THE PASSOVER HAGGADAH
From Slavery to Freedom The Seder Leader's Guide
Fort Dix Camp
MARROR מרור.8
KADESH קדש.1
KORECH כורך.9
U’RCHATZ ורחץ.2
SHULCHAN
ORECH
שולחן.10 עורך
KARPAS כרפס.3
TZAFUN צפון.11
YACHATZ
BARECH ברך.12
MAGGID מגיד.5
HALLEL הלל.13 NIRTZAH נרצה.14
RACHTZAH
יחץ.4
רחצה.6
MOTZI מוציא.7 MATZAH מצה
THE SEDER TABLE Adapted from Chabad.org
MATZOT We have three matzot, so that we can break one as a slave would and still have two whole matzot over which to recite the Hamotzi blessing as required on Shabbat and holidays.
KOHEN
LEVI
YISRAEL
THE SEDER PLATE Beitzah - ביצה
Zroah - זרוע
A hard-boiled egg represents the pre-holiday Chagigah sacrifice that was brought in the days of the Holy Temple.
A piece of roasted meat that represents the special Paschal Sacrifice on the eve of the Exodus from Egypt, and then annually in the Holy Temple. The Zroah is not eaten during the Seder.
ביצה
זרוע
Karpas - כרפס The dipping of a vegetable (often parsley or celery) into saltwater symbolizes Joseph's tunic being dipped into blood by his brothers, which began the Israelites' descent to Egypt.
כרפס
Charoset - חרוסת
מרור חרוסת חזרת
Marror - מרור These bitter herbs, usually horseradish, remind us of the bitterness of the slavery of our forefathers in Egypt.
A mixture of fruits, nuts, and wine, which resembles the mortar and bricks made by the Jews when they toiled for Pharaoh.
Chazeret - חזרת These bitter herbs, usually romaine lettuce hearts, are first used in the Korech portion of the Seder.
CUPS OF WINE God uses four expressions of redemption in describing our Exodus from Egypt and our birth as a nation. Our sages instituted that we should drink a cup of wine, a toast if you will, for each one of these expressions.
I took you out
I saved you
I redeemed you I took you as a nation
KADESH קדש There were 15 steps leading up to the Temple in Jerusalem, and, similarly, the Seder follows a 15-step process of ascent as we reenact the journey of the Israelites from Pharaoh’s slaves to the free Nation of God. The beginning of all journeys is separation. You’ve got to leave where you are before you can go somewhere else. That is why we begin the Seder with “Kadesh,” making Kiddush on a cup of wine. This is actually the first of 4 cups we drink at the Seder. Kadesh means “holy” and holiness has two aspects: moving away from the mundane and moving toward the spiritual. This dual dynamic of from and toward is reflected in the four distinct promises God made when He told Moses that He would redeem the Israelites from Egyptian bondage (Exodus 6:6-7). The first two promises, “I will take you out from under the burdens of Egypt” and “I will deliver you from their bondage” refer to moving away from servitude. The final two promises, “I will redeem you” and “I will take you to Me for a people,” refer to moving toward God. With cup #1 we begin our journey.
KARPAS כרפס Where does the custom to eat karpas (technically a leafy green vegetable, like parsley) as the Pesach appetizer come from? The Mishnah simply says one should use a vegetable, which could mean lettuce, or a parsnip, or a potato (as many have the custom to do - in fact, Rav Pinchas Teitz of Elizabeth used to use a banana for karpas to teach American Jews that a banana is technically a vegetable according to Jewish law!). So why did the custom develop to use karpas - a green vegetable? The answer is that in the Bible, the word "karpas" refers to a type of green fabric. According to the rabbis of the Middle Ages, this is why we use a green vegetable: because we want to be reminded of colorful fabric. Now, why on earth would we want to be reminded of colorful fabric on Pesach? The answer is that colorful fabrics of many kinds - including (according to the rabbis) karpas - were used to make Joseph's coat of many colors. And it was that coat - and the acrimony it sowed among Joseph and his brothers - that initiated the entire story of Pesach. After all, in that story, the brothers become jealous of Joseph and sell him into slavery in Egypt. Eventually they come to Egypt themselves, whereupon they discover their long lost brother, and then move themselves to Egypt. Within a few short generations, the Jewish people had become slaves in Egypt. So eating karpas - eating a green, or colorful vegetable - reminds us that the entire reason for the enslavement of our people was Joseph's coat; was infighting among brothers. The lesson, of course, is for us to do the opposite. For we are not slaves. We can control ourselves. We can build a strong, united community together.
YACHATZ יחץ
The next stage of the Seder, right before we delve into the climax of the evening, the retelling of the story of the Exodus, is Yachatz. We take the middle of the three Matzahs and break it in two. We put the bigger half aside for later on in the night and return the smaller piece to the Seder plate. This small broken piece of the “poor man’s bread” remains on our table while we retell the story of the Exodus. One famous explanation provided for this custom in the Talmud is that this behavior symbolizes the way that a slave, who does not know if or when his next meal may arrive, may stash some of his food away for later. This breaking of the Matzah at the Seder reminds us of the first time our people ate Matzah, still as slaves immediately before leaving Egypt. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik suggested a different, inspiring insight. Although the entire Jewish nation was enslaved in Egypt, there were varying degrees of suffering. Some Jews lived under truly horrible conditions, while some received slightly better treatment. According to our sages, one tribe, the tribe of Levi, was never enslaved. Rabbi Soloveitchik explains that all Jews, even amidst their suffering, were always willing to break the little bread that they had, in order to share it with other Jews who had even less. When we break the Matzah and perform Yachatz as our forefathers did, it is a symbol of the Chesed, the loving-kindness and solidarity of Jew toward fellow Jew, even under the harshest conditions.
The Ha Lachma Anya statement opens the Magid portion of the Hagaddah, in which we retell the story of the Exodus and explain the various symbolic components of the Seder. Within this opening proclamation, we invite all those who do not have food to join us in our Passover Seder. This seems like a very disingenuous offer. After all, we have already sat down at the table, so no one who is hungry will actual hear our invitation! While it is indeed beautiful and kind to invite people to your Passover meal, this specific invitation is meant to be symbolic and illustrate one of the central themes of the Seder and the Exodus story. This invitation is meant to highlight the differences between freedom and slavery. The bread of affliction, which refers to Matzah, represents two opposing themes. On the one hand, matzah is a slave’s food. It is tasteless and plain. On the other hand, matzah was the bread that ushered the Jewish people out of slavery in haste. What turns the matzah from a slave’s bread to a free man’s bread? As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks says, “What transforms the bread of oppression into the bread of freedom is the willingness to share it with others....” A man who is willing to share his food with a complete stranger has shown himself to be capable of community and faith. He is not worried about where his next meal is coming from, so he feels confident in his ability to provide for others. That is why we begin the Passover Seder by inviting those less fortunate to join us. “Bread shared is no longer the bread of oppression. Reaching out to others, giving help to the needy and companionship to those who are alone, we bring freedom into the world, and with freedom we bring God into the world as well.”
The following prayer was written or dictated by Rabbi Aharon Bernard Davids, the leader of the Dutch community of Rotterdam in Holland and perhaps another Rabbi for their communities who had been interned in the Westerbork Holland Transit Camp and then Bergen Belsen Concentration Camp: “Before eating chametz one should say with pure intention of the heart: Our Father in heaven, it is clear and apparent to You that it is our desire to do Your will and to celebrate the festival of Pesach by eating matzah and by observing the prohibition of chametz, but our hearts grieve that our enslavement prevents this, as we are in mortal danger. We are hereby ready and prepared to fulfill your Mitzvah of “and you shall live by them” - “and not die by them” - and to heed the warning of “guard yourself and guard your life carefully.” Therefore, it is our prayer to You that You keep us alive and enable us to exist and redeem us soon, in order that we may observe Your laws, do Your will and serve You with a full heart. Amen.” Topic for discussion: How could the prisoners in Bergen Belsen possibly tell over the story of Pesach, the story of the Exodus and freedom of the Jewish People, while they are being slaughtered and tortured by another people? How could they maintain their devotion to keeping the laws of Pesach in such an unfathomably difficult time? How can a person summon the strength to genuinely thank God for his freedom when he is not free?
Rabbi Soloveitchik points out that the Haggadah purposely uses the phrase ״Avadim Hayinu L’Paroah B’Mitzrayim״ and does not describe the Jews as “Ovdei Paroah,” as it does for Pharaoh’s Egyptian slaves. The language of the first phrase, "We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt", describes the slaves and Pharaoh as two separate entities. The second phrase, "Pharaoh's slaves", describes the slaves as defined by their belonging to Pharaoh. Why the difference in language? Because, explains Rav Soloveitchik, the Jewish people were not defined by their slavery and their worth as human beings was not determined by Pharaoh. The Jews were able to remain spiritually free and to never lose their thirst for freedom, even as their physical bodies were enslaved. Their choice to maintain a sense of hope for a better future ensured their survival and eventual redemption. When God appeared to Moses to command him to save the Jewish people, He addressed Moses’ doubts with a telling revelation. God showed Moses a burning bush. The burning bush was cold, dark and dry on the outside but, deep within, held a warm and bright fire. God’s message to Moses is one of hope even in the darkest of times. Deep within every Jew, no matter how dark the exterior, hides a burning bush, a quest for freedom and yearning for God. A Jew can never be made a slave, for his mind will always be free to seek out God. God tells Moses that, for this reason, the Jews will be redeemed from Egypt and will be free to become ”Ovdei Hashem” intrinsically connected to God.
The Talmud tells us, “In each generation, a person is obligated to see himself as if he personally came out of Egypt.” The question then becomes: How do we structure the telling of the Passover story to best facilitate this feeling? One of the first parts of Magid (re-telling of the Passover story) that we say on the Seder night, is the iconic Mah Nishtana (The Four Questions). The Mah Nishtana, therefore, sets the stage for the rest of the night, and it is in its likeness, through questions and answers, that we retell the Passover story. The placement of Mah Nishtana and the method of re-telling the Exodus story that stems from it, says Rabbi Ezra Bick, was an intentional design by our sages. “By DISCUSSING the Exodus (questioning and answering is the way Jews discuss! As the old joke goes, “2 Jews, 3 opinions!”) we are doing more than REMEMBERING. By provoking wonder and question, and by initiating and grappling with the need to understand, the Seder ritual makes the memory into a living, growing, and vitally creative experience.” Telling the story is one thing, but living the story is another thing entirely. Thus, by asking questions, and engaging in lively debate and discussions, we truly can fulfill the Talmudic mandate.
MAASEH B’RABBI
ELIEZER
מעשה ברבי
The commentators note something peculiar about the five rabbis mentioned in this story: Four of them were Levites, and as the rabbis teach us, the tribe of Levi was never actually enslaved in Egypt. The fifth sage, Rabbi Akiva, was descended from converts. It turns out, then, that of the five sages who stayed up the entire night telling the story of the Jewish people's salvation from Egypt, not a single one had an ancestor who actually experienced slavery! And, nonetheless, they are the ones used as models for how dedicated we should be to telling the story of our people. This is one of the most radical teachings that Judaism bequeathed to the world: the notion that through a commitment to a life of values in the present, you can actually change your past. From the perspective of physics, this is impossible. The past is the past, and there is nothing you can do to change it. But Judaism believes that through a life of godliness in the present, you can actually reach back through time and transform your past. By living their lives according to God's will in the present, and promising obedience to God in the future, they were able to legitimately and beautifully claim a past that would not otherwise have belonged to them. In fact, America itself was built on this Jewish principle. For most nations, if you come from another country, then you will always be a foreigner. But in America, the American past - the American story - becomes your story. My grandparents are from Poland. They didn't know from Abraham Lincoln. But as an American, I feel - I know! - that Abraham Lincoln is part of my past. He is part of my story. That idea begins with Judaism. And it underlies this story in the Haggadah.
ארבע בנים Rabbi Jonathan Sacks describes the four children as representing the four stages in the development of a person. A baby starts out as She’eno Yodeah Lishol, one who takes the world as given and is unable to ask. The next stage is a young child, a Tam, who is filled with simple curiosity and the willingness to learn about the world. Next come the teenage years, filled with rebellion and questioning, conflict for the sake of self-exploration. This is the Rasha. Finally, a person reaches adulthood, or the stage of a Chacham, where he sees the value in the lessons he has learned and has the maturity to appreciate his heritage and identity. One would think that this culmination of identity building is final and ends at adulthood. However, in Judaism, there is no such thing as a completed spiritual journey. Rather, we as Jews should be in a constant struggle for growth, filled with setbacks and victories, a consistent drive to learn more and to improve our service of God. That is why, in Judaism, a Chacham, or a wise person, is called a Talmid Chacham, a student of wisdom. We should always be asking questions and seeking new insights and information with the ultimate goal of bringing us closer to God and our Jewish heritage. That is why we emphasize the asking of questions, the striving for wisdom, for Chachma, on the Seder night. One is never finished learning; from children to the eldest person, there is always more to learn.
ארבע בנים The four children are a vignette of the Jewish People. One asks because he wants to hear the answer. A second asks because he does not want to hear the answer. A third asks because he does not understand. The fourth does not ask because he doesn’t understand that he doesn't understand. Ours has never been a monolithic people. Yet there is a message of hope in this family portrait. Though they disagree, they sit around the same table, telling the same story. Though they differ, they stay together. They are part of a single family. Even the rebel is there, although part of him does not want to be. This, too, is who we are. The Jewish people is an extended family. We argue, we differ, there are times when we are deeply divided. Yet we are part of the same story. We share the same memories. At difficult times we can count on one another. We feel one another’s pain. Out of this multiplicity of voices comes something none of us could achieve alone. Sitting next to the wise child, the rebel is not fated to remain a rebel. Sitting next to the rebel, the wise child may share his wisdom rather than keep it to himself. The one who cannot ask will in time learn how. The simple child will learn complexity. The wise child will learn simplicity. Each draws strength from the others, as we draw strength from belonging to a people. (Excerpt from “Rabbi Jonathan Sacks Haggadah Shel Pesach”, p.18)
As an introduction to Arami Oved Avi, we raise our cup and say, “Vehi sheameda la’avoteinu” - “This [promise] has sustained our ancestors and us.” The Exodus from Egypt is a perpetual occurence, an everyday event. There is always a Pharaoh, or somebody worse, who is possessed by psychopathic, cruel, bloodthirsty hate. Only the steady vigilance of the Almighty has saved us from complete annihilation. We celebrate the festival of Yetziat Mitzrayim not only because we remember the original Exodus, but because it is an ongoing drama. Every generation lives through the actual experience of Yetziat Mitzrayim. Hence, before we start reciting, commenting on, and explaining the parashah of Arami Oved Avi, we inform the listener that our method is one of total interpretation, of translating the past into the present, of connecting memory with reality. The parashah tells us that we are a lonely people, that we are all a band of wandering Arameans facing hostility, that our very existence is a miracle. The story of Exodus is the story of our destiny! Yetziyat Mitzrayim is relevant and worthy of remembering. We experience it in retrospection and feel worthy of giving thanks; we also recognize that it is the story of this generation, for whose salvation we pray. We lift up the cup when we say Vehi Sheameda. In biblical Hebrew, the word kos, cup, symbolizes destiny: “You anointed my head with oil; my cup overflows” (Psalms 23:5); “I will raise the cup of salvations” (Psalms 116:13). Raising the cup symbolizes that the Haggadah is the book of Jewish destiny. (Adapted from The Seder Night: An Exalted Evening by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik)
PLAGUES מכות As we recite the passage in Magid retelling the story of the plagues, we dip our finger in our glass of wine and remove some wine with the mention of each specific plague. According to the Talmudic sages, after the Egyptians are defeated and drowned, the angels in heaven begin to sing songs of praise to God. But God does not appreciate these songs and rebukes the angels saying “My creations are drowning in the sea and you want to praise Me”? Of course, God needed to destroy the evil and idolatrous force that was Egypt, but He was teaching the angels an important lesson. We must defeat evil, but when others are hurt, we must remember that, no matter how evil they are, they are creations of God and we should not celebrate their death and destruction. We remove the wine, in the midst of our celebratory Seder dinner, to remind ourselves to act with compassion even to our worst enemies and to acknowledge that the loss of human life is always a tragedy.
DARKNESS מכת חושך As Egypt is plunged into darkness the children of Israel begin to see the light. The plague of Darkness, the 9th plague, lasted for three days. It was a darkness so intense that it was practically palpable. The Egyptians were plunged into a darkness that literally immobilized them. The Torah tells us that they could not even get up from their seats. At the same time there was light for the children of Israel. Our Rabbis tell us that the plague served a number of functions. It paralyzed the Egyptians for three days, measure for measure for not allowing the Jewish people to leave Egypt for three days to pray to the Lord, Hashem. Darkness was the answer to the Egyptian belief in the Sun god. Darkness, brought upon them by God, truly showed them who was the Master and Creator. Darkness is how the world first started. By plunging Egypt into darkness it was as if the process of creation for the Egyptian people was being deconstructed, whereas for the Jewish people, who had light and a miraculous fertility surge, it was a new beginning. Ultimately the Jewish people were led out of Egypt and had the opportunity to reach Mt. Sinai and receive the Torah. The Jewish nation was focused on creation and birth. We all experience dark periods in our lives, when the darkness feels paralyzing and immobilizing. I hope that the message of light for the Jewish nation, followed by the Exodus, can give each of us a bit of support and encouragement, that after darkness there will be light once again.
DAYEINU דיינו Background
Dayeinu is a series of praises that lists the kindnesses of God towards the Jewish people throughout their journey from slavery to freedom. The 15 passages of praise are reminiscent of the fifteen steps in the Temple from which the Levites sang to God. The word “dei” in Hebrew means “enough.” Rabbi Sacks explains that the song is meant as a tikkun, a repair, for the ingratitude of the Jewish people towards God for all of the miracles He performed for them. At almost every point in the journey, the Torah records the Jewish people complaining about something, whether it be food, water, or the challenges of having left Egypt. The author of Dayeinu is telling us that whereas the Jews complained, we should give thanks, acknowledging that each and every miracle God performed demands our gratitude. “Ilu Natan Lanu et Mamonam” - “If He Had Given Us Their Treasure” The morality of the commandment to the Jewish people to take the silver and gold of the Egyptians on their way out of Egypt has been debated throughout Jewish history. Why was it important for the Jews to take possessions with them as they left? The answer can be found in the very words of the Torah regarding the laws of how to treat a slave; “You shall not let him go empty-handed. Supply him liberally from your flock,
your threshing-floor and wine-press. Give to him as the Lord your God has blessed you. Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you. That is why I give you this command today.” (Deuteronomy 15:13-15). To be free means far more than merely to be released from slavery. It also means having the tools and means to begin a successful life as a free person, and the preparedness for great accomplishments. God tells the Jewish people to take what they can from their experience as slaves and use it towards the creation of a bright future. By doing so, the Jewish people don’t erase and forget their time as slaves, but rather use it to prepare themselves for a successful future.
The novelist Ernest Hemingway was once bet that he couldn’t write a novel using less than ten words. He famously won the bet by penning a novel which consisted of the words “For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.” Six little words, chosen and arranged just so, can convey a world of meaning. I believe that Rabban Gamliel was trying to accomplish something similar to Hemingway when he wrote: “Anyone who has not said these three things on Passover has not fulfilled his obligation (to tell the Passover story), and these are them: Pesach (the Passover sacrifice), Matzah, and Maror (bitter herbs).” According to Rabban Gamliel, should someone have but a moment to fulfill the obligation of retelling the Passover story, the “novel” would have to include the mention of Pesach, Matzah and Maror. Rabban Gamliel then details what each of these three words symbolizes, and, indeed, each word touches upon a crucial event of the Jewish Exodus, without which the story would be incomplete. However, if these three words, Pesach, Matzah, and Maror, are meant to represent a summary of the Jewish Exodus, there is a glaring problem: The events are out of chronological order! Rabban Gamliel should have written: Maror (The Jews were slaves and led bitter lives), Pesach (The Jews gave the Passover sacrifice, and God spared their lives during the final plague when the first born sons were killed), and then Matzah (The Jews were finally free to leave Egypt). Why does Rabban Gamliel describe our narrative out of order? The answer, I believe, lies in the nature of bitterness. If a man’s diet consists of only Maror, then to him, Maror isn’t bitter, it’s regular. Only when a person has tasted sweetness can he fully appreciate bitterness. With this in mind, Rabban Gamliel’s narrative is actually in perfect chronological order! First, comes the Passover sacrifice, which represents God’s hand in Egypt as He was preparing the Jews for freedom. Then comes the Matzah, which represents the Jews in the process of leaving Egypt, on the cusp of freedom but not quite there yet. Finally, comes Maror. Maror, counterintuitively, represents the ultimate freedom. Every Jew of that generation had only known slavery and so each was numb to the bitterness of servitude. Thus, the ultimate freedom came only when each was fully free from the yoke of slavery and able to recognize the hardships of the past. And so, the Maror does, in fact, belong at the end of the story, as a representation of the culmination of the Jewish Exodus. Perhaps then, Rabban Gamliel was quietly sending us a message as he penned his shortest novel. Jews, for millennia, have known tragedy and grief, persecution and bondage. But, says Rabban Gamliel, we feel bitter because we have experienced sweetness and are sorrowful because we’ve known joy. So, as long as we can still taste the bitterness of the bitter herb, there is a part of each of us that is free.
SECOND CUP כוס שני According to Jewish law, the general rule when it comes to Mitzvot is that one recites the blessing before performing the action. In any case in which there is an exception to this rule and the blessing is only made after the performance of the action is completed, we need to point to a specific and logical justification for this practice. One such exception is found with respect to Magid. One would think that before performing the Mitzvah most central to the Seder, the retelling of the story of the Exodus, we would recite a beautiful blessing with intense concentration and thank God for providing us with the opportunity to have reached this joyous occasion. However, there is no such blessing to be found at the beginning of Magid. Rather, only at the very end of Magid, in fact, after we have already begun to recite Hallel, and together with the blessing on the second cup, do we finally get around to reciting the blessing for the retelling of the story of the Exodus. The Chatam Sofer (Moshe Sofer, 1762-1839, Hungary) provides a beautiful explanation for the seemingly strange placement of this blessing. As we recited earlier during Magid, each and every Jew, at every point of Jewish history, is supposed to view himself as if he himself left Egypt. By retelling the story of the Exodus each year, we go through the actual experience of leaving Egypt. If we are to take this concept at face value, explains the Chatam Sofer, we cannot possibly make the blessing on the retelling of the story and thanking God for taking us out of Egypt at the beginning of Magid – for we have not yet left Egypt. The Chatam Sofer posits that just as a convert can only make the blessing on his conversion once the conversion process is completed, so too can we only make the blessing on the Exodus, once we have actually emerged from Egypt as free men. Only at the very end of the retelling of the story, once we too have left Egypt, may we make this blessing. Note that this concept is hinted at by the wording of the blessing, Asher Ga’alanu V’Ga’al Et Avoteinu Mi’Mitzrayim (He who redeemed us and redeemed our forefathers from Egypt).
RACHTZAH רחצה
The goal of Judaism is to bring sanctity and godliness into the world. God created man as a physical being within a physical world. But He insists that all material pursuits be but a means to that end. He, therefore, gave us the mitzvot of the Torah, whose purpose is to elevate all of man’s interactions with the material world by suffusing them with spirituality. Hence, throughout our day, the mitzvot regulate our actions. The eating of bread can be considered a metaphor for man’s involvement with the material world. As physical beings, we require sustenance. Yet, before partaking of that most basic nourishment, we are required to prepare ourselves spiritually with the washing of the hands and the reciting of a blessing. This mitzvah takes on special meaning on the holiday of Pesach, the holiday when we celebrate our nation’s birth as a free people serving only God and charged with bringing holiness to His world. Freedom means the ability to choose. Slaves cannot choose; they are told what to do, how to do it and when to do it. As a free people, we can be discriminating in our actions and in our choices. We have the ability, if we so choose, to sink to the lowest common denominator of the culture around us, to go through life as if on autopilot, merely
enjoying the pleasures of the mundane world. Or we can choose to live lives of meaning, to be discriminating in all forms of consumption: which books we read, which friends we spend time with, and what standards of personal ethics we uphold. The world is filled with a multitude of options. But we must not consume indiscriminately. At the Seder, when we reenact our transition from slaves to free people, we wash our hands as a preparatory step before the matzah, in order to carefully consider what it is we’re about to eat. We “wash our hands” to symbolically cleanse and distance ourselves from that which negates our mission in this world and to affirmatively choose to elevate the most mundane act of eating into a holy act and, thereby, further our divinely-mandated goal. Perhaps this explains why we have two different terms for the washing of hands at the Seder. When we wash our hands before Karpas, we call it “Urchatz,” an imperative meaning, “And wash!” Before eating the matzah, we call our washing “Rachtzah,” which is a general term, “washing.” Rav Abraham Isaac HaCohen Kook (d. 1935), the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of British Mandatory Palestine, explains that the earlier washing was meant for the individual to remove his impurity before handling food, and so this “Urchatz” is a command to an individual. The later washing that precedes the eating of matzah, however, removes more than just impurity; it is meant to signify the end of the slavery we described in Magid, to symbolize our rebirth as a free people. This is a national washing, and so we alter the name to “Rachtzah” to highlight the special significance of this washing. (Sources: Chabad.org and torahbyemail.blogspot.com)
According to Jewish law, how do we know what a "meal" is? Perhaps we should ask an even simpler question: why would we care about this? The answer is that there are times in Jewish law when we are commanded to eat a meal. So what constitutes a "meal"? Well, the first answer is that usually in order to have a meal, you need bread. This is because throughout human history, since the Stone Age, bread has been the staple food that has sustained cultures across the globe. Bread is what ties us together as a human race. Now, how much bread do you have to eat? The answer is that the smallest amount you can eat in order to be considered a meal is: an olive's worth, a kezayit. The reason for this is that everything we do in Jewish life needs somehow to be related to the reality of the Land of Israel, which is the homeland of the Jewish people. We always need to be thinking about our values as a people, and the place from which they come. And in the Land of Israel, at least in the times of the Torah and the rabbis, the smallest food item of any significance was an olive. Now, on Pesach we have to eat four kezeitim of Matzah. Why? The answer is: 1. One kezayit to show that this is a meal, just like any other meal - and God must always be with us when we eat. This first kezayit reminds us of our every day obligations as Jews. 2. One kezayit to show that this meal is also different from other meals - we have a special obligation to eat matzah, in order to remember that on this night God took us out of Egypt so fast that we didn't have time to bake regular bread. So this second kezayit reminds us to be joyous on this particular night. 3. One kezayit we eat along with maror, to show that matzah is not only important to eat because it reminds us of redemption. Matzah is also called in the Torah "poor man's bread." It is a lesser form of bread. And we eat it with maror to remember the bitterness of Egypt, and all those Jews who suffered for so long before the Exodus. So this third kezayit is to remind us that even when we are happy, we must remember those who are suffering. 4. The fourth kezayit we eat at the very end of the meal. We may not eat anything else afterwards. This is to remind us that matzah should not only remind us of the redemption of the past, but of the redemption of the future as well, still yet to come. So this fourth kezayit is to remind us that no matter where we are right now, we still have redemption on the horizon. Jews always look forward as a people.
KORECH כורך During the Seder, we are instructed to recline while eating many of the traditional foods, in order to symbolize our new-found freedom. While eating the Maror, the bitter herbs, on the other hand, we are not supposed to recline. This is due to the fact that reclining represents freedom, and bitter herbs are a reminder of slavery. Enter Korech: the Matzah and Maror sandwich. It turns out that there is one point during the Seder in which we do recline, even while eating the bitter Maror. The great sage Hillel did not eat the bitter herbs separately. Nor did he eat the Matzah alone. Hillel lived at the time of the Temple, when eating the Passover sacrifice was a part of the Passover obligations. Instead of eating the three foods separately (Matzah, bitter herbs, meat from the sacrifice) he would make a sandwich combining the three, and eat it while reclining. To commemorate Hillel’s sandwich (“Korech”), Jews do the same today, eating the Hillel sandwich (minus the meat – as there is no Passover sacrifice these days) while reclining. Symbolized in the sandwich is Hillel’s positive approach to all the hardships in his life. The sandwich is comprised of Matzah and bitter herbs. Matzah is the thin bread that represents the freedom the Jewish people have been granted, as opposed to being slaves of Pharaoh in Egypt. Inside the two pieces of matzah we place the bitter herbs, symbolizing life’s hardships and setbacks. Hillel viewed the bitter parts of his life, particularly the hardships of poverty that God bestowed upon him, positively. So, while his life appeared difficult, he was able to understand that it was God’s will and ultimately for a good reason. Therefore he placed the bitterness (bitter herbs) inside the freedom (matzah) and ate it while reclining.
TZAFUN צפון
Afikoman is the larger piece of matzah, which is broken in half during Yachatz and is set aside, and often hidden, to be eaten at the end of the meal. The word Afikoman comes from the Greek word epi komon, which means dessert after the meal. According to the Mishna, the Afikoman is a substitute for the Passover sacrifice. The Talmud states that it was forbidden to have any dessert after the Passover sacrifice during the era of the Temple. Since the destruction of the Temple and the discontinuation of the Passover sacrifice, we eat a piece of matzah now known as Afikoman to finish the Passover Seder meal. It is customary to hide the Afikoman during Yachatz, for the children to find during the meal, in time for it to be eaten during Tzafun. The text-based reason for hiding the matzah is based on the passage, “And you shall guard the matzot.” The pedagogical reason is that hiding the Afikoman is an additional way to get children excited about being involved in the Passover Seder. The Hagaddah is full of elements that encourage the Seder participants to be actively involved. From the traditional recitation of the Mah Nishtanah by the
youngest child, to the Rabbinic debates in the Magid section, each member of the Seder is being challenged, to think, to be involved and to explore the various themes of the Haggadah. This pedagogical approach is representative of Judaism as a whole. We are meant to be excited about the Torah and mitzvot, to explore, to delve, to think and to question. Rav Yitzchak Zvi Rimon quotes the halacha that we are supposed to eat the Afikomen matzah when we are already full after the meal. “The Afikoman must be eaten when there is no physical need to eat, but we are still able to derive pleasure from eating.” The purpose of this halacha is to demonstrate that enjoyment is not something to look down upon. We eat the Afikoman, not because we are starving and in need of sustenance, but rather because we want to elevate our enjoyment. God does not shun enjoyment, because enjoyment can be used to elevate oneself and to serve God. We eat the Afikoman, and look upwards, thanking God for a beautiful Seder and reminding ourselves that although we are grateful for the Seder meal, our ultimate goal must be to improve ourselves to merit eating the Passover sacrifice once again.
BARECH ברך Thanking God after eating bread, other wise known as benching or saying Birkat Hamazon, is a Jewish law that applies during every part of the year. Why then, is the saying of Birkat Hamazon singled out on Passover? Do we really need a whole section of the seder night dedicated to the saying of something that should be a given? As slaves in Egypt, the Jews were not free to worship God as they pleased. Slaves do not have the luxury of eating and then formally benching; rather, they grab whatever food they can find and eat on the run. While nowadays it may seem as if there is nothing particularly miraculous about our ability to thank God for all He has provided, the Jews of the past would have begged to differ. Thus, dedicating a whole section of the seder to express our gratitude to God for the meal we have just eaten is truly a declaration of freedom.
HALLEL הלל
There is a phrase that in many versions of the Hagaddah precedes the recitation of Hallel here. In other Hagaddot, however, it’s left out because it’s so mysterious. It’s a tiny introduction that goes “Therefore, we ought to thank and praise God and sing a new song of praise.” The reason this introduction is often left out is because this ‘new song’, namely the Hallel we now recite, is in fact not new at all. It is recited nearly every holiday! Why this introduction then?
One suggestion is that now is the perfect time to renew our excitement and emotional connection to the song of Hallel, making it new to us again. It’s the perfect time because, in our narrative of the Exodus of Egypt, we have just risen from slavery to freedom. Now is the time to appreciate what we have, and our potential moving forward! However bad things get, thank God we are no longer slaves to a maniacal king, bent on the destruction of the Jewish people - a murderer who decreed that all Jewish firstborns should be killed. Instead, excerpting from Hallel, “Praise the servants of the Lord” – praise God that we are part of a Jewish people and not the doomed peoples of ancient Egypt. “The Lord is exalted above all other nations” - we always have the potential to rededicate ourselves to the highest ideals embedded in Judaism. “He makes the barren woman live in her house as a happy mother of children” – we can yet find opportunities and take advantage of otherwise terrible situations. Where before there was a wasteland, we can build something better. These are ideas we hear all the time, particularly during holidays. But now is the time to renew ourselves to higher ideals and worthy goals – to make a ‘new song’ out of the old and worn out.
HALLEL הלל
In Hallel, we break out into song, expressing our immense gratitude to God for saving us from horrific slavery. The poem below describes the power of song for one who is not free. What is the value of song? What purpose does it serve? Is song more powerful as a celebration of freedom or a longing for it?
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
Caged Bird Caged Bird By: Maya Angelou BY MAYA ANGELOU The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou, “Caged Bird” from Shaker, Why Don't You Sing? By Maya Angelou.
Just as Mah Nishtana begins the night with questions, Echad Mi Yodeah concludes the night with a question “Who knows One”? During Echad Mi Yodeah we affirm that everything in Judaism stems from the Oneness of God. Everything from the miracles that happened in Egypt and the receiving of the Torah, to our lives today, is derived from the understanding that it all comes from the One, God. Towards the end of the song, we proclaim that eleven represents the stars in Joseph’s dream. Joseph dreamt that eleven stars, representing his brothers, were prostrating before him, which caused the brothers to be jealous and ultimately sell him into slavery. Why is this sad and tragic portion of our history mentioned here? Because it is directly followed by twelve - the tribes of Israel. According to Rav Yitzchak Zvi Rimon, “The division is temporary.” In the beginning the sons of Jacob are divided, but through the process of enslavement and tragedy they become one nation again. That is the story of the Exodus - the beginnings of the formation of a unified nation, from a broken and fragmented family. “We do not always undrestand God’s ways, but we know that God loves His nation. We know that in the most difficult times, He is playing a crucial role in building the nation of Israel.”
CHAD GADYA חד גדיא The 1930s and 40s were clearly horrific years for European Jewry, of whom 6 million were murdered in the Holocaust. In the aftermath, hundreds of thousands of the survivors, despite great hardship, made their way to Israel. These were not people who, externally, seemed proud or capable. In fact, one of the most senior American military commanders, General George S. Patton, Commander of the Third Army, described them as little better than criminals, or "lower than animals." Yet, this mass exodus led, a few short years later, to the establishment of the State of Israel, during which the Jews, many of them survivors, fought valiantly to resist an onslaught of professional armies from the surrounding Arab countries, including Egypt, Iraq, Syria, and Jordan. These Jews were assisted by scores of veteran American pilots, many (though not all) Jewish, who volunteered to help the threatened Jewish state and founded Israel's now dominant Air Force. Their contributions allowed Israel to gain critical air superiority against the Arab legions. So it seems like a nearly implausible series of events took place: First, Hitler murders millions of Jews, leaving millions more as near-helpless refugees, and the world is – during this time – in the throes of a brutal world war. Then, in the next scene, the triumphant Jews and their military veteran volunteers triumphantly defend a Jewish state. The connection seems ludicrous! Yet there is a similar theme explored by Chad Gadya - a playful song at the end of the Seder that shows a fictional, seemingly implausible, funny sequence of events: First, a father buys a goat, setting off a domino
effect that ends with God destroying the Angel of Death. It seems ridiculous that one event could lead to the other! Yet the song goes step by step to show exactly how it happened - first a cat eats a goat the father bought, then a dog eats the cat, then a stick beats the dog, then a fire burns the stick, etc. etc., ending with God destroying the Angel of Death. What's fascinating is that the father in this story, who simply bought a goat for two coins, can't possibly have known it would have such cosmic effects. Indeed, that is one of the messages of the song. Chad Gadya sends a message of human capability - our actions and decisions have effects far beyond what we can see. Even the worst injustices and tragedies can be turned into opportunities and achievements. Never in Hitler’s worst nightmares or in the wildest dreams of David Ben-Gurion (Israel’s first Prime Minister) would it have been imagined that the Final solution would be part of the process that led to the creation of Israel, the first-world, healthy Jewish State. However frustrated or powerless a person feels in a hostile environment, the lesson behind Chad Gadya’s humor is that even everyday actions should be seen as part of a larger sequence of events that can ultimately make the world a better place. In the fable, a father buying a goat can - through pure coincidence - vanquish the Angel of Death. We should take heart that, no matter how humble we mortals are in a giant, sometimes unfeeling world – we can still strive for great consequences and noble missions. And in so doing, we perform God’s work in making the world a better place.
EXODUS PAINTING
This painting, which depicts the splitting of the sea and the Exodus of the Jewish people, can be found in Jerusalem...in a parking lot. When you walk through Israel, you walk through Jewish history. You walk through a land rich with Jewish culture and spiritual meaning, from the Western Wall all the way to the parking lot!
Caged Bird BY MAYA ANGELOU
TEN QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION 1. Tonight’s meal is called a Seder, which means “order”. Why do you think the Seder is called order? 2. Do you believe that God performs miracles today like the stories we tell about Egypt? Do you believe that God is involved in everyday life? 3. After the Jews left Egypt, they received the Torah and became a nation. What does it mean to be a nation? What makes us Jews? Is it religious practice, cultural identity, genetics, belief in God, or something else? 4. If you knew for certain that God would help you succeed, even through miracles, what new endeavor would you take on? 5. When we sing Dayenu, we tell God that the miracles He performed for us were enough for us. What are the gifts in our life that make it all worth it? 6. A major theme of the Seder is thanking God for freeing us from slavery. If you could also express gratitude to someone who made a difference in your life, who would it be? 7. On Pesach we are told to be sensitive to the plight of others because we were once slaves in Israel, but we also celebrate the formation of the exclusive Jewish nation. Are these two values, of collectivism and particularism, mutually exclusive? How can we find a place for both in our lives? 8. In Vehi She’amedah we read that someone rises in every generation to try and destroy the Jewish people. Who or what do you think is the biggest threat to Judaism today? 9. Eleanor Roosevelt once said “Freedom makes a huge requirement of every human being. With freedom comes responsibility.” What requirements did the Jewish people have when they left Egypt? What responsibilities do you think free people should have today? 10. We are told that Moses had a speech impediment and grew up separated from his fellow Jews, yet he was chosen to be the leader to take the Jews out of Egypt and take them through their journey in the desert. What skills do you think make someone a good leader? Did Moses have these skills?