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Welcome to Orot Shalhevet

RABBI DAVID BLOCK HEAD OF SCHOOL

Dear Shalhevet Community,

Pesach is unique. Many are lucky to spend numerous holidays with family and loved ones, but no other holiday pushes us (forces us!) to ensure that everyone - young and old, pro and novice - engages each other and participates together. Indeed, the Haggadah itself recounts how the older (R. Akiva and his colleagues), the pseudo-old (R. Elazar ben Azarya), and the young (the 4 Sons) all engaged at the Seder. To quote my father-in-law, Seder night is meant to be a “conversation between generations.” But does a “conversation between generations” simply mean that people of different ages talk with each other? In Meseches Kilayim (2:11), after R. Meir disagrees with the opinion of the Chachamim about a particular agricultural halacha, R. Meir concludes with a fascinating line: “‫ ורואה אני את דבריהן מדברי‬- But I see their words [as correct] more than my own.”

What does R. Meir mean? If he really agrees with the Chachamim, why does he argue? The Tiferes Yisrael and Mishnah Rishonah (18th-19th century commentaries) explain that while R. Meir sees the veracity of the other opinion, he only argues with the Sages “‫ שכך קבל מרבותיו‬- because that’s the tradition he received from his teachers.” In other words, R. Meir remained faithful to his tradition while recognizing the validity - and, in fact, compellingness - of other views. Similarly, in Bava Basra (130b), Rava tells his students that when they disagree with a ruling of his, they should neither simply discard or ignore it, nor should they blindly rule according to it either, for a judge must consider the reality in front of his eyes (‫)אין לדיין אלא מה שעיניו רואות‬. In five words, R. Meir uncovers the key to understanding the Pesach experience (in addition to its profound implications on how we paskin halacha generally - see Igros Moshe YD 1:101). Having a “conversation between generations” means that we simultaneously hold mesorah (tradition) and stories of our past together with the “new” - creativity and current experience. It’s about having an opinion and celebrating personal tradition while still opening yourself up to see the beauty in the ideas, beliefs, and traditions of others. Finally, to paraphrase the Ramban (Shemos 13), it’s about using what happened thousands of years ago in Egypt (the “old”) to help us see Hashem’s hand in our own lives today (the “new”). It’s this multiplicity of perspective and various avenues towards connection with Hashem that is what Orot Shalhevet is about. In our beautiful student artwork, the traditional is expressed in brilliant, modern light. In the Divrei Torah, faculty, students, and alumni engage with mesorah and explore the classical meforshim while also suggesting brilliant new chidushim. Those lights (Orot), together, create the brilliant flame that is Shalhevet. It is our hope that this volume helps spark your own “conversations between generations.” Best, Rabbi David Block

table of contents

MS. ARIELLA ETSHALOM ASKING THE RIGHT QUESTIONS PAGE 3

LIAD MACHMALI

WHY IS THIS SPEECH DIFFERENT THAN ALL OTHER SPEECHES? PAGE 5

CALEB FISHMAN TO BE FREE OR NOT TO BE FREE? PAGE 7

JONAH GILL COMMEMORATING OUR COMMEMORATION PAGE 9

RABBI DAVID STEIN

TAKING THE LAMB BY THE HORNS: IDENTITY, SACRIFICE, AND REDEMPTION IN THE HAGGADAH PAGE 11

RABBI ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN THE 10 MAKKOT AND THE PANTHEON OF EGYPT: A HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE PAGE 15

DR. SHEILA KEITER

CRYING OVER SPILT WINE: EXAMINATION OF A MINHAG PAGE 17

thank you TO THE FOLLOWING SUPPORTERS WHO HAVE GENEROUSLY SPONSORED THIS EDITION OF OROT

SHALHEVET. WE ARE GRATEFUL TO THEM FOR HELPING TO PROMOTE THE SPREAD OF MEANINGFUL TORAH LEARNING AND SPIRITUAL GROWTH IN OUR COMMUNITY. PLEASE ENJOY THE TORAH YOU WILL FIND WITHIN IN THEIR MERIT.

DEBBIE AND ALAN BERMAN & FAMILY MAYA AND NEIL COHEN & FAMILY SHANA AND MORDECHAI FISHMAN & FAMILY JONAH GILL MICKEY AND HAIM KAHTAN & FAMILY STACY AND RANON KENT & FAMILY SHIRA AND JOSEPH NAVON & FAMILY

SARA AND JAY SANDERS & FAMILY TAALY AND ADAM SILBERSTEIN & FAMILY NAOMI AND RABBI ARI SCHWARZBERG & FAMILY VANESSA AND KENNETH STOFF & FAMILY

Limudei Kodesh Faculty

MS. ARIELLA ETSHALOM

MS. ARIELLA ETSHALOM IS PROUD TO BE PART OF THE JUDAIC STUDIES FACULTY AT SHALHEVET, SERVING AS THE SHOELET U’MEISHIVA OF THE BEIT MIDRASH TRACK. AFTER RECEIVING HER B.A. AT STERN COLLEGE, SHE SPENT A YEAR TEACHING IN SAR HIGH SCHOOL'S BEIT MIDRASH FELLOWSHIP PROGRAM. ALONG WITH TEACHING AT SHALHEVET, SHE IS CURRENTLY WORKING TOWARDS HER MASTER'S IN BIBLICAL AND TALMUDIC INTERPRETATION AT YESHIVA UNIVERSITY'S GRADUATE PROGRAM FOR ADVANCED TALMUDIC STUDIES (GPATS) AND WORKING AS AN ADVISOR COORDINATOR FOR MIDWEST NCSY.

Asking the Right

QUESTIONS

The Seder is one of the most beautiful learning experiences of the Jewish family. Although it is conducted differently in every household, it always inevitably leads to discussions about the foundation of the Jewish nation. Most of us arrive at the Seder after having studied it in school or remembering the passages from previous years. But if so, then why do we have so many questions when doing the Seder? Is it just to give the young ones a chance to show off their singing of Ma-Nishtana? Can’t we just pass-over (pun intended!) that part of the Haggadah once we are all old enough to admit we know the storyline? Apparently not! According to Rambam in the Mishneh Torah (Hilchot Chametz Umatza 7:1), if one conducts a Seder without children to ask, “his wife should ask the questions; if he has no wife, they [the participants] should ask one another: ‘Why is this night different?’— even if they are all scholars. If one is alone, he should ask himself: ‘Why is this night different?’” This statement of the Rambam implies that the point of asking these questions is not about the content of the questions or the answers we are meant to give; rather, the questions themselves are meaningful and important even if someone is having a seder alone and asking himself these questions. To understand this better, let us step back and look at the commandment to study Torah in general. As we say in Shema, the commandment is focused on teaching rather than learning. :‫ולמדתם אתם את בניכם לדבר בם בשבתך בביתך ובלכתך בדרך ובשכבך ובקומך‬ “And you shall teach them to your children—reciting them when you stay at home and when you travel, when you lie down and when you get up” (Devarim 11:19) Why is that? The explanation may be that learning and teaching go hand in hand. On one level, this is true pragmatically. When someone wants to master a subject, she goes to an accomplished expert who can teach it to her. So if you want to master the Torah, you have to study it from a bona fide master teacher! On another level, we can appreciate the mutual dependence of teaching and learning if we think about it from a pedagogic perspective. The teacher who engages in the Socratic method – the use of give and take, question and answer – can make all the difference. Have you ever tried studying for a test in the library by yourself? It sometimes does the job, but I find that it is much more productive to grab a study partner and go over the information out loud – repeating and running your ideas by someone else – even asking each other questions that we anticipate might be on the test. When we study with someone else, repeat the texts out loud, and engage in a real conversation about the topic at hand, we are able to gain so much more of an understanding about any given topic. In light of this, we can suggest that the Torah presents 3

the mitzvah of Torah study using the model of teaching because learning is actually best accomplished through teaching someone else, or even yourself. If we apply this approach to the Seder, we can gain a deeper understanding of the goals of this special night and the best way to accomplish them. Though we could sit and read the words on the paper, it is not just about that. It is about learning together with the people at our Seder and engaging in important conversations, using questions and interactions that prompt us to think more deeply about what it felt like to go from slavery to freedom with Hashem’s help. Chag Kasher V’Sameach!

ISABELLE PLATT

SHALHEVET CLASS OF ‘24 4

Shalhevet Class of ‘22 LIAD MACHMALI

LIAD MACHMALI IS A SENIOR AT SHALHEVET AND A MEMBER OF THE BEIT MIDRASH (BMT) PROGRAM. SHE WILL BE STUDYING NEXT YEAR AT MIDRESHET TORAH V'AVODAH IN JERUSALEM.

Why is This Speech Different THAN ALL OTHER SPEECHES?

Our world is, in many ways, defined by communication - in every office space, in every relationship, in politics, media, education, and more. But not every type of communication is the same, and a person must know which form to use in order to communicate effectively. Speech and communication also play an important role in the Torah, as well as in the Pesach seder. Looking through Chumash and Tanach, we can see that at least four different terms for language are used to signify different methods of communication: ‫אמירה‬, ‫דיבור‬, ‫סיפור‬, and ‫הגדה‬. In fact, you can tell the difference between two of the communicative words “‫ ”אמירה‬and “‫ ”דיבור‬just through the sound of the word: ‫ אמירה‬/ ‫ – אומר‬This word sounds light and gentle. ‫ דיבור‬/ ‫ – מדבר‬This word has a certain harshness to its sound. It is therefore logical that ‫ אמירה‬in the Torah is often understood as a softer tone of speech. It may be that of friends or good acquaintances conversing with one another, or it may be, as Rashi states (Bamidbar 12:1), a term of supplication or request, as when Lot requests from the people of Sedom not to hurt his guests, it says “‫”ויאמר אל נא אחי תרעו‬, “and he said [vayomer], please my brothers, do not act wickedly” (Bereishit 19:7). ‫דיבור‬, on the other hand, can refer to a formal announcement or speech, such as when your rabbi gives a shiur. Alternatively, it could also refer to a slightly harsher form of speech, as Rashi (Bamidbar 12:1) points out concerning Aharon and Miriam speaking lashon hara against Moshe, where it says “‫”ותדבר מרים ואהרן במשה‬, “Miriam and Aharon spoke [vatidaber] about Moshe.” For this reason, notes Rashi, Yosef ’s accusing his brothers of spying in Parshat Mikeitz (when they came to Egypt but did not yet recognize him) states: “‫”דבר האיש אדני הארץ אתנו קשות‬, “the ruler of the land spoke [diber] harshly with us” (Bereishit 42:30). Against this background, it is interesting to note that Moshe is constantly commanded by Hashem: “‫דבר אל בני ישראל‬ ,‫“ ”ואמרת אלהם‬speak to Bnei Yisrael and declare to them.” As a good leader, Hashem is telling Moshe that the only way the people will accept him and that he can succeed is by utilizing both ‫ אמירה‬and ‫דיבור‬. Moshe must be able to make formal announcements that direct the people, which may sometimes sound harsh and too much of a command form. But Moshe must also be able to talk softly with them, to understand his people as a friend and have the common touch. He must genuinely care for the people and talk with them. Whether we are a teacher, member of student council, or President of the United States, we too must have this combination of ‫ דיבור‬and ‫אמירה‬. The third term of communication is ‫לספר‬, meaning to tell a story. This term is used when Moshe tells Yitro all of the great events that happened to the Jewish people when leaving Egypt: “‫ויספר משה לחתנו את כל אשר עשה ה' לפרעה ולמצרים על‬ ‫אודות ישראל‬, ” “he told [vayisaper] his father-in-law about everything that Hashem had done to Pharoah and Egypt for Israel’s sake” (Shemot 18:8). ‫ סיפור‬has the power to captivate an audience and the goal of the ‫ סיפור‬is to make the audience interested in what we are saying. When recalling speeches and derashot given by a rabbi at shul, more often than not, it is the stories that are remembered, as opposed to the information presented. 5

The fourth communication term used is ‫להגיד‬, meaning to tell – ‫הגדה‬. The root word of ‫ להגיד‬is ‫נגד‬, meaning in front of or opposite of. Moshe Rabbeinu and all the leaders of the nation would face ‫ נגד‬Bnei Yisrael in order to tell them what to do. Today we often see different models of “‫נגד‬-style” leadership. In some synagogues, the rabbi stands in front with their back facing the congregation, implying that the people should follow his lead. In others, the rabbi faces the congregation, implying that they are there to direct and lead everyone through their example. During the Pesach Seder, ‫ סיפור‬and ‫ הגדה‬are certainly the most emphasized forms of communication. The Torah specifically describes telling the story of the Exodus using the term sippur: “‫ולמען תספר לאזני בנך ובן בנך את אשר‬ ...‫“ ”התעללתי במצרים‬And so that you may relate [tesaper] in the ears of your son and your son’s son that I made a mockery of Egypt…” (Shemot 10:2). Since the tradition is to tell the story of the Jewish people’s exile in Egypt and their subsequent redemption, we can only succeed in doing so if we tell the story using ‫סיפור‬, in an engaging manner. This is one of the goals of the Maggid portion of the Seder, to embellish the stories of the slavery and redemption of the Jews in a captivating and exciting manner. At the same time, we also take part in ‫[ הגדה‬hagada] at the Seder. The Torah also refers to the mitzvah of telling the story with the term ‫הגדה‬, just as it does with ‫סיפור‬: “‫והגדת לבנך ביום ההוא לאמר בעבור זה עשה ה' לי בצאתי ממצרים‬,” “and you shall tell [v’higadeta] your child on that day saying, it is because of this that Hashem acted on my behalf when I left Egypt” (Shemot 13:8). Based on our understanding of the term ‫ הגדה‬above, this means that the adults should demonstrate to the children to do what they do at the Seder, as opposed to doing what they are simply told to do. By modeling the Seder experience for the children at the table, we create an inspiring intergenerational lesson that engages everyone present. We see from here that communication at your Pesach seder is just as important as it was for Moshe at Har Sinai or for a Rabbi standing in front of his congregation. It's essential to use intriguing and enthralling speech to encapsulate the story or pose games or questions to your audience (sippur). And it’s also important to involve your audience in the narrative by showing them how to participate and emulate (haggadah) rather than just lecturing to them or telling them what to do. You can even order a Moses or Pharaoh costume on Amazon and quite literally step into their roles, encouraging everyone else to play along and be part of the story. Using techniques such as this, you can fulfill the educational ideas of sippur and haggadah - while also providing everyone with memories they won’t forget!

Shalhevet Class of ‘22 CALEB FISHMAN

CALEB FISHMAN IS A SENIOR AT SHALHEVET AND A MEMBER OF THE ADVANCED GEMARA SHIUR (AGS). HE WILL BE STUDYING NEXT YEAR AT YESHIVAT ORAYTA IN JERUSALEM'S OLD CITY.

To be Free

OR NOT TO BE FREE? Every year, Jews around the world sit down at the Seder to tell the story of the slavery in Egypt and the Exodus, detailing scenes of backbreaking work and rivers of tears that ended with God’s intervention on our behalf and the redemption. As we recline like kings and drink four cups of wine, we should be celebrating our freedom. And yet throughout the recitation of the story, we never explicitly say that we are currently free. Instead, we seem to claim the opposite, starting off Magid with the paragraph of Ha Lachma Anya and the curious words “‫ – ”השתא עבדי לשנה הבאה בני חורין‬Now we are slaves, and next year we will be free. On the night of Pesach, this line appears sorely out of place. The rest of the Seder is dedicated to reading poetry such as Dayeinu or analyzing biblical passages about how we left Egypt, but the words used to set the tone and introduce the story are an eerie warning that our journey to freedom did not end with the crossing of the Red Sea. Although it seems like an oddity, Rabbi Yochanan Treves (16th cent. Italy) writes in his commentary the “Kimcha D'Avshuna'' that this concluding line of Ha Lachma Anya has a crucial role to play at the start of the Seder. As we settle down like royalty to recall the miraculous story of Egypt, Ha Lachma Anya is meant to be a moment of prayer that challenges us to acknowledge our own situation before we begin to reminisce about the past. With these words, the Haggadah seems to ask whether we really are free as a people as the story seems to imply, or whether we must still yearn for our freedom. We might have left Egypt, but did we ever really leave Babylon? The Haggadah Ephod Bad by Rabbi Binyamin Rabinowitz (Warsaw, late 19th cent.) expands on this idea and adds that there is a deeper element to this moment of pause before we continue with the rest of Magid. When Ha Lachma Anya asks us to contemplate whether or not we are still slaves, it does not just mean as a nation, but also whether we as individuals are still slaves. R.Rabinowitz writes that even if God took us out of Egypt as a people, “there is no real redemption like the liberation of the mind, and there is no exile as complete as an imperfect intellect.” As beautiful as the dream of next year in Israel is, the Ephod Bad seems to say here that it’s only half the battle. The last line of Ha Lachma Anya is calling on each of us to ask ourselves how we can free our minds, not just our bodies, from the shackles of the world around us, and better ourselves for the next year. As the world rapidly seems to fall apart, the peculiar words “‫ ”השתא עבדי לשנה הבאה בני חורין‬carry a special weight for this year’s Pesach. Surrounded by such chaos, Ha Lachma Anya requests all of us to stop and think in a moment free of outside agitation. Can we be better people, as neighbors, friends, or parents? Is it possible to be more compassionate, understanding, and kind to all? As members of the Jewish people, we should constantly be thinking about these questions, which are a reflection of the Torah values that have led us forward for millennia, but rarely do we ever step out of the eye of the storm for a moment of peace to acknowledge them. The ending of Ha Lachma Anya is that invitation, a nanosecond separation from reality that asks us to confront who we are and who we want to be, so when we finally bring the Korban Pesach in Yerushalayim, we can be truly free. 7

EVA BROUS-LIGHT SHALHEVET CLASS OF ‘22

Shalhevet Class of ‘16 JONAH GILL

JONAH GRADUATED FROM SHALHEVET IN 2016, AFTER WHICH HE STUDIED AT YESHIVAT HAR ETZION IN ALON SHVUT BEFORE ATTENDING THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO. JONAH NOW WORKS IN INVESTMENT BANKING IN NEW YORK.

Commemorating

OUR COMMEMORATION It would be natural to assume that the Seder night is a commemoration of the miracles of yetziat mitzrayim. The splitting of the sea, the ten makkot, the fire and brimstone at Sinai – it makes sense to assume that we as a people would want to commemorate the exciting stuff. However, a closer look at the Haggadah reveals a subtly different focus of the evening. Throughout the Haggadah, it becomes clear that what we are commemorating is not yetziat mitzrayim per se, but rather the different ways throughout history that Am Yisrael has commemorated yetziat mitzrayim. I would like to explore this issue and then consider how it can change our understanding of a pedagogically challenging part of the Haggadah, the wrath with which we respond to the rasha (the wicked son) for asking a seemingly innocuous question. The nucleus of the Seder is Maggid, whose central structure is borrowed from an unusual location in Chumash. If you were writing the Haggadah and you had the entire Chumash at your disposal, wouldn’t you begin with the pesukim in Sefer Shemot that actually describe yetziat mitzrayim? This is the primary source! Instead, the Haggadah turns to the passage in Devarim 26 beginning “arami oved avi” and embarks upon its retelling of the narrative from there. Those pesukim are located right in the middle of the Torah’s instructions of the process by which a Jewish farmer in the Land of Israel offers bikkurim, or first fruits, to Hashem. Instead of turning to Shemot, the narrative of Maggid kicks off by making the participant recount how a farmer living in Israel would have remembered yetziat mitzrayim. Once one notices this distinction between commemorating the event and commemorating the commemoration of it, it can be seen wherever you look in the Haggadah. For example, the story of the five rabbis in Bnei Brak is simply a retelling of the way those Rabbis commemorated yetziat mitzrayim. And the machloket between ben Zoma and the Chachamim about what the word “kol” in “kol yemei chayecha” means is simply a recount of earlier Sages discussing how to best commemorate the events of yetziat mitzrayim. When we get to the most tangible action commemorating the Exodus, where we literally eat the matzah that Am Yisrael ate upon leaving Egypt and we eat the marror to understand the psyche of a slave, we are surely commemorating the actual event. Yet even here, the eating is almost “trampled on” by the discussion of Hillel’s sandwich, which we then recreate, commemorating the way that Hillel commemorated yetziat mitzrayim. The question here is why. Why do we have to commemorate these events in such a secondary manner? There are other times during the year, where we clearly do not shy away from “acting out” the moment we are commemorating. For example, on Sukkot we actually sit in a sukkah to commemorate our ancestors doing so in the wilderness, and on Purim, we fast and then feast like the Jews in the story, in an attempt to mimic what the event was like. Why don’t we do that here? Why are “Seder plays” only a way to keep kids entertained and not the central event of the evening? I don’t want to suggest that what follows is the answer to the question laid out above, for I don’t think it has just one answer. The Haggadah is an incredibly nuanced Tannaitic work, and expecting it to all make perfect sense without doing some digging is naïve. I am also unsure that I feel qualified to offer an answer to such a big question. Rather, I want to now turn to another section of the Haggadah, the Four Sons, with this distinction between first and second-degree commemoration of an event in mind. 9

The rasha (wicked son) of the Seder famously asks: “Mah ha’avodah hazot lachem,” “why are you doing all of this?” While the Haggadah presents this quote context-less, save for describing the questioner as wicked, it actually comes from a pasuk in Shemot (12:25-26), where it has a very logical context. Right after describing the way that Am Yisrael will observe Pesach in posterity through offering the Korban, eating Matzah, and not eating Chametz, Hashem tells Bnei Yisrael what their kids will eventually say to them: ‫יאמרו‬-‫ כי‬,‫ והיה‬.‫העבדה הזאת‬-‫ את‬,‫כאשר דבר; ושמרתם‬--‫ אשר יתן ה' לכם‬,‫הארץ‬-‫תבאו אל‬-‫והיה כי‬ .‫ לכם‬,‫ מה העבדה הזאת‬:‫אליכם בניכם‬ “And when you enter the land that Hashem will give you, as promised, you shall observe this rite. And then your children will ask you, ‘What does this rite mean to you?’” In Shemot, the rasha’s hypothetical question is about the minutiae of the Korban Pesach in particular, and it is asked at an incredibly logical time. Bnei Yisrael have completed their journey through the desert and have now settled in Eretz Yisrael. Surely now, the rasha asks, when can we be through with this funny tradition we have of eating this big lamb as a family every year? When we were all in the desert – sure it made sense to all come together and have a barbecue once a year, but we can’t do that now that we live all spread out, can we? And the Haggadah responds to him: “No!” We smack him in the teeth for insinuating we should cease this ritual. I would like to suggest that what makes the rasha ‘bad’ is not evil or wickedness as we’d traditionally expect, but rather because his question is an archetype of everything the Seder night is arguing against. The rasha represents the argument that because we cannot exactly replicate yetziat mitzrayim the way it happened the first time, we should give up on trying to commemorate it. When viewed this way, the rasha is not wicked out of vitriol or hatred of the rest of the group; we can (thankfully) stop spending hours explaining how the pronoun “lachem” earns him the reaction he receives. Rather, the rasha gets rebuked because he challenges the central tenant of the Seder night: that even as everything changes, we still must find a way to commemorate, to fulfill the mitzvah of remembering yetziat mitzrayim every day of our lives. When considered in this context, it is no longer strange that we spend hours of the Seder night discussing other’s commemoration of the events, since that is the whole point! Part and parcel of the Seder is the commemoration not just of the events of yetziat mitzrayim, but of celebrating the fact that as the Jewish people were thrown to every corner of the world over millennia, we have never stopped finding new ways to commemorate this miracle. One of my favorite moments of the Seder is when my family, like many other Ashkenazim, use a potato for the Karpas vegetable. On the face of it, it’s a laughable compromise, a depressing reminder of the fact that European Jews were unable to obtain anything green for the festival that is supposed to celebrate springtime. But in reality, it is Bnei Yisrael saying that wherever we are, whatever the circumstances are, we will find a way to commemorate this amazing miracle, even if the form of that commemoration may change from generation to generation, or from place to place. Chag Kasher V’sameach.

Judaics Studies Principal RABBI DAVID STEIN

RABBI DAVID STEIN IS THE JUDAICS STUDIES PRINCIPAL AT SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL AND IS THE CO-FOUNDER OF THE LAHAV CURRICULUM PROJECT. DAVID ATTENDED YESHIVA COLLEGE AND RIETS FOR HIS UNDERGRADUATE AND SEMIKHA STUDIES, AND ALSO RECEIVED HIS MASTER’S DEGREE IN MECHANICAL ENGINEERING FROM COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY. HE COMPLETED HIS MASTER'S DEGREE IN TEACHING AT AMERICAN JEWISH UNIVERSITY’S GRADUATE CENTER FOR JEWISH EDUCATION AS A WEXNER FELLOW/DAVIDSON SCHOLAR, AND IS CURRENTLY WORKING ON HIS DOCTORATE IN JEWISH EDUCATION AT YESHIVA UNIVERSITY.

Taking the Lamb by the Horns:

IDENTITY, SACRIFICE, AND REDEMPTION IN THE HAGGADAH

The drama surrounding the final plague is almost palpable. It is midnight; Moshe has said his final goodbye to Pharoah. All is silent – even the dogs seem to be holding their breath (Shemot 11:7) – and as the Jewish people eagerly await the moment of Exodus, Egyptian cries of anguish have just begun to fill the night. One can almost feel the anticipation within the nascent nation, heightened by and contrasted with the screams of death and fear unleashed by the masses of Egypt’s citizenry. To say that this is the moment we have all been waiting for would be a bit of an understatement; we literally witness here the birth of a nation, the climax of the Exodus and realization of the dream of Jewish peoplehood. Indeed, we have before us within makkat bechorot (the killing of the firstborn) not just the final plague, but an event that is categorically different from any that came before – “such as has never been or will ever be again” (Shemot 11:6) – a moment that will forever change the history of Israel and the world. Yet what is it exactly that makes this plague different from all the others that have come before it? Why does the full redemption of the Jewish people occur only now, and not in the aftermath of any of the prior devastating blows inflicted upon the Egyptians? This certainly is not the first time that Pharaoh has agreed to free the Jews (see Shemot 8:4, 8:21, 9:28, 10:8, 10:24). Nor is it the first time that we are told of the dramatic contrast between Egyptian suffering and Jewish tranquility during the plagues (Shemot 8:18, 9:6, 9:26, 10:23). What, then, makes this plague different from all other 1 plagues? There is, perhaps, one element in the plague of the firstborn that truly differentiates it from the rest of the plague narrative. The difference lies not in the reaction of Pharaoh, the experience of the Egyptians, the power of the plagues, or the protection and salvation afforded to the Jewish people. Rather, the difference here lies in something far more profound, in an element that will become core to our people’s experience as a nation and relationship with God. The difference lies in the actions of the Jewish people, who until now have primarily been bystanders in this narrative. While we hear from the magicians, the Egyptians, Pharaoh, Moshe, and God throughout this story, we have little insight into the thoughts and actions of the Jews during this ordeal. It almost seems as if their role is to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show while Egypt 2 crumbles around them; we are told nothing about their reactions to the miracles and wonders going on around them, nor do we know what they have done to deserve the protection that God affords them from each of the plagues. Yet now, that all changes. For the Jewish people to experience true growth as a nation and full redemption, they will have to unequivocally take matters into their own hands. God does not freely pass over the Jewish homes. Rather, in order to qualify for protection from this plague, the Jewish people must take a risk. God orders them to slaughter a lamb and paint its blood on their doorposts, despite the danger inherent in such brazen denigration of an Egyptian god (see Tur, Orach Chaim 530). Yet the action is certainly not for God’s benefit; we can safely assume that the God attempting to demonstrate that He is the “Lord over all the land” would not have to stop for directions along the way. Rather, God tells the Jewish people that their act of sacrifice is precisely directed inward– “the blood on the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you” (12:13). The sign on the doorposts is not for God; it is the essential act of self-definition that will serve as the foundation of Jewish peoplehood. 11

The midrash Sifrei on Devarim (26:5) - quoted in the haggadah - famously states that the Jewish people were “‫מצוינים‬,” or “distinctive,” in Egypt. But what does this mean? In what ways did they stand out? At first glance, we might point to the well-known tradition that the Bnei Yisrael kept their names, dress, and language while living in Egypt. Interestingly, though, it turns out that this tradition is not clearly attested to in ancient midrashim - several scholars have recently pointed out that early forms of this tradition were developed, reorganized and adapted much later as part of anti-assimilationist polemics in the 19th century.1 Instead, I want to suggest that the “distinctiveness” described in the midrash may refer to the act of slaughtering the lamb and painting its blood on the homes of the Jewish people in Egypt. In this reading of the midrash, in order to become a nation - ‫ ״ויהי שם לגוי גדול״‬- Bnei Yisrael must distinguish themselves. Painting doorposts with the blood of slaughtered lambs was, in this sense, the quintessential act of stating that “I am a Jew.” It boldly and bravely declared to Pharoah, to the Egyptians, to Hashem, and to the inhabitants of each household that the Jews stood ready to proudly commit themselves to the work ahead. Ultimately, this is what paved the way for redemption - for true redemption is never possible without identity and sacrifice. We have, then, a moment that stands out in the history of the Jewish people on account of the timeless lesson that we learn from it. Growth, development, and change do not happen on their own. They require input. They require commitment. They require bold acts of self-identification and distinctiveness. Only by bravely overcoming our fears, defining our values, and shifting from bystanders to protagonists in each of our redemptive stories can we truly become the people we are destined to be. 1 See, for example, Fischer, Rabbi Dr. Eli, ““They did not Change their Names, their Language, or their Dress”: The Life-cycle of a Peculiar Midrashic Variant” https://www.academia.edu/28574595/_They_did_not_Change_their_Names_their_Language_or_their_Dress_The_Life_cycle_of_a_Peculiar_Midrashic_Variant. and Zivotofsky, Rabbi Dr. Ari, “What’s the Truth About…the Jews in Egypt Keeping Their Jewish Names, Language and Dress?” https://jewishaction.com/religion/jewish-law/whats-the-truth-about-the-jewish-in-egypt-keeping-their-jewish-names-language-and-dress/.

TEHILLA FISHMAN

SHALHEVET CLASS OF ‘23

EZRA HELFAND E s t .

SHALHEVET CLASS OF ‘24

Limudei Kodesh Faculty

RABBI ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN RABBI ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN IS A MEMBER OF THE LIMUDEI KODESH FACULTY AT SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL. HE PREVIOUSLY SERVED AS THE HEAD OF SCHOOL AT YULA GIRLS HIGH SCHOOL. RABBI LIEBERMAN LEARNED AT YESHIVA UNIVERSITY AND RECIEVED SEMIKHA FROM EMEK HALAKHA IN BROOKLYN. HE RECIEVED HIS M.A. IN JEWISH HISTORY FROM THE BERNARD REVEL GRADUATE SCHOOL (YU), WHERE HE IS CURRENTLY WORKING TOWARDS HIS DOCTORATE.

The 10 Makkot and the Pantheon of Egypt: A HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

Historians of the biblical period have pointed out important nuances in the text and language of the Torah regarding the narratives that relate to ‫( יציאת מצרים‬Exodus from Egypt). Let us examine some of them and see how an understanding of these historical nuances can allow for a greater appreciation of the story. Following the makkah of locusts, Moshe tells Pharaoh (Shemot 10:9): :‫ לנו‬,'‫ה‬-‫כי חג‬--‫ נלך‬,‫ בנערינו ובזקנינו נלך; בבנינו ובבנותנו בצאננו ובבקרנו‬,‫ויאמר משה‬ Moshe said, "We will go with our young and with our old; with our sons and with our daughters, with our flocks and with our herds will we go; for it is a festival to Hashem for us.” Pharaoh responds (Shemot 10:10): :‫ כי רעה נגד פניכם‬,‫טפכם; ראו‬-‫ ואת‬,‫ כאשר אשלח אתכם‬,‫ יהי כן ה' עמכם‬,‫ויאמר אלהם‬ He said to them, "Hashem be with you if I will let you go with your little ones! See, evil [ra’ah] is clearly before your faces.” Anyone with a superficial knowledge of ancient Egyptian culture reading these verses carefully in Hebrew can discern the well-nuanced confrontation between Moshe and Pharaoh. The word "‫ "רעה‬in Hebrew means evil, yet it also reminds one of Ra, the name of one of the major Egyptian gods. Thus, Pharaoh may be telling Moshe, “I will not let you go since my supreme god, Ra (Re), is against your Hashem. Ra in the Egyptian pantheon of gods was represented by the sun, the god with the power of creation. Pharaoh himself was believed to be the embodiment of Ra. This insight can also help explain the argument that Moshe makes when Hashem is ready to wipe out the Jewish people as a result of the sin of the Golden Calf. Moshe says (Shemot 32:12): ,‫ מעל פני האדמה; שוב מחרון אפך‬,‫ ולכלתם‬,‫ ברעה הוציאם להרג אתם בהרים‬,‫למה יאמרו מצרים לאמר‬ .‫הרעה לעמך‬-‫והנחם על‬ Why should the Egyptians speak, saying, “He brought them forth for evil [ra’ah], to kill them in the mountains, and to consume them from the surface of the earth?' Turn from your fierce wrath and repent of this evil1 against your people.” In his argument here, Moshe may be saying: Why should the Egyptians give credit to Ra for the destruction of the Jewish people should Hashem choose to destroy them? Another example can be found in the narrative describing the actual act of Exodus as the Jewish people were leaving Egypt. The Torah states (Shemot 11:7): .‫ בין מצרים ובין ישראל‬,'‫ אשר יפלה ה‬,‫ תדעון‬,‫למען‬--‫בהמה‬-‫ ועד‬,‫ למאיש‬,‫כלב לשנו‬-‫ לא יחרץ‬,‫ולכל בני ישראל‬ But against any of the Children of Israel a dog will not move its tongue, against man or animal; that you may know that Hashem makes a distinction between the Egyptians and Israel. The reference to a dog in the singular, as opposed to stating that all of the dogs will not bark, is a subtle hint to Anubis, 1 The word “ra’ah” here clearly refers to evil, as it is addressing the potential evil decree of Hashem.

the god of death in Egyptian pantheon, which is always depicted with the head of a dog or jackal. The verse thus assures that as death of the first born spread across Egypt, Anubis, dog-god of the dead, could not harm the Jewish People. One of the key verses in the recounting of yetziat mitzrayim is the following verse (Shemot 12:12): ‫אלהי מצרים‬-‫בהמה; ובכל‬-‫ מאדם ועד‬,‫בכור בארץ מצרים‬-‫ והכיתי כל‬,‫ בלילה הזה‬,‫מצרים‬-‫ועברתי בארץ‬ .'‫ אני ה‬,‫אעשה שפטים‬ And I will pass through the land of Egypt on that night, and I will strike all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both man and animal. Against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgments: I am Hashem. What is meant by the idea that Hashem will execute judgment against the entire pantheon of Egypt? The commentaries struggle to explain this because, as the great commentator and posek Rabbi David Tzvi Hoffmann (1843-1921) writes, the pesukim do not tell us about any judgment meted out against the gods of Egypt. R.Hoffman refers us to a prophecy of Yeshayahu Ha-Navi of a similar nature. It states (19:1): .‫ ולבב מצרים ימס בקרבו‬,‫ ונעו אלילי מצרים מפניו‬,‫ ובא מצרים‬,‫עב קל‬-‫ הנה ה' רכב על‬:‫ מצרים‬,‫משא‬ “The burden of Egypt. Behold, the Lord rides upon a swift cloud, and comes to Egypt; and the idols of Egypt shall be moved at His presence, and the heart of Egypt shall melt within it.” In fact, Rashi, his younger colleague Rabbi Yosef Kara, and Radak in their commentaries there all reference Hashem’s promise to execute judgment against the gods of Egypt during the Exodus as a precedent. Thus, Yeshayahu is warning Egypt that just as Hashem struck their gods during the Exodus, he may strike them again here. Rabbi Yosef ibn Caspi (1279-1340) even explicitly states that Yeshayahu Hanavi is using our verse as a description of what happened in Egypt. This explanation enables us to present an interesting suggestion: Perhaps the 10 makkot were meant to show Hashem’s supreme power over the assumed powers of the gods of Egypt. This idea was briefly suggested by the Jewish Bible commentator M.D. Cassuto and was developed further by German Bible scholars in the late 1950s. It continues to be researched and discussed by many in very recent time as well. Culling through their writings, one can reconstruct the following model of how each makkah was directed at specific Egyptian gods: 1. ‫ – דם‬The water turning into blood, particularly the Nile River (which was an important source of sustenance to Egypt), was a direct attack against Apis, the god of the Nile; Khnum, the protector of the Nile; and Isis, the female goddess of the Nile. 2. ‫ – צפרדע‬The plague of frogs was clearly meant to target Heqet, the goddess of fertility and birth, who was always depicted with the head of a frog. 3. ‫ – כינים‬The plague of lice (gnats) was aimed at Geb, the god of dust and earth from which the lice suddenly came forth, and/or Set, the god of the desert. 4. ‫ – ערוב‬This plague is understood by the majority of commentators as swarms of all kinds of animals and would therefore be aimed at all the Egyptian gods depicted as animals. Yet the Septuagint (The translation of Torah into Greek), the 1st century Jewish philosopher Philo, and Shadal (Rabbi Shmuel David Luzzatto, 1800-1865) understand ‫ ערוב‬to refer to flies and all kinds of insects, including many poisonous ones. With this identification of ‫ערוב‬, the plague would be aimed at Wadjyit (Uatchet) the fly god or Khepri, who is depicted with the head of beetle. 5. ‫ – דבר‬The pestilence of the livestock targeted Hathor, goddess of protection, which was always depicted with the head of a cow. 6. ‫ – שחין‬The plague of boils and sores was directed against Sunu and Sekhmet, who were viewed as protectors of illnesses and disease, and Isis, the main Egyptian goddess of medicine and protection. 7. ‫ – ברד‬The plague of hail, which the pesukim tell us was unlike anything seen before, was directed against Nut, goddess of the sky, Set, god of storm, and Osiris, god of crop growth. 8. ‫ – ארבה‬Locusts in a form not seen earlier was aimed at the same Egyptian gods as the ones for hail, see above. 9. ‫ – חושך‬The powerful 3 days of darkness, described as something which could be felt, was clearly aimed at Ra, the sun god, with a deeper message to Pharaoh himself, who was the personification of Ra. 10. ‫ – מכת בכורות‬The death of the first born set its sights on Anubis, the god of death, and on Isis, the protector of children. There were over 2,000 gods in the pantheon of Egypt. Did Hashem indeed execute judgment against all of them through these makkot? Our limited knowledge cannot answer this question. But we are taught that Torah can be read through the prism of 70 facets of interpretation (Bamidbar Rabbah 13:16). In instances where historical information informs our understanding of the text of the Torah, it can always enrich our understanding. As we sit down at the Seder, let us ponder how many valuable lessons we can learn from the ten makkot. Chag Sameach! 16

Limudei Kodesh Faculty DR. SHEILA KEITER

DR. SHEILA KEITER TEACHES JUDAIC STUDIES AT SHALHEVET. SHE HAS A B.A. IN HISTORY FROM UCLA, A JD FROM HARVARD LAW SCHOOL, AND RECEIVED HER PHD IN JEWISH STUDIES FROM UCLA, WHERE SHE TAUGHT IN THE DEPARTMENT OF NEAR EASTERN LANGUAGES AND CULTURES.

Crying Over Spilt Wine:

EXAMINATION OF A MINHAG What would Seder night be without a little spilt wine? I refer not to the accidents that permanently stain your good tablecloth, but the wine we spill purposely when commemorating the plagues in Egypt. As we all know, we do this to diminish our joy in light of the suffering of the Egyptian people. While Pesach is a time to celebrate our liberation from bondage, we acknowledge that our freedom came at the cost of many Egyptian lives. The book of Mishlei cautions, “At the fall of your enemy do not rejoice, and at his stumbling let not your heart take joy” (Prov. 24:17). Since halakhah places a premium on the value of human life, it is only right that we recognize the human cost of our liberation. This is a beautiful teaching that rightfully deserves the primacy it enjoys during the Seder. However, recently scholars have re-examined the origins of the minhag to spill wine during the Seder, offering alternative explanations for this practice. One might think spilling wine is as old as the Haggadah itself. However, the earliest known written discussion of this practice is credited to Rabbi Eleazar of Worms in the early 13th century. In a drasha about Pesach, he describes spilling 16 drops of wine, one for each plague, three for the mnemonic of ‫דצ"ך עד"ש באח"ב‬, and three for the plagues described in sefer Yoel, ‫דם ואש ותמרות עשן‬, blood, and fire, and pillars of smoke (Joel 3:3), which are recited just prior to the ten plagues. Rabbi Eleazar focuses on the number 16, associating it with the kabbalistic notion that God’s sword has 16 faces as well as to the 16 times the word ‫דבר‬, pestilence, appears in sefer Yirmiyahu.1 Rabbi Eleazar claims that the minhag was practiced at least as far back as the 11th century, attributing it to his teachers. While Rabbi Eleazar mentions other significant occurrences of the number 16, the references to God’s sword and to pestilence seem to imbue the practice with the power to protect from harm.2 God’s sword further invokes images of vengeance against God’s enemies, a theme that is taken up in later sources.3 The overall message is that God should protect us from pestilence and reserve such suffering for our enemies. This is a far cry from our concern for the spilt blood of our enemies. It has been suggested that the minhag originated out of fear that the recitation of plagues over a cup of wine would harm or curse the wine itself. Thus, the custom to remove a portion of that wine sought to remove any wine harmed by the mention of plagues. In turn, this dangerous portion of wine could then be reserved and used to harm others. Indeed, we see the development of customs in various places where this spilled wine would be poured on the doorsteps or otherwise used against known Jew-haters.4 Rather than identify with the suffering of our enemies, these customs sought to affirmatively harm our enemies! I find myself a bit skeptical of the notion that reciting plagues could somehow taint our wine. Even if it did, how could we be sure to remove the affected parts? Fluid dynamics are tricky. Let me suggest another possible source for the practice 1 Farber, Rabbi Dr. Zev, “The Original Reason for Spilling Wine: Protection from the Plagues,” theTorah.com (2020). https://www.thetorah.com/article/the-original-reason-for-spilling-wine-protection-from-the-plagues. Accessed 21 Mar. 2022; Ron, Rabbi Dr. Zvi, “Spilling Wine While Reciting the Plagues to Diminish Our Joy?” https://www.thetorah.com/article/spilling-wine-while-reciting-the-plagues-to-diminish-our-joy. Accessed 21 Mar. 2022. Farber notes that ‫ דבר‬actually appears 17 times in Yirmiyahu, but we’ll let it slide. 2 Farber, “Original Reason”; Golinkin, Rabbi David, “Why Do We Spill 16 Drops of Wine While Reciting the Ten Plagues During the Seder?” In Responsa in a Moment, Vol. 10, No. 6 (April 2016). https://schechter.edu/why-do-we-spill-16-drops-of-wine-while-reciting-the-ten-plagues-during-the-seder-responsa-in-a-moment-volume-10-issue-no-6-apr il-2016/. Accessed 21 Mar 2022. 3 Golinkin, “Why Do We Spill?” 4 Farber, “Original Reason.”

of spilling wine on Pesach night. I readily concede that I have no textual basis, rendering my suggestion not much stronger than conjecture or a hunch. But humor me. So much of the Pesach Seder models itself on the original Pesach experience. On the eve of the exodus, that very first pascal offering involved sprinkling blood on the doorposts and lintel in anticipation of the tenth plague. Perhaps our sprinkling wine, which often resembles blood in color, seeks to mimic the experience of that first Pesach. No wonder we do so at the recitation of the plagues. The original sprinkling of blood served to ward off the death of the tenth plague. Our sprinkling wine may have originally been purely historical reenactment. Yet its association with the original means of warding off death may have suggested the power of protection in the minds of Rabbi Eleazar’s predecessors. If spilling wine originally invoked Divine protection and vengeance, how did our understanding of this custom change so radically? The idea that spilling wine represents a diminishment of joy enjoys a much more recent provenance. While some have claimed the idea originated with R. David Abudraham (Seville, 14th century), R. Don Isaac Abravanel (Spain/Italy, 15-16th centuries), or R. Shimshon Raphael Hirsch (Germany, 19th century), there is no written evidence to support any of these attributions.5 Ultimately, the earliest written reference to diminishing joy dates to the early 20th century. R. Binyamin Zev Lev attributes this idea to his grandfather, R. Yirmiyahu Löw (Hungary, 19th century), who may very well be the originator of the idea.6 This is not to say that Rabbi Löw was without precedent. The concept that we should not celebrate the suffering of our enemies is not just voiced in sefer Mishlei, but also appears in rabbinic literature. The Talmud records a midrash set during the splitting of the sea. The ministering angels sought to sing in celebration of Israel’s miraculous escape, but Hashem chides them: “The works of My hands are drowning in the sea, and you are reciting a song before Me?!” (b. Sanhedrin 39b). Some have connected the same sentiment to our recitation of “half ” Hallel during the duration of Pesach after the initial yom tov as an effort to temper our joy given the loss of Egyptian lives.7 Thus, consciousness of the suffering of others, including our own enemies, enjoys a well-established place in Jewish thought. However, connecting this sentiment to spilling wine on Pesach is far more recent. From its murky origins in the 19th century, the idea of lessening joy began to gain ascendance in the early 20th century. By World War II, the concept of diminished joy was the predominant explanation for spilling wine in American haggadot. Today, the concept stands supreme, both in popular and scholarly haggadot in English and Hebrew.8 So, what are we to make of this evolution? Does this mean the minhag of spilling wine has nothing to do with empathy for others? Do earlier justifications for a minhag undermine current ones? Absolutely not. The rationales for minhagim are subject to change, but the minhagim themselves should be preserved regardless. Taking on new meaning is natural, and the preservation of minhagim creates a connection to our past.9 No Jewish practice exemplifies this better than the Pesach Seder itself, which has accumulated numerous minhagim over the centuries and in different locations, while established practices have taken on new meaning and significance for every generation. By adding new glosses on established rituals, we continuously feed tradition with relevance and meaning. May your Seder be filled with the same. 5 Golinkin, “Why Do We Spill?”; Ron, “Spilling Wine.” 6 Ron, “Spilling Wine.” 7 Ibid. 8 Golinkin, “Why Do We Spill?”; Ron, “Spilling Wine.” 9 Golinkin, “Why Do We Spill?”