As Pesach begins to appear on the horizon, stress levels throughout the Jewish world begin to rise. The approach of Pesach brings with it a flurry of activity, and an enormous amount of pressure. We work hard to rid our homes of any particle of hametz, turn our kitchens upside-down, and prepare large, festive, scrumptious, kosher-for-Pesach meals. What is all this about? Why is hametz considered so evil, that it needs to be completely obliterated from our homes for these seven (or eight, here in the Diaspora) days?
We might also wonder about the significance of the matzah. In the Torah, this holiday we are about to observe is usually called not “Pesach,” but rather חג המצות – “the holiday of matzah.” What is so special about this peculiar food that the entire holiday revolves around it?
These questions are actually answered explicitly in the Torah, which explains that we eat matza and refrain from hametz כי בחפזון יצאת מארץ מצרים – “for you left the land of Egypt in haste” (Devarim 16:3). As we know from the Haggadah, the Egyptians rushed Beneh Yisrael out of Egypt, and they did not have time to prepare proper provisions. Their dough did not have a chance to rise, and so they ended up baking their dough as matzah, instead of baking proper bread. We therefore eat matzah and avoid hametz to commemorate the frantic haste in which our ancestors left Egypt, which resulted in their eating matzah instead of regular bread products.
But this itself seems difficult to understand. Of all the aspects of Yetziat Mitzrayim that we could commemorate, why does the Torah choose matzah? Imagine a person went on an exciting trip somewhere, and he chose as his souvenir with which to remember his trip a wrapper from the awful meal served on the plane on his return flight. Does this make sense? Why is it so important that Beneh Yisrael ate matzah instead of bread when they left Egypt? This seems to be such a peripheral aspect of the story. Such a monumental, miraculous event took place – and we remember it with the food the people ate?!
“I Did It”
Let us begin by asking another question: why did Yetziat Mitzrayim have to unfold this way, with the people being rushed out of Egypt? They had been in Egypt for over 200 years. Would it have made much of a difference if they had remained for another hour? Certainly, G-d could have arranged a more dignified way for our ancestors to leave Egypt than being forced to depart in a moment’s notice, without having a chance to prepare properly. Why did He have them leave in a frenzy?
The Maharal offered a very powerful answer. He explained that if Beneh Yisrael had left normally, on their terms, when everything was all ready and perfectly in order, then at some later point they would start to feel as though they brought themselves out of Egypt. Instead of attributing their freedom to Hashem, they would attribute it to themselves. They would forget all the miracles that were performed – the water turning the blood, the frogs, the vermin, and so on – and believe that they left through their own efforts. They would think to themselves, “I did it. It was me. It was us. We were in a terrible situation, and we brought ourselves out of that situation. Good for us!”
This is why it was so important for them to leave without having prepared. The fact that they could not even prepare normal food for the trip showed that it wasn’t them; it was Hashem. They had absolutely nothing to do with it; if they had brought themselves out, then they would have had bread, not matzah.
And this is why on Pesach we avoid all traces of hametz and are required to eat matzah. The entire message of Pesach is that it is not us, it’s Hashem. We are not in control; He is. Pesach is not about remembering that we left Egypt; it’s about remembering that Hashem took us out of Egypt. There is a crucial difference. We do not look back with pride over what we accomplished, celebrating our overthrowing the most powerful empire on earth which had enslaved us. To the contrary, Pesach is all about realizing that we had absolutely nothing to do with it, that we were freed only because Hashem freed us. And so Hashem commanded us to avoid hametz and to eat matzah, to tell us, “Remember that you were rushed out of Egypt, that you could not even prepare properly, that you had no control whatsoever over the situation.”
I recall the time when my wife and I had one of the rooms in our house renovated, and during the renovation period, everything from that room was spread out all over. It turned the house a bit upside-down, as all the furniture and stuff from that room needed to be kept somewhere else. All throughout, I, in my impatience and anxiety, kept telling my wife how I couldn’t wait any longer, how I needed that room to be finished.
The day finally came, the work was finished, and the things were put back into place.
Then, shortly after the house was at long last put back together, we had a frigid winter day and a pipe burst in the kitchen, flooding the entire basement. Everything in the basement had to be brought elsewhere. I looked at the pipe after it was repaired – it was just a tiny hole, which succeeded in wreaking havoc in my home. I thought to myself, “Hashem is telling me something: ‘Joey Haber, you are not in control. I am.’” Every time I walked into my study and saw the stuff from the basement sitting there, I was reminded of this message. I am not in control. I might fool myself into thinking I am control, but only Hashem is in control. Whenever He wants, He can make a little hole in a pipe somewhere and turn my house upside-down. Just when I thought that I could get my house properly arranged, a small hole in a pipe came along to remind me that only Hashem decides what happens.
As it turned out, around the same time one of the steps to my front porch broke because of the ice and snow. Every day when I walked to the front door, I got the reminder again: only Hashem is in control. I have absolutely no say in anything that happens.
This is the message of Pesach, and this is why the holiday revolves around the matzah – because the matzah reminds that we didn’t do it, that we are not in control.
Like Our Teenagers
People might be skeptical about this explanation of Pesach. “Really?” they will ask. “Hashem was really afraid that the people would take credit for leaving Egypt? How is that possible? They were downtrodden, oppressed slaves with no power at all. He delivered miraculous plague after miraculous plague upon the Egyptians to force them to let Beneh Yisrael go. How could anyone ever think that Beneh Yisrael freed themselves?”
Anyone who asks this question has probably never heard a teenager speak to his or her parents.
“I don’t have to do what you say. It’s my life!” “Why should I share it with anybody? It’s mine!” “Why should I care about what you want!” “I decide, not you!” “You have no right to tell me what I can do!” “I do what I want. Leave me alone!”
Does any of this sound familiar?
Virtually every teenager on earth has said something to this effect to his or her parents at least once, and likely far more than once. And it’s crazy.
Without their parents, they do not exist. Forget the fact that their parents pay for everything they have, that they would have no clothing or food, or a place to live, if their parents did not work and pay the bills. They simply would not exist. They are in the world only because of their parents. What right do they have to even voice an opinion? What right do they have do demand anything, or to argue for a second about what their parents say?
And yet, this is how every teenager talks. What do they think – that they gave birth to themselves?!
The answer is two words: human nature.
We – and not just teenagers – like to feel like we are in control, that we are powerful and independent. This desire is so strong that we can ignore obvious realities in order to assert our power and independence. Teens forget about how they got here because they desperately need to feel in control. And we adults, too, desperately need to feel in control, and so we forget that Hashem governs our lives, that He and only He decides what happens, where it happens, and how it happens.
This is why there was reason to fear that Yetziat Mitzrayim would be attributed to the people themselves. It’s a mistake we all make all the time – wrongly assuming that we are in control, when in truth everything is controlled exclusively by Hashem.
So common is this mistake that even Moshe Rabbenu himself needed a reminder.
As we all know, Moshe was not allowed to strike the river to produce the first two plagues – blood and frogs – because the water rescued him when he was an infant. It would have been disrespectful and ungrateful for him to bring a plague on the water that saved his life as a baby. At first glance, this seems very difficult to understand. Did Moshe really owe anything to the water? And what did the water do, anyway? It just ran its normal course while the basket floated on the surface. Why did Moshe have to respect the water?
The answer might be that Moshe was now about to begin the process of toppling the strongest empire in the world, and so he needed to remember his humble beginnings. Hashem wanted to remind him that once upon a time, eighty years earlier, he was nearly killed. The Egyptian police came to kill him, and his mother hid him in a basket floating on the river. He survived only because of a miracle. Everything he accomplished was owed to Hashem; as great as he became, he needed to remember that ultimately, only Hashem controlled his fate.
This is what Pesach is all about – reminding ourselves that we are where we are only because Hashem brought us here. Everything about our lives – the things we like, the things we don’t like, everything – is all brought about because of Him. We have no say in the matter.
Delusional Online Power
I once attended a convention and heard a prominent Rabbi speak about various aspects of the digital age as it relates to children and education. In the course of his presentation, he made what I felt was a thoughtful observation about why people are so drawn to the internet. He said that one of the things that make the internet so alluring and so addictive – particularly social media – is that it gives people an illusionary feeling of power. People feel powerful knowing that they are posting something which will be seen by hundreds of people. They love knowing that they can make a comment that people will read and respond to. After people post something, they keep checking to see how many “likes” it received and who commented on it, because this makes them feel important. Social media is addictive not only because of the stimulation it provides, but also because of the feeling of power and control it provides. It makes people feel influential, that they are impacting people. A kid with no real friends can sit all day alone in his room and feel important because he is posting and commenting on social media.
The message of Pesach is to remind us to stop pretending that we are powerful, and to recognize that only Hashem wields power.
This awareness is not meant to depress us, to make us feel helpless and scared. Quite the opposite – the point is to get ourselves out of the way so we can live a meaningful, purposeful life. If we spend our limited time on this earth trying to make a name for ourselves, trying to be powerful, then we are wasting this precious time. Nobody is going to remember our posts on social media and chat groups a few days from now. But our mitzvot remain forever. We are here for Hashem, not for ourselves, and this is how we should be spending our limited time in this world.
Do You Know Your Great-Grandparents?
We all know our parents’ names, and I imagine that virtually all of us know the names of all four of our grandparents. But how many of our eight great-grandparents’ names do we know? Most of us probably know the names of just one or two. And the vast majority of people cannot name any of their great-great-grandparents.
We devote our lives to raising and caring for our children. The things we do for our children could fill volumes upon volumes of books. Yet, in all likelihood, their grandchildren will not even know our names. We work and work and work for our progeny, but we will get very little recognition for it. This might be the meaning of the Mishna’s famous teaching in Pirkeh Avot, “Know from where you came and where are you going.” We started as a microscopic cell, and we are destined to go to the grave. The point, perhaps, is to reflect upon the fact that we cannot name our great-grandparents, and our great-grandchildren will not be able to name us. Just as the past is forgotten, we will be forgotten in the future.
This sounds depressing, but it isn’t. The point being made is that we need to stop making life about us, about our pride and prestige, about congratulating ourselves and trying to get other people to congratulate us. Our lives are very empty and vain if we devote it to building our reputation and trying to impress people. Life becomes meaningful and beautiful if we get ourselves out of the way and live each day with the goal of doing the right thing.
This is why Judaism views arrogance as the worst of all character traits, and views humility as the most important of all character traits. If we are arrogant, we waste our lives, using them to try to make a name for ourselves. If we are humble, then we live our lives meaningfully, using our time to do things that really matter, that are really valuable and that are really important.
In Jewish tradition, the flat, simple matzah symbolizes humility, while the large, impressive loaf of leavened bread symbolizes arrogance. On Pesach we avoid all traces of hametz and eat matzah because Pesach is all about taking ourselves out of the picture and understanding that we control nothing. Pesach reminds us that we need to forget about our power and our reputation, and focus instead of doing what we’re supposed to be doing.
The Torah tells us that Moshe Rabbenu was the humblest person who ever lived – even though he was the most accomplished person who ever lived. How is this possible? How could somebody who was qualitatively greater than everybody else on earth be humble? The answer is that he regularly spoke with Hashem. He keenly understood that only Hashem is in control. A person might feel tall because he is 6’ 11’’, but when he stands next to a skyscraper, he does not seem tall. Similarly, Moshe Rabbenu did not feel “tall” because he lived alongside Hashem, and in relation to Hashem, there is not that much difference between any two human beings. Moshe realized how small and powerless he was because next to Hashem, we are all small and powerless.
Is it not ludicrous to think we are important because 100 people “liked” our post, or our photo? Is this any different from the teenagers who feel entitled to do anything they want without their parents having any say? We control nothing. Once we realize this, we will live the way we are supposed to live, rather than wasting our time trying to feel powerful and important.
We Didn’t Come Here to Sew Buttons
Rav Elchanan Wasserman, one of the most illustrious disciples of the Hafetz Haim, led a yeshiva in a town called Baronovitch, which experienced great financial hardship. At one point during the 1930s, he had no choice but to come to the United States in an attempt to raise money for the yeshiva. He remained in America for a about a year, and he then returned to Europe despite realizing the dangers that loomed. Unfortunately, he was killed by the Nazis.
Raising money in the United States at that time was exceedingly difficult. The country was in the throes of the Great Depression, and most of the Jews who lived in the United States at that time were not particularly connected to Judaism, and thus they did not see the value in supporting Torah study. Rav Elchanan worked very hard, traveling about and meeting with people in an attempt to solicit donations. At one point, he heard about a wealthy Jewish businessman named Efraim Schneider. The name was familiar, and a bit of research revealed that he and Rav Elchanan were childhood friends, having grown up together in the same town and attending school together.
Rav Elchanan asked the people helping him to arrange a meeting with Mr. Schneider, but they advised against it. They explained that Mr. Schneider was no longer religiously observant at all, and there was no chance of him offering any sort of financial assistance to the yeshiva. The Rabbis insisted, and so the meeting was arranged.
When Rav Elchanan entered the room, Mr. Schneider immediately recognized him and greeted him warmly. They spent some time joyfully reminiscing about their childhood in Europe and getting caught up on each other’s lives. Mr. Schneider heard about Rav Elchanan’s emergence as a leading Rosh Yeshiva, and Rav Elchanan heard about Mr. Schneider’s successful clothing manufacture business.
Finally, Mr. Schneider turned to the Rabbi and asked, “So, Rabbi, what brings you here? Why did you come?”
Rav Elchanan showed him a missing button on his coat.
“You remember how cold it is in Russia, don’t you?” Rav Elchanan asked.
“Yes, of course I do,” Mr. Schneider said.
“Well, my button fell off, and so I can’t close my coat completely. I came to your factory hoping that you could give me a new button.”
Mr. Schneider, of course, figured the Rabbi was making some kind of joke. “Come on,” he said, “what’s the real reason you’re here?”
“Really,” Rav Elchanan said. “I need a button.”
Mr. Schneider took the Rabbi’s coat, gave it to one of his workers, and instructed her to find a perfectly matching button and sew it on the coat. After just a few minutes, Mr. Schneider received the coat, and showed the Rabbi that a new, matching button was sewed on.
“Now tell me the real reason why you came,” he said.
“I came for the button,” Rav Elchanan said. “Thank you so much.” He put on his coat and prepared to leave.
“Wait!” Mr. Schneider shouted. “I know you’re not telling the truth. Nobody travels across the ocean for a button!”
Rav Elchanan looked at his old friend and said, “You’re right – a person does not travel across the world for a button. And your neshamah did not come down to earth all the way from the heavens for buttons, either. Just as it is crazy to think that I came all the way here for a button, so it is crazy to think that our souls came all the way here to this world to make money. I am giving you an opportunity to do something significant and meaningful, instead of just dealing with buttons.”
The man was shaken by the Rabbi’s words. This conversation was life-changing. Rav Elchanan explained to him the grave financial situation faced by his yeshiva, and Mr. Schneider, who had started crying, gladly gave a large donation.
We did not come to this world to tweet, to post pictures on Snapchat, to find “friends” on Facebook, or to buy nice clothes. Life is so much more valuable than that. Once we get ourselves out of the way, and live for Hashem rather than for ourselves, we will make our lives meaningful and truly worthwhile.
When we sit down to the seder, our house free of chametz and the matzah placed on the table, this is the message we should be contemplating – that life is not about “buttons,” the vain pursuit of recognition and prestige. We are to remember that only Hashem took us from Egypt because only He has control, and so our lives must revolve around Him, and not around us.