Bread Without Illusion: Rethinking Matzah and Pleasure on Passover

On the Jewish holiday of Passover (Pesach), Jews do something that seems backwards at first glance. To celebrate freedom, Jews do not have the most succulent of food available. Jews greatly constrict their dietary options by cutting out leavened products made from wheat, barley, rye, oats, or spelt. The term for these leavened products is chametz. Instead of eating these leavened products on Passover, Jews eat an unleavened bread called matzah. It is flat, dry, one or two steps above eating cardboard. It is a peculiar choice for celebrating freedom. It fulfills some of the roles of bread without feeling filling. Matzah is many things, but it is far from luxurious. 

An article from Rabbi David Kasher at Yeshivat Hadar about matzah touches on this point. R. Kasher said that matzah is almost an anti-bread, something that is not supposed to be enjoyable. My past experiences with matzah corroborate that there is some truth in that insight. R. Kasher also emphasizes that matzah is eaten because it is commandment (a mitzvah) and even links the word matzah to mitzvah. 

From this perspective, the focus is on obedience and symbolic meaning rather than enjoyment. While that framing captures part of the experience, it also presents a false choice: either eat the bread that is meaningful or the bread that is pleasurable. In fact, matzah can be both, but not because it denies pleasure altogether. 

Bread Without the Hype

Chametz is bread with ambition. It rises, it fills, and it projects abundance. It is, in a sense, a metaphor for ego: it amplifies our sense of fullness, of richness, of our sense of self. Passover throws us out of that paradigm. Matzah is flat, dense, and unpretentious. You can eat a lot and still feel hungry, or at least not overstuffed. By limiting ourselves to matzah for a week, we are recalibrating. We taste the difference between substance and show, between satisfaction and the false fullness of indulgence. We learn to enjoy without needing to swell, impress, or flatter the ego. 

The Ego Problem, Not the Appetite

R. Kasher's take of "matzah is not meant to be enjoyable" or that we do it because it is a commandment is not unique to him. It is one I have come across in the Jewish community numerous times. I found it to be problematic when he created a false dichotomy between doing mitzvahs or enjoying life. Judaism does not ask Jews to reject pleasure the same way you would find in some other world religions. It asks us to discipline it, to refine it, to sharpen it. Matzah reminds us that by temporarily limiting ourselves, we cultivate awareness, discernment, and depth. True freedom is not about mindless or frivolous indulgences, but the ability to make meaningful choices. 

The Joy of Enough

In Jewish tradition, another name of matzah is lechem oni (לחם עוני), which means the "bread of affliction" or the "poor man's bread." It sounds bleak at first, doesn't it? However, upon further examination, I believe it asks us a question about what richness is. We live in a world where material wealth, a prestigious and/or lucrative career, and fame are highly valued. The Sages (Pirke Avot 4:1) put it plainly: "Who is rich? The one who is satisfied with their lot." In a world that constantly sends us the message that we are lacking, whether through social comparison, advertisements, or the rat race, matzah reminds us that wealth is not about accumulation, but rather awareness and connection.

This lesson is not unique to Passover. Last Sukkot, I wrote about how sitting in the sukkah teaches a similar truth: simplicity can liberate us. Without distraction, we can learn what really matters: humility, gratitude, connection, and meaning. Matzah does not extract that pleasure. It teaches us to recognize and bask in the richness already in front of us, and to do so while the ego takes a back seat. 

Conclusion

Passover is a reminder that pleasure is not something to suppress or ignore, but to refine. Chametz, the bread of abundance, has its place the rest of the year. It fuels our bodies, satisfies cravings, and reflects the world of fullness in which we live. For a few days of the year, matzah asks of ourselves whether we can enjoy life without inflating the ego. It asks us to recalibrate our appetites and our awareness. And when Jews return to eating chametz, it is with a renewed sense of appreciation for chametz. In that respect, matzah becomes a portal through which pleasure can be enjoyed more fully and wisely. 

A Passover Lesson from Song of Songs: The Courage to Keep Going Without Certainty

On the Shabbat of Passover, many Jewish communities have the practice of reading the Song of Songs (Shir HaShirim; שיר השירים) during services. Unlike the Book of Esther for Purim or the Book of Lamentations for Tisha B'Av, this pairing with Passover is not self-explanatory. Passover is a national story about the Jewish people going from slavery to freedom. Song of Songs is a poetic love story celebrating love and intimacy. 

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a class in which we analyzed verses from Song of Songs and compared them to midrashic texts to analyze it further. One of the questions that lingered for me after this class was how these passages about longing and searching have to do with the Passover story. 

In chapter 5 of Song of Songs, the woman is sleeping when she hears a knock at the door. It is her male lover knocking (5:2). She hesitates for but a moment (5:3). When she arrives at the door, he is already gone (5:6). Rather than going back to bed, she goes out in the middle of the night to look for her lover (ibid). 

She does not know where he can be or whether he can be found. She does not know whether her search will yield any results, but she carries on. Upon her search, she was physically assaulted by watchmen (5:7). Even when met with harm and misunderstanding, the search does not collapse. 

Rather, she continues the search. But why? One answer is that she has a reference point: the lover. Not even assault deterred her from finding him. She is already in motion. When people are often in a state of grief, loss, spiritual yearning, or love, people persist and take that momentum, even with the pain. She does not stop to ask if it is worth continuing. She simply presses on. Why?

It is not because the search has been fruitful at this stage. It is because the assault of the watchmen does not resolve the absence of her beloved nor does it change her North Star. Her North Star is not a guarantee of outcome or even a clear sense of direction. It is a relational anchor that persists even when clarity is missing. The beloved is not visible and his location is not know, but he remains meaningful. It is carried forward in spite of the uncertainty.

This echoes a dynamic I explored with Psalm 27, a passage Jews traditionally read during the Jewish month of Elul. Faith is not build because of doubt, but through that doubt. Although the Psalmist's enemies are closing in on him (Psalm 27:3), he has trust even though he does not know the outcome. It is the ability to remain emotionally and spiritually oriented when one is surrounded by uncertainty, instability, and threats. Doubt is not the deterioration of faith. It is often the very thing that makes it stronger.  

Interestingly enough, she continues when she talks with her friends (6:1-3). She does not respond with confusion or despair when her girlfriends ask her where her lover is. She still has no clue where he went or whether he will return. Yet she speaks with confidence and clarity, that he's in the garden looking for lilies and that "I am my beloved, and my beloved is mine" (אני לדודי ודודי לי). In that sense, faith is not the elimination of uncertainty. It is the ability to move forward when that uncertainty remains intact. 

This structure of faith is not confined to the love story in the Song of Songs. It reappears on a far larger scale in the narrative of the Exodus from Egypt. Although they were slaves under Egyptian rule, the Israelites leaving Egypt without knowing the full shape of the journey ahead was scary. That uncertainty was not a minor detail. It was a major underpinning of the emotional and existential difficulty of the journey of the Exodus. It helps explain why the process of leaving Egypt is marked not only by movement forward, but also by such unstable moments as the Golden Calf and multiple episodes of kvetching.

Song of Songs and Passover ultimately reflect the same spiritual movement, although one was intimate and the other collective. In Song of Songs, a woman searches through absence and disruption yet continues forward without certainty of outcome. In the Exodus narrative, an entire people leaves Egypt while still inhabiting uncertainty, fear, and internal resistance along the way. After all, how does a walk that should take a few weeks turn into 40 years? 

Perhaps this is why Song of Songs belongs on Passover. Liberation in the Exodus narrative is not a clean transition from bondage into clarity. It is the beginning of freedom lived inside uncertainty, fear, and unfinished longing. Even after leaving Egypt, the journey is marked by desire for what was left behind and uncertainty about what lies ahead. 

Seen this way, liberation and longing are not opposites are not opposites, but rather intertwined realities within the same act of moving forward. The same people who step into freedom also carry with them hesitation, complaints, memories, and emotional baggage. Becoming free does not give you a clean slate. In this sense, liberation is not the end of longing or searching, but rather its beginning in motion.

Resolving the Paradox of Passover Celebrating Freedom and Celebrating by Restricting Dietary Freedom

It's that wonderful time of the year Passover. Jews commemorate the Exodus story with an elaborate ritual feast called the Seder. As I pointed out last week, the Exodus story celebrates how the ancient Israelites went from slavery to freedom. That freedom is so essential that one of the names for Passover is זמן חרותנו, which is Hebrew for "time of our freedom." 

I look to the etymology of the word "freedom" when I think about this holiday. The word "freedom" comes from the Old English freo, which means "not in bondage" or "acting of one's own will." It can also mean "noble" or "joyful." The "acting of one's own will" part is important because that free will implies the ability to choose. If freedom is about one's ability to choose, why in the world would Jews celebrate liberation with the prohibition of chametz? 

What does a prohibition of eating leavened products made from wheat, barley, oats, rye, or spelt have to do with freedom? How does curtailing one's dietary freedom symbolize or commemorate freedom? Isn't restricting dietary freedom the opposite of being free if being free means to do something without restriction or limitation? These questions have been bugging me since I went shopping for Passover food because I very much want to resolve the paradox. 

Back in 2012, I contrasted chametz with matzah. Chemically speaking, they are essentially the same ingredients. The difference is that the chametz went through a fermentation process. In other words, it becomes inflated both physically and metaphorically. That is why Judaism treats chametz as a representation of pride, ego, arrogance, entitlement. It is about a bloated sense of self. The matzah, on the other hand, represents one's true and aware self without the fluff. As R. Aron Moses reminds us, "if your soul has not had the opportunity to be expressed, then you are not yet free." By abstaining from chametz for a few days, we strip away what is unnecessary, or to think of it in another way, what is getting in the way of us being truly free. 

To go back to what I wrote last week, that idea of leaving Egypt (Mitzrayim, מצריים; literally meaning "narrow places") is not only in reference to the country, but also a narrow place that exists within ourselves. Whether it is Rob Dial Jr., Mel Robbins, or Lewis Howes, I have heard such podcasters and personal development/motivational speakers talk about how personal development is less about adding on new habits and more about stripping away bad habits, negative thought patterns, and limiting beliefs that no longer serve us, or removing the fluff that chametz represents. 

Freedom from a Pharaoh is one thing and certainly is worth celebrating. Acquiring freedom from ourselves is deep work. To quote the Jewish text Pirke Avot, the Ethics of Our Fathers, "Who is strong? One who subdues his [evil] inclination (4:1)." While I have dealt with some metaphorical Pharaohs in my life, I also have caught myself being my own worst enemy on more than one occasion, as hard as that is to admit. 

This brings us to another aspect of this freedom has to do with another practice in Judaism. In 2020, I explored a similar paradox with the Jewish observance of Tisha B'Av. One of the practices during that time of year is to abstain from meat and wine for nine days since those consumables represent joy in Judaism. It turns out that diminishing happiness for a bit can actually make you happier in the greater sense. The common theme between this Tisha B'Av practice and restricting chametz has to do with that self-limiting in certain aspects, even for a bit, can make life more fulfilling and freeing. 

Free will and having options are essential to freedom. Politically and culturally speaking, I strongly believe we ought to be free to choose what to do, believe, think, and say. To channel Jean-Paul Sartre, it gives us the ability to create meaning in life and make something of ourselves. I also think that part of being free has to do with us deciding to limit our own choices. How does that work? If freedom strictly means to do whatever you want for its own sake, it is chaos, especially when that comes into contact with other people and their choices. Without a path, goals, or a vision, I have to ask the question of "freedom to do what?" Freedom is an essential ingredient for a well-lived life, but what good is freedom without direction? 

To quote Rohan Kapur, "True choice isn't about quantity; it's about the conscious decision to relinquish what no longer serves us, paving the way for what does."Mark Manson brings up that there is a paradox of choice. The more options we have, the less satisfied we are. That is because with so many options, the opportunity cost is higher. We become aware of what we give up with each option, and that minimizes one's propensity to commit to something, whether it's a brand of shampoo, a career path, or a romantic partner. This could also help explain the phenomenon of decision fatigue. 

We have to face facts that by being finite creatures, there are limitations as to what we can do. We cannot have it all, no matter how much we would like to have it all. Rather than try to do it all and succumb to FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), we should ask ourselves what matters to us most based on those limitations, as well as our priorities and values. By rejecting alternatives, by giving up certain freedoms while choosing to commit to others can our freedom become meaningful. 

If Mark Manson is right, then a way to resolve the paradox is to say "No" to certain things while committing to actions that multiply our freedoms. One example is staying in physical shape. To successfully do so, there are certain things you cannot do, such as eat a lot of processed foods or binge-drink alcohol. While there are certain limitations on consumption, it also provides you the freedom to do a lot of physical activities that were previously inaccessible or infeasible. If you commit to certain interpersonal relationships, that commitment can help you emotionally mature, even if it means limiting other options. As I mentioned a couple of years ago, opening yourself up to kindness and giving to others is, within reason and having at least some personal boundaries, a way to expand one's freedom. That is in part because there are more options when you think about more people than yourself versus only thinking about yourself. Also, people in your life can help you reach different heights than you would have reached if you were only by yourself.

This is where discipline comes in. Take playing a musical instrument. At first, you cannot creatively express yourself. It takes time, effort, and discipline to learn how to read music and play an instrument. After a while, that discipline tends to pay off with greater creative expression and freedom. But that creative expression also came at the price of saying "No" to other things while practicing scales, fingering, études, chords, and difficult passages. Athletes who train for a marathon or the Olympics; monks or nuns who take on vows; or writers who take on poetic forms can gain clarity, depth or purpose from the discipline. I am not saying that you need to necessarily do something that intense in order to be free, but rather that discipline and saying "no" to certain things can carry us to experiences and freedoms that were previously closed off to us.

I think what I am trying to say is that this can be applied with chametz and what chametz represents. The restriction of chametz beckons us to ask what is serving us and what is not. It invites us to examine what is worth saying "no" to and what is worth a commitment in life. In short, chametz is a reminder that freedom is not about living with the absence of boundaries, but choosing the boundaries that optimize one's quality of life and one's freedom. It helps us choose mindfulness over mindlessness. It means that freedom is not something that we passively receive from G-d or the government, but rather is something that we actively create every day in our lives. 

Avadim Hayinu: Freedom Is As Important Now As It Was During the Exodus

With Passover coming up this weekend, it is difficult not to think about freedom. It is such an essential component of the holiday that one of the names for Passover is זמן חרותנו, which is Hebrew for "time of our freedom." During the Passover seder, we recount the story of the Exodus. After asking the Four Questions, the reply is a passage called Avadim Hayinu. While the passage is about a paragraph long, the popularized song goes something like this:

עבדים היינו, לפרעה במצרים עתה, בני חורין.

We were slaves to the Pharaoh in Egypt. Now we are free. 

It is elegant in its simplicity. The fact that the Exodus story is part of what it means to be Jewish cannot be emphasized enough. It is Jewish practice to remember the Exodus every day (Deuteronomy 16:3). On top of that, the Talmud (Pesachim 116b) states that Jews are not simply meant to retell the Exodus story during Passover, but to actually relive it as if we were there. I love that directive because it means it is not confined to the past. It is something we can make relevant for us in the twenty-first century. To quote the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks:

We do not tell the narrative of the Exodus to know what happened in the past. We do so because each telling engraves that event more thoroughly in our memories, and because each year adds its own insights and interpretations. Judaism is a constant dialogue between past and present, and since the present always changes, there is always a new juxtapositions, a new facet of the story...The story of Pesach [Passover] never grows old, because the struggle for freedom never ends, and therefore each generation adds its own commentary to the old-new story.

We can view this contrast between slavery and freedom, between new and old, in modern times. One is that slavery still exists. According to the most recent estimates of the International Labour Organization (ILO), there are still 50 million people on Earth who are in some form of physical slavery, whether that is human trafficking, debt bondage, forced labor, or forced marriage. That is close to one percent of the planet that experiences the hardship of slavery that the ancient Israelites would recognize and emphathize with. Given the damage done to political and economic freedom during the pandemic and due to the lockdowns, I lament the trend away from freedom and towards authoritarianism, a trend that is decidedly contra the spirit of Passover. 

While Passover recalls the physical slavery of the Israelites building pyramids and being reduced to squalor conditions, it is much more than that. There are millions on the planet that are trapped by grinding poverty. For those who are fortunate enough to be spared the vicissitudes of poverty, you can physically be free while still having a slave mindset. 

There is a spiritual or mental version of slavery, whether that comes in the form of negative habits, limiting beliefs, addictions, not surpassing past traumas, consumerism, keeping up with the Joneses, social comparison on social media or a job that burns you out and sucks your energy. As I wrote in 2014, slavery was about removing the slavery mindset as much is was removing the literal chains of bondage. The Sefat Emet taught that we see ourselves as coming out of Egypt because there is a dimension of Egypt that resides in us. Each of us carries some form of slavery inside us that we continue working on and working through. True redemption, much like the revelation of receiving Torah, is a continuous process. Spiritual liberation is working on what holds us back and freeing us from those forms of slavery. 

You might respond by saying "That's easier said than done." Newsflash: that is the case for everything in life. Freedom is not G-d performing a miracle and everything is hunky-dory. It is a process that we are meant to participate in if we want to be free. The lyrics of Avadim Hayinu both recognize the painful parts of our past and recognize that progress is in our grasps. It also recognizes that change is possible and that who we were before does not dictate who we are and who we can become. 

That recognition gets at being free. The Hebrew for gratitude (הכרת הטוב) literally means "recognizing the good." If we cannot recognize the good, if we only look at the bad, we cannot be free. It is such a poignant point that I pointed out a few ways we can use the Passover story to be freer, with gratitude being one of those paths. The more we can find ways to reflect on the contrasts between slavery and freedom, the more that we can surmount these slaveries, and the more we can apply these ideas to our daily lives, the more we can relive the freedom that the ancient Israelites felt all those centuries ago.

A Passover Seder Insight On Simultaneously Having Space for Joy and Sadness in Life

As part of my Passover preparation this year, I participated in a Passover-themed yoga session with a local synagogue. Part of the intentionality going into the session was about acknowledging the craziness in the world along with the reasons to celebrate. The rabbi first brought up Jewish weddings. Although it is one of the happiest celebrations in one's life, a Jewish wedding has a sad ritual at the beginning (the recitation of El Malei Rachamim) and ends with a brief, sad ritual: the breaking of the glass to mourn the loss of the Second Temple. Even on such a joyous occasion, there is space for sadness. 

As the rabbi brought up, the Passover seder is no different. Take a look at the blessing over the wine, the Kiddush. The Passover seder begins with a blessing over wine, a happy occasion. As a matter of fact, the Passover Seder is at least happy enough of an occasion to have four cups of wine. Yet there is a moment in which we are to spill some of our wine at Seder to, at least in part, represent a diminishment of joy. This is not the only time this theme comes up in the Passover ritual. 

• Look at the relationship with matzah throughout the Seder. Towards the beginning of the Seder, we break the middle matzah in a ritual known as yachatz. This ritual can have multiple spiritual meanings, whether it is grappling with poverty or dealing with one's brokenness. By the time we reach the Afikomen ritual towards the end, we find those pieces and bring them together, thereby representing a sense of redemption. 
• There is another matzah-related tension in the Seder. On the one hand, we are to hide matzah, which mimics the ancient practice of stashing food out of a scarcity mentality. In spite of that perceived (or actual) scarcity, we are still meant to share with others on Passover. 
• Another example is with the bitter herbs (Maror). Jewish tradition teaches us that consuming bitter herbs on Passover is one of the three mandatory aspects of the Seder so that we can taste the bitterness that the Israelites experienced in Egypt. What is optional is having the charoset, which is a sweet mix. What I brought up a while back regarding the maror and charoset is the bittersweet nature of life. Bitterness is an inevitability in life. Whether or not we bring sweetness into lives in spite of that inevitable bitterness is our freedom and our choice. 
• The Korech (the Hillel sandwich) reminds us that life is neither all good nor all bad. Much like the Hillel sandwich, life is generally a mixture of the bitter, the sweet, and the "tasteless," neutral, "meh" moments.
• The ritual of dipping vegetables in saltwater, known as karpas, also can have mixed meaning. Does it represent the tears of the Israelites? Does it represent the fact that personal growth happens through dark times? Is that rewards come through hard work? How mixed this ritual is depends on how the ritual is interpreted and how we respond to adversity.
• Singing the song Dayenu during the Seder brings up another paradox. This song acts as a springboard to ask us what is enough. Let's say that G-d freed the Israelites had them cross the Sea of Reeds, and then left them in the middle of the desert without manna, is that really enough? We were not in that moment. Part of it is that we sing the song looking back in history. "Hindsight is 20-20," as the saying goes. We need to realize the same in our own lives, as nerve-racking as uncertainty can be. Events often make more sense looking back. In the moment, anxiety about the future can take over, especially wondering if we can make it out of a rut or if we ask ourselves if our best days are behind us. What Dayenu does is encourages us to find the good in life, even during our tribulations or uncertainty about the future.

Life is never a walk in the park the entire time. Life often gives us lessons from the School of Hard Knocks. There are moments in which we have to learn how to carry both joy and sorrow at the same time. There are other times where a paradigm shift in perspective can minimize or even eliminate sadness. To be able to do this, we need to find ways to take the edge off the bitterness in life. We need to find ways to be more open to hold space for both sadness and joy. By learning how to embrace life in its totality is how we can truly be free. 

Post-Passover Thoughts on Conceptualizing Freedom and How to Be Freer in Our Personal Lives

As much as I love the themes of Passover, I have found the dietary restrictions on Passover to be grueling. It has made me wonder why the holiday lasts for an extended period of time, especially since the Passover seders happen at the beginning of the holiday. Then I came across this quote from Rabbi David Wolpe about how we spend the holiday spinning out the lessons and the questions that come as a result of our Passover experience. 

I felt that was especially true this year. As part of my Passover preparations this year, I wrote a piece on how we are meant to help out others as a part of the liberation process that we are meant to experience on Passover. There was a quote from Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel that I found particularly striking: "The opposite of freedom is not determinism, but hardness of heart. Freedom presupposes openness of heart, of mind, of eye and ear." 

I have always highly valued freedom. It would help explain why I ended up becoming a libertarian. What the Heschel quote triggered for me was introspection on what freedom really means. As the Passover story illustrates, when you live under an oppressive regime, being free is nigh impossible. I believe man has a desire to be free, as we can see in history with numerous revolutions of people being under the heel of an overbearing, tyrannical government. Government is certainly a major oppressor in human history, but it is not the only form. We can find subtler forms of slavery or oppression with societal or familial expectations, the rat race, consumerism, certain religious communities, or peer pressure. 

Even if you remove all those external pressures, there is still one obstacle left to acquire freedom: yourself. I'm not going to get into my personal life here, but I will say that this is a lesson I have had to learn the hard way and I am still working on in because it is part of the process. The Jewish ethical text Pirke Avot (4:1) asks "Who is mighty?" The answer: He who conquers his evil inclination (הכובש את יצרו). By addressing one's internal struggles, the ghosts from our past, and the emotional baggage can we become freer. 

Rabbi Heschel had a salient point: to be free, we need to be more open. How do we reach that level of freedom where we are from pressures both external and internal? Here are a few ways I reflected on during my Passover celebration this year that I believe will help with that journey.

1. Dichotomy of control. It seems like a tautology, but we have more freedom when we have more choices. There are moments where we might feel really stuck to the point where the only thing we can control is our response to a terrible situation. Much more often than not, there are choices there if we look for them. This is where the Stoic concept of dichotomy of control comes in. I was not able to control whether there was a pandemic or if the gyms closed in 2020, but I focused on getting more exercise in my life all the same because I knew not doing so would be bad for both my physical and mental health. This also happens when other unfortunate occurrences happen, whether it is losing a job, a car accident, getting robbed or assaulted, or a divorce. In the majority of situations, we can find a way to work through or past a bad situation. If we blame an unfortunate event on family, friends, systemic racism, or some other external force, that is a recipe for more unhappiness. To be freer, we need to focus our lives on what we can control instead of what we cannot. 

2. Gratitude. Much like with dichotomy of control, gratitude is a matter of mindset. How does gratitude lead to greater freedom? Humans are prone to a negativity bias. All things considered equal, it is easier for us to see the negative. In Hebrew, the term for gratitude (הכרת הטוב) means "to recognize the good." Gratitude makes us freer is because it gives us the ability to see the world in a different light. Not only that, the more positive mindset gives us the energy to use our freedom and pursue what we want in life.

3. Discipline and Structure. During Passover, I was listening to the Mindset Mentor podcast by Rob Dial Jr. (highly recommended!). He said that discipline is a way to freedom. That seems paradoxical since freedom is about doing what you want, right? This harkens back to a conversation I had at a past Passover seder. The word seder (סדר) in Hebrew means "order." There is a place for structure in our lives. In music, if we get rid of chords, time signatures, and tempos, it becomes noise. In baking or chemistry, if you do not have the right ingredients in the right proportion, things can go very wrong very quickly. Mark Manson actually brings up this paradox of freedom. We do not have the time or energy to do everything possible in the world. By committing to certain things, you have to exclude alternatives. This is not an argument to be overly rigid or detail-obsessed. At the same time, if we do not have a vision or a sense of where we are going or what we want to do, we forego our freedom. Rather than have the choice of what we want, external forces will help determine where our lives go. 

4. Kindness. I want to conclude today with the point that Rabbi Heschel made in his quote. Freedom is about openness, in this instance, of the heart. Humans have a tendency of being self-interested, a tendency that the Torah recognizes (Genesis 8:21). I do not think that is prima facie a bad thing. The Midrash (Breishit Rabbah 9:7) brings up that without this self-interest, we would not build a home, get married, have a job, or do much of anything. We need that drive, that self-interest. As a side note, what I like about capitalism is that it channels self-interest into mutually beneficial transactions that help out all involved. But as I wrote a couple of weeks ago, part of what is freeing about kindness is that it gives us more options. As the Mental Health Foundation brings up, acts of kindness "can boost feelings of confidence, being in control, happiness, and optimism." These byproducts of acts of kindness (including the helper's high) allow us to live freer lives. 

Postscript: Being able to do what you want provided that you do not harm others is of utmost importance. That freedom within the nonaggression axiom is vital to finding personal meaning in our lives. As important as it is, it is not enough to "do what you want." If we want to truly be free, we need to expand our options. Sometimes, that is in being kinder or more grateful. That also includes focusing on what we can control and having structures in place to make sure we pursue what we want. But without being more disciplined and open to life's opportunities, we will not be able to be truly free.

"No Man Is an Island": A Passover Lesson on Being There for Others

While the holiday of Passover, also known as Pesach (פסח), is a particularly Jewish holiday, it also has such universal themes as freedom and liberation. Three is a telling of the story of liberation known as the Exodus during Passover, which is called the Maggid (מגיד), is the fifth step of the Passover ritual feast known as the Seder. Before the Maggid begins, there is an Aramaic passage known as Ha Lachma Anya (הא לחמא עניא) that is read:

הא לחמא עניא די אכלו אבהתנא בארעא דמצרים. כל דכפין ייתי וייכל, כל דצריך ייתי ויפסח. השתא הכא, לשנה הבאה בארעא דישראל. השתא עבדי, לשנה הבאה בני חורין

This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. All those who are hungry, let them enter and eat. All who are in need, let them come celebrate the Passover. Now we are here. Next year in the land of Israel. This year, we are slaves. Next year, we will be free. 

I have often wondered why we recite this passage before beginning telling the story of the Exodus. Every year, the head of the house opens the door reciting this phrase with some vague hope that people will come to the Seder. I have never seen anyone near the doorstep to accept the invitation. Odds are that you have not either, which would make sense given how few people actually understand Aramaic. If the expectation to invite people in for a meal is not meant to be taken so literally, how are we meant to understand this interlude? 

In the first call of Ha Lachma Anya where it says "let those who are hungry come and eat" (כל דכפין ייתי וייכל), one is meant to address the hunger of others.  I find it especially alluring given that moments beforehand, the afikomen is broken and hidden in the ritual called yachatz (יחץ). When I reflected on the spiritual lessons of yachatz, I pointed out how breaking food and saving it for later was a sign of poverty in ancient times. In spite of that poverty (either literal or metaphorical), the Seder teaches us the importance of developing an abundance mindset and providing part of our material wealth to those who are lacking. 

However, there is a second call of "all who are in need" (כל דצריך). Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik made an interesting point on this text. This is not referring to physical hunger because that was previously covered. R. Soloveitchik saw it as addressing spiritual needs, particularly those who are lonely and need companionship and friendship. 

As Soloveitchik brings up, Jews have been oppressed, exiled, and ostracized. The Jewish people know what it is like to feel alone, abandoned, and forsaken. When dealing with that level of hurt and trauma, someone who is oppressed is either faced with becoming an oppressor themselves or being kind. Rather than giving into spiritual darkness, the Seder asks us to break that cycle and open our doors with love and kindness. 

I find this passage of Ha Lachma Anya to be enlightening, especially since the Seder was created in a time where extreme poverty was the norm. We are supposed to help others with their physical needs, even if we do not have much material wealth. Thankfully, there has been progress made on eradicating extreme poverty. I also acknowledge that poverty is still a reality lived by millions in this world, which means that the call of כל דכפין ייתי וייכל has sadly not lost its relevance. 

At the same time, the Seder was centuries ahead of Abraham Maslow (who was incidentally Jewish) and his hierarchy of needs. It is important that basic needs of food, clothing, and shelter are met. But what about beyond that? We live in an age of unprecedented technology and progress, yet depression and anxiety are quite high. 

That paradox can be answered by the fact that we are more than physical creatures. Human beings also crave connection and meaning. The need to address non-physical concerns is higher than ever. Well before its time, the Seder teaches that we are to be mindful of the plight of those around us, whether that plight is physical, emotional, mental, or spiritual. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks astutely reminds us that the bread of affliction (also known as matzah) becomes the bread of freedom the moment that we decide to share it with others. The fact that matzah can both represent the food the Israelites ate in Egypt while in slavery and the bread eaten as the Israelites are leaving Egypt to be free allude to the idea that our perception of something and how we use it in life can make a difference in quality of life, but I digress.

We are not meant to live on an island and simply fend for ourselves. To quote Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, "The opposite of freedom is not determinism, but hardness of heart. Freedom presupposes openness of heart, of mind, of eye and ear." If you are too open, that means you have no personal boundaries and lose your freedom that way. At the same time, I agree with Heschel in that if you close yourself off to possibilities, you are equally unfree. Being open to something does not automatically mean saying "yes," but rather the awareness that allows to you consider it a possibility. 

It is interesting to think that the extent to which we are open determines who free we are, particularly when it comes to the topic of giving. Slaves did not and do not have the option to give because they were deprived of autonomy or a salary. Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook believed that this gesture of Ha Lachma Anya and wanting to feed the hungry is a sign of what makes us human and signals an essential part of being a free being. 

On some level, all of us have limited resources, energy, and time because are finite beings. Some have greater limits than others, to be sure. Nevertheless, we are still meant to help those who are within our sphere of influence. Ha Lachma Anya is to remind Jews that to be there for others is an essential part of a Jew's spiritual calling, as I would argue is the calling of the spiritual life of many non-Jewish practices. It is an unattributable quote, but I will end with it all the same: 

"When you have more than you need, build a longer table, not a taller fence."

Applying the Tension of Scarcity and Abundance Within the Passover Seder to Our Daily Lives

Last week, I was studying some Pirkei Avot, a Jewish ethical text, with a synagogue down in Buenos Aires. I had it on in the background while I was doing cleaning in preparation for Passover. One of the passages that we were discussing was in Pirkei Avot 5:10, which was a depiction of four types of people that exist, particularly in the context of "give and take" and how one views property. You can look at the Hebrew here, but I'll give you the English:

There are four types of character in human beings. One that says "mine is mine" and "yours is yours." This is a commonplace person, although some say that it is characteristic of Sodom. The second is "mine is yours" and "yours is mine." This is [the mindset of] an unlearned person. The third is "mine is yours, and yours is yours." This third person is scrupulously pious. The fourth is "yours is mine, and mine is mine." This person is considered to be wicked. 

A bit on my take on this passage from Pirke Avot. I agree that the second person, who in modern-day terms would be the Communist, is ignorant. As Rashi brings up in his commentary, such a person lacks moral sophistication and cannot appreciate the sanctity of private property. The text Sefer HaMussar goes as far as saying that this is a moral deficiency because it can lead to coveting other's wealth and obsessing over other people's belongings, a phenomenon I pointed out last year. The fourth person is self-centered and is only concerned with what can be taken. I do not take issue with the Rabbi's take on the second and fourth individuals. 

It is the depiction of the first and third individuals that are more problematic. The first is either considered "run-of-the-mill," or בינונית. The first individual is taking a more "live and let live" approach. Tying this mentality to Sodom requires the logical fallacy of the slippery slope. Sodom was a particularly bad place. According to the Book of Ezekiel (16:48-49), Sodom's fall was due to its arrogance. Why were they arrogant? Because they had riches and food, and did not help the poor or the needy. Post-biblical Jewish texts go into detail on how cruel Sodom really was in this regard. In the Talmud (Sanhedrin 109b), it says that Sodom had such a disdain for the poor that the government of Sodom would punish those that aided the poor and the needy. This is not an indictment of free-market economics or property rights; it is an indictment of cruelty towards others (especially the poor and needy) to the point of legislating said cruelty. 

As for the third individual, the one who thinks "what is mine is yours, and yours is yours" can only go so far under Jewish law. After all, Jewish law teaches that one cannot give charitable donations beyond twenty percent of one's assets (Ketubot 67b). A vow of poverty is not a Jewish value. There is a Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 31:14) that teaches that if you had poverty on one side and all other problems on the other side, poverty outweighs them all. It is a literary device to be sure, but the point still is that poverty is awful. 

Looking through the commentary on this passage in Pirke Avot, I believe the main lesson is that we generally should be more inclined to giving. Granted, the text is referring to money and material wealth, but it could just as easily apply to knowledge, time, and effort. During this study session, the seminarian leading the discussion connects this passage to the Four Sons that are in the Passover Seder: the wise son, the wicked son, the simple son, and the son who cannot even ask a question. These are not meant to be literal children, but rather personifications of personality types. We see a similar categorization in the aforementioned Pirke Avot passage. As the seminarian brought up, some of us act like one of the four characterizations, but there are also plenty of people who personify different characterizations in different points in life. 

There are points when we are more selfish, either because all we want to do is take or we find ourselves in a dire enough situation where we need to receive instead of give. There are other moments where all we want to do is give to others. And there are times where we do not feel like giving to others or feel like being left alone. I find this tension about giving and taking greatly encapsulated elsewhere in Pirkei Avot, specifically from Rabbi Hillel at Pirke Avot 1:14 (Hebrew is here):

If I am not for myself, who will be? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?

I like this passage for a couple of reasons. One, it differentiates between self-interest/self-care and pure, unadulterated selfishness. Two, it reminds us that we need to be self-reliant and self-sufficient, but at the same time, there is a calling to be there for others. I also bring up Pirke Avot 1:14 because segues into a parallel tension in the Passover Seder. 

We sanctify the beginning of the Seder with a glass of wine (קדש) and wash our hands (ורחץ). Afterwards, we start with the uglier side of the experience of slavery. We then eat the green vegetables dipped in saltwater (כרפס). The most common explanation for כרפס is that it symbolizes the tears that the slaves shed while in slavery. It does teach about hard times, but as I brought up, it also can teach about growth throw adversity. We have the difficult time of slavery. With the slavery is the implicit poverty. This brings us to the next step in the Seder (יחץ), which is breaking the middle matzah. I discussed the ritual of יחץ a few years ago. Matzah, the unleavened bread eaten on Passover, is referred to as "poor man's bread" (Talmud, Pesachim 115b). In premodern times, breaking food and stashing it for later was a common practice to make sure people had enough food to eat. We break the middle matzah to try to put us in their shoes and understand at least a wee bit as to what slavery and poverty are like (Rashi). After stashing the matzah, we do something counterintuitive in the Seder. We say the following:

כל דכפין ייתי ויכל. כל דצריך, ייתי ויפסח

To translate the Aramaic above, we say "all who are hungry, let them come and eat. All who are needy, let them come and celebrate Passover with us." In a matter of seconds, we see a major paradigm shift. Yes, we stashed food, which symbolizes a scarcity mentality in which one thinks there will never be enough. In spite of the lack in the Seder narrative, the Seder allows us to invite others to join us in the festivities, which brings us to a mindset of abundance. 

What are we to learn from this transition? We are supposed to take care of ourselves. Self-preservation and self-care are important. If we are not healthy enough, emotionally sound enough, or financially stable enough, we either end up being someone else's burden or are unable to help out others. There lies at least one paradox here: taking care of ourselves helps ensure we can be there for others. This paradox hearkens back to Rabbi Hillel's "If I'm not for myself, who will be?" 

But we are meant to do more than merely survive, which is why Rabbi Hillel's dictum in Pirke Avot continues with "If I am only for myself, what am I?" This is why we invite guests into our home after stashing food. We are not meant to only think about ourselves. If there is someone nearby or within our sphere of influence, that is hungry or has spiritual needs, we are to help to the best of our capability. At the time the Seder was created, abject poverty was the default. It teaches that when we have little, we are meant to share what we have. All the more if we are in a state of material abundance, which is much more commonplace in the 21st century than it has been in any other point in history. 

This brings me to another point. Passover celebrates the transition from slavery to freedom, from a low point to a high point. What we see in today's piece here is another transition: from a scarcity mindset to an abundance mindset. I would argue that a scarcity mindset is a form of slavery. The most literal definition of slavery is one human being owning another. It is certainly a morally egregious act, one that sadly still occurs to this very day. However, it is not the only type of slavery. 

A scarcity mindset is one of the most prevalent forms of slavery that one can experience in the mind. Scarcity mindset and fear come hand in hand. You think you will not have enough money or time that you cannot do things. Yes, there is a limit of goods and services in this world. This is why the study of economics exists. Plus, there is a moment we need to be aware of these limits so we can make sound and cogent tradeoffs when making life choices. We are not meant to ignore reality or view the world through rose-colored glasses. At the same time, when you are on the scarcity mindset, the tunnel vision of fear limits you from going ahead in life and taking risks. You think of life as a limited pie. It impedes you from viewing things in the long-term or makes sure you lose sight of priorities. When you think you do not have enough or that you are not enough, it creates anxiety, which can over time create physical and mental health problems.

If our minds are stuck on a scarcity mindset, we limit our potential as human beings. Scarcity mindset means ignoring what we have, whereas an abundance mindset means gratitude. If there is a certain lack in our lives, an abundance mindset gives us the ability to see and pursue a solution to a certain lack in life. If we are to take the Seder seriously, we need to think less in terms of scarcity and more in terms of abundance. How do we do that? There are a few ways that one can do that:

• We focus on what we do have instead of what we do not have. As Rabbi Ben Zoma brings up in Pirke Avot (4:1), "Who is rich? The one who is satisfied with their lot." 
• Surround ourselves with those who have an abundance mindset. 
• Incorporate gratitude in your day-to-day. Gratitude is an essential component of the abundance mindset. This would explain why Judaism teaches that we should say 100 blessings a day. It would also explain the Hebrew term for gratitude (הכרת הטוה), which literally means "recognizing the good." We do not ignore the suffering, injustice, or problems in the world. It means we remember that there is plenty of good in this world. 
• When things do not go our way, we focus on the lesson from that experience and ask ourselves how we learn for the next time. 
• Use cognitive-based therapy (CBT) to reframe scarcity-based thoughts. 
• Invest in yourself, whether that is professional development or getting a professional fitness trainer, so you can earn more and do more in life. 
• Don't focus on strictly material wealth. There are other forms of abundance, whether that comes in the form of health, friends, family, a romantic relationship, spirituality, personal development, or sense of purpose. 

An abundance mindset comes with multiple advantages. You can find happiness or contentment, even in difficult times. You are more resilient and more able to solve problems as they arise. It allows for you to better take advantage of new opportunities and seize the day. It creates confidence that you can pursue endeavors in life. You end up with greater physical and emotional energy. Life is more exciting. You feel more empowered and engaged in life. In summation, an abundance mindset is an essential component to having a free and healthy mind. By going from scarcity to abundance, we are able to feel and undergo the Passover experience.

Biur Chametz: What Burning Leavened Bread Before Passover Teaches About Personal Development

Pesach (פסח), also known as Passover, is one of my favorite Jewish holidays is because it celebrates the universal theme of transitioning from slavery to freedom. This redemption story has been the source of inspiration for many. I am not talking about Charlton Heston on the Big Screen. For example, Harriet Tubman was referred to as the "Moses of her people." As powerful as the Passover motif of freedom is, I also enjoy Pesach because there are a number of rituals involved that have a lot of symbolism. Even before the holiday begins, we see the symbolism emerge. 

One of the main prohibitions on Passover is the consumption of chametz (חמץ). You are probably wondering what chametz is. It is the leavened product made out of one of five grains: wheat, oats, barley, rye, and spelt. Matzah (מצה), which is unleavened flat bread, is allowed. As a matter of fact, Jews are obligated to eat matzah on the first day. As an extension of this prohibition of chametz, Jews are not even allowed to legally own chametz. That is why Jews traditionally clean their houses to make sure there is not even a single crumb of chametz within their possession. There is also the practice of selling the chametz before Passover begins. On the evening before Passover, there is a formal search for chametz that is called bedikat chametz (בדיקת חמץ), a process that includes a statement of nullification. You can tell that Jewish tradition is serious and stringent about not owning a single crumb because all of these practices are not enough. On the morning before Passover, there is one last ritual: biur chametz (ביעור חמץ). Through the practice of biur chametz, a Jew is to destroy the last bit of chametz that they own, most traditionally by burning it. The ritual includes reciting the following a statement of nullification in Aramaic:

כל חמירא וחמיעא דאכא ברשותי, דחזתה ודלא חזתה, דחמתה ודלא חמתה, דהערתה ודלא בערתה, לבטל ולהוי הפקר כעפרא דארעא.

All chametz, whether I have seen it or not, whether I have destroyed (removed) it or not, is hereby nullified and ownerless as the dust of the Earth. 

My first question is that if you recite this at the end, why do we need to do everything else? If the above is a statement of nullification, why spend hours of cleaning and searching for chametz? If we view the cleaning and searching of chametz in strictly literal terms, it makes more sense to simply nullify the chametz at the end. However, the pre-Passover rituals are as much about the spiritual lessons as the physical act of removing chametz, if not more so. 

As I explained a decade ago, the difference between chametz and matzah is subtle, yet important. Chemically speaking, the chametz has undergone the fermentation process. The chametz is to represent the ego, the fluff in our lives, our inflated view of the self and other distorted views. The matzah has no fluff or fanfare. It is to represent ourselves exactly as we are: nothing better or nothing worse. This state of being is meant to be a balance between arrogance and self-debasement, an equilibrium that I have argued is the most Jewish definition of humility. Rather than be aggrandizing or demeaning, a Jewish sense of humility is meant to be one of self-awareness. 

Bring that back to why we clean on Passover. Coming back to the figurative view on these rituals, Passover cleaning is not simply about removing crumbs and prohibited food from the home. It is about decluttering our minds, hearts, and souls. We clean before reaching biur chametz because we are meant to put in the work on our own personal development and to become the best version of ourselves. 

What is equally interesting is that in spite of all the preparation, all the cleaning, searching, and selling, Jews still burn chametz and make a declaration of nullification. The declaration during biur chametz states that regardless of whether I found it or not, whether I destroyed it or removed it or not, it is no longer mine. If we go further with the metaphor, it means that we can prepare until we can prepare no more. In spite of our best efforts, something can go awry. Taking this extra step is to remind us that not everything is in our control. 

When one completes biur chametz as a last step of Passover preparation, what is being said is "I have put my best foot forward. I have done all I could. What happens next is what happens. G-d does not expect us to be perfect. If He did, we would have been angels. The reality is that we are not angels. To be human is to err." What the practice of biur chametz reminds us that we can only do our best. If we could clean our houses perfectly (either physically for Passover or metaphorically in life), we would not need such a practice as biur chametz. Yes, we can work on improving ourselves (as the Passover cleaning symbolizes), but doing anything beyond our darnedest is not possible. We are not meant to be angels, but the best versions of our human selves. There is a point where we have to say that we are good enough and that what we have done up to now is good enough. Could G-d ask for anything more?

A Passover Lesson on Freedom in the Middle of a Pandemic

One of the reasons I like Passover so much is the many ways that is relevant to our spiritual journey. The apex of the Passover seder is the telling of the Passover story (מגיד). The recitation of מגיד is not for its own sake. It is meant to be a symbolic and vicarious living of the Passover story. There is one aspect of the story that we do not relive in other years that we get to live in the Jewish year 5780 (or 2020 on the Gregorian calendar).

We are in the middle of the coronavirus pandemic. The individuals in the Exodus narrative also dealt with ten plagues. The last of the Ten Plagues was the death of the firstborn son (Exodus 11:4-6). The Israelites painted lamb's blood on their doorposts, and G-d passed over their homes, sparing their children from the last plague (Exodus 12:7, 13). We might have social distancing instead of sacrificing a lamb, but the fact that we are staying in our homes because we are waiting for a plague to pass over us brings alive the Passover story in a way we very well might not experience again in our lives.

In light of the pandemic, the spirit of Passover is different than it has been in previous years. Much like the Israelites stayed in their homes to wait for the plague to pass over, so too are we to stay in our homes during Passover during the coronavirus pandemic. It will be the first time I have done Passover seder alone. It feels confining and contrary to the spirit of Passover being "the time of our freedom" (זמן חרותנו). How can I be free if I cannot spend time with loved ones? What is freedom when so many of our normal activities are verboten? Can I find freedom this Passover, and if so, where?

First, I think it is important to reflect on how the Israelites developed their sense of freedom. It didn't stop once they were out of reach of the Egyptians. It was developed in the wilderness (במדבר). The Israelites were not near any civilizations. They did not have access to any real material wealth to speak of. They were a nomadic people that were fed by manna that fell from the sky. Their freedom was found during a time where material wealth was lacking. As a matter of fact, the Rabbis taught (מרבה נכסים, מרבה דאגה): that the more property (read: material wealth) you have, the more worries you have (Pirke Avot 2:7).

One of the factors that is driving the coronavirus-related anxiety through the roof is the uncertainty. There is uncertainty as to how long the pandemic will last, how deadly it is, and how much economic damage our response to coronavirus is causing. Although all pandemics come to an end, we see no end in sight. In his book "Everything is F*cked: A Book About Hope," self-help author Mark Manson talks about why we are more anxious and prone to suicide, even though the world is, by most metrics, better than it has ever been. Manson's answer is that although we have material wealth that could only be imagined by our ancestors and a quality of life that is quite high by historical standards, we become anxious because we have more to lose. We have become so accustomed to a certain lifestyle and a certain quality of life that something like the coronavirus really throws us off. To echo the Rabbis, מרבה נכסים, מרבה דאגה.

The path to freedom is not in material wealth, but is in spiritual wealth. We develop that spiritual wealth in our minds. Victor Frankl said that the last of human freedoms is "to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's one way. And there were always choices to make." Just as relevant of a Victor Frankl quote is my favorite Victor Frankl quote:

"When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves."

This quote holds true regardless of our current situation. I can tell you right now Victor Frankl didn't have an easygoing life. The man survived four concentration camps during the Holocaust, and his takeaway was still we choose our attitude and our responses to the situation. Freedom is about the culmination of choices we make, even during a pandemic.

This concept is in the Passover seder. Eating bitter herbs (מרור) is a mandatory part of the Passover seder because we are meant to taste the bitterness that the Israelites felt during their slavery (Exodus 12:8; Talmud Pesachim 120a). Eating the sweet, dark-colored paste known as charoset (חרוסת) is optional (Mishnah Pesachim 10:3; Talmud, Pesachim 114a, 116a). Why is the latter optional? The Rabbis said it was to blunt the taste of the bitter herbs (Talmud Pesachim 116a). I took that idea a step further a few years back by saying that bitterness in life is inevitable (it is the first of the Four Noble Truths in Buddhism), but we have the option of adding sweetness to our own lives. There are a few ways that we can metaphorically take off the edge of the bitter herbs:

1. Gaining and developing perspective. When we sing the song והיא שעמדה (Ve'hi She'amda) during the Seder, we are reminded that we have experienced difficult and seemingly insurmountable challenges. The Jewish people have dealt with not just the Egyptians, but the Greeks, Romans, Spanish Inquisition, Nazis, and the Jewish people are still here. Dealing with challenges in life is not unique to the Jewish people. It is a universal theme that cuts across every group of people. Also, let's remember that other plagues in history, whether it is the Black Plague, yellow fever, or the 1918-1920 Spanish Flu, pandemics do come to an end. One the one hand, we have to understand the gravitas of the present danger. On the other hand, it might not seem like it now, but there is an end, and developing that perspective should develop resilience in uncertain times. 
2. Gratitude. During the Passover seder, we sing the song Dayenu. One of the lessons that Dayenu teaches us is that we are to be grateful for each incremental step. Gratitude is not meant only for the easy times. If anything, it becomes all the more important during the difficult times. As the Rabbis said, "Who is rich? One who rejoices in their portion" (Pirke Avot 4:1).
3. Humility. The difference between matzah and chametz is subtle. They are both made of flour and water, but chametz is fermented. Metaphorically speaking, that "puffiness" is the ego. Judaism defines humility not as meekness, but understanding one's place in the world. It involves not self-deprecation, but self-awareness. As motivational speaker Charlie Haray points out, only through introspection were the Jewish people ready to escape the bonds of slavery and begin their journey of freedom. While we cannot go to our favorite restaurants or attend public events, we can take Passover as a time to ask us who we are, what we value, and what makes life worthwhile. 
4. Kindness out of brokenness. The beginning of the seder has a breaking of the middle matzah called יחץ. This brief ceremony reminds us of the brokenness that comes with life. We are all feeling brokenness on some level right now on some level. However, just because we feel broken doesn't mean we are helpless. Go back to the Victor Frankl quote: we are challenged to change ourselves when we cannot change the situation. The seder begins with brokenness, but it doesn't end there. It ends with singing songs of praise (הלל) and finding that broken piece of matzah (אפיקומן) as a symbol of finding redemption from slavery. That redemption was not brought by any individual, but was on a communal level. Especially in a global society, we are more interconnected than we could possibly imagine. We can choose to call our family and friends, help out a neighbor, and support each other in our time of need. We are in this together. 

חג כשר ושמח!

Karpas: A Passover Lesson on Freedom, Perspective, and Moving Forward from Tragedy

Passover is a time for great spiritual insight and growth. The sheer number of rituals involved with the holiday of Passover are so numerous and meaningful that it boggles my mind every year that the holiday arrives. Passover is also a time for asking questions and even singing questions in the song Ma Nishtanah (מה נשתנה). In the song Ma Nishtanah, there are four questions.  I would like to use the third question as a springboard for today's blog entry:

מה נשתנה? שבכל הלילות אין אנו מטבילין אפילו פעם אחת. הלילה הזה שתי פעמים

How is tonight different from other nights? On all other nights, we do not dip our vegetables even once. On this night, we dip them twice. 

The Talmud (Pesachim 114b) says that we should dip this vegetable, known as karpas (כרפס), twice so there is something noticeable for the children. Rabbi Yoel Sirkes, who was also known as the Bach (ב״ח), was a prominent Rabbi in early 17th-century Poland. R. Sirkes' take on it was both an expression of freedom since from his view, free people dip beforehand to increase their appetite (presumedly because free people could better afford more food). These traditional explanations leave something wanting. Couldn't we eat something else to express freedom? If it's to pique the children's interest, why not have something different each year? Why don't we eat more than some green leaves before the meal? An even better question: why eat karpas at all? To answer that last question, I came across a few explanations:

1. The most common traditional responses is that the salt water in which we dip the karpas is to symbolize the tears that the Israelites shed while in slavery. This is to teach a few lessons, particularly on how we handle difficult times. We can look back and re-victimize ourselves again by adding onto the suffering. Alternatively, we can look back and learn from the past so we can make a better future since we better know our strengths and weaknesses. In short, the rough times have a role to play. I can say that from my personal experience that although my rough times were quite rough, they were also the moments that truly defined me.
2. Karpas can symbolize the bounty of the springtime harvest. Interestingly enough, if you reverse the three-letter root in the Hebrew, you get the Hebrew word for "hard labor" (פרך). What can this teach? That life is typically a mixed bag, and that joy comes hand in hand with difficulty.
3. With the act of blessing and eating the karpas, we acknowledge G-d's role in creating something as seemingly mundane as a green vegetable that grew from the ground. As R. Shraga Simmons states that the purpose of dipping the karpas into the salt water is that even something seemingly bitter is "ultimately for the best." I don't believe in the Jewish concept of "this too is for the good" (גם זו לטובה). What I will say is that when we focus on the details, we can find reasons to be grateful. Take the karpas: if we marvel at how the vegetable grew or how through a complex supply chain, the karpas ended up on your table for consumption, or even how food prices have decreased over the years. The Hebrew phrase for gratitude is hakarat hatov, which literally means "to recognize the good." It does not mean we ignore the bad or look at the world through rose-colored glasses, but also be ever mindful of the good that exists in the world. To be able to view the world in more ways and creative ways is a form of liberation. 
4. What is interesting is that the Exodus passage does not mention כרפס. Even more interesting is that the only time that the word כרפס is used in the Tanach (Hebrew Scriptures) is in the Book of Esther (1:6). In that context, the word כרפס means "fine linen." Even when looking at the Talmud (Megillah 12a), the Rabbis only recognize the word to mean "fine linen." Going off of Rashi's commentary on Genesis 37:3, twelfth century Talmudist Rabbenu Manoach connects the Esther story to the Joseph story. It's a long story, but essentially, the mentioning of karpas in Esther is similar to the technicolor dream coat that Joseph wore. In summation, we are supposed to look back to remember what the origin of the Israelites being enslaved was in the first place: baseless hatred (שנאת חינם). To understand our past and how to do better in the future, we have to understand how we arrived. That means taking a look at our past, a past that is bound to have at least some bitterness. We shouldn't dwell in the past, but if we do not bother to even look at our past and examine it in earnest, we do not learn and we do not grow.
5. Another interpretation is based on the nature of vegetables themselves (Slovie Jungreis-Wolff). Vegetables grow in the dark ground. We never know if that little seed will sprout into something more. Similar to the seed, the Israelites grew out of the depths of slavery in a land of idolatry. The Jews grew out of a very dark moment. It's a lesson that we also learn on Chanukah, which is that out of darkness can come light. Much like a plant having the best chance to grow is to give it water, sunlight, and healthy soil, we have to give ourselves the condition to best succeed. 

There are a few themes running through these traditional interpretations. One is that we cannot ignore our past: we have to tackle it head-on. However, if we are to grow, we cannot wallow in our past, either. We have to learn from our past and move forward. In order to do so, we need to cultivate the best circumstances under which we can grow. I don't know your obstacles and suffering, whether they are past or current. Some things seem insurmountable. I'm not going to give anyone the "G-d doesn't give us anything we can handle" because I don't like hearing that myself. I don't think everything will be pollyannish or perfect because it won't. What I can tell you is that we have more control than we think, a point which I brought up on Purim. According to research on happiness, the average person has control over 40 percent of their happiness. Only 10 percent is our circumstances! Much like people tend to their garden so the plants can grow, we can tend to our own well-being in a way where we can flourish. Free will is daunting. It means we are responsible for our choices. It was daunting for the Israelites when then they left the land of Egypt. It was so daunting that they wanted to go back to slavery (e.g., Exodus 14:12). However, that is the point. Free will is daunting. Exerting greater control over our lives can be daunting because it is easier to give into slavery than to be free. That is the main theme of Passover: G-d freed us so we could exercise our free will, which also means we are free to live our lives. While the free will was granted, what we do with it is not handed to us. How we respond to tragedy, even when we don't have any control of the tragedy that is inflicted upon us, is a choice. How we choose to view the good in this world is a choice. The path we make for ourselves is not "set in stone." In short, how we respond to outcomes and how we live is a choice, not a destiny or inevitability. What choices will you make with your freedom to make for a better tomorrow?

Why Drink Four Cups of Wine During Passover?

One of the many facets I find fascinating about Judaism is the stance it takes on alcohol. Views in Christianity vary, but a number of denominations take it to be sinful. In Islam, the Koran (5:90) prohibits the consumption of alcohol. Judaism takes a more positive stance on alcohol. Like with many things in the world, we have the ability to use it in a mundane manner, abuse it, or elevate the mundane into the holy. Judaism takes the third path, and holds the belief that wine can be sanctified in a blessing referred to as Kiddush (קידוש). Kiddush is recited at a number of events: Shabbat, holidays, weddings, brit milah (circumcision ceremony). The Jewish holiday of Passover is different. We don't say the Kiddush over just one cup, but over four cups. You would think that Passover is like other times where one cup is satisfactory. What about Passover is so special that we need to say the Kiddush four times?

1. Passover is referred to as "the time of our freedom" (זמן חרותנו). Wine is historically considered a royal drink. We drink the wine to celebrate freedom (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Chametz u'Matzah, 7:10), not only that of the ancient Israelites, but of our own freedoms. This could help explain why we drink more wine than on other occasions, but it still doesn't explain why we drink four cups.
2. The Talmud says that (Pesachim 68b) when G-d promised to deliver the Israelites from slavery (Exodus 6:6-8), He used four different phrases to describe the redemption: A) "I shall take you out", B) "I shall rescue you", C) "I shall redeem you", and D) "I shall bring you." Chabad elucidates upon what each of those four phrases means within the context of the four cups of wine. 
3. The words "cup of wine" were mentioned in the Pharaoh's butler's dream (Genesis 40:11-13). The Yerushalmi Talmud (Pesachim 10:3) teaches that the cups of wine allude to Israel's redemption.  
4. The Talmud (Pesachim 117a) states that the four different cups of wine are for four different blessings: one for the wine itself, one for the recitation of the Haggadah, one a blessing over the meal, and one for saying Hallel. 

The two main motifs of the traditional commentary are that of freedom and blessing. Freedom is a blessing. The Israelites were once slaves, but then were freed. As the Passover song Dayenu illustrates, liberation was the beginning of redemption. Redemption came about through free will. We can say "freedom is a blessing," but by reversing that, blessing is a freedom we have. The four cups gives during Passover gives us ample opportunity to appreciate the freedom and redemption that G-d can provide. May this Passover be a time to value our freedoms and count our blessings!

Spiritual Lessons from Breaking the Middle Matzah During a Seder

The Passover seder is an intricate ritual feast that has multiple steps, each of which could be analyzed separately. The fact that each phase of the seder can be analyzed in-depth shows just how much meaning the Passover seder can have. There is one part of the seder I would like to take a look at today, both because it doesn't merit a blessing (ברכה) and because it happens so quickly, and that is the breaking of the middle matzah, also known as yachatz (יחץ). The middle matzah is broken into two pieces. The smaller piece remains on the table, while the larger piece is hidden for the afikomen stage later. During Shabbat and most other holidays, there are two loaves of bread known as challah. During this time of the year, there are three pieces of matzah on the table. After saying the blessing over the bitter vegetable that is dipped in salt water (known as karpas), we uncover the matzahs and break the middle one in yachatz. This short segue leads into the maggid (מגיד), the telling of the story of Passover. What lessons can we glean from breaking the middle matzah?

1. The poor man's bread. The traditional answer to this question comes from the Talmud (Pesachim 115b), in which the Talmud refers to matzah as "the poor man's bread" (לחם עוני). The Talmud states that "just as the poor person eats 'in pieces,' so too do we eat in pieces."  Breaking food and saving part of it for later is a sign of poverty. If part of a successful seder is reliving the experience of slavery and redemption, we need to have at least an inkling of what it is like to be poor, which is something the breaking of the middle matzah is supposed to trigger (Rashi).
2. Gratitude and Obligation to Help Others. The idea of empathizing with the poor segues into my second point. R. Shimon Apisdorf says that "quite often, our ability to give and to share is the product of a skewed picture of reality. Many of our limitations are only perceived limitations." We are constantly bombarded with advertisements and a need to consume material goods. This is not to say that poverty is non-existent or we shouldn't be mindful of it, but rather that such a drive towards consuming more material goods skews our perception of what we do have. This is reinforced by what the Haggadah's seemingly counterintuitive statement immediately after we break the middle matzah: "Let all those are hungry come and eat!" Even if times are rough, the Passover seder teaches us that we still have an obligation to help others. If this is true in times of scarcity, how much more true it is in times of plenty! Redemption, at least in part, is being satisfied with what one [materially] has. R. Shimon Apisdorf brings up scarcity in the context of material goods, but I think it could also be applied to non-material resources, such as taking the time to help a stranger. If we take inventory of how we can [better] allocate our time, money, and other resources, we'll find that we have more than we realized at first glance.  
3. Thinking in the long-term. When dealing with money, we ask ourselves whether we should spend our money now for immediate benefit or if we should forego spending now in order to derive some benefit in the future. A similar concept can be applied here. Part of the Passover story is freedom from Egyptian slavery. But that's not the entire story. It's about freedom to do something with your life, and in a traditionally Jewish context, as R. Shraga Simmons points out, that means "Torah and mitzvahs." R. Shimon Schwab believed that the smaller piece represents this world (העולם הזה), and the larger piece is the World to Come (העולם הבא).  Alternatively, that larger piece could symbolize messianic redemption. Even in a non-Jewish or non-religious context, there are scenarios in which we have to postpone something in order to reach a larger goal (R. Shlomo Buxbaum). Freedom to do we want provides us more latitude than we had as slaves, but to be able to exercise the freedom to not do something paradoxically expands one's options. That is what the yachatz could represent: using that freedom with a long-term goal in mind means being able to derive a long-term benefit, even if that means foregoing something in the short-term.  
4. Not embarrassing others. The Vilna Ga'on opines that we break the matzah to pique one's curiosity. But why hide it afterwards? The Vilna Ga'on continues by saying that much like we cover up the challah in order to embarrassment, so too do we cover up the afikomen to teach in order to not "embarrass" it in front of the other pieces of matzah, thereby teaching us a lesson about not embarrassing other people.  
5. Brokenness in our lives. This was actually a concept that was discussed at length when I attended a second-night seder last year, and it happens to be my favorite interpretation. As R. Harold Schulweis brings up, "Brokenness is a symbol of incompletion. Life is not whole. The Passover itself is not complete." The only one who could be truly whole is G-d because He is Infinite Oneness. It's not a bad thing that we cannot be completely whole because it means there is always room to grow. The other silver lining to this brokenness is that we can break out of our own versions of being enslaved in Egypt. While brokenness is part of entering the Passover seder, it's not how it ends. The ultimate message is one of redemption, of being able to transcend one's travails to reach a higher goal even when brokenness exists in our lives. We realize that the broken matzah symbolizes that there are parts of us undiscovered, and figuring out what could potentially make us feel whole is a process. The broken matzah reminds us that we don't have as much of a handle on life as we think we do, but within the greater context of the Passover narrative, we can take what we have been given in order to become greater human beings than when we started.  

The Shema as a Portal Between the Mezuzah and Passover

The idea that a mitzvah can be construed as an action-based meditation fascinates me. During the Passover seder, we are supposed to relive the experience that the Jews felt in the Exodus narrative. Amongst other things, we are to be reminded what it was like to be slaves, what it feels to be redeemed, and how we should not treat others poorly because, to paraphrase what is oft repeated in the Torah, "we know what it was like to be oppressed strangers." The mezuzah, being a mitzvah and action-based meditation, is also supposed to kindle something.

A door is not just a moving structure that can either block or allow access to another place. For many cultures, the door represents a portal or a gateway into new worlds, whether that it is in the literal or metaphorical sense. When we walk through a door and kiss the mezuzah, we are supposed to keep something in mind. What is that something, and even more interestingly, what does that have to do with the Exodus?

In addition to the mezuzah, there is something else about which we are reminded on a daily basis, and that is the Exodus of the Jews leaving Egypt. Although the Exodus is mentioned in more than one place in daily prayers, it most notably makes an appearance in the Shema. The reason why it's noteworthy is because in the Shema, the mezuzah is also mentioned. If I had to identify the single most important prayer for a Jew, it would be the Shema. It is a declaration of a relationship in G-d that translates into action. It is the prayer that a Jew recites twice a day, and is ideally the last thing a Jew recites while still alive. Shema encapsulates what it means to be a Jew.

If you want more of an idea of how the mezuzah and the Exodus are connected through Shema than merely being mentioned in the same prayer, look at the structure of the Shema, specifically the end of each paragraph. The first and second paragraphs both end with the importance of the mezuzah. The third paragraph of the Shema ends with that G-d brought the Jewish people out of Egypt. So what's the connection between the mezuzah and the Exodus?

Let's start at the verse that the Shema cites at the end of the third paragraph:

I am the L-rd, your G-d, who brought you out of the land of Egypt to be your G-d. I am the L-rd, your G-d. -Numbers 15:41

G-d didn't just bring the Jewish people out of slavery. If He did, we would only have to sing the first song of Dayenu and be done with it. G-d wanted to do so much more than that. As the verse in Numbers shows, G-d wanted to develop a relationship with the Jewish people. G-d wanted a relationship in which the Jewish people love G-d with all their heart, soul, and might (Deuteronomy 6:6). The way that the Jewish people develop that relationship with G-d is through Torah and doing mitzvahs.

That relationship did not really begin until the Exodus. Why the Exodus, and not something like the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai? Why is the Exodus so special? It was the moment when the Jewish people went from being slaves to being a free people. This transition cannot be emphasized enough because serving G-d implies that there is free will. Without free will, having a Torah that instructs Jews to follow mitzvahs would be non-sensical. A lack of free will would also make moral judgments and ethics just as non-sensical. Free will is both at the essence of human dignity and of Judaism.

Prior to G-d bringing the Jewish people out of Egypt, the Jewish people were slaves. They worked all day, slept, woke up and did the same thing all over again. What they did as slaves was instinctive, routine, and void of any growth or progression. Upon walking through the metaphorical door, the Jewish people made that transition from slavery to freedom. This transition is so strong that Jews are to remember and re-live it every year at the Passover seder.

However, this is not something that we are supposed to relive only during Passover. Maimonides teaches (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot De'ot, Mezuzot 6:13) that the purpose of the mezuzah is to remind us of G-d's Oneness. This reminder of His Oneness is to arouse a love towards Him. Much like the Exodus, the mezuzah is a vital way in which the Jew develops a love of G-d that is just as transformative as what the Jews of yore must have felt when they saw the Sea of Reeds part. That sense of awe and gravitas is not something that is solely reserved for Passover. It is something that we can apply daily. By bringing the proper awareness and kavannah to the mitzvah of the mezuzah, we can relive the essence of the Exodus by not only literally walking through a doorway, but using the mezuzah as a portal to experience a relationship with the Divine.