A Communal Korban: Becoming Liberated From Invisible Prisons

Parshas Bo 5784

There are few images more chilling than that of an individual with numbers tattooed upon his arm. The notion of being reduced to no more than a number in the eyes of another human being is deeply disturbing. Emerging from the horrors of oppression, of slavery, one can imagine how great the desire to rediscover one’s unique identity must have been. To proclaim that one is not just one in a series, but an individual. 

How interesting, then, that the very first mitzvah this former slave is to perform will force him to be subsumed within a group, rather than stand out as an individual. 

The very first instruction that each Jew receives is not to find his own way, his own identity, to explore who or she is as an individual, but to fulfill an act on behalf of their families. Indeed, should one family be incapable of consuming an entire lamb, multiple families are to join together, diluting the individual experience even further. 

Rabbi Shamshon Raphael Hirsch notes that this same notion is reflected in the placement of the blood on the doorframe of the home. The first entry that an individual Jew takes into mitzvah observance is not to consecrate his own private room or private bed, but the entire home that is a shared space for his entire family, and—as indicated by this very meal—even other families and friends as well.

How was a Jew legitimately supposed to make the transition from being no more than a number to being liberated, if liberation meant something less than coming into their own individual identity? 

The answer to that question is contained just a few pesukim later, as Moshe relays the instructions he received from Hashem to the Jewish People and offers more detail as to what that first night of mitzvah observance is supposed to look like.

An individual can live the most extraordinary life, completely unfettered from any yoke or demand placed upon him by others. Yet even as he exercises every imaginable freedom, there is one prison he cannot escape: time. The Jew suddenly liberated from his Egyptian overlords could easily dive headlong into a life of personal fulfillment, but would only be shackled by the limitations of his own life and the sadly narrow space it occupies on the timeline of history. But by dedicating himself to his family, he escapes that constraint, and creates an influence and legacy that can live on forever.

The latter mitzvah helps to frame and explain the earlier one. Yes, Hashem demands that we dedicate our lives not to ourselves, but to others. But in so doing, He gives us the key to liberating ourselves not only from human oppressors but from the constraints of existence itself. Long into the future, his children and grandchildren will live lives that he shaped and influenced. Will abide by values he crafted at the Seder table. Will recall fondly the wisdom he imparted and the mesorah he conveyed.

It is precisely in this way that the Jewish People rebounded from the oppression of the tyrants who left numbers tattooed upon their arms. In the years 1946-1948, the birth rate in the DP camps of Europe was the highest in the world. And this despite the abysmal conditions those camps provided as the environment in which to raise children.

Why did the Jewish People respond this way? Because they had learned the message that Hashem conveyed to the slave nation on the eve of their liberation. To live for oneself is but to trade one sort of imprisonment for another. To be truly free is feasible—paradoxically—only by sacrificing some of one’s own freedom in the interest of providing for others.

In his introduction to Sefer Shemos, the Ramban notes the tradition of referring to the book as Sefer Geulah, or Book of Redemption. He explains that this theme occupies the entirety of the Sefer, concluding only with the construction of Mishkan, providing a resting place for Hashem’s Presence here on earth.

Here is another dimension to the communal nature of the Korban Pesach and to sanctifying with blood not a private space, but a shared one. No individual can build a Mishkan. It is, by its very nature, a public, national project. And yet it is only through its construction that true redemption is achieved. Which is to say that an individual is imprisoned not only by the time in which he lives, but by his own finite talents and abilities. 

There is only so much that one person can achieve all on his own. But through partnering with others, dedicating oneself to a broader community rather than just oneself, we can transcend our own shortcomings. We become part of something so much bigger than just ourselves. 

We can live for ourselves and become imprisoned by all the shortcomings inherent in that enterprise. Or we can live for others—our families, our communities—and become truly liberated.