Episode No. 144--Haggadah Issues

The way to have constructive and meaningful s'darim next week is to study the Haggadah beforehand.  That requires some help from more modern versions and haggadah commentaries. This episode explains why. It's being released several days early to give everyone time to buy one of these volumes and to study it.

Transcript

Episode No. 144--Understanding the Haggadah

Welcome to Keep the Faith, the bi-weekly podcast in which contemporary issues are explored through the prism of Jewish law and tradition.

Tomorrow, Saturday, is Shabbat Hagadol, the “Great Shabbat,” as the Shabbat before Pesach is known.

One of the long-standing traditions of Shabbat Hagadol is spending the afternoon studying the text of the haggadah to prepare for the spirited discussions we’re supposed to have around the seder table, which this year means on Monday and Tuesday evenings.

There’s a very good reason for honoring this tradition: In the only way that matters, the traditional haggadah is unintelligible to most of us. It’s not a user-friendly text for anyone who’s unaccustomed to the ways that Chazal, our Sages of Blessed Memory, carried on their debates and who’s not well versed in how those debates are recorded in the Talmud and other rabbinic texts of the earliest centuries of the Common Era, C.E. for short.

S’darim is the plural form of the word seder. Our s’darim are not just meant to be enjoyable; they’re also meant to be deeply meaningful and, to some degree, educational. We’re supposed to achieve this meaningfulness through the seder’s 15 steps, each of which is designed to spark discussions about the Exodus and its significance for us then and now, and discussions about some of the laws of Pesach and their reason for being. These two discussion tracks often feed into each other.

Preparing for these discussions, though, can be very challenging because the haggadah is written in a language quite foreign to most of us—and I don’t mean Hebrew or even Aramaic. My name for the language that runs throughout the haggadah’s text is Talmud-speak.

Here’s an example. The very first mishnah in the very first tractate of the Talmud, the tractate known as Berachot, or Blessings, begins with the words “When is the time for the evening Shema.” The reader is supposed to know what’s meant by the Shema—it’s not just the lone “Hear O Israel” verse. The reader also needs to know that there are two times during the day when we must recite this “Shema” and he or she is also supposed to know why we recite it twice each day.

Immediately after the question comes the answer. That answer should be QUOTE When we lie down in the evening. UNQUOTE That’s pretty clear and straightforward, but that’s not the answer the mishnah gives. This is its answer: QUOTE From the time when the priests enter to partake of their terumah until the end of the first watch. UNQUOTE There’s nothing clear or straightforward about that to anyone who’s not a talmudic scholar. We ordinary mortals can only wonder why there are two daily required recitations and who imposed them, what exactly those recitations entail, what terumah is and why the priests come in at that time to partake of it, what and when is the first watch, and how many other watches are there. That’s Talmud-speak and the haggadah is filled with it.

That’s because the traditional haggadot are based on an outline from a mishnah written 1,800 years ago and that required knowledge that wasn't widespread then and still isn’t common today. To have a meaningful seder experience means studying the haggadah in advance.

And so the topic for this week is making sense of the haggadah.

If we’re supposed to use the haggadah to retell the story of the enslavement and the Exodus, we’d be hard-pressed to find any serious discussion of that in the haggadah’s pages. It’s there, but only if you read beneath the lines of texts that, on the surface, don’t seem very relevant.

There’s also this: Sometimes, no explanation is given for a ritual item, but we still need to explain it. Step No. 8, for example, is the eating of a piece of maror dipped into a sweet apple-based concoction called charoset. The blessing we make is “who commanded us on the eating of maror,” and it’s a commandment—a mitzvah—found in the Torah, but there’s no mention of the charoset in that blessing, or in the Torah for that matter. Why not? If we need to dip one into the other, shouldn’t we make a blessing that covers them both? And shouldn’t we be able to explain what these two items have to do with each other?

Understanding these rituals and their significance is not just a matter of tradition; it empowers us to fully participate and appreciate the depth of our Pesach observance.

In this case, we have no blessing for the charoset, but we do have two blessings for matzah. Matzah is bread, so we make the motzi, “who brings forth bread from the earth.” But because we’re also commanded to eat matzah on Pesach, we make a second blessing for that purpose—“who commanded us regarding the eating of matzah.”

Why isn’t there a blessing for charoset?

Also, while it’s easy to understand the reason for eating a bitter herb—it’s because it represents the bitterness of slavery—what does the charoset represent? Why must charoset contain an apple as its main ingredient? Why are spices included, and why must the charoset be a thick concoction, which is why we add grated nuts of some kind?

There’s much about the enslavement that could be discussed in this step, but the haggadah is silent. We need to start that discussion, but to get such a discussion started requires having studied how our sages explained it.

So let’s do that.

Maror, the bitter herb, is a commanded item. The mishnah informs us that charoset is not a commandment, a mitzvah, but merely a custom, a minhag. This would explain why we make the blessing is “who commanded us to eat maror,” and not “who commanded us to eat maror and charoset.”

One sage, Rabbi Eliezer ben Tzadok, took exception. Eating charoset is a mitzvah, he said. It’s a requirement, not a custom.

The gemara wants to know what text Rabbi Eliezer ben Tzadok used to make the claim that charoset is a commanded thing? Since this sage doesn’t seem to be available to answer this question, another sage, Rabbi Levi, steps in. Says he: It’s in remembrance of the apple.

Apple? What apple? Where’s an apple in the Exodus story? Apples were grown in Egypt starting around 1300 B.C.E., before the Common Era, which means they were growing there when the Exodus very likely took place, but there’s no text to suggest that apples played a role in the story.

An anonymous someone in the gemara suggests that Rabbi Levi based this on verse 8:5 of the Song of Songs, Shir Hashirim, which says, QUOTE Who is this who comes up from the wilderness, reclining upon her beloved? Under the apple tree, I awakened you.” This, our sages said, is an allusion to God’s beloved, the Jewish people, trekking through the wilderness heading from Egypt to Sinai.

The sage Rabbi Yochanan now steps in with his own opinion on why we need charoset: The apple mixture is meant to remind us of the mortar used to make the bricks, he says. That led the Babylonian sage Abaye to split the difference between the two opinions. He ruled that the charoset must be both tart in remembrance of the apple, and thick in remembrance of the mortar. As for the spices, they’re said to be in remembrance of the hay that our forefathers used for building in Egypt.

And that’s why charoset normally should be made with an apple, some spices such as cinnamon, some sweet wine or grape juice, sugar, and maybe even a pinch of salt. And we add chopped nuts to give it its thickness.

As an aside, there’s something about these discussions in the Talmud that explains the beauty of Talmud study and how the Talmud works. We have sages here who seem to be debating various issues, so we can assume they’re in the same room at the same time. But very often not only aren’t they in the same room, they’re not even in the same century and maybe not even in the same country; one can be in the Land of Israel and his opponent is living 200 years later in Babylonia, in Bavel. Rabbi Eliezer ben Tzadok lived and taught in the late 1st century and the early 2nd century C.E., the common era. Rabbi Levi is in the early 4th century C.E., while Rabbi Yochanan Ben Chalafta is in the late 3rd century C.E. A page of Talmud records discussions that span centuries and, when we get into those discussions, we’re actually the latest entries into it. We’re able to take issue with a Rabbi Eliezer ben Tzadok, or a Rabbi Levi, or even a Hillel or a Shammai. In other words, the Talmud is not some ancient document. It’s an ongoing discussion and very much a part of our world today as it was in all the centuries that came before.

Okay, we’ve resolved the maror-charoset issue, so let’s move on to what seems like the simplest requirement: reciting the kiddush, the seder’s first step. As with eating matzah, there are two blessings involved here. The only question is which blessing comes first. Beit Shammai, the School of Shammai, says that we first sanctify the festival day—Ha-m’kadesh Yisrael v’ha-z’manim [Who blesses Israel and the Festivals]—and then we recite the blessing over the wine [Borei P’ri Hagafen, who created the fruit of the vine]. Beit Hillel reverse that order. The blessing over the wine comes first, and only then do we sanctify the day.

Beit Shammai argues, quite correctly, that the day is what makes kiddush necessary. After all, we only recite kiddush at our meals on Shabbat or a chag, a festival, so blessing the day should come first. I understand Beit Shammai’s reasoning, but I’m not sure I understand the second reason they give, which is this: It’s because the day was already sanctified during Maariv, the evening prayer service, long before there was a need for the wine for kiddush. I’d think it’s just the opposite; because we already blessed the day, the wine should come first. Beit Shammai’s first reason, though, is a valid one and that’s all that matters.

On the other hand, Beit Hillel reverses the order of these two blessings, these two berachot: Because kiddush requires wine—or bread, if wine isn’t used—we recite the blessing over the wine first, and then we bless the day. That makes sense, but then Beit Hillel add a second reason that has much broader halachic implications. We must always recite Borei P’ri Hagafen whenever we drink wine, not just at kiddush, meaning that it’s a mitzvah that’s frequently observed. Blessing the day, though, is only recited on Shabbatot and chagim, and there’s a general halachic principle: Tadir v’eino tadir, tadir kodem (the observance of a more frequent mitzvah takes precedence over the observance of a less frequent one).

Of course, Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel are both right, but the halachah follows Beit Hillel’s ruling.

That’s a standard practice. The Talmud states that there were 316 disputes between the two schools, and in all but a few cases, the halachah always followed Beit Hillel. It’s been estimated that its rulings were accepted 18 times more often than the rulings of Beit Shammai.

In the disputes between the founders of those two schools, meaning the sages Hillel and Shammai themselves, Hillel’s rulings won out somewhere between 75 percent and 80 percent of the time.

By now, you should have a pretty good idea why studying the haggadah tomorrow or at any other time before Monday night is so critical. When we cold-read the text at the seder, we have no real understanding of why this paragraph or that one is included, what connection a paragraph has to the Exodus and its meaning, or what other purpose that paragraph serves at the seder.

In the traditional haggadah, we’re told what the seder is all about. QUOTE Even if all of us are wise, all of us people of understanding, all of us elders, all of us knowledgeable in the Torah, we are nevertheless obligated to tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt (y’tziat mitzrayim). And those who dwell for a long time on telling the story of y’tziat mitzrayim are considered praiseworthy. UNQUOTE

The haggadah illustrates its point by telling us of an all-night seder held in B’nei B’rak at which the sole participants were five prominent sages: Rabbis Eliezer, Joshua, Eliezer ben Azariah, Akiva, and Tarfon. This seder, however, likely never happened. This story appears nowhere else in rabbinic literature, and it apparently recasts a similar event that involved a different cast of sages:

QUOTE On one occasion, Rabban Gamliel and other sages were gathered together in the home of Boethus ben Zonin in Lod, and they were occupied with studying the laws of Passover all night until the rooster crowed. UNQUOTE

For the paragraph in the traditional haggadah to serve its purpose requires its readers to know why different Sages were substituted for the seder’s original participants, and why the activity was changed from studying the laws of Pesach to retelling the Exodus story.

Here’s the answer:

Recasting the participants allowed for two lessons from one text. Rabbi Akiva descended from converts; his ancestors never were slaves in Egypt. Rabbis Elazar Ben Azariah, Eliezer and Tarfon were all priests, (kohanim) and Rabbi Yehoshua was a Levite. In other words, all four were from the one tribe (Levi) that tradition says never was enslaved by Egypt.

By substituting these sages for the actual participants, not only is the “even if we all of us were wise” statement illustrated, for these attendees surely were wise in such matters, but we’re also shown five people who had no need to retell the story of Israel’s enslavement because their ancestors never were slaves in Egypt. Since they must do so nonetheless, how much more so must the rest of us who are not priests or Levites?

As for why the change of activity from studying laws to retelling the story that led to those laws, it apparently was meant to come down on one side of a debate over the focus of the seder, which is a Torah-derived event. Some sages contended that we’re supposed to study the laws of Pesach at t, while others argued it was to dwell on the actual telling of the story. This paragraph chooses telling the story.

To resolve this debate, yet another “unpacking” is necessary. Just two paragraphs later, we reach the part about the Four Sons—the Wise Son, the Evil Son, the Simple Son, and the Son Who Is Too Young to Understand. The wise son wants to know all about Pesach, its laws and rituals, and the reasons for each. The traditional haggadah has this to say about how to respond to him:

QUOTE And you should say to him regarding the laws of Passover, ‘After eating the Pesach sacrifice, we may not eat an afikomen.’ UNQUOTE In other words, we should teach him the laws of Pesach. We do eat the afikomen, of course, so that requires its own discussion about why this law has been turned on its head. More about that in a moment.

Back to the Wise Son’s question: The answer the Torah prescribes is, QUOTE We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt. UNQUOTE That answer clearly involves telling the story, yet the answer in the haggadah about the afikomen clearly involves teaching the laws.

This likely was a compromise. In the all-night story of the five sages, the telling wins out. From the Four Sons on to the beginning of the meal itself, the teaching wins out.

The traditional haggadah, based on the mishnah, tells us that we must respond to the question posed by the Wise Son by teaching him the laws of Pesach as they relate to the seder, concluding with: “After we’ve eaten the paschal sacrifice [which must be eaten with a piece of matzah], we may not eat an afikomen.” Yet we do eat the afikomen. The Babylonian sage Shmuel said that because by his day there was no Temple and no sacrifice, we may not eat dessert of any kind after the main meal. This, though, runs contrary to the general understanding that we may eat dessert after eating the meal.

The Gemara, though, rejects this contention by reframing the original statement. When it says we don’t eat an afikomen after eating matzah, what it means is that because the taste of matzah is rather minimal and the afikomen is liable to have a much stronger taste, it will obliterate the taste of matzah from our mouths, whereas we want that taste to linger. Because it could be assumed, though, that the taste of the paschal sacrifice is more powerful than any dessert, it would be okay to have dessert. So this mishnah is telling us that even after the paschal sacrifice one may not eat a dessert.

The solution to the problem now that there is no Temple is to eat dessert—the gemara actually names some, such as sponge cakes and honey cakes—provided that we eat a piece of matzah afterward. And to make certain that we don’t forget to do that, the afikomen we use today is simply a piece of matzah. That means, though, that any other dessert has to be eaten before we get to the afikomen. (Oh well)

Here’s another example of a text that requires explaining:

QUOTE Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah said, ‘Behold I am like a man of 70 years, but I failed to understand why the Exodus from Egypt should be said at night until Ben Zoma illuminated it.’ UNQUOTE

Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah is indeed quoted in the Talmud as having said “Behold I am like a man of 70 years,” but it had nothing to do with the Exodus or the laws of Pesach. Rather, it reportedly was what he said when he suddenly had thrust upon him the leadership of the Sanhedrin (Judaism’s official governing body). Because he supposedly was only 18 years old at the time, it prompted him to declare that he had been given the responsibilities of one who was much wiser and more learned.

At the seder, there should be some discussion of why this “70 years old” statement is quoted out of context.

I’ll offer one possibility. It’s there to tell us that regardless of how learned one is—teenagers still have much to learn and septuagenarians have learned a great deal, or at least we hope they have—it’s still incumbent on us to keep digging into the Exodus and the Pesach laws because there is always more to learn.

Are your heads spinning yet?

Is it any wonder that too many of us find it difficult to enter the traditional text and become part of its conversation? We sit at the seder and mouth the words in the haggadah, but we miss the whole point of why we’re reading those paragraphs.

Is it any wonder that we should take time to study the haggadah before we sit down to the seder?

There’s still time to get hold of modern versions of the haggadah that are more relevant and more understandable. They’re available overnight from Amazon, you can find them at Barnes & Noble, and, of course, they’re sold at the nearest Jewish bookstore.

As long as these modern haggadot incorporate all the elements considered important, they’re the ones we should study in preparing for the seder. They’re certainly useful at the seder itself, but they’re expensive, and buying multiple copies could be cost-prohibitive. Buying one and studying it lets us bring what we learned to the seder table. If you don’t yet have such a haggadah, I hope you buy one and read through it before Monday night.

This is Rabbi Shammai Engelmayer. I do hope you come back for my next podcast, and I’d like to hear what you have to say about this or my other podcasts. Go to www.shammai.org—w-w-w-dot-s-h-a-m-m-a-i-dot-o-r-g—and email please.

If you don’t get the Jewish Standard but want to read my columns, go to the columns page of my website. The latest column is about the untruths told about what Israel is doing in Gaza.

Shabbat Shalom, stay healthy, keep wearing those N95 masks in indoor venues no matter who tells you otherwise, and get fully vaccinated if you haven’t done so as yet, including both the third and fourth booster shots.

Have a truly wonderful and meaningful Pesach.

And above all, stay safe.