The Bookends of Redemption |
The Bookends of Redemption: From the Bread of Affliction to the City of Peace
The Haggadah Shel Pesach, the script for our annual dramatic reflection on the Exodus from Egypt, is more than a loosely linked set of steps touching on one or another aspect of the story. It is dinner theater in which the audience members are also the players. Although it follows the form of a late classical dinner party—a symposium—it has its own rhythm. It balances prayer and study. It provides moments of wonder and perplexity. It allows for thoughtful discussion and joyous singing. But above all, it sets the fundamental themes for our engagement with the great ideas of the Exodus story: oppression and liberation, fear and courage, despair and hope, and the walls that restrict our current reality versus the boundless nature of hope.
These dualities create the Seder’s fundamental structure, which is framed by two parallel declarations that serve as the “bookends” of our experience. These two expressions—one in Aramaic at the start of the meal and one in Hebrew at its close—provide more than just a chronological beginning and end. They provide a structural balance between our physical reality and our spiritual aspirations. We begin and end the Seder with the hope that next year we will no longer be “here,” but in the place of which we dream.
In Ha Lachma Anya, the passage that opens the first part of the Haggadah—the Magid (Retelling) section—we present the concerns of the evening. Using the Matzah, the characteristic food of the Seder, we recall our history of oppression, acknowledge current struggles for freedom and security, and express our hope for a better future. Although we live in a world beset by problems, we hold onto the dream that soon we will all be in a better place. With hope we say : “Hashata hacha, l’shana haba’ah b’ar’a d’Yisrael”— “ This year, with all its issues, we are here; but next year, may we be in the Land of Israel.”
It is significant that this opening is recited in Aramaic, the lingua franca of the world of our sages, rather than in Hebrew, the Holy Language of Scripture and prayer. Aramaic was the language of the exile; it was the shared vernacular. The invitation to all who are hungry to “come and eat” could be understood by Jews and Gentiles alike. Everyone, particularly those who were oppressed, could come and share our meal and our story. Aramaic was the language of the contemporary world. The Haggadah opens with the reminder that we are somewhere between the sorrows of the past and the hope for the future. We are still on the journey from Egypt and not, as yet, in the Promised Land. The Land of Israel is both a place and a dream, and our pilgrimage has both a spiritual and physical aspect.
It is true that we, as a people, are not all safely embedded in our ancient land, but it is also true that our sense of displacement is more than physical. Living in Exile, Galut, means more than being geographically far from home. It is an awareness that wherever we are, the blessings of being at home—love, security, support, sustenance—are still distant from us and from other people throughout our world.
To be in the Land of Israel this Passover is to be in a land at war. Long-standing, unresolved issues both within Israel and with Israel’s neighbors aggressively avoid solutions. Having a sovereign homeland has not protected Jews, either in Israel or throughout the world, from the same set of issues that challenge humanity in general. Jews everywhere are feeling marginalized, and a changing climate, continuing warfare, economic instability, and social injustice still threaten all people. We need the dream of a better future to survive, but we cannot avoid dealing with the real obstacles that all of us presently face.
Although these challenges may seem overwhelming, we are required to address them. Even small efforts can have lasting effects. Our Seder begins with an act of radical hospitality—the opening of our doors and our hearts. We are performing the very mitzvah that justifies our hope for the future. We cannot reach the “Land” of the next year if we ignore the “hungry” of this year. Our physical return to the Land of Israel is not pictured as a passive event, but as an earned reality rooted in our treatment of the vulnerable. We need to share our table and share our story—not by merely telling it, but in a truly Talmudic fashion by discussing it, listening to other opinions, balancing contradictions, and seeing other versions.
As our Seder journey concludes, we encounter the second bookend in the final section, the Nirtzah, which ends with the hopeful cry, “L’shana Haba’ah B’Yerushalayim”—“Next Year in Jerusalem.” If the first declaration was about the “Land,” the final declaration is about the “City.” This represents a deliberate narrowing of focus. While the “Land” provides a home for the body and a refuge from the “Pharaohs” of history, “Jerusalem” provides a home for the soul. Even if we have made it to our Land, we have yet to experience the City of Jerusalem as the foundation of peace, the abode of holiness, the point where the Divine and the human touch.
We feel this transition in the language we use. We shift from the Aramaic of the exile to the Hebrew of our sacred tradition. This linguistic transition mirrors the transformation of the Seder participant. We begin the night as slaves speaking the language of our captors, but we end as servants of God speaking the language of our ancestors. We have moved from the “Bread of Affliction” to the “Song of Praise.”
Ultimately, these two phrases balance each other. Together, they address the dual nature of our redemption. The first bookend, with its focus on the Land and the hungry, reminds us of our communal and physical responsibilities. The second bookend, with its focus on Jerusalem and the sacred tongue, reminds us of our spiritual destination.
By bookending the Seder with these two expressions, our tradition recognizes that redemption is a process we both receive and earn. Just as the Egyptian princess earned the name Bat-Yah through her choice to rescue life, we earn our place in “Jerusalem” through our choice to engage in the Seder’s lessons of justice and faith. We end the night by looking toward a “rebuilt” Jerusalem—not merely a city of stone and mortar, but a city of wholeness (Shalem) where the promise of “Next Year” finally meets the reality of “Today.”