08 Apr HAGGADAH SHEL PESACH EXCERPTS AND A PREVIEW FROM THE UPCOMING BOOK SHEV VAYETIV ON THE HAGGADAH.

Much ink has been
spilled over the
interpretations of the
Passover Haggadah!
The Haggadah is
written in a way that
raises numerous
perplexities on various levels, containing
contradictions and passages that seem
inexplicable. Commentators have sought
different explanations to clarify its statements,
yet many remain enigmatic and do not settle
well in the hearts, as they are often interpreted
through intricate reasoning or allegory rather
than their straightforward meaning.
It is also difficult to discern the logical
sequence of statements in the Haggadah. It
begins with Ha Lachma Anya, proceeds to the
Ma Nishtana questions, jumps to Avadim
Hayinu, the story of sages reclining in Bnei
Brak, Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya’s words, and
the discussion of the four sons. These appear
as disconnected statements, lacking a unifying
theme. The commentators have largely not
addressed the order and coherence of the text,
leaving it as a seemingly random compilation
of teachings.
Let us examine some of the Haggadah’s most
glaring questions. The Haggadah opens with
Ha Lachma Anya, where we declare, “This
year we are slaves, next year we will be free.”
But why are we still considered slaves today?
Are we not already free?
Furthermore, there seems to be here a
contradiction: after stating “This year we are
slaves,” the Haggadah continues with “We
were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, but Hashem
took us out… If He had not redeemed us, we
and our children would still be enslaved.” This
implies that we are, in fact, free. Why, then,
did we first call ourselves slaves? And if we
truly are, how does this relate to Pharaoh, who
perished millennia ago? How are we still his
slaves?
Another difficult passage is the directive to
blunt the wicked son’s teeth and separate him
from the Jewish people by telling him that had
he been in Egypt, he would not have been
redeemed. Immediately afterward, the
Haggadah states that our ancestors were idol
worshippers, but Hashem drew them close to
His service. If idolatry represents ultimate
heresy, then Hashem’s approach was to bring
such individuals closer, not cast them out.
Why, then, does the Haggadah instruct us to
exclude the wicked son?
Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya’s statement is also
puzzling: “I am like a seventy-year-old man
and did not merit understanding why we
should mention the Exodus at night.” The
Talmud (Berachot 28a) states that he was
actually only eighteen and appeared elderly
due to a miraculous transformation. Why,
then, does he say that he had not yet merited
this understanding, given his youth?
Additionally, what relevance does his
appearance as an old man have to the

Haggadah, which focuses solely on the fact he
has not yet heard about mentioning the exodus
at night?
Chazal have taught us that many phrases serve
as symbolic codes containing deeper
meanings. The Ben Ish Chai explained that the
words of our sages often allude to Kabbalistic
concepts. We will follow this approach to
uncover what lies beneath the surface of the
Haggadah’s teachings. Clearly, there are
deeper levels of interpretation, as is always the
case with the words of our sages.
One phrase that appears repeatedly in the
Haggadah is “the night.” While it is obvious
that the Seder is conducted at night, the
frequent emphasis on the term is striking.
Beyond denoting a time period, “night”
symbolizes spiritual darkness—uncertainty,
suffering, and despair—whereas “day”
signifies clarity and joy.
Let us embark on an extraordinary journey
through the hidden secrets of the Haggadah
and discover how Chazal, through their
delicate and eloquent words, open a gateway
to a concealed world of wisdom. This wisdom
aims to touch the depths of our souls, drawing
a thread that runs through the entire Haggadah.
This thread reflects a dual sorrow: external
suffering imposed by the nations that seek to
destroy us in every generation, and the even
greater internal pain we carry within. The
Seder night is meant to bring order to this
emotional turmoil, helping us recognize and
address our inner struggles. Only by
acknowledging and empathizing with our own
pain can we begin to heal. When pain is
ignored, it festers, much like an untreated
wound.
Ha Lachma Anya
“This is the bread of affliction that our
ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who
are hungry come and eat; let all who are in
need come and celebrate Passover. This year
we are here; next year, in the Land of Israel.
This year we are slaves; next year, free men.”
The Haggadah opens by presenting the night’s
central mitzvah: matzah. Yet, it introduces
matzah with the seemingly negative
description of “bread of affliction.” Why do
our sages begin the Haggadah with such a
bleak depiction of this central symbol?
Furthermore, what does it mean that our
ancestors ate this bread “in the land of Egypt”?
The Torah states that matzah was eaten when
leaving Egypt because their dough did not
have time to rise. The Shelah explains that the
Israelites also ate matzah while still enslaved
because the Egyptians forced them into
grueling labor, leaving no time to bake
leavened bread.
However, there is a fundamental difference
between these two matzot: the one eaten in
Egypt represented distress and servitude,
while the one baked at the Exodus was a
matzah of joy, hastily prepared in eagerness to

leave bondage. Thus, matzah has a dual
identity—“bread of affliction” symbolizing
hardship, and matzah, a food of redemption.
Unlike leavened bread, which expands and
represents joy, matzah remains flat, embodying
restriction and sorrow. This contrast mirrors
our history: the suffering endured in Egypt
versus the exhilaration of redemption.
“This is the bread of affliction that our
ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.” This
phrase introduces the overarching message of
the Haggadah: in Egypt, our forefathers
suffered both physical and emotional abuse.
The bread of affliction does not refer to the
matzah of redemption but to the meager
sustenance they were given merely to survive.
“Let all who are hungry come and eat; let all
who are in need come and celebrate Passover.”
We invite all to partake in this experience—to
remember the hardships our ancestors
endured, and to recognize that suffering is not
just a relic of history but an ongoing reality.
“This year we are slaves; next year, free men.”
There is a distinction between our oppression
in Egypt and our current struggles. In Egypt,
we were enslaved by Pharaoh, powerless to
escape. Today, we are not physically enslaved,
yet we remain bound by our own limitations—
our anxieties, our internal struggles, and our
interactions with others, particularly in the
way parents often unconsciously impose their
struggles onto their children. This is a deeper,
more insidious form of bondage.
Ma Nishtana
“Why is this night different from all other
nights?”
On this night, we ask: How can we connect to
the korban (sacrifice) and truly feel its pain?
What can we do tonight to experience its
suffering more profoundly than on any other
night of the year?
The Haggadah highlights two forms of abuse:
passive neglect and active harm. It also
teaches that to reach the depths of a suffering
soul, we must listen to its pain and offer words
of comfort.
“On all other nights, we eat both chametz and
matzah, but on this night, only matzah.”
Throughout the year, we are consumed by
worldly distractions, leaving little time to care
for the victim in distress. At times, we may
feel a trace of another’s suffering, but it is
fleeting and insufficient to bring true healing.
However, on this night, everything changes—
“this night is all matzah.”
Chametz rises when left unattended, while
matzah requires constant care and attention.
Just as chametz symbolizes neglect, so too
does ignoring those who need us. Conversely,
matzah represents unwavering devotion,
mirroring our commitment on this night to
focus entirely on those in pain.
By identifying with another’s suffering, we
empower them to confront and heal their

wounds. Chametz signifies the way we often
neglect those who require our time and effort.
In contrast, this night, which is “all matzah,”
calls upon us to rectify this failing by
dedicating ourselves to those in need. This is
why the Seder places special emphasis on
engaging with our children, who require this
attention most.
“On all other nights, we eat all kinds of
vegetables, but on this night, only maror.”
Passive neglect deeply wounds the soul, but
even worse is active harm, which inflicts
lasting scars, sometimes for a lifetime. Maror
embodies this bitter suffering.
During the year, our attention is divided
among many concerns—“all other
vegetables.” But tonight, we focus exclusively
on maror—on confronting and identifying
with the deep and active pain of those who
suffer.
“On all other nights, we do not dip even once,
but on this night, we dip twice.”
All year long, we rarely offer words of comfort
to the brokenhearted. But on this night, we do
not merely console once—we do so twice.
This is symbolized by dipping the bitter maror
into sweet charoset. Comforting the victims
strengthens them, offering them hope and a
reason to rise above despair. Encouraging
words open a window to the light at the end of
the dark tunnel, allowing them to see beyond
their suffering.
“On all other nights, we eat sitting upright or
reclining, but on this night, we all recline.”
Throughout the year, we only half-listen to the
pain of others. But on this night, we dedicate
ourselves fully to hearing them. Listening is
another essential form of healing. While
encouragement provides motivation, true
healing comes from allowing another to share
their burden.
This idea is reflected in heseiba—reclining.
Reclining is a passive act, signifying
attentiveness to others, as opposed to sitting
upright, which denotes actively presenting
one’s own thoughts. On this night, we recline
and listen, making space for those who need to
be heard.
This is the beginning of the new Haggadah
Shel Pesach, soon to be published.