Pesach: Learning from Our Past without Being Stuck in It

A surefire way to ensure you find yourself friendless pretty soon is to stay stuck in the past. Sure, you can moan about your boss’s rigidity, or that time in school where you were treated unfairly, to your friends from time to time, but if you stay stuck there, like some pathetic tape on rewind, you’re in for trouble. Even the book of Kesuvim urges us to move on. “To everything, there is a season” which in layman’s terms, can be seen as a biblical exhortation to “go with the flow.”

Moving on is what our nation is all about. We’ve gone through the worst history that the world has seen, and have gotten through, have only gotten through, with one singular focus, to build and rebuild. We don’t forget of course. Our yomim tovim and fast days serve as an everlasting reminder of the suffering and miracles we endured. However, staying stuck, mourning, and countlessly rewinding, does not define us as a people.

What is it about Pesach however that’s different? The overriding commandment of Pesach is to relate the story of yetziat mitzrayim, the Exodus and redemption from the slavery of Egypt. This mitzvah is based on the verse “And you shall relate it [the story of the Exodus] to your son on that day.”¹ The mitzvah is not only to teach one’s children the story of the Exodus, but it also applies to anyone that one has the opportunity to relate the story to, such as the guests at one’s Seder.²

In fact, recounting the story of our slavery and Exodus isn’t limited to the night of Pesach, we are obligated to remember it every single day.³ 

The question begs to be asked: why? Why shouldn’t Pesach’s overriding mitzvah be to rejoice – like that of Sukkot? Why the lengthy reading of the Haggadah where our suffering is recounted in graphic detail? 

Because Hashem knows us. And He knows that whether your life feels smooth sailing, with a little bit of suffering etched in on the side, or what seems like an endless series of failings and struggles, big or small – we’re all midjourney, right now. 

But what if our journey, instead of eyes trained on the map, is in fact, a prison, an illusion, where we’re on a treadmill, all day, every day? Thinking we’re achieving, perhaps being aware that we’re not, but either way, very similar to the pyramids our suffering forefathers built in Ramses. Futile efforts. 

What does Exodus really mean? If you think about it, although the Jews left Egypt, did their suffering really end? If you’re familiar with their travails in the desert, you know the answer is no. But they were free regardless. They had the Light of Hashem glowing around them and inside them. They had the knowledge of being His chosen People, and suffering takes on a newer, sweeter meaning when you have that knowledge inside you.

And that’s why, in a few weeks from now, you’ll be sitting at the Seder table listening and singing the words of our forefather’s suffering. And you’ll discover how when they left Egypt, they became Hashem’s chosen people, and their suffering became infused with love. And you’ll sing and sway to the timeless words, because it’s not an exodus of thousands of years ago, it’s your story. Right now. 

It’s a story of battling for an exodus from our moral failings, and resolving to do better. It’s a story of stepping beyond our limitations to know that Hashem has placed all we need inside ourselves to move mountains. And it’s a lifelong battle.

What does Exodus really mean? If you think about it, although the Jews left Egypt, did their suffering really end? If you’re familiar with their travails in the desert, you know the answer is no. But they were free regardless. They had the Light of Hashem glowing around them and inside them. They had the knowledge of being His chosen People, and suffering takes on a newer, sweeter meaning when you have that knowledge inside you.

Pharaoh was particularly bad at letting go of his disastrous moral failings. Ancient Jewish texts describe this problem as a “Pharaoh Syndrome.” The Exodus saga – with the Jews seeking liberty from the enslaving Egyptians – is also a personal narrative. It depicts our continuous struggle for freedom from our personal “Egypts”. And, of course, the primary blockage to liberation is…Pharaoh; he is described as the man with the – “hardened heart.”⁴

What does it mean to have a hard heart? It means that Pharaoh understood that his actions were self-destructive and bringing ruin upon his country. He even fleetingly agreed to stop the madness. But he couldn’t finalize change. Why? Because his heart wouldn’t allow his recognition to translate into behavior changes. He knew he was in a rut, but he was comfortable in that hole of self-destruction. It took a calamity of epic proportions to drag him out of there, kicking and screaming. 

We have an internal Pharaoh too, the voice that stubbornly disregards logical recognitions as we cling to self-destructive behavior. 

The opposite of Pharaoh is Moshe, of course – and we have his voice inside us too. 

Moshe Rabbeinu is described as a man of total commitment. Brilliant as he was, he didn’t guide his life by intellect alone. He deeply felt a profound closeness with Hashem, and that’s what guided his behavior⁵. Listening to Moshe, which will in turn, take us out of ‘Egypt’, means selfless commitment. Mobilizing our inner Moshe means selflessly committing ourselves to our highest image, the vision of who Hashem created us each to be.

We face this choice every single day of our life: Pharaoh, or Moshe? Self-destructive behavior, or the gathering of strength to overcome obstacles? Let’s emulate Aharon who lit the menorah every single day with the same unrelenting enthusiasm, because the word ‘rut,’ or being ‘burned out’, doesn’t have a place in Jewish vernacular. 

And the beauty of this concept lies in the fact that you don’t need to be a kohen gadol to have renewed passion and meaning in your life. You don’t need a jaw-dropping career either. You can simply be a human being, doing your best, trying to connect, and carving out your own personal exodus, away from that voice of self-destruction and despair.

Take Yitzy Hurwitz, an ALS patient who lost basic muscle mobility. He wrote this while while in the later stages of  this devastating degenerative disease:

‘Lying here in my bed, unable to move or speak, unable to hug or kiss my precious children, I am in a physical Egypt. However, I know in my heart that G‑d has put me here for a reason, to uplift people through my writings, my heart, and my smile. That is why I work so hard writing these messages with my eyes. I know that eventually I will go out of my Egypt, and be able to teach Torah with my mouth, and write these teachings with my hand. I will be able to do father and husband things for my wife and children. Either by cure, by miracle, or with the coming of Moshiach—I know it is going to happen. May we break free from our personal Egypts—whether they be a physical, spiritual, emotional or psychological—and become in sync with G‑d. Our personal redemption will lead to the ultimate redemption, the coming of Moshiach. May he come soon.’

Rabbi Hurwitz has stepped beyond the confines of his disease to find strength in his closeness to Hashem. Can we do the same in our journeys?

1. Rambam, Hilchot Chametz U’matza 7:1. ↩︎
2. Minchat Chinuch 21. ↩︎
3. Deuteronomy 16:3 ↩︎
4. Exodus 9:12 ↩︎
5. Rashi, Numbers 21:21. ↩︎