Where is Ukraine in the Haggadah?

The Russian assault on Ukraine casts an undeniable shadow on this year’s sedarim. Since the seder tells the story of the Jewish revolt against tyrants in the distant as well as the more recent past, I was curious: What are the opportunities, using the traditional seder symbols and texts, to bring in Ukraine to the Seder conversation? Where is Ukraine in the Haggadah?

I. THE REFUGEES

As I write, less than a week before Pesach arrives, the BBC reports that more than 10.5 million people have fled their homes, including more than half of the country’s children. 4.3 million have fled the country and another 6.5 million have been been displaced from their homes and fled elsewhere within Ukraine.  Where are these refugees recalled in the Seder?

1.     In the taste of the Matzah. Matzah is the food of people who have to flee their homes; of those who have to leave so quickly that there isn’t even time for the bread to rise: And they baked unleavened cakes of the dough that they had taken out of Egypt, for it was not leavened, since they had been driven out of Egypt and could not delay; nor had they prepared any provisions for themselves (Exodus 12:39).

Many of the Ukrainian refugees were forced to leave their homes for safer environs like Poland, Romania, Moldova, Hungary, Slovakia, Germany, and, for the lucky ones, the State of Israel. Many left with the clothes on their backs and barely time to grab their most precious possessions.

That is the essence of Matzah. It can be the bread of deliverance that arrives in the blink of an eye (as in Egypt), but it can also be the food of those who are forced out of their homes just as quickly (לַחְמָא עַנְיָא / “the bread of affliction” indeed).

2.     In the Yachatz. We take the middle matzah and break it in half. As we do so, consider the following meditation:

We break this middle matzah and are reminded of so many divisions in our unfolding story.

Some separations are blessings: “God separated the light from the darkness” (Gen. 1:4); “God made the expanse to separate between the waters above and the waters below” (Gen. 1:7); “The waters split and Israel went into the Sea on dry ground” (Ex 14:21-22).

But other separations are tragic: Children torn from their parents in war-torn Ukraine, families displaced from their homes.

As the Matzah is broken into two pieces, we recall those refugees who have fled for their lives in just these recent weeks, and we remember that as long as tyrants commit atrocities, our world and each of us cannot be considered whole.

II. PUTIN, THE TYRANT

It’s not hard to see in Putin the same sorts of megalomaniacal tyrants that stain human history, all the way back to the Pharaoh of the Exodus. Jewish history is littered with these sorts of thugs, as the Haggadah says:

שֶׁלֹּא אֶחָד בִּלְבָד עָמַד עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ, אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר עוֹמְדִים עָלֵינוּ לְכַלוֹתֵנוּ
For it hasn’t been only one enemy who has risen up to annihilate us…

Us?

Yes, us. Certainly, many thousands of the Ukrainian refugees are Jews—at least before this war, Ukraine had the 10th largest Jewish community in the world. While Ukraine has a bloody and ugly history in its treatments of its Jews, there has been a Jewish presence there for over 1,000 years.

But that is only part of bigger picture.

Because the seder is also about freedom on a global scale. To celebrate Pesach is to declare: By virtue of our celebration, may others, too, be inspired towards liberation. Surely in our time, as much as ever, we must say: when some are enslaved, none of us are free.

And so, indeed, today another enemy is standing over us, threatening us all…

III. VOLODYMYR ZELENSKYY, JEWISH HERO

It is with pride tonight that we point towards President Zelenskyy, the Jewish leader of Ukraine who has made the case for freedom and justice for his country to the nations of the world.

Yet the Haggadah is famously reticent about naming human heroes. Moses’s name only appears once in the entire traditional Haggadah, emphasizing that deliverance comes only from God:

לֹא עַל־יְדֵי מַלְאָךְ, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׂרָף, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׁלִיחַ,
אֶלָּא הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא בִּכְבוֹדוֹ וּבְעַצְמוֹ.
Not through an angel, and not through a seraph, and not through an intermediary:
The Holy One alone, in all God’s divine glory.

So maybe we shouldn’t dwell too much on Zelenskyy?

But the inspiration of seeing this Jewish man—who carries the moral weight of family members murdered in the Holocaust—is an important part of tonight’s telling, too. For many of us, God acts in the world through human helping hands and voices of truth, like the voice of Zelenskyy.

The famous A Different Night Haggadah (eds. Noam Zion and David Dishon, ©1997) suggests a tradition attributed to Rabbi Al Axelrad at Brandeis in the 1970s: Having the family seder award an annual Shiphrah and Puah Prize to someone in the world who stood up to modern-day Pharaohs this year.

Shiphrah and Puah, you’ll recall, were the Hebrew midwives of Exodus 1, who refused to follow Pharaoh’s genocidal decree to kill Jewish baby boys. Their civil disobedience is the first act of rebellion that leads to Israel’s redemption. Today, we should consider at our seder those individuals who have stood up in the face of tyranny and oppression to be voices of hope and freedom.

Surely, President Zelenskyy carries the legacy of Shiphrah and Puah this Pesach!

IV. OUR ROLE IN THE STORY OF HOPE

There is a lot of “reminding”, “recalling”, and “commemorating” in the Seder. But our seder is incomplete if it remains in the realm of memory and storytelling. The Seder is a call, upon completing our celebration, to work and act to make the world whole again.

This is incorporated in Elijah’s Cup, symbol of the messianic hope for a future free of war and fear.

Long ago, my family adopted a well-known custom: we no longer leave Elijah’s Cup passively on our table, waiting for God to redeem us. Now we pass Elijah’s cup around the table, inviting each participant to pour in a few drops from her own glass—representing that unique responsibility of each of us to be God’s partner in the work of freedom. And so, too, should we leave this seder committed to the task:

·      Giving Tzedakah to help the refugees; for instance, through the JDC, the World Union for Progressive Judaism, Beit Polska/Jewish Renewal in Poland’s Refugee Relief, HIAS, the Kavod Tzedakah Fund, or other trustworthy organizations.

·      Celebrate and share the stories of those who are doing good, such as the Dream Doctors Project, an Israeli organization that has sent Mitzvah-clowns to the Ukrainian border to welcome the refugees with gentleness instead of fear.  Or Tel Aviv University, who has offered full scholarships to Ukrainian students and academics displaced by the war. Or the Survivor Mitzvah Project, who have been caring for Jewish elders in the FSU for years—and remain on the ground with those Ukrainian elders who have been unable to leave.

·      Urge the Israeli government to reject the far-right voices of isolationism and to accept even more refugees than they already have; insist that this is the sort of crisis for which the Zionist message rings loud and clear. (This might best be achieved with an email to your local Israeli consulate.)

·      Get ready—they’re coming. The Biden Administration has called for America to open its borders to 100,000 refugees in the weeks and months ahead. Will we be ready to welcome them into our homes and communities in the spirit of safety and security?

This is what it means to bring Elijah. And that call to freedom is incumbent upon each of us this Passover. In the words of the Hasidic master Rebbe Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859, Poland):

We err if we believe that Elijah the Prophet comes in through the door.
Rather, he must enter through our hearts and our souls.

Greens in Salt Water: Our Second Covid Passover

הָשַּׁתָּא עַבְדֵי, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין
This year we are slaves. Next year we will be free people.  —Passover Haggadah

 
Last year at this time, we were all adapting to what it meant to conduct a seder via Zoom, physically distant from our loved ones. And, to some degree or another, we made the adjustments. Even if those seders weren’t the greatest of our entire lives, most people agreed that technology made it 70%, or 43%, or 29% successful. 

At that time, we figured that this was a temporary gesture. Within a few weeks (remember?), we said to ourselves, this will all be over, and we’ll remember how strange and different the Seder of 2020 was. Surely we’ll be “free” by summer.

Now we’re preparing for our second Pandemic Seder. Almost 540,000 Americans have died from Covid, let alone the victims all over the world. We’ve learned how to adjust our behaviors, adapt our daily rituals, and act responsibly for our own sake and the sake of others. (Well, most of us—except for the most obtuse and irresponsible among us—have learned how to do so.)

This year’s Pandemic Seder will feel different. The availability of vaccines has made it possible for some people to be with each other; we don’t live in mortal terror for our parents, grandparents, and the elders of our community quite so much. There is a feeling that even if we are having socially-distanced seders now, there is hope on the horizon that we’ll be liberated from these narrow, confining spaces very soon.  And that hope, it seems to me, is very “Kosher for Passover.”

Early in the seder, we observe a ritual involving two symbols. We take up a green vegetable—“Karpas”— a symbol of springtime’s renewal. A Hasidic commentary reminds us that Pesach is also Chag Ha-Aviv, the Festival of Springtime, and after a long, cold winter, the world is slowly renewing its warmth and vitality. Even though we have just passed through winter, this holiday endows us with renewed energy for Life.[1]

We take the Karpas and dip it into a dish of salt water, which symbolizes the tears of suffering.

Each symbol thus has a distinct meaning—but what does it mean to dip one of these symbols into the other?

It means that our lives are almost never entirely joy or entirely sorrow. Real life is a mixture of those two elements, one dipped in the other. Our celebrations include a reflection of those who are no longer with us. By contrast, our bereavements are tempered by sweet memories and love that endures.

Dipping the Karpas into the salt water is a timely and powerful ritual. Because this year, as much as ever, we know the symbolism of hope mixed with tears. As our world opens up, it is crucial that we do not lose sight of the fact that there has been so much death and sorrow all around us for these many months; social distancing hasn’t just been about inconveniencing ourselves, it’s been about minimizing the danger to ourselves and others. So much loss is contained in the seder’s salty waters.

But in that loss there is hope. The green vegetable promises us that we’ll emerge and from this and new life will blossom—soon. The winter has passed. The vaccines are here; they’ll be available to everyone in the near future. Soon we’ll be out of this, if we can just hold on a bit longer. And when we emerge, our freedoms should be to us sweeter than ever; our relationships should be even more precious; and our empathy to those who hurt should be so much deeper.

From our pains, we learn the preciousness of life. Passover promises liberation from all forms of enslavement. Its hope, as ever, is born from salty tears.

[1] In The Chassidic Haggadah, Rabbi Eliyahu Touger, 1988.

We're Doing the 10 Plagues All Wrong—Part Two

The Maggid section of the Haggadah—the lengthiest part of the seder, the section which retells the story of the Exodus—culminates with the description of the so-called “Ten Plagues.” As I wrote earlier, the idea of the “plagues” is misunderstood, and that has led to a lot of misguided creativity around this part of the seder.

None of that is to say that there aren’t powerful and important lessons regarding the ritual here. In some ways, this is one of the most provocative sections of the entire seder.

When we reach this passage, every community that I’ve encountered has a similar sort of ritual. Upon reciting the name of each  “plague,” a drop of wine is removed from each of our cups. (Many also remove drops of wine before the 10 Plagues: 3 drops at the verse from Joel 3:3  “...Blood [דָם] and fire [אֵשׁ] and pillars of smoke [וְתִימֲרוֹת עָשַׁן]”; and 3 times at the acronym for the Plagues [דצ"ך עד"ש באח"ב], for a total of 16 drops.)

There are variations about how this removal takes place. Many people use their fingers, taking out wine from their glass drop by drop. Perhaps this custom alludes to the יד חזקה / yad chazakah / the “mighty hand” with which G-d redeemed the Israelites (see Exodus 6:1, 13:9; and especially Deuteronomy 26:8, which the Haggadah is citing, as well as Deut. 34:12, the last verse of the Torah).  Other people tip their glasses, spilling drops one at a time. Some use a utensil to remove the drops.

But the most important thing is to be clear about what this ritual means.

A kiddush cup full of wine is a symbol of joy and celebration. To reduce the wine in our glass symbolizes reducing our joy.

Why do we do this? The 15th Century commentator Don Yitzhak Abarbanel said that our joy is not complete as we recall the suffering of the Egyptians as we made our way to freedom. He quotes Proverbs 24:17:  “When your enemy falls, do not rejoice...”

That is a breathtaking statement.  Recall that when we read “Egyptians” in the text, what we’re saying is:  Nazis. Inquisitors. Hamas. Baby-killers, as the midrash makes clear. The most bloodthirsty oppressors that have slimed their way onto the stage of human history. 

And yet, when we consider the victories that gave us our freedom, we recognize that our enemies suffered, too.

It recalls as astounding passage from the Talmud that tells how the angels wished to rejoice at the moment of the Splitting of the Sea, but G-d silenced them:

שאין הקדוש ברוך הוא שמח במפלתן של רשעים. דאמר ר' שמואל בר נחמן אמר ר' יונתן... באותה שעה בקשו מלאכי השרת לומר שירה לפני הקב"ה אמר להן הקב"ה מעשה ידי טובעין בים ואתם אומרים שירה לפני.

The Holy and Blessed One does not rejoice at the fall of the wicked.
Thus Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan:... At that  moment [when the Egyptians were drowning in the Sea,] the ministering angels intended to sing before the Holy and Blessed One.
The Holy One said, “The work of My hands is drowning in the sea, and you would sing before me?!”

This is an astonishing idea. Our tradition is demanding that, at the moment of deliverance from suffering, we set aside any sort of triumphalism. Instead, we are called upon to recognize the very human-ness of our enemy.

To be sure, these passages do not apologize for our victory. We don’t regret that we were brought out of Egypt, just as we don’t regret the integrity and passion and ferociousness with which we’ve fought any just war in history. Evil must be vanquished, sometimes only through greater force.  

What the tradition does assert is that we can’t allow ourselves to dehumanize our enemies. They, too, are fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. They suffered when their water turned to blood, their fields were devoured by locusts, and their firstborn lay dead in their beds. They suffered when we fought back in the ghettos and the trenches, and when they and their children died on the battlefields. 

Enemies are real, but perhaps recognizing each other’s inherent humanity is a cautious step towards a world with... well, a bit fewer enemies. 

Can we live up to this standard that our tradition sets? I’m not saying I can, not yet. The desire for justice... which sometimes is indistinguishable from the desire for vengeance against those who have hurt us... is just too strong. But that’s what makes this spiritual challenge so compelling—our highest values are what we should reach for, not what we already comfortably accept.  

This is the ritual of the drops at the Ten Plagues.  It’s radical and challenging, and it deserves a moment of meditation and reflection before we tip our cups.  

We're Doing the Ten Plagues All Wrong—Part One

I collect Haggadahs. I love them; I think the Haggadah is the quintessential Jewish religious text. Not only because it tells the story of how we became a people, but also because there are Haggadot customized for every Jewish family and community. That’s why there are so many hundreds of them out there.

Pride of place in my Haggadah collection goes not to rare volumes or collector’s editions. Instead, I prefer photocopied and homemade texts that families have shared with me over the years, taking the traditional order, texts, and rituals and making the story their own. After all, personalizing the story is the key injunction of this festival: “In every generation, we must view ourselves as if we, personally, came out of Egypt” (Mishnah, Pesachim 10:5). We write ourselves into the continually unfolding story, respectfully inscribing the latest chapter that builds on what came before.

At the culmination of the Maggid section of the Haggadah—the part that tells the story of the Exodus—is a description of the עשר מכות/Esser Makkot, known colloquially as the Ten Plagues. And judging by the Haggadot in my collection, as well as all the creative seder material that fills my inbox at this time of the year, we’ve been doing it all wrong.

Racism. Climate change. Islamophobia… Countless Haggadot and seder-leaders over the years have invited guests to list “10 modern plagues” that afflict our world.

Homophobia. Rape culture. Surging antisemitism… there is no shortage of plagues in our world, and we’re often called by well-meaning people today to elaborate on them at the seder.

Family-separation policies for immigrants. The ubiquity of screens. Allowing rich people to set our communal agenda. Suburban complacency… I can do it, too. I’m sure you have your own list.

But if we think about it, these lists really don’t work at this part of the seder. It’s not that these things aren’t important—they are, and each contributes to a form of “enslavement” that we all yearn to be free from.

The problem is, that’s not what the מכות עשר / Esser Makkot / “Ten Plagues” are all about. 

Makkot are not “plagues.” They are “strikes”, as in military strikes against an aggressive enemy. That is precisely the image that the Torah presents in the Exodus story: G-d is waging a battle against Pharaoh in order to achieve the liberation of the Israelite slaves. At the burning bush, G-d tells Moses:

וְשָׁלַחְתִּ֤י אֶת־יָדִי֙ וְהִכֵּיתִ֣י אֶת־מִצְרַ֔יִם בְּכֹל֙ נִפְלְאֹתַ֔י אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֶֽעֱשֶׂ֖ה בְּקִרְבּ֑וֹ
וְאַחֲרֵי־כֵ֖ן יְשַׁלַּ֥ח אֶתְכֶֽם׃
I will stretch out My hand and strike [v’hikeiti – the same root as makkot]  Egypt with
various wonders which I will work upon them; after that he shall let you go.
(Exodus 3:20)

This process unfolds over a series of 10 strikes against Egypt, each one a tool towards bringing about freedom: blood, frogs, lice, etc…

When the Torah recalls the Exodus, it refers to these events as “signs” and “wonders”. In Deuteronomy 34:11, they are called אותות (“signs”) and מופתים (“portents”); these words are used again in Psalms 78 and 105. They are divinely attributed miracles that directly brought about the release of the people from bondage.

The “Ten Plagues” are the tools of liberation. They are not lingering calamities from which the world suffers, like racism, environmental cataclysm, or ignorance. They are not called “plagues.”

The Torah has words for “plague”: נגע / nega’ and מגפה / magefah. Nega’ usually appears in the context of leprosy, the scale-disease that was a particularly horrible trauma in the Bible. (Later, a whole tractate of the Mishna on this theme would be called Nega’im.) Magefah is used usually in the context of massive deaths after the Israelites sin as a community (see, for example, Numbers 14:7, 25:8-9, 26:1; and 1 Samuel 4:17). But neither term, nega’ nor magefah, conjures up God’s battle with Pharaoh.

There is one exception (because there’s always an exception). In Exodus 11:1, just prior to the מכת הבכורות / the strike against the first-born of Egypt, G-d tells Moses:

…ע֣וֹד נֶ֤גַע אֶחָד֙ אָבִ֤יא עַל־פַּרְעֹה֙ וְעַל־מִצְרַ֔יִם…
“I will bring but one more plague [nega’] upon Pharaoh and upon Egypt…” 

Here is the one appearance of the word “plague” in the entire saga. Why does this word appear here, and only here?

Perhaps that Tenth Strike is different. After all, scholars have pointed out that the Esser Makkot occurred in three triads; there is a literary symmetry in the clusters of three, and the Tenth stands outside of the pattern. Perhaps the severity of the 10th Strike is so intense that even G-d realizes that this is the “nuclear option.” Maybe it’s simply the exception that proves the rule, since nowhere else in biblical or rabbinical literature these events are called “plagues.”

So it’s just a little too lazy to score political points by asking, “What are 10 modern plagues…?” We have more than our share of them, it is true. But there is a cognitive dissonance in linking the today’s blights with wondrous moments in the past that directly led to our freedom.

The seder saga inspires other, more appropriate and difficult questions: What “miraculous” things have contributed to our freedom – individually, as a family, and as a people? What wondrous events in our past directly made it possible for us to be here today? And how do we appropriately express our wonder, awe, and gratitude?

Good Enough

Had G-d brought us out of Egypt
But not parted the Sea for us – Dayenu!
Had G-d parted the Sea for us
But not brought us through on dry land – Dayenu!
Had G-d brought us near to Mount Sinai
But not given us the Torah – Dayenu!

 Here’s a conversation starter for a dry seder:  Does anyone really believe the words to this song?

            I mean, we’ve been singing Dayenu a long time – probably since the era of the Geonim (650-1075 CE). Even families that have abridged the seder to a significant degree still consider this song essential. But consider the words as they appear on the page, and the message is less than obvious. Do we really believe that “It Would Be Good Enough for Us” (for that is the meaning of Dayenu) if G-d had redeemed us from slavery and then left us to starve in the desert? If the Sea had parted and the story ended there? If we had not been allowed to coalesce into a people, and had ultimately gone the way of the Amorites, Hittites, Canaanites, Babylonians, and others who long ago folded into history’s abyss?

            Of course it wouldn’t have been “good enough.”  Any break in any link of the chain of those miraculous events would have signified the end of the Jewish people, and there wouldn’t be anyone around to sing Dayenu to G-d. How could that possibly be “good enough”? So maybe this passage has more to it than meets the eye?

            Dayenu is placed nearly halfway through the seder, after most of the storytelling has taken place and just after the recitation of the Ten Plagues. We have already recounted the brutality of slavery. We have begun to comprehend all the many miracles – and the miracles upon miracles, according to Rabbis Yossi Ha-G’lili, Eliezer, and Akiva in the Haggadah – that have brought us here today, to this moment. Soon we’ll be feasting. But first we sing this song.

            The themes of what it means to be a slave and what it means to be free are placed before us.  And there’s a trap. We might reach this point in the seder, say to ourselves that slavery is a thing of the past, and we’re done with it. Let’s eat.

            But slavery is not a thing of the past.  Those who delude themselves into thinking they’re the most free just might find themselves in chains more restrictive than ever.  Just consider:

·      One in three Americans are chronically overworked;

·      54% of Americans have felt “overwhelmed” at work in the past month;

·      21% of overworked Americans exhibit symptoms of clinical depression.[1]

Do you see? A girl who starves herself “just to lose a few more pounds” is still enslaved. A family that feels compelled to make a Bar Mitzvah party that much bigger or more lavish because that’s the style is enslaved. A teenager who accommodates sleep deprivation just to get fifty more points on the cursed SATs is still enslaved. Uniquely, Americanly enslaved.

            What’s the way out of this trap?  Only this: the person who knows how to say Dayenu—what I have is, indeed, truly enough for me—is the person who is really free. I can stop the endless pursuit of acquiring, competing, accumulating more. In fact, I can do a better job at giving some of it away.

            Of course, there are plenty around us who are truly, desperately in need. This lesson can’t be applied outwards toward our neighbors, telling them they should be satisfied with whatever they have (as in the words of the miser in a classic Chasidic story, “If I can subsist on bread, they can surely subsist on stones!”) It only works when directed within.

            That’s why we sing Dayenu in our seder. Only the person who can look at his life and say, “What I have is truly what I need,” knows the taste of liberation; everything else is delusion.

[1] Overwork in America: When the Way We Work Becomes Too Much, Families and Work Institute, 2005, http://familiesandwork.org/press/overworkinamericarelease.html#overwork

"Into the Woods," Freedom, & Happily Ever After

December 30, 2014

There’s a fine, thoughtful movie about the meaning of freedom in theaters now, and it’s not “Exodus: Gods and Kings.” It’s “Into the Woods,” the new cinematic version of the Sondheim musical.

“Into the Woods” intertwines several classic fairy tales:  Cinderella, Rapunzel, Jack & the Beanstalk, and Little Red Riding Hood all merge together in Act 1, along with a Baker & His Wife and a witch who manipulates the plot in order to undo a curse that was placed on her. There are vengeful giants, a big bad wolf, and two Prince Charmings who are as shallow as you always imagined they would be. All of the characters discover that fate has sent them “into the woods” – a psychosexual place of innocence-shedding (although not as sexualized as I remember the play being when I saw it on Broadway years ago).  

There is a lot going on in those dark woods. The show’s themes include: moral development, community vs. the individual, parenting, leaving home, spoiled teens, infidelity (Prince: “I was raised to be charming, not sincere!”), friendship, sacrifice, and fate.  But there are two Torah themes in the story that particularly resonate with me.

The first is the show’s wonderful two-act structure (especially poignant on stage, where there is an intermission between parts). Act 1 braids together the well-known fairy tales, and it climaxes exactly the way that every fairy tale does:  They all live happily ever after.

The beauty of “Into the Woods” is:  There’s an Act 2.

In other words, what happens after “happily ever after”? Cinderella discovers she isn’t cut out for the life of a princess. The baker discovers that the baby he yearned for isn’t so easy to care for. Several characters die before their time. In other words, there is no “happily ever after”—because there remains work to do and lives to live and there are still giants (who are threatening everyone’s survival) to slay.

“Happily ever after” is for fairy tales. Life isn’t a fairy tale—and neither is the Torah.  The entire saga of the Torah – from the expulsion from Eden, the descent to Egypt, and the sojourns in the desert – can be seen as a quest towards reaching (returning to) the Promised Land. Four and a half of its five books take place along that road. At the culmination of Deuteronomy, the Israelites stand on the edge of the Land, and Moses goes up to Mt. Nebo and surveys all of it. And in shul on Simchat Torah, we read the final words of the Torah – never again did there arise a prophet like Moses – and then… “In the beginning G-d created the heavens and the earth.”  The cycle of reading starts over again, and we never quite get to the Promised Land. Why not?  Because there is still work to do. The best we can do is move a little closer towards that goal, and set up the next generation to be that much closer to the Promised Land of the future.

“Into the Woods” is also about freedom.  When Act 2 opens, the characters are free agents, having fulfilled their dreams and desires. Then fate intervenes. A wrathful giant wants to demolish the kingdom, the survivors have to decide: give up Jack (of beanstalk fame) or stand united. There is a temptation to offer him as a sacrifice for the sake of the greater good. There is a lot of self-doubt, the presumption being that only princes are qualified to do battle with the forces of evil.  (This recalls a great liberal falsehood: That because we’re not perfect, we’re not qualified to make moral arguments against evil.)

Jewish tradition makes a similar argument about freedom.  Pirkei Avot 6:2 quotes the Torah, The tablets were the handiwork of G-d, with G-d’s writing engraved on the tablets. Then it creatively says:  Don’t read “engraved [charut] on the tablets” but rather “freedom [chayrut] was on the tablets.” It may be counterintuitive to say that subscribing to a life of religious prescriptions and service to G-d and others is a life of freedom, but that’s precisely our tradition’s claim.

What is freedom? It doesn’t mean just doing whatever you want. That’s not freedom; that’s anarchy, irresponsibility, frivolousness. In Jewish spiritual thought, freedom means encountering your own unique destiny and seizing the responsibility that has been uniquely given to you. Not running away, but sharing the responsibility that fate and history placed before you.

The protagonists in “Into the Woods” discover that nuanced understanding of what it means to be free. They come to learn that by working together, they can halt giants in their tracks and even eke out a hopeful future—even if it’s not exactly going to be “happily ever after.”