypt. By contrast, Rabbi Akiva held the final time for eating the Korban to be “the time of haste,” a reference to the following morning, when the Children of Israel began the Exodus.

What is at stake in this machloket? If the Korban is eaten at midnight, then the Exodus from Egypt is fundamentally an act of God. However, if the deadline is extended until the morning, then it becomes a partnership between God and the people. God directs, and the people act. Two of the people present at the seder were protagonists in this debate and it so happens that we learn in another baraita that Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua also have the same disagreement. Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Eliezer maintain that the deadline is midnight, and Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabbi Akiva believe that the deadline is the morning. Given this situation, the gathering could have prompted a bitter argument.

A bitter argument is never good but would have been especially terrible in that time and place. Rome was in control and destruction was everywhere. However bad that was, there was an even worse crisis. We learn that the temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam, i.e., causeless hatred. In other words, the Jewish community’s behavior toward one another was worse than ever. Josephus, writing in The Jewish War, describes the horrific infighting that took place. And at this particular time, on top of everything else, the most senior religious figure, the Nasi, was deposed because of his egregious treatment of the Av Beit Din.

Never was it more important to have a public display of unity, and a display of unity is precisely what the five rabbis sought to accomplish. Despite the degree of disagreement among them, nobody walked out at midnight, and nobody screamed at one another that they were breaking the law. Instead, the five rabbis were so caught up in their study that they continued through the entire night and had to be reminded that it was time for the morning Shema

To further reinforce the importance of this moment, it is worth noting that there are different ways of establishing Halakha. The first is by following general principles such as looking at the order in which a discussion takes place or at the precedent for which a rabbi is regarded as the arbiter of Halakha in previous instances. There is also a principle known as ma’aseh rav, in which there are times that when a situation is acted upon, it carries with it the force of law and becomes Halakha, not because of precedent or discussion, but because the action has taken place. It is noteworthy that our paragraph begins with the word ma’aseh These five rabbis learning through the night had the status of a halakhic act. Whatever the disagreements and however strongly they were held, at this moment in time, the most important thing was to provide a display of unity. The principle was established that debate, disagreement, and even demonstration have their place, but there are times when what is most important is to be seen as unified and displaying a common purpose.

One of the core themes of the seder night is that in every generation we are required to experience the story as if we ourselves were slaves in Egypt. What does that mean for our generation? I would like to suggest that this message could not be timelier. Our enemies are everywhere, and Israel is under attack. We need to stand together in support, not just in words, but also in actions. However, that is far from sufficient on its own. We need to banish sinat chinam in our lives and from our community. We need to support one another, not only in the meta issues facing the Jewish nation right now, but in our own backyards. In our families, in our friendships, in our interactions with rabbis, with teachers, coworkers, and in every sphere of life.

Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Yehoshua, Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, Rabbi Akiva, and Rabbi Tarfon put aside their disagreement as to when to conclude the seder and gave unified support to the view that the Exodus was not just the work of God alone, but a partnership between God and humankind. If things are to change for the better, then we must strive to walk in the ways of God and act upon that imperative. The five rabbis made a statement thousands of years ago in Bnei Brak. We need to follow their lead and live by their example.