The Sefat Emet explains that when we say that matzah is lehem oni, poor person’s bread, what we mean is that matzah is the very core of bread, the bare bones dough; spiritually, it represents the essence of our inner selves, our most basic inner divine point.
On Pesach we peel away all the extra layers and remind ourselves that this simple core of ours is enough. All year we work to develop this core, to spread it and make it do fantastic feats. This is good, but we need to know that these extra developments are not essential to who we are, that our worth does not depend on this striving in the world, on how puffy our bread is, how productive or successful we are. No, that is all extra.
On Pesach, we remember that our core is enough, that even if we strip away all this work and striving and success, the essence, what matters, is still there; it is still bread, very very simple bread, but still bread; we are still complete without the puff.
This year when I look for chametz, I will be looking for the places inside me that don’t know this truth, for the places that work feverishly because they think they have to prove my worth, that without them I would be nothing. I will be looking for those parts of me that say, like chametz – I only matter if I rise; I am only complete if I spend time and effort and work at being something great.
I will be searching for these places and then I will burn them. They are not the truth. I will watch as the ashes swallow up all that striving and underneath all that striving, that feeling of not-enoughness.
I will watch the flames burn up the chametz and then I will turn to the matzah and know that, like matzah, my essence is enough. It is great to be risen bread, but it is not essential. I am enough, worthwhile, whole, with a pure divine spark, just as I am, in my most stripped down basic form. To know this is peace and to know this is freedom.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
Monday, April 15, 2019
For Pesach: On Human Effort and Dependence
We work so hard for this holiday.
And yet, on some level, the message of Pesach is that we are taken care of. God took us out not because we deserved it; we didn’t. He redeemed us simply because we are His and He loves us. It is a leil shimurim, a night of protection, this seder night, not a time when we have to do anything to protect ourselves. God is in charge. In the Haggadah, we emphasize that it was God alone who redeemed us; we don’t mention Moshe’s name, because the emphasis on God is key; on this night, we need to know that we are dependent on God alone. We recline at the table like someone who is totally relaxed, secure in the knowledge that Someone else will take care of things, that we have “Someone to lean on.” We do not pour ourselves wine, but the custom is to be the recipient, to feel for one night that we have no worries over the replenishing of our cup; it will happen without our effort.
So why on this holiday, when we are meant to feel that we are totally cared for and protected from above, why is this the holiday that actually requires the most effort on our part to prepare for?
There is some deep psychological truth here, some connection between all this work and the feeling of total dependence that we aspire to.
There is the dependence of the child, an unexamined dependence which (hopefully) passes with time as the child becomes more independent. And then there is a deeper sense of dependence which we can only come to after some experience of independence and some experience of great human effort on our part.
It reminds me of the first two steps of Alcoholics Anonymous – first, we admitted that we were powerless, and second, we came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. We have to first bottom out with human effort; we have to first work really hard and try as hard as we can to do everything, to get it all right, to get our lives in order. We have to go that route and only after we have gotten to the point of knowing that even with all that effort, still, on some level, we are powerless to control our lives and make them work the way we want, only after we have come to that realization, that knowledge that “we can’t” – only then will we be really open to the One who Can, to the truth of our dependence on Him, to the appreciation of our gifts and the peace of not being in charge.
So both the effort and the feeling of being taken care of are part of the package on Pesach. Perhaps this is the meaning of our movement from slavery to freedom; we begin as slaves to our own human striving and work capacity and we move toward a feeling of the freedom and peace of knowing that ultimately, whatever work we do, however important it is, we are held in a larger cushion of divine love. Such knowledge of our dependence is a kind of freedom; it frees us from our enslavement to our very human projects and gives us a taste of something larger, more eternal.
And yet, on some level, the message of Pesach is that we are taken care of. God took us out not because we deserved it; we didn’t. He redeemed us simply because we are His and He loves us. It is a leil shimurim, a night of protection, this seder night, not a time when we have to do anything to protect ourselves. God is in charge. In the Haggadah, we emphasize that it was God alone who redeemed us; we don’t mention Moshe’s name, because the emphasis on God is key; on this night, we need to know that we are dependent on God alone. We recline at the table like someone who is totally relaxed, secure in the knowledge that Someone else will take care of things, that we have “Someone to lean on.” We do not pour ourselves wine, but the custom is to be the recipient, to feel for one night that we have no worries over the replenishing of our cup; it will happen without our effort.
So why on this holiday, when we are meant to feel that we are totally cared for and protected from above, why is this the holiday that actually requires the most effort on our part to prepare for?
There is some deep psychological truth here, some connection between all this work and the feeling of total dependence that we aspire to.
There is the dependence of the child, an unexamined dependence which (hopefully) passes with time as the child becomes more independent. And then there is a deeper sense of dependence which we can only come to after some experience of independence and some experience of great human effort on our part.
It reminds me of the first two steps of Alcoholics Anonymous – first, we admitted that we were powerless, and second, we came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. We have to first bottom out with human effort; we have to first work really hard and try as hard as we can to do everything, to get it all right, to get our lives in order. We have to go that route and only after we have gotten to the point of knowing that even with all that effort, still, on some level, we are powerless to control our lives and make them work the way we want, only after we have come to that realization, that knowledge that “we can’t” – only then will we be really open to the One who Can, to the truth of our dependence on Him, to the appreciation of our gifts and the peace of not being in charge.
So both the effort and the feeling of being taken care of are part of the package on Pesach. Perhaps this is the meaning of our movement from slavery to freedom; we begin as slaves to our own human striving and work capacity and we move toward a feeling of the freedom and peace of knowing that ultimately, whatever work we do, however important it is, we are held in a larger cushion of divine love. Such knowledge of our dependence is a kind of freedom; it frees us from our enslavement to our very human projects and gives us a taste of something larger, more eternal.
For Pesach: Nothing After the Afikoman
Our answer to the wise child of the Haggadah is: ayn maftirin ahar haPesach afikoman. “One adds no after-dinner revelry after eating the Passover sacrifice.” Normally, after the meal, we might have another mini dessert party. But not tonight. The mitzvah is to end with the Passover lamb. [In our seders today, of course, since we no longer have a sacrifice, we end with the taste of matzah, which, ironically we call the “afikoman,” the word for the after-dinner revelry we are not to have.]
One should end with Pesach, either with the actual sacrifice or with some experience, like the matzah, that is specifically related to our Pesach experience of redemption. After that, nothing more should be added.
This idea reminds me of Nadav and Avihu, of the notion that the moment of divine revelation inside the Tabernacle, that moment that God’s Glory first came to fill up that space, that moment was the peak. It was enough and complete. For Nadav and Avihu to add to it, to try to top that moment, was an act of sacrilege; they meant to add, but they were actually taking away from the moment. (See my earlier Shmini blog).
Here, too, on Pesach, we are meant to have such an experience of divine Presence, indeed, to feel that God has redeemed us in particular right now and taken us out of Egypt. We need to be totally present for that experience, not to try to add to it afterwards, to think we need more, but simply to be present. Nothing extra. This moment is total and complete as it is. It is enough.
I think it’s interesting that this message is deemed especially appropriate for the wise and knowledgeable among us, for the overachievers, the strivers who are always looking to learn more and add one more insight and one more text and one more halakhic regulation, to add “dessert” to our Pesach. While the Haggadah encourages us to add to the telling of the story and to elaborate, there is also a place for minimums, for knowing what the core is – pesach, matzah and maror; feeling that you have left Egypt; singing praise to God – and sticking to the core.
Pesach can be a time of overdoing it, overdoing the cleaning, overdoing the shopping and the cooking and even overdoing the seder. There is a restlessness in all our striving that could lead us, like the wise son, to miss the main point, to be so worried about the dessert that we forget the main meal. The Haggadah warns us, at the start, ayn maftirin ahar HaPesach afikoman. Don’t be extra. Get to the Pesach itself, have an experience of God’s redemption, and be totally present for that. Know that that is enough. Indeed, know that that is everything. To do more detracts, and is indeed a kind of slavery, a slavery that comes from a lack of faith in the simple power of presence. There is nothing more. We will only be free when we know that in our full presence we are enough.
One should end with Pesach, either with the actual sacrifice or with some experience, like the matzah, that is specifically related to our Pesach experience of redemption. After that, nothing more should be added.
This idea reminds me of Nadav and Avihu, of the notion that the moment of divine revelation inside the Tabernacle, that moment that God’s Glory first came to fill up that space, that moment was the peak. It was enough and complete. For Nadav and Avihu to add to it, to try to top that moment, was an act of sacrilege; they meant to add, but they were actually taking away from the moment. (See my earlier Shmini blog).
Here, too, on Pesach, we are meant to have such an experience of divine Presence, indeed, to feel that God has redeemed us in particular right now and taken us out of Egypt. We need to be totally present for that experience, not to try to add to it afterwards, to think we need more, but simply to be present. Nothing extra. This moment is total and complete as it is. It is enough.
I think it’s interesting that this message is deemed especially appropriate for the wise and knowledgeable among us, for the overachievers, the strivers who are always looking to learn more and add one more insight and one more text and one more halakhic regulation, to add “dessert” to our Pesach. While the Haggadah encourages us to add to the telling of the story and to elaborate, there is also a place for minimums, for knowing what the core is – pesach, matzah and maror; feeling that you have left Egypt; singing praise to God – and sticking to the core.
Pesach can be a time of overdoing it, overdoing the cleaning, overdoing the shopping and the cooking and even overdoing the seder. There is a restlessness in all our striving that could lead us, like the wise son, to miss the main point, to be so worried about the dessert that we forget the main meal. The Haggadah warns us, at the start, ayn maftirin ahar HaPesach afikoman. Don’t be extra. Get to the Pesach itself, have an experience of God’s redemption, and be totally present for that. Know that that is enough. Indeed, know that that is everything. To do more detracts, and is indeed a kind of slavery, a slavery that comes from a lack of faith in the simple power of presence. There is nothing more. We will only be free when we know that in our full presence we are enough.
For Peh Sach: God's Never-ending Speech
To feel that God is constantly involved in our lives and redeeming us, continually performing miracles on our behalf right now – that is the goal of the Seder. Not just to remember the past and be thankful, but to feel the constant Presence, care and involvement of God in our lives.
There is a famous play on the name Pesach – reading it as peh sach – a mouth that speaks. Normally we understand this mouth that speaks as our own mouth speaking the story of the exodus. The Kedushat Levi reads it differently; the mouth that speaks on Pesach is the mouth of God continually speaking. God is a constantly “speaking mouth.”
What does this mean? God created the world through speech acts. He said “let there be light” and there was light. One might think that after this beneficent act of creation, He disappeared. He set the world in motion and sat back and watched. But no, to say that God is a continually speaking mouth is to say that in some sense, creation never ended. God is constantly speaking the world into existence. As we say each morning, He is mehadesh betuvo bekhol yom tamid maaseh breishit, He is, in His goodness, renewing the work of creation each and every day. At each moment, He continually speaks each of us and every piece of grass into continued existence. Creation was not a one-time act, but a never-ending show of love.
With the exodus from Egypt, God manifested to the world this hidden continual care, says the Kedushat Levi. We normally don’t take notice of it, but then, suddenly, through miraculous interventions (the plagues and the Red Sea) that went against the natural order that He had set up, God showed that He was still involved on a regular basis. By clearly acting in the world, He manifested what is normally hidden – His continued involvement in the world He created. It is as if He popped up and said – See?! I have been here and involved all the time. I am showing you now so you can know it and remember.
On Pesach we remember that God is a constant peh sach by ourselves becoming a peh sach. We continually, each year on Pesach and each day in the Shma, again and again, speak this truth into the universe: God did not leave; God is here, Present at all times and involved in our lives. Through speech acts of remembering and reminding, we experience His continued involvement; we activate that sense of His speech through our own speech.
What does it mean to feel God’s continued miraculous involvement in our lives? We are so full of problems and suffering and worries and unbelief. How do we feel God’s continual redemption? I am searching myself but there are little inklings, and I think it is the little inklings of this Presence that Pesach asks us to notice and speak out loud – the moments when there is indeed some sense of personal redemption, when we are helped or healed or cared for or guided or given strength where there is no strength. There are also moments of revelation, moments when we get a sudden insight, a glimpse of some greater truth or understanding, what is known in Hebrew as a hiddush, “a new thought,” a gift from God’s constant work of renewal in the world. And finally there is constantly around us evidence of God’s continual care in the form of nature, the miracle of our own existence and of the beautiful universe around us. Perhaps that is why Pesach is in the spring, a time when the physical world is indeed in a time of glorious renewal, a new act of creation.
These are all little shafts of divine light entering the universe, little glimpses of God’s constant care. On Pesach we become a peh sach, a mouth that speaks this truth of God’s own continually speaking mouth. He is here now and still speaking to us. Let us pause and enter the conversation.
There is a famous play on the name Pesach – reading it as peh sach – a mouth that speaks. Normally we understand this mouth that speaks as our own mouth speaking the story of the exodus. The Kedushat Levi reads it differently; the mouth that speaks on Pesach is the mouth of God continually speaking. God is a constantly “speaking mouth.”
What does this mean? God created the world through speech acts. He said “let there be light” and there was light. One might think that after this beneficent act of creation, He disappeared. He set the world in motion and sat back and watched. But no, to say that God is a continually speaking mouth is to say that in some sense, creation never ended. God is constantly speaking the world into existence. As we say each morning, He is mehadesh betuvo bekhol yom tamid maaseh breishit, He is, in His goodness, renewing the work of creation each and every day. At each moment, He continually speaks each of us and every piece of grass into continued existence. Creation was not a one-time act, but a never-ending show of love.
With the exodus from Egypt, God manifested to the world this hidden continual care, says the Kedushat Levi. We normally don’t take notice of it, but then, suddenly, through miraculous interventions (the plagues and the Red Sea) that went against the natural order that He had set up, God showed that He was still involved on a regular basis. By clearly acting in the world, He manifested what is normally hidden – His continued involvement in the world He created. It is as if He popped up and said – See?! I have been here and involved all the time. I am showing you now so you can know it and remember.
On Pesach we remember that God is a constant peh sach by ourselves becoming a peh sach. We continually, each year on Pesach and each day in the Shma, again and again, speak this truth into the universe: God did not leave; God is here, Present at all times and involved in our lives. Through speech acts of remembering and reminding, we experience His continued involvement; we activate that sense of His speech through our own speech.
What does it mean to feel God’s continued miraculous involvement in our lives? We are so full of problems and suffering and worries and unbelief. How do we feel God’s continual redemption? I am searching myself but there are little inklings, and I think it is the little inklings of this Presence that Pesach asks us to notice and speak out loud – the moments when there is indeed some sense of personal redemption, when we are helped or healed or cared for or guided or given strength where there is no strength. There are also moments of revelation, moments when we get a sudden insight, a glimpse of some greater truth or understanding, what is known in Hebrew as a hiddush, “a new thought,” a gift from God’s constant work of renewal in the world. And finally there is constantly around us evidence of God’s continual care in the form of nature, the miracle of our own existence and of the beautiful universe around us. Perhaps that is why Pesach is in the spring, a time when the physical world is indeed in a time of glorious renewal, a new act of creation.
These are all little shafts of divine light entering the universe, little glimpses of God’s constant care. On Pesach we become a peh sach, a mouth that speaks this truth of God’s own continually speaking mouth. He is here now and still speaking to us. Let us pause and enter the conversation.
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