Shabbos HaGadol 5782
A casual visitor—particularly one without any horticultural interests—may well wonder why Cherry Hill township decided to adorn a two mile stretch of one of its primary roads, Chapel Avenue, with the absolutely ugliest species of tree money can buy. The answer lasts for about three weeks in the early spring, when those trees burst forth with the most remarkable display of delicate pink flowers imaginable. So while living amongst gnarled, stocky arboreal lumps for the better part of a year may be underwhelming, the explosion of cherry blossoms that ultimately develops makes it all worthwhile. We just need to be patient.
Plant development is not only the calling card of the season in which Pesach occurs, it is a theme that actually makes an important, albeit hushed, appearance in the haggadah itself. The main body of the haggadah is comprised of the pesukim of Arami Oved Avi, a passage that serves as a declaration of thanksgiving made by a farmer when bringing his first fruits to the Bais Hamikdash.
On its surface, this is an odd selection. In identifying a portion of the Chumash that should be used to tell the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim, the obvious choice would have been segments from the parshios at the beginning of Sefer Shemos, which actually relate all that happened during the slavery itself and the liberation from it. Instead, we use the same words that were offered by the farmer as he gives thanks for the bounty of his field and reflects on the long and winding road of Jewish history that led to this point.
Yet perhaps these pesukim enjoy an important connection to one of the most ubiquitous motifs of the entire evening: instructing our children. Although the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim is to be related whether or not there are children at the table, the mitzvah itself is conveyed by the Torah with the term, “V’higadta l’vincha—And you shall relate to your child.” There are numerous practices we undertake at the Seder all “so that the children will ask,” so that, with their curiosity piqued, we can relate to them the content of this story.
Who are the children we speak to? As the haggadah reminds us, the conversations between parents and children described by the Torah are conveyed in four different ways, suggesting that the mitzvah may occur with four different sons, possessing four different personalities. The conversations are different because the children are all different. And the Torah indicates that the way a chacham would be spoken to will not suffice for the rasha or tam.
As parents, we are often caught off guard by who our children turn out to be. We were expecting the chacham and are given something else. We thought our children would be wiser, more committed, more religious. And the frustration that follows may in part be fueled by the feeling that they now stand at a distance not only from our own initial hopes, but from a connection to the Torah itself.
On the Seder night we are reminded that every Jew has a connection. The Torah presents not only four sons, but four ways of adjusting the story so it may be presented on the right wavelength and strike a chord with the child who is listening. We may have expected a chacham, but the Torah itself anticipated many others. We are reminded that whoever our children may be, each can enjoy a relationship with our history, with our story, and with our Torah.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggested that in addition to four individual sons, we might further understand them to all be consolidated in one person, albeit at different points of life. That is to say that the four sons may actually be four stages of development that everyone passes through. We begin as the she’eino yodei’a lish’ol, quite literally incapable of asking questions as our language skills have not yet emerged. Even once the child speaks, he has not immediately developed into a sophisticated person, and is characterized as a tam, a simple one, for a while. It is not uncommon to enter into a stage of rebelliousness at some point, asking needling questions without any interest in seeking answers, a stage characterized by the contrary rasha. Finally, through the experience of living life, we emerge as the chacham, humble and eager to learn.
Perhaps it is this take on the four sons that demands the inclusion of an agricultural motif at the seder. By telling the story through the words of the farmer grateful for the bounty of his field, we are reminded of the slow emergence of fully edible fruits from what was once a nearly imperceptible bud. Farming is an occupation that demands patience. So is parenting.
With ripening fruits in our mind as we relate the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim to our children, we are reminded of an important corollary to the fact that we may be speaking to someone other than the chacham we’d hoped for. As we curtail our message as the hagaddah instructs us to do, as we follow the hagaddah’s guidance to do our best to reach the rasha, tam, she’eino yodei’a lish’ol, or whoever else our child might be, we’re reminded to be patient. The fruits in the farmer’s basket didn’t ripen in a day; it took a long, slow process to see them finally emerge into a finished product. Children are no different. Even the greatest chacham began his life as a she’eino yodei’a lish’ol. A child may not yet be a chacham. But perhaps one day he will be. In the meantime, the Torah has a version of the story to be shared with him as well.