Haggadah Shel Pesach: Excerpts and a preview from the upcoming book ShevVayetiv on the Haggadah

Much ink has been spilled over the interpretations of the Passover Haggadah! The Haggadah is written in a way that raises numerous perplexities on various levels, containing contradictions and passages that seem inexplicable. Commentators have sought different explanations to clarify its statements, yet many remain enigmatic and do not settle well in the hearts, as they are often interpreted through intricate reasoning or allegory rather than their straightforward meaning.

It is also difficult to discern the logical sequence of statements in the Haggadah. It begins with Ha Lachma Anya, proceeds to the Ma Nishtana questions, jumps to Avadim Hayinu, the story of sages reclining in Bnei Brak, Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya’s words, and the discussion of the four sons. These appear as disconnected statements, lacking a unifying theme. The commentators have largely not addressed the order and coherence of the text, leaving it as a seemingly random compilation of teachings.

Let us examine some of the Haggadah’s most glaring questions. The Haggadah opens with Ha Lachma Anya, where we declare, “This year we are slaves, next year we will be free.” But why are we still considered slaves today? Are we not already free?

Furthermore, there seems to be here a contradiction: after stating “This year we are slaves,” the Haggadah continues with “We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, but Hashem took us out… If He had not redeemed us, we and our children would still be enslaved.” This implies that we are, in fact, free. Why, then, did we first call ourselves slaves? And if we truly are, how does this relate to Pharaoh, who perished millennia ago? How are we still his slaves?

Another difficult passage is the directive to blunt the wicked son's teeth and separate him from the Jewish people by telling him that had he been in Egypt, he would not have been redeemed. Immediately afterward, the Haggadah states that our ancestors were idol worshippers, but Hashem drew them close to His service. If idolatry represents ultimate heresy, then Hashem’s approach was to bring such individuals closer, not cast them out. Why, then, does the Haggadah instruct us to exclude the wicked son?

Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya’s statement is also puzzling: “I am like a seventy-year-old man and did not merit understanding why we should mention the Exodus at night.” The Talmud (Berachot28a) states that he was actually only eighteen and appeared elderly due to a miraculous transformation. Why, then, does he say that he had not yet merited this understanding, given his youth? Additionally, what relevance does his appearance as an old man have to the Haggadah, which focuses solely on the fact he has not yet heard about mentioning the exodus at night?

Chazal have taught us that many phrases serve as symbolic codes containing deeper meanings. The Ben Ish Chai explained that the words of our sages often allude to Kabbalistic concepts. We will follow this approach to uncover what lies beneath the surface of the Haggadah’s teachings. Clearly, there are deeper levels of interpretation, as is always the case with the words of our sages.

One phrase that appears repeatedly in the Haggadah is “the night.” While it is obvious that the Seder is conducted at night, the frequent emphasis on the term is striking. Beyond denoting a time period, “night” symbolizes spiritual darkness—uncertainty, suffering, and despair—whereas “day” signifies clarity and joy.

Let us embark on an extraordinary journey through the hidden secrets of the Haggadah and discover how Chazal, through their delicate and eloquent words, open a gateway to a concealed world of wisdom. This wisdom aims to touch the depths of our souls, drawing a thread that runs through the entire Haggadah. This thread reflects a dual sorrow: external suffering imposed by the nations that seek to destroy us in every generation, and the even greater internal pain we carry within. The Seder night is meant to bring order to this emotional turmoil, helping us recognize and address our inner struggles. Only by acknowledging and empathizing with our own pain can we begin to heal. When pain is ignored, it festers, much like an untreated wound.

Ha Lachma Anya

“This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat; let all who are in need come and celebrate Passover. This year we are here; next year, in the Land of Israel. This year we are slaves; next year, free men.”

The Haggadah opens by presenting the night’s central mitzvah: matzah. Yet, it introduces matzah with the seemingly negative description of “bread of affliction.” Why do our sages begin the Haggadah with such a bleak depiction of this central symbol?

Furthermore, what does it mean that our ancestors ate this bread “in the land of Egypt”? The Torah states that matzah was eaten when leaving Egypt because their dough did not have time to rise. The Shelah explains that the Israelites also ate matzahwhile still enslaved because the Egyptians forced them into grueling labor, leaving no time to bake leavened bread.

However, there is a fundamental difference between these two matzot: the one eaten in Egypt represented distress and servitude, while the one baked at the Exodus was a matzah of joy, hastily prepared in eagerness to leave bondage. Thus, matzah has a dual identity—“bread of affliction” symbolizing hardship, and matzah, a food of redemption.

Unlike leavened bread, which expands and represents joy, matzah remains flat, embodying restriction and sorrow. This contrast mirrors our history: the suffering endured in Egypt versus the exhilaration of redemption.

“This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.” This phrase introduces the overarching message of the Haggadah: in Egypt, our forefathers suffered both physical and emotional abuse. The bread of affliction does not refer to the matzah of redemption but to the meager sustenance they were given merely to survive.

“Let all who are hungry come and eat; let all who are in need come and celebrate Passover.” We invite all to partake in this experience—to remember the hardships our ancestors endured, and to recognize that suffering is not just a relic of history but an ongoing reality.

“This year we are slaves; next year, free men.” There is a distinction between our oppression in Egypt and our current struggles. In Egypt, we were enslaved by Pharaoh, powerless to escape. Today, we are not physically enslaved, yet we remain bound by our own limitations—our anxieties, our internal struggles, and our interactions with others, particularly in the way parents often unconsciously impose their struggles onto their children. This is a deeper, more insidious form of bondage.

Ma Nishtana

"Why is this night different from all other nights?"

On this night, we ask: How can we connect to the korban (sacrifice) and truly feel its pain? What can we do tonight to experience its suffering more profoundly than on any other night of the year?

The Haggadah highlights two forms of abuse: passive neglect and active harm. It also teaches that to reach the depths of a suffering soul, we must listen to its pain and offer words of comfort.

"On all other nights, we eat both chametz and matzah, but on this night, only matzah."

Throughout the year, we are consumed by worldly distractions, leaving little time to care for the victim in distress. At times, we may feel a trace of another’s suffering, but it is fleeting and insufficient to bring true healing. However, on this night, everything changes—“this night is all matzah.”

Chametz rises when left unattended, while matzah requires constant care and attention. Just as chametz symbolizes neglect, so too does ignoring those who need us. Conversely, matzah represents unwavering devotion, mirroring our commitment on this night to focus entirely on those in pain.

By identifying with another’s suffering, we empower them to confront and heal their wounds. Chametz signifies the way we often neglect those who require our time and effort. In contrast, this night, which is “all matzah,” calls upon us to rectify this failing by dedicating ourselves to those in need. This is why the Seder places special emphasis on engaging with our children, who require this attention most.

"On all other nights, we eat all kinds of vegetables, but on this night, only maror."

Passive neglect deeply wounds the soul, but even worse is active harm, which inflicts lasting scars, sometimes for a lifetime. Marorembodies this bitter suffering.

During the year, our attention is divided among many concerns—“all other vegetables.” But tonight, we focus exclusively on maror—on confronting and identifying with the deep and active pain of those who suffer.

"On all other nights, we do not dip even once, but on this night, we dip twice."

All year long, we rarely offer words of comfort to the brokenhearted. But on this night, we do not merely console once—we do so twice.

This is symbolized by dipping the bitter maror into sweet charoset. Comforting the victims strengthens them, offering them hope and a reason to rise above despair. Encouraging words open a window to the light at the end of the dark tunnel, allowing them to see beyond their suffering.

"On all other nights, we eat sitting upright or reclining, but on this night, we all recline."

Throughout the year, we only half-listen to the pain of others. But on this night, we dedicate ourselves fully to hearing them. Listening is another essential form of healing. While encouragement provides motivation, true healing comes from allowing another to share their burden.

This idea is reflected in heseiba—reclining. Reclining is a passive act, signifying attentiveness to others, as opposed to sitting upright, which denotes actively presenting one’s own thoughts. On this night, we recline and listen, making space for those who need to be heard.

Rabbi Shai Tchan serves as the Rosh Kollel of Shaarei Ezra and the head of the Beit Hora’ah Arzei HaLevanon.

This article was written in cooperation with Shuva Israel