The Real Me
Shlomo, a Hassidic Jew, worked as a technician in a company called Micro Innovations. Way back in 1994, the company sent its top technicians for a training seminar at the Toshiba offices in Parsippany, NJ.
At one point, the participants were all given laptop computers, and instructed to take them apart. Each participant was to completely disassemble his or her machine, breaking it down to all its individual parts, down to the last screws and bolts. They were to place all the pieces into a large tray, which was divided into different sections for the different pieces, and then later they were to reassemble the computers in their entirety, using each and every piece.
The group worked diligently, and before long all the laptops were disassembled and all the pieces placed in the trays. They all then took a lunchbreak, and then returned to the lab, back to their trays, to start putting the machines together again.
Shlomo was an expert technician, and he knew exactly what to do. He put everything back in place, and the machine looked perfect, as good as new. But when he glanced over at the tray, he was dumbfounded. There was a screw left. He couldn’t believe it. He was quite confident that he did everything right, putting each piece exactly where it was supposed to go, and completing the product as required. Why would a screw be leftover? Where was it supposed to go? Shlomo had no choice but to take the laptop apart a second time, and then reassemble it again, this time with greater care and precision. To his astonishment, the result was precisely the same: the computer looked perfect, but there was a screw left. He knew that if a screw was left over, then something in the machine was loose, and the machine could short circuit. But he tried turning it on, and everything worked perfectly. He did not understand. Looking around the room, he saw that everybody else had satisfactorily completed the assignment. He had no idea where he had gone wrong.
Finally, the instructor stood up and asked the participants if they were done, and everyone said they were. The instructor then asked if anybody had any pieces left over, and Shlomo – only Shlomo – raised his hand. He said that he had one screw remaining, and he did not know where it was supposed to go.
“You have a screw left over?” the instructor asked.
“Yes,” Shlomo confessed. The instructor then asked Shlomo to step forward to the front of the classroom.
Shlomo’s heart sank. He felt so ashamed, and was certain that everybody would think that this Hassidic fellow didn’t really know what he was doing.
The instructor turned to the class and said, “Well, at least we have one honest person in this seminar. While you were at lunch, I placed an extra screw in all your trays. I wanted to see how you would handle the situation. This man is the only one honest and courageous enough to tell the truth.”
The Iceberg and the Tip of the Iceberg
One of the most important questions we need to ask ourselves is, what would we have done in this situation? With nobody looking, in the privacy of solitude, would we have admitted that there was a screw we couldn’t figure out? Or would we have slipped it into our pockets and proudly announced that we did everything perfectly?
Every person’s life consists of two parts: the tip of the iceberg, and the iceberg itself. The tip of the iceberg is the part that everyone sees. This is the way a person conducts himself when he’s in public, at work, on the street, at community events, with friends and with relatives. But all this is only the tip. The bulk of a person’s being is beneath the surface; it’s the iceberg.
We tend to judge people based on their “vital statistics” – how they dress, how many times a day they pray, how they spend Shabbat, and so on. All this is crucially important, but these “statistics” tell us very little about who a person really is. The “real me” is what goes on in the privacy of our homes, when nobody is looking, and inside our minds and hearts. And this is why we should not be in the business of judging other people. Nobody knows the true essence of a person, who he really is, except him. Not even his wife and children know the whole story, of who and what he is.
The true essence of a person is determined by the way he responds to tests and challenges that he faces in private, when he is alone. It is determined by the way he responds to somebody asking for a charitable donation for which he will receive no public recognition. It is determined by the way he speaks to people in his private dealings, when he’s not in public.
The true essence of a couple is not revealed when they walk into the ballroom at a simcha, all dressed up, smiling and socializing pleasantly. This is just the tip of the iceberg. The iceberg is what happens behind closed doors, when they are tired, aggravated and upset, when they face difficult problems that they need to work together to address. Do they shout in frustration, or do they retain their composure and speak and listen to each other with patience and sensitivity? This is the iceberg; this is the real us.
The Hidden Piece
With this in mind, we can perhaps understand one of the most perplexing aspects of the Pesach seder.
Towards the very beginning of the seder, we take the middle matzah and we break it into two pieces. We keep the smaller piece on the table, and the larger piece is hidden, retrieved only much later, after we finish reading Maggid and eating the festive meal. What is this all about? Why do we break the matzah and hide one piece?
The larger piece symbolizes the iceberg, the real us, that is hidden from view. The small piece stays on the table because it represents the small part, the part of us that is visible to others. One of the objectives of the seder is to retrieve that concealed portion, to answer the million-dollar question of, “Who am I? Am I really the person whom my friends see me as? Or maybe that’s not really who I am? Do I have a private identity that is different from my public image?” This is the meaning of the afikoman, the hidden piece of matzah.
But why do we answer this question specifically on Pesach? Why is Pesach, the celebration of the Exodus from Egypt, the time for revealing and identifying the “real me”?
The Ramban (end of Parashat Bo) famously explains that the extraordinary, miraculous events of Yetziat Mitzrayim and the forty years of travel in the desert were intended to instruct that G-d is behind everything that happens, even the ordinary, “natural” events. G-d performed miracles during this period to show us that He is in full control, and He governs every aspect of the world and every aspect of our lives.
Hashem’s involvement in our lives occurs on two levels – the grand, miraculous events that He brings about, and His more subtle, inconspicuous involvement, the behind-the-scenes work that He does to care for and protect us. Without us ever noticing, He arranges everything so that we have a family, a livelihood, a home, a community, and so on. The vast majority of what Hashem does for us – the iceberg – is hidden from view. Even if we are attuned to Hashgahah (Providence), we see very little of all that Hashem is doing for us at any moment. As we celebrate the great public miracles of Yetziat Mitzrayim, we pray that Hashem should also perform the quiet, behind-the-scenes miracles of our daily lives.
This is why specifically on Pesach, we need to retrieve our hidden selves, to determine who we really are. If we want Hashem to care for us even on the hidden, behind-the-scenes level, then we, too, must be devoted to Him not only overtly, in public, but also in our innermost beings, in the hidden recesses of our minds and souls.
This also explains why it is customary for our children to bring us the afikoman. Our children come closest to knowing our true, inner selves. Very often, when we think the door is closed and we cannot be heard, the children hear. They see us, watch us, observe us and hear us in the home, in our private lives, and notice things that we would never imagine they could. Our children, more than anyone else, have access to the afikoman, to the hidden portion of our beings.
Why Did the Rosh Yeshiva Go Outside During an Event?
Rav Yerucham Olshin, one of the four Roshei Yeshiva of the Lakewood Yeshiva, was once spending Shabbat in Queens, where special, large meals were being hosted as fundraisers for the yeshiva. On Friday night, a thirteen-year-old boy walked into the hall, and approached the Rosh Yeshiva. After the two spoke for a few moments, the Rosh Yeshiva stood and walked outside with the youngster. He returned after a few minutes, without telling anybody why he left.
Later on that night, somebody asked the Rosh Yeshiva where he had gone. He explained that when this boy came and introduced himself, the Rosh Yeshiva asked where he studied, and the boy told him he learned in a certain yeshiva in Brooklyn. The Rosh Yeshiva was familiar with this yeshiva, and knew it to be an exceptional institution, but was surprised that this boy from Queens studied in a yeshiva in Brooklyn.
“How do you get there every day?” the Rosh Yeshiva asked.
“My mother drives me,” the boy answered. “And she also walked me here tonight so I could meet the Rosh Yeshiva.”
The Rosh Yeshiva was very impressed by the mother’s devotion to her son’s religious growth, and decided he wanted to speak to her. He left in the middle of this large dinner to give praise and encouragement to a mother who was devotedly tending to her son’s education.
This is how a person’s true essence is determined. It’s one thing to project a public image as a saintly Rosh Yeshiva, but it is quite another thing to be caring, sensitive, devoted and kind to all people even in private, far away from the spotlight, when nobody is watching.
Who are we? Who is the real me? This is a question that only we can answer, each of us for ourselves. And the time for answering this question is Pesach. As we retrieve the hidden piece of matzah, let us retrieve our hidden selves, try to determine who we truly are, and then commit ourselves to do everything we can to ensure that we are exactly the people who we want to be.