More than any other holiday, Passover is a time for storytelling, with the Haggadah as our timeless script. Our stories teach us who we are (grounded in the narrative about who our ancestors were), even when we narrate the deliciously ambiguous phrase “Arami oved avi,” often translated as “my father was a wandering Aramean,” which lies at the heart of the Maggid section of the Seder.
As we retell the same story each year, we add new perspectives and versions that reflect the changed people we inevitably become from one year to the next.
“When you know who you are, you can be anything” is the central idea of the new promotional campaign by Prizmah Center for Jewish Day Schools. Inherent in this catchy phrase is the concept that having a solid identity imbues one with a deep creative capacity to evolve.
From year to year, we might see changes in ourselves or in the world around us that can seem radically new or incredibly conservative, depending on our perspective. The deep literacy and connection to values, tradition, and community that Jewish day schools and yeshivas provide for our children gives them the chance to know their own story – and the means to narrate the next chapters for themselves and for the Jewish people.
As a child, I spent nearly every Passover with the same relatives and friends, a family tradition that lasted through 60 years and multiple generations. The Seder itself appeared to be identical from year to year – the people, the menu, and obviously the liturgy.
It seemed to me as if nothing had changed from the time Moses and the Israelites had left Egypt. Until one year, when, enthused by what we had learned in our Jewish day school, my brother and I dared to interrupt the Maggid section to share the “new” song we had learned.
“Dai, dayenu…” we belted out. Soon enough, the repetitiveness of the tune won over even the stiffest British upper lip in the room, and we were all singing. And every year after that, for as long as our aunt and uncle were able to host, that group sang “Dayenu” just as we had taught them.
Our “innovation” became a celebrated part of the story, and at this point, I doubt many in that group recall that once upon a time, they didn’t know or sing the tune. The tradition evolved with time, and the change probably didn’t really matter to anyone (other than to my brother and me).
When we tell and retell our story, the beginning can become hazy, just as in “Arami oved avi,” we aren’t entirely sure which father we are talking about or even whether we should translate “oved” as “sought to destroy” instead of as “wandering.”
What remains clear is what happens after that beginning, the story of our people’s sojourn in Egypt, enslavement, and ultimate liberation as a result of divine intervention. We focus less on the initial action that propels the narrative and more on the plot itself and the values it reveals.
Perhaps this idea concerned Medieval Jewish scholar Rashi in his famous first comment on the Torah in Genesis. “The Torah should have begun with Exodus 12:2, ‘This month shall be unto you the first of the months,’ he wrote.”
The story of our people is not about the beginning of the world but the emergence of our free nation. Our inheritance contains ambiguity about where it ought to begin and a dedication to picking it up in the middle and keeping it going.
Prizmah ensures 'strong future' for our schools
At Prizmah, we often talk about the “virtuous cycle” that drives Jewish day schools and yeshivas on a path of self-reinforcing growth. We know that excellence, enrollment, affordability, and talent are the levers that can ensure a strong future for our schools and, ultimately, for the Jewish people.
When the excellence or quality of a school shines, it drives enrollment and new investment. That enables the school to invest in affordability and talent and ultimately enhances its excellence, which propels the cycle of growth.
This mirrors Jim Collins’s business concept, “The Flywheel Effect” (introduced in his 2001 book Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap... And Others Don’t) where you push at the wheel, it moves slowly, and as you keep pushing it accelerates until the wheel drives on under its own momentum.
Alternatively, I am reminded of the London Eye, the second biggest Ferris wheel in the world. To the surprise of visitors, the London Eye does not actually stop to let passengers board or depart. Instead, it keeps moving, slow enough to prevent any injuries but in a kind of perpetual motion that conserves energy and enhances passengers’ experiences. An object in motion, we know from physics, tends to remain in motion.
Just like the stories we tell each year around the Seder table, we may focus on one element first and then pick up on another aspect of the Exodus. What matters is that we keep narrating and keep the wheel moving.
I am struck by the words of Rabbi Tarfon in Pirke Avot 2:16: “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it.” His message is not about “finishing” the work of Torah, as if that were even possible. It doesn’t matter where we start or even whether we end; what matters is how we keep propelling our story forward, tending to the voices and levers that we know will maintain momentum for generations to come.
The writer is the CEO of Prizmah: Center for Jewish Day Schools.