In the Hagada we are presented with what obviously must have been a very important historical seder, the seder of Rabbi Akiva and the other four sages. The question is: Why was the seder at Rabbi Akiva’s place? After all, the other sages mentioned were of equal stature. Among them was Elazar ben Azariah who became the head of the Sanhedrin at the amazingly young age of 18. ere teachers of Rabbi Akiva, founders of the Yavne Academy, the President of the Sanhedrin. There was also Eliezer, the star pupil of Rabbi Yochanan (and a teacher of Rabbi Akiva), about whom it was said, “If all the sages of Israel were on one pan of a balance scale, and Eliezer were on the other, he (and his wisdom) would outweight them all.” There was also the famous – and humble – Rabbi Joshua (another teacher of Rabbi Akiva), as well as the tzadik Rabbi Tarfon about whom the Gemara tells us fulfilled the mitzvah of honoring one’s parents more so than anyone else ever had. So again, why was the seder held at Rabbi Akiva’s? Shouldn’t protocol have dictated it be at one of the more senior sages? And if you want to say that their yearly seder rotated locations, so why then does the Hagada choose this particular year – in this particular place – to freeze in time as the seder of memory for all generations?
Another question that might shed some light on this first query:
It is an universally accepted tradition to retell the story of our freedom by first discussing our g’nut – or disgrace – and then follow it with shevach - our elevation, or redemption. What is less univesally accepted is what exactly is meant by these two terms. In the Gemara, for example, there is an argument about them, where one opinion holds that our disgrace was physical – our slavery in Egypt – and thus are elevation was physical as well – namely our exodus from Egypt. The other opinion holds, however, that our true degredation was when we were idol worshippers – as in the time before Abraham – and our elevation therefore was not something physical but spiritual: We once were idol worshippers but now we believe in the one True God.
The Hagada, of course, tells both stories, starting with 1) the Avadim Hayinu answer to the four questions – which represents the g’nut of slavery followed by the shevach of freedom – and subsequently 2) the Ovdei Avodah Zara answer – with the g’nut of idol worship followed by the shevach of monotheism.
In contrast to the Hagada, the Rambam suggests in his Mishne Torah that we should reverse the order, that yes, we start with g’nut and end with shevach, but that the first g’nut should be about idol worship and only afterward should one discuss the physical slavery and subsequent freedom.
That position in it of itself is not overly shocking; after all, such an opinion existed in the Gemara as well. But what is shocking is that the Rambam’s own Hagada did not follow the Rambam’s actual halachik opinion. His Hagada, like all of ours, starts with Avadim Hayinu and then goes onto the idol worship question.
So why doesn’t the Rambam hold like the Rambam?
According to some (such as Rav Rimon from Alon Shevut), the Rambam believed in two types of Haggadot – one for Eretz Yisrael in the time of the Beit HaMikdash and one for Galut, exile. In the latter case, when one is in exile, one has to be especially concerned about one’s physical predicament. In the galut, a Jew could disappear easily. He could – as history demonstrates – be threatened and challenged and even destroyed at any moment. Such a Jew, therefore, must first ensure his physical freedom and avoidance of slavery; such a Jew, therefore, should start his recitation of the answer to the four questions by focusing first and foremost on physical redemption … and then only afterwards does he have the luxury to turn to spiritual matters.
A Jew living in the time of the Beit HaMikdash, however, must realize that physical freedom is not the end goal. It is the means to the end. It enables one to fuflill his ultimate purpose of serving God free of outside influence and without being prevented by outside forces. Therefore, when a Jew lives in his own land, when he doesn’t have to worry about the physical slavery of the galut, then he must begin his answer with a spiritual focus, by discussing how we once lacked the knowledge of God but now we have it – and we must do something special with it.
The Rambam lived in the exile and therefore used the Hagada of the exile; he first addressed physical slavery and then only afterwards discussed spiritual matters. His halachik ruling, though, was not for his time – and not for his place. It was for the ideal situation, when Jews are free to live in their own land and pursue their ultimate purpose. In that case, one focuses first and foremost on the spiritual.
What I take away from this insight is the Rambam’s special ability to ‘time travel’ – to live in one place but to constantly have his eye and heart elsewhere, in Jerusalem, in a land of freedom, with a people focusing on fulfilling their ultimate purpose, not just ‘getting’ by.
I experienced a glimpse of this idea during our own seder as well. It was just the family so we decided to go all out and make it a very special – and fun – event for the kids. Towards that end I designed a game to keep the kids’ attention at high alert. It was called ‘Get Moshe into the Nile’ and included the following rules. The kids would have to pass their baby brother from one to another, all the while avoiding being captured by me, who represented the big bad Pharoah. As I have three girls, they represented some of the heroine of this part of the story – Yocheved (Moshe’s mother), Miriam (his sister) and Batya (his rescuer from the Nile). The eventual goal was to get their baby brother all the way to a wading pool I had set up on the balcony; and not just to the pool, but to the baby bathtub – Moshe’s ark – in the center of the pool.
As it turned out, the baby was sleeping, so we decided to use dolls instead of a live child – which in turn made the game a little more fun. Rather than handing the ‘baby’ from one to another, now the kids could throw the dolls to each other, over my head, under my legs and any way possible to keep him out of my reach. When I was lucky, I would be able to bat the baby down, preventing them from winning; they would quickly grab the doll and start over. As my wife watched the game unfold, I think she was particularly happy our baby made the wise decision of falling asleep.
At one moment in the game something fascinating happenned. One daughter passed baby Moshe to the other. She then jumped on a ledge on the balcony and called for her sister to pass Moshe back; after all, she was already past me, and if her sister could lob baby Moshe over my head, she would catch him and then have a free pass to throw (they gave up on placing a long time ago) Moshe into the pool. Her sister heard her and tossed Moshe over my head. He landed in the hands of the other sister … but only for a moment. He was too high, and thus she could hold onto Moshe only for a moment. In the next second he slipped from her hand and fell off the balcony several floors below.
We all gasped. ”Moshe” we all cried. And then we laughed.
For me, the most interesting moment was the cry of “Moshe’s name.” For that one moment, we were not playing a game but actually in Egypt trying to rescue Moshe. We were experiencing a different time and place, something only humans can do.
Of course, we not only can relive the past unlike all other animals, we can also project ourselves into the future. And amazingly, when done right, we can feel the past and the future in the same way we feel the present — real, live and happenning. Sometimes, when we’re really good, we can even experience these three times at the same time! That is when we get a taste of eternity, a taste of a moment that breaks all limits of time.
This, I think, is what made Rabbi Akiva so special. Yes, he was a great scholar. But so too were all the others. No, it had to be something else that made all of them want to spend seder with him.
Think for a moment about a famous scene in which we are told Rabbi Akiva comforted others: He and some fellow scholars are on the Temple Mount bemoaning the destruction of the Temple. Everyone is crying – but Akiva is laughing. How is that possible? they ask. He responds by telling them just as the prophecy that foresaw this destruction came to fruition so too will the prophecy that envisions its rebuilding come true.
For me, it is his laughter that is key. To believe in a better future is one thing. But to laugh about it is something entirely different. Laughter is a sign of an emotion. He wasn’t just envisioning the future; he was there! He was feeling it at that moment. He thus transcended his present and took his friends on a time travel journey to the future.
This is why I believe they all wanted to be with Rabbi Akiva on seder night. They needed someone to take them to the past and then to the future, to span all time zones and all generations, to truly make it a night like no other.
And of course that is our mission as well. To return to the past and really, really feel it, so much so we experience the same emotions one might have if he were actually there. And to be catapulted to the future, to a time when we have returned to Israel and begun the process of redeeming Her completely. And then even further in the future, to a Messianic age of complete redemption.
