Jews all over the world gather around the table to commemorate the miracles of the Exodus, but they do not read the account of the Parting of the Sea from Exodus 14.
Instead, they read a passage from a rabbinic text called the “Mekhilta of Rabbi Ishmael” (the title comes from the Aramaic for rule or measure), in which rabbis calculate how many blows the Egyptians suffered on the sea.
Perhaps the prime example of this tension is the beginning of the Maggid section in the Haggadah. After the Four Questions, the rabbis state that it is praiseworthy to extend and increase telling the story of the Exodus.
This is not followed, as one might expect, by the story of the Exodus, but with a story about rabbis who discoursed about the Exodus until dawn.
In short, the ritual of reading the Haggadah constructs a paradox. It compels its readers to recite a text about the importance of telling the story of the Exodus without actually telling it. The Haggadah simultaneously reinforces and undermines its own message.
Ironically, this is precisely the point. The seder is about bringing Jews together, so that they may attach themselves to the chain of tradition. This is achieved through allusions to a mythic past (whether or not it is recognized as such), but that is only the first link.
In order for it to be a chain, the primordial events are presented through their subsequent historic event of study and retelling. The biblical narrative and the rabbinic interpretation combined constitute the formative links in the chain of the Jewish tradition.
That this is the point of the Haggadah is clearly seen in the admonition of the wicked son in the Haggadah for excluding himself from the community.
Many families will be familiar with the scene of the heretic relative who during the recitation of the section about the Four Sons eagerly volunteers to read the passage about the wicked son, relishing in a theatrical performance of the question: “What does this ritual mean to you?”
Indeed, the question could be aptly addressed back to the heartfelt readers, who unconsciously embody a further paradox of the seder. By insisting that they are the heretics of the family and reading the appropriate passage from the Haggadah — claiming to exclude themselves from the rest! — they rightly claim their place as a significant component of the fabric of the Jewish community, which is never denied nor neglected.
As a teacher of Jewish studies in a Midwestern liberal arts college, I encounter the same tensions regularly.
The historically critical approach to Jewish studies, as taught in higher education, markedly differs from the traditional practice of Judaism. Scholars and rabbis are often viewed as opponents.
And yet the roots of scholarship of Judaism are always traced back to tradition. When philosopher Baruch Spinoza (1632-1677) offered his pioneering comments of biblical criticism, he did so by quoting medieval exegete Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra (1089-1164) and his commentary on Deuteronomy.
When I raise questions of authorship in my Hebrew Bible class, I always start with a quote from the Talmud that raises similar concerns (Tractate Bava Batra 14b). In my case, this is a twice-repeated tradition.
It harks back to the Talmud in order to trace the origins of biblical criticism in its earliest stage, and also reenacts my first class in biblical studies as undergraduate at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Critical scholarship can never truly be a stranger to tradition.
There is an important difference between a seder night setting and a classroom, and that is the diversity of backgrounds. The wise, wicked, simple and silent sons of the Haggadah all belong to the Jewish community.
Lawrence University is a richly diverse college. My courses have been graced with students from all over the world, with differing degrees of familiarity with the Bible.
I’ve had in my class native English speakers and non-Americans, students who are familiar with the Bible from a Jewish or Christian perspective, students with no knowledge of Abrahamic religions and staunch atheists.
The primary challenge of class is therefore to create an environment where students with these different backgrounds could converse in a respectful, intellectual environment. My way to achieve this is to encourage students to leave any presuppositions they had about the text behind and engage with the literal meaning of the text.
Our joint challenge is to make arguments about the text in question that are textually-based and can appeal to any student from any background, regardless of upbringing.
Naturally, this is an intellectual exercise that can never be fully achieved. We cannot transcend beyond the confines of our worldview to another view of the text. We can only aspire to do so, in search of new knowledge.
My own background similarly plays a role in the classroom: I was born and raised in Israel, and I read the Bible in my native Hebrew.
I can hardly recognize the text in English, so I bring a bilingual edition to class. As the students read out passages in English, I follow in the original. Often students ask a question, and I search the Hebrew text for a solution.
To a certain extent, I fear there’s a methodological flaw there, conveying to the students that without knowledge of Hebrew they cannot gain full access to the Hebrew Bible. In some aspects that is true, but the purpose of the class is to make it accessible for them.
On the other hand, it is the students’ genuine intellectual curiosity and commitment to the biblical text that challenge me to expose further readings and layers to them.
I was brought up as a link in a chain of a certain tradition, and take special pleasure in opening this chain to new directions and sharing this tradition with new audiences.
Aryeh Amihay, Ph.D., is a visiting professor of Jewish studies at Lawrence University, specializing in ancient Judaism. He is on a fellowship that is scheduled to end this summer.
This article is intended to be the first in a series by Israelis who have spent time in or moved to Wisconsin.
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