How did the two “good” spies, Yehoshua and Kalev, manage to escape the fate of the other 10? We are all constantly confronted with choices, places where we have to decide whether we are going to go along with the “10,” with the dominant culture, with our peers, with whatever the prevailing wisdom is. And our children are constantly confronted by these choices, too. How do we stand strong on those occasions where the right thing is not to follow the crowd and how do we help our children stand strong? Yehoshua and Kalev each has a strategy to teach.
Yehoshua carries God with him wherever he goes. The Torah says that Moshe, prior to sending him off on the mission, changed his name from Hoshea to Yehoshua. Rashi explains that Moshe was praying on his behalf Yah yoshiakha me’atzat meraglim. “May God save you (playing on Yehoshua’s name) from the counsel of the spies.” It isn’t that Yehoshua was a much stronger or wiser person than the others. What saved him was that he had Moshe’s divine blessing with him. He carried in his name, wherever he went, a reminder of God’s help. He didn’t do it alone. We often feel that the challenges we face in life are beyond us, but if we admit this and ask God to stay with us and help us through it, we can do more than we thought we could. Yehoshua came through because he was never alone.
We should note that here it is Moshe who prays on behalf of Yehoshua, his younger assistant. The goal is not just to feel that God assists us but to learn to spread that blessing around us, to pray that others, too, feel God’s aid and protection.
Kalev does not receive this assistance from Moshe -- sometimes in life it doesn't just come to us -- but he goes about getting it for himself, also from an older generation. When the Torah uses the singular vayavo to describe the spies’ entrance to Hevron, Rashi explains that Kalev came alone to this city of ancestors and laid himself across the graves of the patriarchs and prayed for assistance in not succumbing to the dominant spies’ plans. Once again, Kalev knew that he could not fight the battle alone. He was perhaps no stronger or wiser than the others, but there was one difference – he knew when to ask for help, he knew that this was a moment of difficulty for him and prayed for assistance.
Assistance from ancestors is not something we talk much about, but I think that many of us feel it daily, feel how we carry our deceased parents and grandparents around inside our hearts and can rely on them for wisdom, counsel, and most of all, strength to persevere. We also have our communal ancestors to rely on. Perhaps this is why we start the Amidah with them – Elokei Avraham, . . . -- because we know we need help to pray, to open our mouths and hearts, and we turn to their strength and their example to guide us as we begin. When we walk through life, too, we can at any moment tap into their strength. We can feel their blood running through our veins and know once again that we are not alone.
May God and our ancestors help each of us be strong in the face of our particular pressures.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Friday, June 24, 2016
Parashat Beha'aolotekha: Two Thoughts
Two points strike me about the parsha this year:
1) God cares about hurt feelings. This week’s parsha begins with instructions to Aharon on lighting the menorah. Rashi says that the reason these instructions are juxtaposed to the description of the tribal chieftains’ gifts to the Tabernacle in last week’s parsha is that Aharon was feeling bad about those gifts. Aharon saw how all the tribes except his, the tribe of Levi, had brought gifts and he felt insecure about his place – why hadn’t he brought gifts, too, like all the other chieftains? God saw his hurt and came to comfort him and tell him – look at what a special gift you have – you are the one who will light the menorah each day! You have a special place with Me and My Tabernacle.
God cares about our very human vulnerabilities and insecurities, those small feelings of hurt which come up all the time for all of us. God cares, and, since we are God’s agents on this earth, we need to care, too, to pay attention to the one who might feel left out or insecure in a particular situation and make sure they know that they are wanted and that they play a special part in the group effort of bringing God’s presence down to earth.
2) To be a true leader is to spread the wealth. Eldad and Medad are found prophesying in an unauthorized way within the camp and Yehoshua wishes to have them imprisoned. Moshe’s reaction is: If only the whole nation were prophets! Moshe truly desires for others to receive God’s spirit. He does not need to hold the Torah or hold God to himself but wants everyone to have a part. This may be part of what it means when it says, a few pesukim later, that he is the most humble person on this earth. To be humble is to recognize that we do not own truth; we do not own greatness or Torah or wisdom, that they are gifts to be shared by all. To be humble is not to be threatened, but to rejoice at others’ success in these endeavors because we are all part of the same team, God’s team.
1) God cares about hurt feelings. This week’s parsha begins with instructions to Aharon on lighting the menorah. Rashi says that the reason these instructions are juxtaposed to the description of the tribal chieftains’ gifts to the Tabernacle in last week’s parsha is that Aharon was feeling bad about those gifts. Aharon saw how all the tribes except his, the tribe of Levi, had brought gifts and he felt insecure about his place – why hadn’t he brought gifts, too, like all the other chieftains? God saw his hurt and came to comfort him and tell him – look at what a special gift you have – you are the one who will light the menorah each day! You have a special place with Me and My Tabernacle.
God cares about our very human vulnerabilities and insecurities, those small feelings of hurt which come up all the time for all of us. God cares, and, since we are God’s agents on this earth, we need to care, too, to pay attention to the one who might feel left out or insecure in a particular situation and make sure they know that they are wanted and that they play a special part in the group effort of bringing God’s presence down to earth.
2) To be a true leader is to spread the wealth. Eldad and Medad are found prophesying in an unauthorized way within the camp and Yehoshua wishes to have them imprisoned. Moshe’s reaction is: If only the whole nation were prophets! Moshe truly desires for others to receive God’s spirit. He does not need to hold the Torah or hold God to himself but wants everyone to have a part. This may be part of what it means when it says, a few pesukim later, that he is the most humble person on this earth. To be humble is to recognize that we do not own truth; we do not own greatness or Torah or wisdom, that they are gifts to be shared by all. To be humble is not to be threatened, but to rejoice at others’ success in these endeavors because we are all part of the same team, God’s team.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Parashat Naso and Hitlamdut: Learning from Everyone
Hitlamdut -- taking a stance of continual openness to learning from everyone and everything around you. This is a mussar concept I have been thinking about based on the Tikkun Middot Program curriculum of Rabbi David Jaffe and the work of 20th century mussar teacher Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe.
According to Rabbi Wolbe, hitlamdut is the starting point for all personal change. One must be open to learning, open to changing, think of oneself not as a finished product but primarily as a continual learner, open to what texts, people and life experiences have to teach you. This means that we admit that we are not perfect and do not yet know it all and never will but are forever being taught by life.
One example that is given in the Torah of this stance is from this week’s parsha. Rashi explains that the reason that the nazir – the Nazirite who takes special vows of ascetic sanctity – comes after the sotah – the woman who is accused of adultery – in our parsha is that the Nazirite learns from the experience of the sotah. He looks at her and thinks how he can avoid falling into such a trap and vows to stay away from anything, like wine, which might lead him in that direction.
This is a form of negative learning and we have plenty of opportunities to do it, to look around us and say – hey, I don’t want to end up like that person, not out of a stance of arrogance but out of a stance of humility – the knowledge that we are all essentially the same and therefore I, too, am capable of falling into that trap and need to learn how not to.
In Pirke Avot, which we just completed, Ben Zoma also famously tells us that if you want to be wise, the way to do so is to learn from every person. He does not say to learn from every wise person, but from every person. Every person in this world has something to teach us if we can see it and are open to it. I think often what stops us from learning from others is judgment on the one hand and a kind of insecurity on the other. We either think we are better than them or we think we are worse. Either way, we close ourselves from learning, either because we think they have nothing to teach us or because we feel threatened by their goodness. We see the beautiful way they live and we feel small in comparison and shut ourselves off from learning or growing. To take a stance of hitlamdut is to understand that we are all in the same boat, all struggling with similar issues so that we can help each other learn to live.
When I looked back on my encounters with others in the past few days, I found I could learn something from many people (including children) – it was as if they were all sent to be role models for me in different areas of life which I find difficult. The generosity of one and the calm and sense of sanctity of another and the simple practice of davening before anything else in the morning of another and strangely, in another friend, the ability to ask for favors in a way that includes others and makes them feel intimate. If I can take a stance of hitlamdut, then I begin to see each person as an angel sent to enlighten me in some way.
According to Rabbi Wolbe, hitlamdut is the starting point for all personal change. One must be open to learning, open to changing, think of oneself not as a finished product but primarily as a continual learner, open to what texts, people and life experiences have to teach you. This means that we admit that we are not perfect and do not yet know it all and never will but are forever being taught by life.
One example that is given in the Torah of this stance is from this week’s parsha. Rashi explains that the reason that the nazir – the Nazirite who takes special vows of ascetic sanctity – comes after the sotah – the woman who is accused of adultery – in our parsha is that the Nazirite learns from the experience of the sotah. He looks at her and thinks how he can avoid falling into such a trap and vows to stay away from anything, like wine, which might lead him in that direction.
This is a form of negative learning and we have plenty of opportunities to do it, to look around us and say – hey, I don’t want to end up like that person, not out of a stance of arrogance but out of a stance of humility – the knowledge that we are all essentially the same and therefore I, too, am capable of falling into that trap and need to learn how not to.
In Pirke Avot, which we just completed, Ben Zoma also famously tells us that if you want to be wise, the way to do so is to learn from every person. He does not say to learn from every wise person, but from every person. Every person in this world has something to teach us if we can see it and are open to it. I think often what stops us from learning from others is judgment on the one hand and a kind of insecurity on the other. We either think we are better than them or we think we are worse. Either way, we close ourselves from learning, either because we think they have nothing to teach us or because we feel threatened by their goodness. We see the beautiful way they live and we feel small in comparison and shut ourselves off from learning or growing. To take a stance of hitlamdut is to understand that we are all in the same boat, all struggling with similar issues so that we can help each other learn to live.
When I looked back on my encounters with others in the past few days, I found I could learn something from many people (including children) – it was as if they were all sent to be role models for me in different areas of life which I find difficult. The generosity of one and the calm and sense of sanctity of another and the simple practice of davening before anything else in the morning of another and strangely, in another friend, the ability to ask for favors in a way that includes others and makes them feel intimate. If I can take a stance of hitlamdut, then I begin to see each person as an angel sent to enlighten me in some way.
Friday, May 20, 2016
Parashat Emor: On Wholeness
In this week’s parsha, the same word is used to describe the physical requirements for an animal to be sacrificed, tamim, and the nature of the 7 weeks we count between Pesach and Shavuot at this time of year – temimot. In relation to the animal, the word means something like “unblemished” or “perfect,” and in relation to the weeks it means “complete” -- count the full 7 weeks and no less.
What is the connection between these two uses of the same word in the same parsha? Perhaps the point is to emphasize wholeness. What one needs to be presentable to God – as a sacrifice, as a priest (also discussed in this week’s parsha) and as a person about to receive the Torah on Shavuot – what one needs is primarily wholeness. Just as the sacrifice and the priest may not be missing any limbs, so any person, in preparation for Shavuot, should try to be whole-hearted, not to leave any piece of oneself behind, not to be distracted and half-hearted or divided in one’s commitments, but to bring one's total self into service.
That is the nature of the sacrifice – it is a total gift to God, which, because it comes at some cost, requires some “sacrifice” on the part of the giver and therefore shows his total commitment and devotion.
Are we as whole-hearted and committed, as tamim, as we could be? We live in a world where distraction and multi-tasking are the norm so that we often feel pulled in many directions at once. I think it would be a relief to feel that all of this whirling active life is somehow tied together in one single pursuit, that we are, under it all, tamim – pure and simple and whole-hearted – in our most fundamental commitment to God.
Amidst all this play on the word tamim, there is another similar word which appears – tamid -- eternal or always, referring to the ner tamid, the light that burned continuously (or at least from night to night) in the Tabernacle. Perhaps there is a connection here, too – what it means to be tamim, “whole-hearted,” is also to be tamid – constant and reliable, never wavering, steady and committed, "whole," in one's devotion.
What is the connection between these two uses of the same word in the same parsha? Perhaps the point is to emphasize wholeness. What one needs to be presentable to God – as a sacrifice, as a priest (also discussed in this week’s parsha) and as a person about to receive the Torah on Shavuot – what one needs is primarily wholeness. Just as the sacrifice and the priest may not be missing any limbs, so any person, in preparation for Shavuot, should try to be whole-hearted, not to leave any piece of oneself behind, not to be distracted and half-hearted or divided in one’s commitments, but to bring one's total self into service.
That is the nature of the sacrifice – it is a total gift to God, which, because it comes at some cost, requires some “sacrifice” on the part of the giver and therefore shows his total commitment and devotion.
Are we as whole-hearted and committed, as tamim, as we could be? We live in a world where distraction and multi-tasking are the norm so that we often feel pulled in many directions at once. I think it would be a relief to feel that all of this whirling active life is somehow tied together in one single pursuit, that we are, under it all, tamim – pure and simple and whole-hearted – in our most fundamental commitment to God.
Amidst all this play on the word tamim, there is another similar word which appears – tamid -- eternal or always, referring to the ner tamid, the light that burned continuously (or at least from night to night) in the Tabernacle. Perhaps there is a connection here, too – what it means to be tamim, “whole-hearted,” is also to be tamid – constant and reliable, never wavering, steady and committed, "whole," in one's devotion.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
On Love: Divine and Human (for Parashat Kedoshim)
What does it mean to love God?
We talked about this question this week in my Tefillah Workshops in relation to the second line of the Shma, ve’ahavta et Hashem elokekha, the command to love God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might.
One theme that emerged from these conversations is that true, lasting love involves dedication and steadfastness through thick and thin. Rabbi Akiva says: bekhol middah umiddah shehu moded lekha, with every measure that He metes out to you, whether a measure of good fortune or a measure of suffering – whatever you receive, you will remain loyal, or, as some of us thought, whatever you receive you will use as an opportunity for loving God. Bekhol -- with everything. It is all part of the relationship – the good, the bad and the ugly. To love God means to stick with Him through it all, through hard times and good times, through periods of clarity and faith as well through periods of anxiety and doubt.
And also with every piece of our selves will we love God –bekhol levavekha, with both the good and the evil inclinations, goes one interpretation. We bring it all into service of God because to love God with steadfastness also, on some level, means to love ourselves with steadfastness – to hold all pieces of ourselves in kindness, not to reject any piece but to bring it all into service, to stick with ourselves through all of our changing states of mind with compassion and constancy.
And coming to this week’s parsha, there is the corollary in relation to other people. Here is the other big ve’ahvta in Judaism -- ve’aahavta lere’akha kamokha, Love your neighbor as yourself. As yourself. Learn to be steadfast in relation to yourself and you will learn to love others in the same full embrace, to forgive them their failures and inadequacies and annoyances and live with them through their troubled times. Be a good friend to yourself and be a good friend to others – be like Ruth who stuck by her mother-in-law. To love is to be steadfast.
As if to complete the circle, the love your neighbor pasuk ends with Ani Hashem , “I am the Lord.” It is the steadfast love of God – both our sense of the constancy of His love for us as well as our own attempt to be loyal in return – it is this bedrock love that stands behind our divine –like ability to love ourselves and each other with the same steadfastness. To love is to be like God, loyal and steadfast and forever giving, to tap into the flow of hesed that continually keeps the world alive.
We talked about this question this week in my Tefillah Workshops in relation to the second line of the Shma, ve’ahavta et Hashem elokekha, the command to love God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might.
One theme that emerged from these conversations is that true, lasting love involves dedication and steadfastness through thick and thin. Rabbi Akiva says: bekhol middah umiddah shehu moded lekha, with every measure that He metes out to you, whether a measure of good fortune or a measure of suffering – whatever you receive, you will remain loyal, or, as some of us thought, whatever you receive you will use as an opportunity for loving God. Bekhol -- with everything. It is all part of the relationship – the good, the bad and the ugly. To love God means to stick with Him through it all, through hard times and good times, through periods of clarity and faith as well through periods of anxiety and doubt.
And also with every piece of our selves will we love God –bekhol levavekha, with both the good and the evil inclinations, goes one interpretation. We bring it all into service of God because to love God with steadfastness also, on some level, means to love ourselves with steadfastness – to hold all pieces of ourselves in kindness, not to reject any piece but to bring it all into service, to stick with ourselves through all of our changing states of mind with compassion and constancy.
And coming to this week’s parsha, there is the corollary in relation to other people. Here is the other big ve’ahvta in Judaism -- ve’aahavta lere’akha kamokha, Love your neighbor as yourself. As yourself. Learn to be steadfast in relation to yourself and you will learn to love others in the same full embrace, to forgive them their failures and inadequacies and annoyances and live with them through their troubled times. Be a good friend to yourself and be a good friend to others – be like Ruth who stuck by her mother-in-law. To love is to be steadfast.
As if to complete the circle, the love your neighbor pasuk ends with Ani Hashem , “I am the Lord.” It is the steadfast love of God – both our sense of the constancy of His love for us as well as our own attempt to be loyal in return – it is this bedrock love that stands behind our divine –like ability to love ourselves and each other with the same steadfastness. To love is to be like God, loyal and steadfast and forever giving, to tap into the flow of hesed that continually keeps the world alive.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Pesach: Celebrating both the Slavery and the Freedom
What seems strange about Pesach is that we actually commemorate the hardship as well as the redemption.
On Purim there are no sad symbols. We just feast and laugh. On Sukkot we sit out in our sukkahs and remember the protection God gave the Israelites in the desert and shake the lulav in celebration of a bountiful harvest. We don’t walk around in the heat to get a sense of the hardship of the desert. Tisha B’av is a day set aside to remember the tragedies.
But Pesach, what is unique about Pesach, is that we mix the two – we eat maror, bitter herbs, together with our matzah and our festive meal. We dip our karpas vegetables into tears. We take out a bit of wine to remember the slain Egyptians. It is a holiday that somehow includes the bitterness and the difficulties within the celebration of redemption. As my father was fond of reminding us, the matzah itself is a double symbol; it is both lehem oni, “bread of affliction,” or poor person’s bread, and also bread of freedom, a symbol of the blink of an eye speed with which we left Egypt, with no time to let our bread rise. Freedom and suffering are linked in this holiday, and the Seder is intended to somehow evoke both for us at the very same moment.
The Sefat Emet explains that on Pesach, part of what we are celebrating is not just the redemption, but also the exile and the slavery itself. What we are saying is that we are thankful for all of it. We understand that it is all part of God’s plan – as seen in God’s prediction to Abraham – that there was some need for the slavery to happen in preparation for the worship of God, and so the difficulties also become for us somehow a source of joy. This is a joy that comes from the knowledge that God intends it all for our benefit. The maror, too, now gives us joy, as we feel and accept that bitterness, too, has its place, has its role to play.
The sages say that we are obligated to give thanks for bad tidings as well as for good tidings, to acknowledge that they all come from the same source and that we don’t really know what is good and what is bad for us in the long run.
Many of us have had the experience that a difficult life event has helped us grow. On Pesach, we look back on our national history and thank God for all of it – for the slavery as well as for the freedom, for the tears and for the songs, and they all become part of our celebration.
It is always easier to do this global thankfulness in hindsight. Now, looking back, we see that it was all for the best. Someone once told me that this is why God told Moshe that he could only see God from the back. We can only recognize the pattern when we look back in history. In the present of our difficulties, we have to just trust that gam zu letovah, this, too, is for the best.
On Pesach, through our memory of both slavery and freedom, we learn to embrace all of life as part of God’s gift to us.
On Purim there are no sad symbols. We just feast and laugh. On Sukkot we sit out in our sukkahs and remember the protection God gave the Israelites in the desert and shake the lulav in celebration of a bountiful harvest. We don’t walk around in the heat to get a sense of the hardship of the desert. Tisha B’av is a day set aside to remember the tragedies.
But Pesach, what is unique about Pesach, is that we mix the two – we eat maror, bitter herbs, together with our matzah and our festive meal. We dip our karpas vegetables into tears. We take out a bit of wine to remember the slain Egyptians. It is a holiday that somehow includes the bitterness and the difficulties within the celebration of redemption. As my father was fond of reminding us, the matzah itself is a double symbol; it is both lehem oni, “bread of affliction,” or poor person’s bread, and also bread of freedom, a symbol of the blink of an eye speed with which we left Egypt, with no time to let our bread rise. Freedom and suffering are linked in this holiday, and the Seder is intended to somehow evoke both for us at the very same moment.
The Sefat Emet explains that on Pesach, part of what we are celebrating is not just the redemption, but also the exile and the slavery itself. What we are saying is that we are thankful for all of it. We understand that it is all part of God’s plan – as seen in God’s prediction to Abraham – that there was some need for the slavery to happen in preparation for the worship of God, and so the difficulties also become for us somehow a source of joy. This is a joy that comes from the knowledge that God intends it all for our benefit. The maror, too, now gives us joy, as we feel and accept that bitterness, too, has its place, has its role to play.
The sages say that we are obligated to give thanks for bad tidings as well as for good tidings, to acknowledge that they all come from the same source and that we don’t really know what is good and what is bad for us in the long run.
Many of us have had the experience that a difficult life event has helped us grow. On Pesach, we look back on our national history and thank God for all of it – for the slavery as well as for the freedom, for the tears and for the songs, and they all become part of our celebration.
It is always easier to do this global thankfulness in hindsight. Now, looking back, we see that it was all for the best. Someone once told me that this is why God told Moshe that he could only see God from the back. We can only recognize the pattern when we look back in history. In the present of our difficulties, we have to just trust that gam zu letovah, this, too, is for the best.
On Pesach, through our memory of both slavery and freedom, we learn to embrace all of life as part of God’s gift to us.
On Pesach and Being Redeemed: If You Think It, It Will Be So
In my Albany Bet Midrash a few years ago, as part of an examination of the concept of geulah, “redemption,” one woman articulated that she felt that she personally was unworthy of being redeemed.
On some level, many of us feel this same unworthiness in relation to redemption. We don’t expect it and can’t quite imagine it for ourselves because we do not, or do not yet, feel worthy. I think it is precisely to counter this obstacle to participation in redemption that the Haggadah emphasizes inclusiveness and lack of exclusivity in relation to redemption.
We are not required to be very wise in order to enter Pesach. The Haggadah makes it clear that the wise and knowledgeable do not in any way deserve redemption more than others. “Even if we were all wise . . . .. it is still an obligation to tell the story.”
The inclusion of 4 different sons again makes this point clear. This Seder is not just for the wise and the virtuous but for the wicked and the simple and ignorant as well.
Now the wicked son is indeed dismissed. He is the one person who is told that “if he had been there, he would not have been redeemed.” But precisely through his dismissal, we learn for what reason one is excluded and for what reasons one is not excluded. The wicked son is not excluded for his wickedness, but rather because he excludes himself. He phrases his question in the “you” formula, as if he already does not see himself in the group.
The one obstacle to inclusion in the process of redemption is an inability to imagine oneself as being redeemed. There are no other obstacles. We are not being judged here for whether or not we are worthy. The task is to imagine ourselves as capable of redemption and in so imagining, we become worthy.
Rabbi David Silber points out that the very same pasuk which we use to dismiss the wicked son is also used later to prove the obligation to imagine oneself as having left Egypt [hayav adam lirot et atzmo]. The pasuk says, ba’avur zeh asah Hashem li, “for this purpose God has done this for me.” In relation to the wicked son, we say, li velo lo, “for me and not for him” because that is his problem – that he cannot imagine himself as being redeemed and so he isn’t. Later in the Haggadah, we repeat this pasuk, this time as a reminder to all participants that all it takes to be redeemed is the ability to imagine yourself as li, as the “for me” for whom God wrought redemption. All it takes to be redeemed is thinking of yourself as worthy of redemption.
Neither virtue nor knowledge nor wisdom is the criterion for redemption. On some level, we are none of us worthy and on some level, we are all of us worthy. There are no distinctions made at the Seder table. We are in it together. All that is required is the ability to imagine that indeed it is possible, that at this moment we can be redeemed. If you think it, it makes it so.
The Sefat Emet notes a contradiction in the Haggadah. On the one hand, we say that we are obligated lirot et atzmo, “to see yourself” as if you left Egypt. On the other hand, a few lines later, we say that God did not just redeem out ancestors, but actually redeemed us. Which is it – did God actually redeem us or is it just that we are imagining that He redeemed us? The Sefat Emet answers that it is by imagining that we come to actual redemption. If we think of ourselves as redeemed, then we actually are redeemed. Redemption is in our hands, or rather, in our minds. If we think it, it becomes true.
We are all worthy of redemption. May we be capable of thinking of ourselves as worthy and thereby become redeemed this Pesach.
On some level, many of us feel this same unworthiness in relation to redemption. We don’t expect it and can’t quite imagine it for ourselves because we do not, or do not yet, feel worthy. I think it is precisely to counter this obstacle to participation in redemption that the Haggadah emphasizes inclusiveness and lack of exclusivity in relation to redemption.
We are not required to be very wise in order to enter Pesach. The Haggadah makes it clear that the wise and knowledgeable do not in any way deserve redemption more than others. “Even if we were all wise . . . .. it is still an obligation to tell the story.”
The inclusion of 4 different sons again makes this point clear. This Seder is not just for the wise and the virtuous but for the wicked and the simple and ignorant as well.
Now the wicked son is indeed dismissed. He is the one person who is told that “if he had been there, he would not have been redeemed.” But precisely through his dismissal, we learn for what reason one is excluded and for what reasons one is not excluded. The wicked son is not excluded for his wickedness, but rather because he excludes himself. He phrases his question in the “you” formula, as if he already does not see himself in the group.
The one obstacle to inclusion in the process of redemption is an inability to imagine oneself as being redeemed. There are no other obstacles. We are not being judged here for whether or not we are worthy. The task is to imagine ourselves as capable of redemption and in so imagining, we become worthy.
Rabbi David Silber points out that the very same pasuk which we use to dismiss the wicked son is also used later to prove the obligation to imagine oneself as having left Egypt [hayav adam lirot et atzmo]. The pasuk says, ba’avur zeh asah Hashem li, “for this purpose God has done this for me.” In relation to the wicked son, we say, li velo lo, “for me and not for him” because that is his problem – that he cannot imagine himself as being redeemed and so he isn’t. Later in the Haggadah, we repeat this pasuk, this time as a reminder to all participants that all it takes to be redeemed is the ability to imagine yourself as li, as the “for me” for whom God wrought redemption. All it takes to be redeemed is thinking of yourself as worthy of redemption.
Neither virtue nor knowledge nor wisdom is the criterion for redemption. On some level, we are none of us worthy and on some level, we are all of us worthy. There are no distinctions made at the Seder table. We are in it together. All that is required is the ability to imagine that indeed it is possible, that at this moment we can be redeemed. If you think it, it makes it so.
The Sefat Emet notes a contradiction in the Haggadah. On the one hand, we say that we are obligated lirot et atzmo, “to see yourself” as if you left Egypt. On the other hand, a few lines later, we say that God did not just redeem out ancestors, but actually redeemed us. Which is it – did God actually redeem us or is it just that we are imagining that He redeemed us? The Sefat Emet answers that it is by imagining that we come to actual redemption. If we think of ourselves as redeemed, then we actually are redeemed. Redemption is in our hands, or rather, in our minds. If we think it, it becomes true.
We are all worthy of redemption. May we be capable of thinking of ourselves as worthy and thereby become redeemed this Pesach.
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