SALT | Pesach 5784 - 2024

MOTZAEI

Before we begin the “maggid” section of the Pesach seder, during which we tell the story of the Exodus, we perform the ritual of “yachatz,” the splitting of the middle matza.  The larger piece is hidden and later eaten as the “afikoman,” in commemoration of the korban pesach.  The symbolism of the yachatz ritual seems clear.  We take a whole matza and break it into uneven pieces to symbolize “lechem oni,” the bread eaten by the poor and downtrodden.  While standing on the lowest rung of the social ladder in Egypt, Benei Yisrael fed off meager scraps of bread and did not enjoy the luxury of respectable, whole loaves.  Yachatz serves as a symbol of the type of bread eaten by the Hebrew slaves in Egypt, and indeed, immediately following yachatz, we begin maggid with the words, “Ha lachma anya” – “This is the bread of affliction…”  What remains unclear, however, is the timing of this ritual. Why do we break the matza already now, before maggid, well before we prepare to eat the matza?

Rav Chayim of Brisk is cited as explaining the timing of yachatz as yet another symbolic commemoration of the korban pesach.  The korban pesach, like all sacrifices, had to be slaughtered by day, before sunset.  However, halakha also requires that one partake of the meat of the korban pesach “al ha-sova” – with a satiated stomach, meaning, after the meal. For this reason, we eat the afikoman – the commemoration of the korban pesach – after we complete the meal at the seder.  The large time gap between the korban’s slaughtering and consumption necessitated the protection of the sacrificial meat from tum’a.  People would therefore wrap and hide the meat of the korban until after the meal.  In commemoration, we wrap and hide the afikoman until the time for its consumption.

A different approach is brought in the name of Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach.  The Gemara in Masekhet Pesachim offers two interpretations for the term, “lechem oni.” The more common interpretation, as mentioned, is “bread of poverty” or “bread of affliction.”  The Gemara, however, adds a second translation: “Lechem she-onim alav devarim harbei” – bread over which we say many things. This refers to the fact that we must recite maggid and discuss the Exodus over the matza, meaning, with matza present on the table.  Rav Shlomo Zalman suggests that at this point in the seder, when we are about to begin these “many things” – the discussion of Yetziat Mitzrayim, we break the matza to show the association between these two definitions of the term “lechem oni.” As we prepare to fulfill one definition of the expression, we also fulfill the other definition, combining our discussion of freedom with the symbolic commemoration of our slavery and oppression.

SUNDAY

Today we will continue yesterday’s discussion of “yachatz,” the stage of the seder when we break the middle matza into two pieces.  We asked why we perform this symbolic ritual so early in the seder (just before beginning maggid), well before we prepare to eat the matza.

Today we present the creative approach taken by Rav Mordekhai Elon.  He suggests that the clue to understanding yachatz lies in a connection he established between the afikoman and the manna.  Recall that after breaking the middle matza, we take the larger piece and put it away. We take it out again only much later, after the meal, when we eat it as the afikoman – the commemoration of the korban pesach, which, during the time of the Temple, was eaten at the conclusion of the meal.  What is the etymological origin of the word “afikoman”?  Rav Elon suggests that we interpret this word as a contraction of two Aramaic words: “afiku mann” – “take out the manna.”  Meaning, the afikoman symbolizes not only the korban pesach, but the manna as well.  How?

Rav Elon explains by looking at the nature of the miracle of the manna, which fell from the heavens to feed Benei Yisrael daily throughout their forty-year sojourn in the wilderness.  The Torah describes the manna experience as a “test” for Benei Yisrael (see, for example, Devarim 8:16).  In what way did the manna “test” Benei Yisrael?  According to Rav Elon, this test had to do with the fact that only a single day’s ration of manna arrived every morning.  That meant that Benei Yisrael went to sleep each night with not a single morsel of food for the following day.  (Recall that any leftover manna would spoil by morning.)  And, needless to say, the desert conditions in which they traveled offered no opportunity for any type of self-sufficiency. As they bid one another good night, they had nothing saved for the next morning besides the Almighty’s promise to rain down yet another portion of heavenly bread.  This is the test of the manna.  (Rav Elon follows the approach taken by the Rashbam and others concerning the “test” involved in the manna.  The Seforno, however, advances the opposite theory, that the effortless acquisition of one’s needs poses a considerable spiritual challenge to the person.)

This explains the symbolism of yachatz.  We hide the piece of matza to recall our former life of oppression, when we knew not what tomorrow would bring, when we had to save as much as we could for the following day.  The poor man can never enjoy the present, as he must always worry about the future.  As we begin the seder, we act out the role of slaves living a life of uncertainty and incessant anxiety.  By the time we leave Egypt, so-to-speak, once we reach the end of the seder and celebrate our freedom from bondage and firm trust in the Almighty, we declare, “afiku mann” – take out the mann!!  No longer must we hide our leftover rations for tomorrow.  We can take our food out of storage and enjoy it now, in festive celebration of our newfound freedom and confident trust that God will provide our needs henceforth.

Monday

The first of the four questions asked at the seder questions the use of matza, as opposed to leavened food, on Pesach: “For on all other nights we eat chametz and matza, but on this night – only matza.”  A careful examination of the text of this question reveals a certain peculiarity that might call upon us to probe a bit deeper into its intent.  At first glance, we would interpret the child’s question to mean, “On all other nights we eat EITHER chametz or matza…”  This is not, however, how the question reads.  In truth, the child notes that on all other nights “anu okhelim chametz U-matza” – we eat BOTH chametz and matza.  Contrast this formulation with the final of the four questions, when the child inquires as to the reason behind reclining at the seder. He asks, on all other nights “anu okhelim BEIN yoshevim U-VEIN mesubim” – we eat EITHER while sitting or reclining, whereas on this night we recline.  The first question, by contrast, notes that throughout the year we eat both chametz and matza, as opposed to Pesach, when we eat only matza.

This distinction led Rav Shaul of Amsterdam to suggest an entirely different explanation of the first of the four questions. The questioner does not mean that throughout the year we include both chametz and matza at every meal; this obviously would not be accurate.  Rather, he referred to one specific setting which generally, except on Pesach, includes both leavened and unleavened bread.  In Parashat Tzav, the Torah (Vayikra chapter 7) describes the korban toda, or thanksgiving offering, which consists of an animal sacrifice as well as both leavened and unleavened baked goods.  Appropriately, the korban pesach strongly resembles the korban toda, as it involves an animal sacrifice and bread.  The obvious difference, however, is that on Pesach we do not bring any leavened bread together with the animal sacrifice and matza.  Rav Shaul of Amsterdam suggests that this is precisely the first of the four questions: why is this thanksgiving offering different from all others?  Why is it that whereas when offering a korban toda generally we eat “both chametz and matza,” whereas tonight we eat only matza?  The answer, of course, is that God forbade the consumption of chametz on Pesach, thus preventing us from including this component of the korban toda offering.

We might add a further explanation as to the answer to this question, as understood by Rav Shaul.  Beyond the technical inability to include chametz in our thanksgiving feast on Pesach, the themes symbolized by chametz might be simply incompatible with this specific korban toda.  Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch, in his commentary to Sefer Vayikra, explains the symbolism underlying the inclusion of both chametz and matza in a korban toda (as we cited in our S.A.L.T. series to Parashat Tzav several weeks ago).  Matza, he explains, represents nature in its crudest form, before human involvement and innovation.  In this sense, then, matza symbolizes human passivity. Chametz, by contrast, marks the clearest example of man’s manipulation of the natural elements, human ingenuity that yields a far more advanced, sophisticated product than the original ingredients.  When offering a korban toda, one must acknowledge, on the one hand, matza – our ultimate dependence on God, the fact that we are not entirely in control of our fate.  At the same time, someone offering a korban toda for having been saved from crisis must also bring chametz; he must realize that we are expected to invest our own efforts and not rely entirely on the Almighty’s intervention.

Perhaps, in light of this symbolic approach, we can deepen our understanding of the unique korban toda conducted on Pesach eve – the korban pesach.  The Exodus was intended to demonstrate God’s might and power in the world.  This is not a time for chametz, for the human initiative and effort that must generally accompany God’s rule over world affairs. Here there is room for only matza, human passivity.  During the plague of the firstborn, Benei Yisrael were instructed to remain indoors, a command interpreted by some as a means to dispel any possible misconception that they, rather than God, brought about their salvation.  Pesach is the festival of matza, when we express our belief in God’s control over the world, and we therefore abstain from chametz – the symbol of human innovation and ingenuity.

Tuesday

In the Haggadah we cite the berayta that specifies the period of time in which the obligation of sippur Yetziat Mitzrayim (the telling of the story of the Exodus) applies: “…be-sha’a she-yeish matza u-marror munachim lefanekha” – when we have matza and marror before us.  Meaning, this obligation takes effect only at the night of the seder, when we also must fulfill the obligations of matza and marror. Therefore, as the berayta establishes, one cannot fulfill this mitzva anytime earlier than the night of Pesach.

This halakha gives rise to an interesting question concerning an earlier passage in the Haggadah, the story of the five tanna’im in Bnei-Brak.  According to this account, the five scholars sat through the night discussing the Exodus, until their students informed them that morning has risen, and they must therefore stop their conversation to recite the shema.  Among the sages present at this famous seder was Rabbi Elazar Ben Azarya.  Now we know from the Talmud that Rabbi Elazar Ben Azarya held that one must complete his consumption of the korban pesach before chatzot (midnight as defined by halakha).  This naturally affects the mitzvot accompanying the korban pesach – matza and marror, which, according to Rabbi Elazar, also must be observed before chatzot. Consequently, the mitzva of sippur Yetziat Mitzrayim in his opinion applied only until chatzot, as only until then do the mitzvot of pesach, matza and marror take effect.  The question thus arises as to why Rabbi Elazar participated in the nightlong discussion of Yetziat Mitzrayim together with the other tanna’im.

Some commentators explain that for this very reason the Haggada informs us of the location of this seder – Bnei-Brak.  This was the city where Rabbi Akiva served as rabbi and Rosh Yeshiva.  He, who was naturally present at this seder, argues with Rabbi Elazar (as recorded in the Talmud) and extends the period for the consumption of the korban pesach until morning.  During his stay in Bnei-Brak, Rabbi Elazar Ben Azarya deferred to the ruling of his disputant, the local rabbinic leader, and continued discussing Yetziat Mitzrayim well after chatzot, through the night.

Others explain differently, claiming that an extended sippur Yetziat Mitzrayim past chatzot is halakhically meaningful even according to Rabbi Elazar’s position.  The Steipler Gaon suggested basing this thesis on the immediately preceding sentence in the Haggada: “Ve-khol ha-marbeh le-saper bi-Yetziat Mitzrayim harei zeh meshubach” – the more one discusses the Exodus on Pesach night, the more he is praiseworthy.  According to the Steipler, this clause refers to a mitzva de-rabbanan to continue talking about Yetziat Mitzrayim even past the timeframe prescribed for this mitzva by Torah law.  A slightly different approach is taken by Rav Yitzchak Hutner, in his “Pachad Yitzchak,” who finds the clue in the Ramban’s comments to the verse in Parashat Bo (Shemot 12:42) which describes the night of the Exodus as “leil shimurim” - often translated as “night of watching.”  According to the Ramban, “leil shimurim” means that we must devote this night to avodat Hashem.  The five tanna’im thus spent the entire night engrossed in the study of Yetziat Mitzrayim, even those who maintain that the essential mitzva of sippur Yetziat Mitzrayim ends at chatzot.

Wednesday

Who is the “rasha,” the wicked son described by the Haggada?  Why do we consider him wicked, and what exactly did the Haggada have in mind when it calls for a harsh response to this son?

Our understanding of the wicked son begins with an obvious discrepancy between the response to this son mandated by the Torah and that given in the Haggada.  The question identified by the Haggada as that of the wicked son – “Ma ha-avoda ha-zot lakhem” – “What is this ritual for you?” – appears in Parashat Bo (Shemot 12:26). The Torah there gives us a very specific answer with which to respond to this question: “You shall say: It is the passover sacrifice to the Lord, because He passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when He smote the Egyptians, but saved our houses.”  Many commentators have asked why the Haggada offers a different response to the wicked son’s question.  The Haggada instead has us scold the rasha and let him know that “were he to have been there, he would not have been redeemed.” Why?

Many writers explain based on a subtle nuance in the Torah’s wording when foretelling the rasha’s question.  In presenting the questions of the other sons, the Torah writes, “When you son shall ASK…” (see Shemot 13:14; Devarim 6:20). Here, by contrast, the Torah writes, “When you sons say to you” (“Ki yomeru aleikhem beneikhem”).  This would perhaps indicate that the wicked son does not ask; he tells.  In fact, this may very well be the reason why Chazal attribute this “question” to the wicked son, because the son described by the Torah here does not ask, he is not interested in an answer.  Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch claims that the wicked denies the authority of his parents and the previous generation.  He sees them as relics of the past, of an outdated system that has outlived its own relevance and must be replaced.  He sees it as his duty to free his parents from the shackles of the past and bring them by the hand into the new ideas of the modern era.  He therefore does not ask, but says to them, “What is all this to you?!”

The Torah tells us to respond, “You shall say: It is the passover sacrifice…”  Significantly, the Torah does not have us “say to him,” but simply “say.”  We cannot speak to someone who has no interest in listening.  If he tells rather than asks, then we should not respond.  We should instead reinforce our own faith and resolve, and we must focus our attention on the other sons who sincerely ask, inquire and express interest.

Thursday

Today we will discuss the fourth and final of the four sons described by the Haggada, the “she-eino yodei’a li-sh’ol” (“who does not know to ask”).  Seemingly, this title refers to a very young or very ignorant child, who is as yet not even capable of posing a question.  (Indeed, many illustrated Haggadas portray this son as a toddler who has not even started schooling.)  The obvious question then arises as to why the Haggada offers us any educational instruction with regard to this child at all.  Why are we being told how to teach a child who is too young to learn?  And besides, if he cannot even ask, what makes us think he is capable of understanding our response?  Would a child incapable of asking be capable of understanding “It is for this that the Lord acted on my behalf when I left Egypt”?

Rav Moshe Feinstein is cited as explaining that the Haggada’s discussion of this fourth son teaches us precisely not to ask such questions.  “At petach lo” (“You shall open up for him”) shows us that from the Torah’s perspective, one must teach and continue to teach even when it seems ineffective. Children’s education begins already at the earliest age, and even if it appears as though they do not listen and the material does not sink in, we must continue to try nonetheless.  Rav Moshe applies this to the classroom setting, as well, urging Torah educators never to despair or feel discouraged when they do not find their work fruitful.  We are bidden to try out utmost to “open” children and students, even if at first our efforts may appear futile.

We may, however, suggest a much different approach to the “she-eino yodei’a li-sh’ol.”  Let us return to the verse which the Haggada views as the proper response to this son: “It is for this that the Lord acted on my behalf when I left Egypt” (Shemot 13:8).  Rashi explains, “It is because of this – so that I shall observe His mitzvot.”  As Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch comments, this verse means that we must show our children the importance of the mitzvot, that it was purely on their account that the Egyptians were defeated and our ancestors freed.  We try to ignite the interest of the “she-eino yodei’a li-sh’ol” by demonstrating just how significant we view these mitzvot and rituals performed at the seder, to the point that we see them as the primary – if not sole – purpose of the entire series of events commemorated on Pesach.

If so, then perhaps an entirely different picture of this fourth son emerges.  We might suggest that the “she-eino yode’a li-sh’ol’ is not childish or ignorant, but to the contrary, this is a sophisticated, well educated child who does not take Jewish ritual seriously.  He does not know to ask because he does not know there is anything worthwhile to ask about.  In his mind, the events of Yetziat Mitzrayim and the mitzvot of the seder have at most sentimental value, they perhaps provide a convenient excuse for family gatherings, but he does not view it as anything substantively valuable or important. He is far more impressed by other fields of study and pursuits.  The Haggada tells us to show him that “for this God acted on my behalf.”  We must demonstrate the importance we afford to Torah and mitzvot, how rigorously we approach its study and meticulously we observe its detailed laws.  Only then can we show him that there is what to ask about, that Torah and mitzvot are indeed worthwhile to study, probe, learn and observe.

Friday

At the heart of the maggid section of the Haggada, we study the verses in Sefer Devarim known as “mikra bikkurim” (26:5-9). The farmer brings his first fruits to the Bet Ha-mikdash and makes a special declaration dictated in these verses, which includes a brief historical review of the Egyptian bondage and redemption. In the Haggada, we go through these verses one clause at a time, associating each with a corresponding verse from Sefer Shemot, in the original narrative of the Exodus.

One verse in “mikra bikkurim” reads, “We cried to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our pleas…”  Commenting on this clause, the Haggada cites the following verse from Sefer Shemot (2:23), “A long time after that, the king of Egypt died. The Israelites groaned under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God.” What does this verse from Sefer Shemot add to our understanding of the verse in Sefer Devarim?  What does it show concerning the nature of Benei Yisrael’s plea to God for help?

Let us first take a closer look at that verse in Shemot.  It begins by telling of the death of the Egyptian king, and it then proceeds to describe Benei Yisrael’s “groaning.”  Wherein lies the connection between these two events?  Rashi, based on the Midrash, famously explains that the king of Egypt did not, in fact, die.  He rather contracted tzara’at – often associated with a form of “death” – and his magicians told him that he can cure his illness by bathing in the blood of Hebrew children.  Pharaoh followed this advice, and hence Benei Yisrael’s increased suffering and appeal to God.

Later commentators have noted that this interpretation (albeit Midrashic in nature) appears to contradict the verse itself. The verse states explicitly that Benei Yisrael groaned “min ha-avoda” (“under the bondage”), implying that it was the slave labor, not the killing of children, that accounted for their increased suffering.  How, then, could Rashi explain their sudden intensified groaning as the result of the slaughtering of Hebrew children?  The Levush Ha-ora explains that the words “min ha-avoda” actually form the very basis of this Midrashic reading of the verse.  The Midrash reads the word “avoda” (literally, “work”) here to refer to religious worship (as in “avoda zara” or, “le-havdil,” the “avoda” in the Temple).  Their intensified pleas to God resulted from the religious beliefs of Egypt which led the king to believe that he could cure his illness by soaking his skin in the blood of innocent children.

This could perhaps help us understand what the Haggada adds by invoking this verse to explain the verse in Sefer Devarim describing Benei Yisrael appeal to God.  The Haggada here gives us the background to Benei Yisrael’s cry for help.  We know from the prophet Yechezkel and innumerable passages in the Midrash that much of Benei Yisrael had adopted Egyptian paganism during their stay in the country.  This incident of Pharaoh’s tzara’at perhaps marked a turning point in their attitude towards the Egyptian faith that they had embraced heretofore.  Once and for all, and, painfully, only through the murder of their children, Benei Yisrael came to realize what kind of religion this is. Only then did they “cry to the Lord, the God of our fathers.”  They returned to their own tradition, to their ancestral faith, to find the answers. Having seen what the pagan lifestyle entailed, Benei Yisrael came back to their own origins, and the process of redemption could then begin.