ESSAY: The Festival of the Child
On Passover, we enter the child’s mind to view reality from his perspective. For how else could we taste freedom?

A TELLING STORY: Beyond Paradise
The joy of a man who has lost everything

PERSONAL EXPERIENCE: Freedom
I don’t fish, have little time for vacations, and haven’t run barefoot through the sand in longer than I care to remember. But I have never been more free

The Festival of the Child

When did you last experience freedom? For many of us, burdened by our jobs, our familial and social responsibilities, and the other entanglements of the human state, freedom seems as rare as it is essential, as elusive as it desirable. We want it, we need it, yet how do we achieve it?

But look at the child. Observe him at play, immersed in a favorite book, asleep and smiling at his dreams. Assured that father and mother will feed him, protect him, and worry about all that needs worrying about, the child is free. Free to revel in his inner self, free to grow and develop, open to the joys and possibilities of life.

This is why Passover, the festival of freedom, is so much the festival of the child. For it is the child who evokes in us the realization that we, too, are children of G-d, and are thus inherently and eternally free. It is the child who opens our eyes to the ultimate significance of Passover: that in taking us out of Egypt to make us his chosen people, G-d has liberated us of all enslavement and subjugation for all time.

The child is thus the most important participant at the Passover seder. Many of the seder customs are specifically designed to mystify the child, to stimulate his curiosity, to compel him to ask: Mah nishtanah halailah hazeh... “Why is this night different from all other nights?” For the entire Haggadah, the “telling” of the story of our redemption from Egypt at the seder, is built around the concept of “When your child shall ask you... You shall tell your child.”[1] On Passover, we want to enter the child’s mind, to view reality from his perspective. For how else could we taste freedom?

But children, as every parent will attest, come in many shapes and forms. A closer examination of the Torah’s discussion of the seder dialogue reveals several versions of the child’s questions and the parent’s response.[2] The Haggadah explains that “the Torah is addressing itself to four sons: the wise, the wicked, the simple, and the one who does not know how to ask.” Depending on how (and if) the child articulates his question, the Torah offers four different approaches to explaining the message of the festival and the significance of our freedom.

The “wise son” asks intelligent, well-structured questions that reflect the thoroughness of his observations and his desire to know, appreciate and participate.[3] The proud father responds with a detailed explanation of the seder observances from beginning to end, all the way to the law that “one should not serve up any dessert after the meat of the Passover offering,”[4] so that its taste should linger in our mouths long after the seder.[5]

The “wicked son,” observing the labor and expense that go into the making of the seder, asks: “Whatever for is this work of yours?”[6] “This work of yours,” notes the Haggadah—this is something he wants no part of himself. “This is because of what G-d did for me,” replies the father in kind, “when I left Egypt.”[7] “For me... when I left Egypt” implying, explains the Haggadah, that “had he (the wicked child) been there, he would not have been redeemed.”

To the “simple son,” who can manage only a lame “What is this?,”[8] the father responds with an appropriately elementary explanation of the night’s significance.[9] And to the father of “the son who does not know how to ask,” the Torah instructs: “Tell your child.”[10] You initiate the discussion; you prod him into conversation and participation.[11]

Of the above responses, our answer to the “wicked son” begs clarification. Why do we tell him that he would have been left behind in Egypt at the time of the Exodus?

Factually, this was indeed the case. Our sages tell us that only one out of five Jews departed Egypt for Sinai on the first Passover.[12] The other four-fifths refused to leave, preferring slavery to Pharaoh over commitment to G-d. These Jews were not redeemed. For though G-d accepted the Jews in Egypt as they were, despite their lowly spiritual station after two centuries of enslavement to the most debased society on earth, there was one condition: one had to desire freedom in order to deserve it.

Still, what is to be gained by telling the wicked son that “had he been there, he would not have been redeemed”? Do we want to further alienate an already alienated child?

In truth, however, our response to the wicked son is not a message of banishment and rejection, but one of acceptance and promise. Had he been there, we tell him, he would not have been redeemed. The Exodus from Egypt was before the revelation at Sinai, before G-d chose each and every Jewish child as His own. There, in Egypt, redemption was a matter of individual choice. Had he been there, he would still be there. But he was not there—he is here.

“Here” is after Sinai. Here, free is what we are rather than something that we might elect or decline to be. True, we are currently in exile, but “on that day,” prophesies Isaiah, “you will be gathered up one by one, O children of Israel.”[13] When G-d shall again come to redeem us, not a single Jew will be left behind.

As different as they may be, the “four sons” of the Haggadah have one thing in common: whether involved, challenging, inept or indifferent, they are all present at the seder table. They are all relating, albeit in vastly differing ways, to our annual reliving of the Exodus and our birth as a nation. The line of communication is open; the potential “wise son” that resides within every Jewish child is approachable.

Today, however, in our era of spiritual displacement, there exists a fifth child: the Jew who is absent from the seder table. He asks no questions, poses no challenges, displays no interest. For he knows nothing of the seder, nothing of the significance of the Exodus, nothing of the revelation at Sinai at which we assumed our mission and role as Jews.

To these children of G-d we must devote ourselves long before the first night of Passover. We must not forget a single Jewish child; we must invest all our energies and resources to bringing every last “fifth son” to the seder-table of Jewish life.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Passover 5728 (1968) and 5751 (1991), and on a public letter[14] dated Nissan 11, 5717 (April 12, 1957)[15]

Beyond Paradise

All his life, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov strove to reach the Holy Land. He would often say that if he and Rabbi Chaim ibn Attar,[16] who lived in Jerusalem, would join forces, they would bring Moshiach. But this was not to be. Several times, the Baal Shem Tov set out for his destination, but all sorts of mishaps and catastrophes forced him to return home empty-handed.

One of these failed journeys left Rabbi Israel and his daughter, Adel, stranded penniless in Istanbul on the eve of Passover, without matzah, wine or any provisions for the festival. Mysteriously, the Baal Shem Tov’s spiritual powers had also departed from him, and his great mind was blank—he could barely remember the forms of the alef-bet.

Rabbi Israel had already gone to the synagogue and his daughter was contemplating their empty seder table when a man knocked on their door. “I’m from Poland,” he said, “traveling through this city on business matters. I was told that two fellow Jews from my home country are staying here. I would like very much to spend the festival with you.”

“You’re welcome to share our lodgings,” said Adel, “but, unfortunately, we can’t provide you with much of a seder. We have nothing—no matzot, no wine, no bitter herbs, not even a candle with which to usher in the festival...”

“No matter,” said the guest, “I have everything with me. I knew that I would be spending Passover on the road, so I brought along all the festival provisions. There is enough for all of us.”

When Rabbi Israel returned from the synagogue, he found a fully-furnished seder laid out before him: lit candles, matzot, wine and everything needed to fulfill the mitzvot of the day. His joy knew no bounds, for at that moment the divine spirit had also returned to inhabit his soul.

After they had recited the Haggadah, eaten the matzah and the maror, and were enjoying the festival meal, the Baal Shem Tov turned to the guest and said: “You have restored my life to me. How can I repay you? Ask for anything that you require, and I promise you that your need will be filled.”

“G-d has blessed me with wealth,” said the man, “and I want for nothing material. But my wife and I have been married for many years, and have failed to conceive a child. Rabbi, I see that you are a righteous and holy man. Surely your prayers can open the gates of heaven. Please, bless us with a child.”

“I swear,” said Rabbi Israel, “that before the year is out, you will be holding your child in your arms.”

No sooner had these words left his mouth than there was a great commotion in the heavens, for this man and his wife had been born without the capacity to bear children. Yet even the heavens must abide by the law that “[G-d] does the will of those who fear Him.”[17] The oath of the Baal Shem Tov would have to be fulfilled.

A proclamation was issued which resounded throughout the supernal worlds: “This man and his wife will indeed bear a child. But because Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov has forced the hand of heaven to overturn the laws of nature, he has forfeited his portion in the World to Come.”

Upon hearing this proclamation, the Baal Shem Tov’s face lit up with joy. “How fortunate I am!” he cried. “I just learned that I have forfeited all heavenly reward for my good deeds. All my life I have been troubled by the thought that perhaps my service of the Almighty is tainted by the expectation of reward. Now, however, my service of G-d will be pure, free of the possibility of any ulterior motive!”

Freedom
by Jay Litvin

Editor’s note: Each week, the Week In Review brings you a sampling of the Rebbe’s teachings—adaptations of his talks, essays and letters—that propose a way of life instructed by the Torah and illuminated by Chassidic teaching. Perhaps some of you have wondered: What would it be like to actually live this way? What happens when these teachings are accepted as a guide to daily living?

In this column, we bring you a glimpse into one such life. Jay Litvin is a 53-year-old husband, father, writer, filmmaker, public relations consultant and chassid. His articles are based not on any specific talk or essay of the Rebbe, but on his personal experience of the endeavor to incorporate the Rebbe’s vision into his life.

I stood between the train cars, wind blowing in my hair, watching the Mexican countryside flash by. With each passing hour the train wheels carried me further from my obligations, my bills, my job, and the people who knew me. In twelve more hours, my wife and two children and I would get off the train, ride a bus for several hours, and then take a boat to a place where no one knew us. A place where I would receive no phone nor electric bills, because there would be neither electricity nor phones. Nor were there any roads in the small village that would be our home, so there would be no automobile to care for, no insurance fees or gas expense. The palm-thatched palapa in which we would live cost $150 per year. I would live off the land with my hands, my machete, and a crude, Mexican-made fishing device to supply most of our food.

I was free! I had left bills, obligations, the constraints of societal norms, and the expectations of others behind me. My time and my life were my own.

Today, I have seven children. I work 12 to 14 hours a day. I have even less time than money. My obligations to family, work, and community are greater than anything I left behind when I boarded that decrepit train to Mexico. And yet, there is a sense of freedom in these obligations that surpasses the most idyllic, sun-filled days spent fishing in a dugout canoe on the Pacific Ocean.

A hungry person is not free, but enslaved by the need to end the growling in his stomach. In those Mexican days, I was hungry for the connection and fulfillment that I thought I would find in this primitive, natural environment. The freedom and pleasure I discovered were wonderful, but only a diversion from the goal that I had set off to achieve. Late at night, sitting in our palapa, the kids tucked into their hanging bamboo beds, the kerosene lantern casting its glow around the makeshift table, dimly illuminating the palm fronds that surrounded our home, I would feel the same emptiness that had taken me to Mexico in the first place. And though I would not dwell on the thoughts and feelings that crept into consciousness in the silence of the night, I knew that the true purpose of this journey was not being achieved. I was still starving for meaning in life.

My hunger had taken me through many experiences and investigations, much study and exploration. It was a search that had gone from the mountaintops of Oregon to the jungles of Mexico and many places in between. But I didn’t find freedom from this hunger until I reached the gray, workaday city of Milwaukee. Because it was in Milwaukee that I discovered Chabad and Torah-true Judaism.

One cannot be truly free unless one knows who he really is, what he really wants and what he is meant to do. Regardless of how fantastic or romantic, dramatic or adventurous the masks I wore, they were in the end only masks, and not my real face. I am not a machete-carrying Mexican peasant working the land. I am a Jew connected to G-d through Torah and mitzvot. And when I am being who I truly am and fulfilling the purpose for which I was brought into the world, the yokes of worldly obligation are no longer the markers of whether or not I am free. They become the tools with which I exercise my freedom.

I need my car to deliver mishloach manot on Purim. I must earn money to give my children the education they need to become Torah-loving people. The telephone is vital to my work and to the ability to communicate words of Torah or to help a friend. The rent I pay (more dollars per week than what I paid for a year’s use of the palapa in Mexico) provides a home filled with Torah and learning, with mitzvot and good deeds, with warmth and love and nurturing for my children in a community and environment that strengthens, supports and encourages the values upon which I base my life.

 The adventure I seek is found in the constant exploration of who I am and who I can be as I stretch further and further in my quest to become the best parent, husband, friend, Jew and chassid I can be.

Today, my soul no longer aches. It is nourished by a connection with the Almighty and a sense of His presence in my daily hours. My hunger is filled, rather than diverted by constantly shifting adventures and pleasures. My life, thank G-d, is filled with purpose, satisfaction and a profound love of my family.

My children are not running barefoot through the sand, but walking sure-footed through life, feet firmly planted in Torah and a way of life that cherishes the finest and highest of G-dly and human qualities.

I don’t fish, have little time for vacations, and carry a tallit bag rather than a machete. I am bound to the yoke of Torah. I am a servant (to the best of my limited abilities) of G-d’s will.

And I have never been more free.

The Week in Review is adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber