The Temple was a center of holiness and purity, and the altar was, within that larger precinct, the very epicenter of purity. No part of a sacrificial animal that had become ritually impure was permitted to approach the altar, and certainly not to be offered in the sacrificial fire that burned there. The impurity could have arisen by a dead insect having fallen on the animal’s carcass after the slaughter; or a host of other conditions might have arisen, any one of which would have created a certain revulsion to the guardians of the sacred precincts. We cannot today reconstruct precisely why impurity and revulsion were said to arise from particular things in ancient times, but there were such deep aversions. 

Now comes the principle given in the mishnah I referenced earlier: “Hamizbeah mekadesh et hara’ui lo,” “the altar sanctifies every thing that is fitting for it.” The Sages took the repetition of the word that means “going up” to signal that there are things that ought never to have been taken up the ramp to the Temple altar, but once having been brought there, should not be removed. Although they would normally be disqualified from the altar because of some blemish on their sanctity or purity, having reached the altar, by happenstance, the altar itself overrides both the impurity itself, and the revulsion that impurity would generate. The impure flesh that was an affront to the altar from afar, having touched the altar, now became fit, and could be treated and handled like any other object whose purity was uncompromised.

The principle here is by turns counterintuitive and intriguing. Counterintuitive, because how could impurity ever be allowed to coexist with the very center of purity, even if the juxtaposition arose unintentionally? Shouldn’t something profane and impure immediately be removed from the epicenter of sanctity? But it is intriguing at the same time because there is something fascinating and alluring about the idea that there are places, things, perhaps phenomena, that are so suffused with the force of holiness that they can completely eclipse and overwhelm even those things that stand in opposition to it. We are taught, for example, that a mikveh—a ritual pool that is used to return to a state of purity—can itself never become impure or polluted. No matter what may fall into it, its purity is unchanged. The Torah itself has that property. Contrary to centuries-long misogynist misreadings that were calculated to keep women away from the Torah, there is nothing that can impart impurity to a scroll of the Torah.

So it’s at least a curious twist in the annals of ancient Temple and priestly rules. But for us, today, is it harmless?

Are there things that are so sacred, that are of such ultimate importance, that they serve as solvents to dissolve all flaws that come into contact with them? Are there contemporary sancta that can and should have the power to wash away all manner of stains that we would normally treat with the same revulsion and disgust with which our ancient priests treated their sources of impurity?

In particular, I have in mind a matter of serious concern regarding discourse within the Jewish community today. Does a profession of love and support of the Jewish people and the Jewish state, and a determination to identify and defeat antisemitism, have the power to sanctify and cleanse the impurities of rank incivility and malicious slander? The latter are rightly reviled, and no one would think of raising them up to the altar, as it were. They are as unwelcome and as noxious as hametz is on the upcoming festival of Pesah. Were such incivility and slander to be practiced by foes of the Jewish people, we would rightly take such offensive character traits as being of a piece with hostility to Jews and Israel. But what shall we say and do when the very people who profess to love us and have our best interests at heart—our own Jewish confrères—display the very same defiling traits towards their fellow Jews of different opinions? Should that not at least cast some serious doubt on whether they truly get who we are and what our mission and cause is? Should we allow ourselves to get pushed to the point at which expressions of love of the Jewish people and the Jewish state become like the ancient altar, dissolving and washing away all sins and impurities? Even observant, practicing Jews can be targets of incivility and slander when they raise concerns about the policies and practices of Israeli governments.  The same happens to Jews who, while deploring antisemitism, do not see it in all the places at which they are told they should see it. Often they are demonized, tagged as wolves in sheep’s clothing, and as enemies of the Jewish people. There is far too much contempt for those of other opinions.

We all, under normal circumstances, reject vulgarity, contempt, and slander. Yet some may maintain that the Rabbis in Zevahim were on to something; that in our day the dangers we all agree that Israel and the Jewish people face should have the power that the ancient altar had and should dissolve the impurities of language and deed that we would normally reject in normal times. But there is a word in the Rabbis’ mishnah to which we have not paid much attention until now.  “The altar sanctifies everything that is fitting for it.” What does “fitting” mean in that context? If the flesh of a sacrificial lamb were made impure, then its having reached the altar would sanctify it nonetheless, because lamb flesh is fitting for the altar. But not so for the flesh of something unfit for sacrifice. The flesh of a deer, and certainly that of a swine, does not get sanctified by the altar; only that which is minimally fitting for the sacred place to begin with does.

So which is it? Should the incivility, slander, and even vulgarity that too often gets directed at honest and conscientious questioners of mainstream assumptions be overlooked when wielded in a professed solidarity with Israel, or concern for antisemitism? Or are they so unfitting, so incongruous to who we are and what our values are, that our contemporary holy of holies cannot cleanse them? 

I end with these questions. We will all answer them as we will. But we cannot avoid conscientiously grappling with them.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

According to sociologist Harmut Rosa, the main role of rituals is to produce axes of resonance, through which we not only affect but also open ourselves to being affected by God, people, and even things around us. In conceiving of Jewish prayer, our ancient rabbis indicate a concern with creating resonance, by balancing “affecting” and “being affected.”

Tractate Brachot (26b) speaks of two paradigms that have served as inspiration for the development of the Amidah, the core of the Jewish worship service. According to the first paradigm, תפלות אבות תקנום, the Amidah was instituted by the patriarchs and their distinctive ways of reaching out toward God. This paradigm underlines the “affecting” side of resonance, defining prayer as a particular response in the face of our unique life experiences. Under this model, through prayer, we put forth our concerns and desires in the hopes that they will catalyze some change around us, no matter how small it is.

According to the second paradigm, תפלות כנגד תמידין תקנום, the Amidah was instituted to correspond to the regular daily offerings at the Temple, and their communal choreographed aspect. This paradigm emphasizes the “being affected” side of resonance, defining prayer as a harmonious collective creation, just as the melody that the song leader back in the Shabbat retreat was inviting us to produce.

But how exactly do the תמידין, the daily Temple offerings, role model a disposition to being affected, which is so vital for resonance?

According to Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Parashat Tzav opens with the description of the daily communal offering, which is known in other places in the Bible as the עֹלַ֤ת תָּמִיד  (the regular burnt-offering) and which, in the Talmud, serves as model for the Amidah. Given this offering’s communal nature, it is surprising that in this parashah, the Torah singles out the individual priest who will be in charge of the offering, instead of addressing the collective בְּנֵ֨י אַהֲרֹ֤ן הַכֹּֽהֲנִים (sons of Aaron, the priests), like it does in other places: 

וְלָבַ֨שׁ הַכֹּהֵ֜ן מִדּ֣וֹ בַ֗ד  … וְהֵרִ֣ים אֶת־הַדֶּ֗שֶׁן אֲשֶׁ֨ר תֹּאכַ֥ל הָאֵ֛שׁ אֶת־הָעֹלָ֖ה עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֑חַ וְשָׂמ֕וֹ אֵ֖צֶל הַמִּזְבֵּֽחַ׃

The priest shall dress in linen raiment, … and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.

(Lev. 6:3)

Given that the Torah (Exod. 28:43) has already warned that all priests should wear special garments every time they approach the altar to officiate in the sanctuary, why does it repeat the garment requirement? Also, why in other places the Torah refers to the priest’s clothing as כֻּתֹּנֶת (kutonet/tunic), but here it refers to it as ֹמִדּ֣וֹ בַ֗ד (mido bad/linen raiment)?

Rashi explains that the requirement of the priest garment is being repeated here to specify that the tunic has to be made according to the exact measures of the priest’s body (therefore the name מִדּו/Mido, literally, his size). Noam Elimelekh reads this interpretation metaphorically: the priest has to come into this ritual wearing his personal and unique qualities (מִדּות).

Were the ritual dressing to stop here, with the priest bringing forward to the offering his particular self, it would be simply another expression of “affecting” and not have the necessary qualities of “openness to being affected,” so necessary for resonance to take place. But the Torah continues:

וּפָשַׁט֙ אֶת־בְּגָדָ֔יו וְלָבַ֖שׁ בְּגָדִ֣ים אֲחֵרִ֑ים וְהוֹצִ֤יא אֶת־הַדֶּ֙שֶׁן֙ אֶל־מִח֣וּץ לַֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה אֶל־מָק֖וֹם טָהֽוֹר׃

He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments and carry the ashes outside the camp to a pure place.

(Lev. 6:4)

Why does the priest take off one garment and put on another one prior to bringing the ashes outside the camp? And how is the second garment different from the first one?

According to Gersonides, the second set of garments are also holy garments, otherwise the Torah would not have gone out of its way to say that the priest should dress in them. However, the second clothes are פחותים מהראשונים (less than the first ones). Following Noam Elimelekh’s metaphorical reading of the clothes: throughout the ritual of disposing the ashes the priest needs to contract and readjust himself to a more balanced presence in the world.

In a society that privileges authenticity and self-expression, the second paradigm of prayer can be challenging and underappreciated. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han claims that such a society puts us in a habitual mode of production of the self, where we are constantly strengthening our persona. As a result, we become experts in the art of affecting, but compromise our ability to enter into relationships “outside the boundaries of the self,” in which we are open enough to be affected or reached by others. That creates a crisis of resonance and without resonance, we become isolated, lonely, even depressed.

According to Moshe Halbertal, the fact that so many rabbinic practices “modeled after the sacrifice, and kept its ethos and drive” indicates that there is something about sacrifice that is essential to human expression and life. When it comes to prayer, the תמידין, the daily Temple offerings, teach us the vital gesture of modulating ourselves so resonance and real connections can be made possible.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

שׁוֹאֲלִין וְדוֹרְשִׁין בְּהִלְכוֹת הַפֶּסַח קוֹדֶם הַפֶּסַח שְׁלֹשִׁים יוֹם

“One should ask questions and expound upon the laws of Passover thirty days prior to Passover.”

“It is known as Shabbat Hagadol, because on the Shabbat before Pesah the congregation would sit for a long time listening to the teaching of the rabbi. And the rabbi’s teaching covered many topics: the laws of hametz and matzah, rules of Pesah and yom tov, items related to the Exodus from Egypt, etc., and the congregation would not depart for their homes until the teaching was over. And the day is seen in the eyes of the congregation as larger and longer than other days, hence it is called ‘The Great Sabbath.’” [1]

Shibbolei Haleket, Zedekiah ben Abraham Anav (13th-Century Italy)

I know it is difficult to imagine, but the tradition throughout the communities of Europe was that the rabbi would stand up on the bimah to give a formal sermon only twice a year: on Shabbat Shuvah (between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur), and on Shabbat Hagadol, the Shabbat preceding Passover. That’s it. No weekly sermon, no d’var Torah for the e-newsletter; only twice a year, to teach, and often at great length, on the laws of repentance and the laws of Passover respectively.[2]

These two moments in time, situated at opposite poles of the Jewish calendar—one focused on individual salvation, the other focused on national redemption—served as the perfect platform for a rabbi to stand before the community and offer a teaching meant to elevate the experience of not just the Sabbath, but the holiday that follows it as well. 

So you can imagine the shock when the rabbi of Berlin, Rabbi Tzvi Halberstam, decided one year not to give the derashah on Shabbat Hagadol. When his congregation approached him and asked him why he would not speak, he said: “The matter of this derashah is referenced in the Talmud, where it says: ‘One should ask questions and expound upon the laws of Passover thirty days prior to Passover.’ First the congregation must ask the questions; only then does the rabbi know how to answer them; and as of today, no one has asked me a single question about Pesah!”

The truth is, of all the Jewish holidays of the year, Pesah requires the most forethought, the most planning, the most cleaning, and yes, the most questions! Jewish tradition understands deeply that ritual does not simply “occur;” it is instead the result of painstaking preparation and beginning with the end in mind.

There are three types of questions I believe we should ask as part of our planning for the holiday: the logistical, the pedagogical, and the communal.

The Logistical:

The first reason we must ask and answer questions thirty days prior to the holiday is that the primary experience of the holiday, the Seder, usually takes place in the home, and not in the synagogue. Each household is responsible for creating a Seder meal, and that involves a lot of questions! Which areas of the home require cleaning and which ones do not? What is kosher this year and what is not? What’s the rule about unopened tuna fish and orange juice? (Always remember to download this year’s copy of the !)

Other questions that need asking (and answering) long before the holiday begins are: Who’s hosting this year? Who are we inviting? What’s on the menu? And where’s that shopping list we left for ourselves last year?

The Pedagogical:

Rabbi Moshe Isserles writes, regarding Shabbat Hagadol, “It is a tradition to read the Haggadah at Minhah . . .”(Gloss to Shulhan Arukh 430:1)

With the focus of the holiday being on the home, each Seder leader becomes the rabbi of their home, so to speak, and therefore needs to develop a “lesson plan” for how to create a meaningful experience for all involved. First, we must review the material of the Haggadah once again. What parts of it are familiar to us, overflowing with tunes and memories of sedarim past? What parts of it need review, practice, learning, commentary?

Other pedagogical questions we must ask ourselves prior to the holiday include: Which Haggadot will we be using this year? Who’s leading the Four Questions? How will we make this Seder welcoming to non-Jews with whom we share our joy? Where is there slavery today and what is our responsibility to eradicate it? Where are the lurking dangers to our values and traditions that “in each and every generation” seek to challenge our way of life?

The Communal:

Although much of the emphasis of Passover is on the individual and the household, we risk missing the entire essence of the holiday if we focus only on our home, on the table setting, or on the menu.

Isserles writes, “It is a tradition to buy wheat to distribute to the poor for their Passover needs. Everyone who has lived in the city for twelve months must contribute.” (Gloss to Shulhan Arukh 429:1)

Here Rabbi Isserles teaches us that an important part of our Passover preparations must be ensuring that the community in which we live has the resources to support every individual’s ability to fulfill the commandments of the holiday. As we learn in Mishnah Pesahim 10:1:

“Even the poor among [the people] Israel should not eat without reclining. And they must be given no fewer than four cups of wine, even [if they are sustained] from the charity plate.”

These are our questions, our way of preparing for the holiday that is approaching, for our Jewish world, for our communities, and in our homes. By asking questions as to “how” we create the rituals of Passover, we are actually answering the question of the impertinent “wicked child” when they ask, “What is this ritual to you?”[3] The answer is: “Look at all that we do for the sake of this holiday; it isbecause it means everything to us.”

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

[1] In a , Rabbi David Golinkin suggests it is highly unlikely that this is the etymology for Shabbat Hagadol.

[2] The tradition of giving sermons on Shabbat dates to antiquity. However, it was typically delivered by a community’s darshan or an itinerant preacher.

[3] Exodus 12:26

Burnout often refers to an exhaustion of motivation, interest, or energy for one’s work, sometimes prompted by tedium. Compassion fatigue refers to the toll that caregiving can take on a person in work in caring, helping, or service. Both can create a vocational crisis. This week’s parashah suggests several strategies for combatting the depletion we all face at some point.

The beginning verses refer to the first action of the day for the kohanim in the Temple: terumat hadeshen, the lifting up and removal of ashes from the altar from the previous day. The Torah provides a detailed instruction:

The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar. He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments, and carry the ashes outside the camp to a pure place.

Lev. 6:3–4

The first action of the day was not new business, but rather the removal of the ashes of the previous day’s offering. 

Lessons from this ritual guide us to retain vocational vitality, in at least four ways:

1. Stay connected to yesterday’s holiness

The Hasidic master Simcha Bunim (1765–1827) of Przysucha in South Central Poland found meaning in the timing of terumat hadeshen as the first act of the new day. The act of lifting up the ashes symbolized that “what was holy yesterday must be treated with respect today as well” (Etz Hayyim Commentary). 

Terumat hadeshen was performed before sunrise and lacked the public honor associated with the offering of the sacrifices. The work of removing the ashes to ready the Temple for the new day’s sacrifices could be seen as meritless, messy drudgery. However, in an ironic way, terumat hadeshen could also challenge the kohen to confront what has been lost and to grieve. By lifting up the ashes, the kohen was prompted to remember the holiness of yesterday’s sacrifice, honoring what it had been. Terumat hadeshen models for us a daily practice for grieving day-to-day loss.

2. Connect with others as an ordinary person

Simcha Bunim also finds interpersonal meaning in the ritual of terumat hadeshen. By requiring the kohen to change into ordinary clothes and leave the holy precincts of the Temple, the Torah is seeking to ensure that “he never forgets his link to the ordinary people who spend their days in mundane pursuits” (Etz Hayyim Commentary). By literally stepping out of the professional space, by acknowledging his own humanity, and by being willing to be seen this way, the kohen created the possibility for his own receiving of care from others.

3. Be flexible and innovative

Systems for care and service sometimes need to be modified or redesigned. The Talmud provides a cautionary tale of how the system for terumat hadeshen went awry and needed modification. The Mishnah explains that initially it wasn’t imagined that many priests would want to do terumat hadeshen and so no lottery system was necessary, unlike other areas of Temple service that were popular and sought after by many priests (BT Yoma 22a). Whoever wanted to do terumat hadeshen on a given day would simply “run and ascend up on the ramp” leading to the altar (M Yoma 2:1). 

But there was an unintended consequence of leaving this role to whomever would volunteer. One time two kohanim were “running and ascending on the ramp, and one of them shoved another and he fell and his leg was broken.” Henceforth, the kohen was chosen by lottery (M Yoma 2:2). Times had changed and the culture changed. However, this led to a new challenge. Once the lottery was established, enthusiasm for doing terumat hadeshen diminished to the point of insufficient numbers of kohanim to meet the need. As an incentive, it was then established that the priest who conducted terumat hadeshen would also play the special role of “laying out the arrangement of wood on the altar” (BT Yoma 22a). 

How can we understand the ambivalence and swings in attitudes and enthusiasm for doing this ritual? Perhaps it reflects the struggle the kohanim experienced to stay connected to the difficult work of terumat hadeshen. Their behavior reflected the ebbs and flows of human nature when doing meaningful yet difficult work. They adjusted their system to ensure that service continued and that it responded to the needs and wellbeing of the kohanim. 

4. Stay connected when you feel alone

Like so many leaders and caregivers today, the designated priest for terumat hadeshen acted alone. The Mishnah describes: “No person would enter with [the priest].” Furthermore, “with no lamp in his hand, he would walk by the light of the arrangements. The other priests would not see him, nor could they hear the sound of his steps” (M Tamid 1:4). The kohen is solitary and in the dark when confronting the grimmest part of the work.

But, in fact, the kohen is not alone. While he performed the ritual by himself, his brothers and other kohanim kept watch for him to return and listened for signs of his completion of the tasks at hand (M Tamid 1:4, 2:1). 

The ritual of terumat hadeshen helps us when we might feel alienated from our sense of purpose and resigned to burnout. It offers us ways to embrace our sense of purpose even if it feels fragile. Terumat hadeshen reminds us: When we begin the day, before starting a new task, let us do something that connects us to yesterday’s work as it will keep us connected to our sense of purpose. Let us spend time each day as ordinary people, changing from our professional clothes to regular clothes if need be. Let us change our procedures if the old one becomes dangerous and let us partner with colleagues to update systems to create professional communities that are caring to us as well. Finally, even when we act alone and even when we feel solitude, let us know that there are others who are with us. Though we might not see them, they are listening for us.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

I wonder how it is, then, that this book has customarily served as a child’s first taste of Torah study, an idea highlighted in a midrash on the opening verses of Parashat Tzav. In response to the opening words, “God spoke to Moses, saying: Command Aaron and his sons in this way: This is the ritual of the burnt offering…” (Lev. 6:1-2),

Rabbi Asi says, “for what reason do we begin instructing children in Torat Kohanim [Leviticus]? They should begin with Bereishit. But the Holy Blessed One said, “since children are pure, and sacrificial offerings are pure, so should the pure [ones] engage in [study about] the pure [matters]. (Yalkut Shimoni 479)

Setting aside any potential concerns about comprehension, this midrash suggests that this sacred material which instructs us in how to maintain our relationship with God on a daily basis is most suitably studied by the youngest among us, those who have not yet accumulated a lifetime of missteps or become jaded as they experience the world.

Perhaps there is a hope that by immersing ourselves in matters related to our most holy selves when we are most capable of expressing that self, we might carry that holiness forward into adulthood. If so, then the book of Vayikra becomes an instruction manual for tapping into our most pure, unblemished selves, with children serving as a model of uncomplicated goodness for adults. Parashat Tzav highlights four different sorts of offerings, including the asham, the guilt offering, which could be seen as a tool for maintaining our best selves even when we are guilty of wrongdoing.

Embedded in these verses is perhaps an even greater opportunity to recapture uncomplicated childhood sentiments. God issues a curious command throughout the opening verses of this parashah:

The fire on the altar shall be kept burning, not to go out: every morning the priest shall feed wood to it, lay out the burnt offering on it, and turn into smoke the fat parts of the offerings of well-being. (6:5)

A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out. (6:6)

The fire must be kept burning at all times, the sacrificial system always ready to operate. Yet, this instruction does not seem so practical for a people destined to spend the next several decades wandering through the wilderness. A midrash, noted by commentators through the years, seeks to explain this instruction:

“A perpetual fire”: [refers to] a constant flame, even on Shabbat, even when unclean. “Not to go out”: Even when journeying, the flame should not go out. What did they do? They covered it with a pot [to protect it], according to Rabbi Yehudah. Rabbi Simeon said, they removed the ashes from it even while traveling, as it says, “They shall remove the ashes from the altar” (Num. 4:13).” (Bemidbar Rabbah 4:17)

According to this midrash, this flame was so important it was to be maintained even on Shabbat (when kindling fire was otherwise not permitted), and even when doing so would be logistically challenging. While there was disagreement over the method, this text imagines that the Israelites took great pains to maintain this fire.

There is a parallel here, albeit one that is imbalanced, of a people caring for a fire used in the service of God—who guided them out of slavery embodied in a pillar of fire and cloud. Perhaps this gesture is an attempt to reciprocate the constancy of Divine protection. Just as God has led them to freedom and is guiding them through their travels, the people too nurture and coax this flame to keep on burning. They are giving God cover with a large pot, even as the Divine presence is sheltering them every step of the way.

And indeed the haftarahchosen for the day resonates with meaning. Most likely, the name of the Sabbath itself derives from it. Malachi, who lived in Judea some time after the return from the Babylonian exile, was the last of the prophets to make it into the Hebrew canon. We have but a few specimens of his message. His final words, which constitute our haftarah, relate to the end of days, a devastation that will spare only those who have remained faithful to God. The return of Elijah, the prophet who never died, will both foretell the impending doom as well as provide salvation from it. In speaking of that day, Malachi uses the Hebrew word “gadol (great):” So, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome (gadol), fearful day of the Lord (Malachi 3:23).”

Although it is usually the first important word of a haftarah that names a special Shabbat (like Shabbat Shuvah before Yom Kippur or Shabbat Hazon before Tisha be-Av), Shabbat ha-Gadol deviates from that formula. The reason for the exception is the reason for this particular haftarah in the first place. The connection between Passover and the end of days makes sense only if we recall the belief of R. Yehoshua ben Hananyah, but one generation after the destruction of the Second Temple, that the final redemption of the people of Israel will occur in the very same month of Nissan in which the Exodus took place. (B.T. Rosh Hashanah 11a) History had destined the month for national salvation. The deeper the order of events the greater their meaning. The choice of the haftarah for Shabbat ha-Gadol added a messianic undertone to the celebration of Passover, with the name ha-Gadol deriving from it. Memory entailed comfort; to recall was also to anticipate.

The prominence of Elijah in the Seder ritual also derives from the influence of our haftarah. While Moses goes entirely unmentioned in the Haggadah, Elijah is honored with a cup of wine on the Seder plate. After the recitation of the grace after meals, we send a child to open the front door, hoping against hope that this year Elijah will finally come. With the door ajar, we intone four verses that call upon God to visit those who have afflicted Jews with retribution. In the contemporary Seder, the moment lends itself to remembering the obscenity of the Holocaust. The convergence of Elijah with the imprecation is surely medieval, a messianic overlay to the older strata of the Haggadah that expresses escalating religious tensions.

Of similar messianic provenance and equally late is the song “Adir Hu (Mighty is He)” at the end of the Haggadah. Like the others in this final section, it was added to keep the young engaged. The melodies are all quite spirited. But in content, Adir Hu is a fervent plea to God to end the exile by restoring the Temple in Jerusalem, and in many an illustrated Haggadah, the song was adorned with an artist’s image of the Temple. My point is to indicate that the impact of historical events on the mood of the Haggadah merely rendered what was implicit explicit. The original matrix had been set long before by the haftarah: a second redemption would right the wrongs of history.

According to Malachi, when Elijah appears, “He shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents, so that when I (the Lord of Hosts) come, I do not strike the whole land with utter destruction (3:24).” In short, the onset of the messianic era begins at home with familial reconciliation. Out of the mundane will spring the sacred. Passover is such a moment of reconciliation. We need not wait for Elijah. Each year, the family is drawn together by the pageantry of the Seder. Ritual reunites us in an ancient odyssey far greater than our own. We blend our individual and ephemeral narratives with the unbroken national narrative of the Jewish people.

The medium is dialogue. Everything is designed to arouse the curiosity of the young. If they don’t ask, the telling becomes hollow. To recline at the Seder does not mean to be passive. Parents must pitch their tale to the level of their children. The Seder is a cantata – musical, participatory and experiential. The Shema (Deut. 6:4-9) asks of parents to be their children’s first and primary teachers, to utilize texts and ideas, art and song, ritual and prayer, work and play to fill the house with the sights, sounds and smells of Judaism. Transmission does not occur in a vacuum.

Yet before we adults can teach, we must love: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might (Deut. 6:5).” It is hard to teach what does not grab us. A flame that is flickering will fail to light another. But the Rabbis saw in this injunction of the heart more than a mere emotional predisposition. Beneath the surface they detected an injunction to act. By reading the verb ve-ahavta (and you shall love) reflexively as mitahev (to be loved), they came to the daunting conclusion that we are called upon to live in such a way that others will be drawn closer to God. To love God is not a disembodied profession of faith but a lofty and sustained way of life. To love God is to teach by example (B.T. Yoma 86a).

At Passover, the Seder is our classroom. Surrounded by family and friends, we have a setting of high drama and great beauty in which to express our love of God and bring others to share it with us. This year may Elijah find us worthy of his coming.

Shabbat Shalom
Hag kasher ve-sameah,

Ismar Schorsch

The publication and distribution of Dr. Schorsch’s commentary on Parashat Tzav are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee and Harold (z”l) Hassenfeld.

I try to bless
Because my bread is warm,
And the salt at my table
Is my reminder.
Fine grains of labor and endurance.

When the smoke fills you
When the fat is burned
And the flour poured
I have to ask
Do you bless as well?

Your table is set
Widows and orphans, your guests.
If we could sit together,
I know, I am certain,
I would only be able to try.