The Passover Seder... and the Chaos: Upper Exiles and Lower Exiles The Journey of the Soul: The Tension Between the Circle and the Square at the Seder Night

In memory of Eliezer Botzer, may his memory be a blessing. (Following the Passover Haggadah, The Haggadah of Infinite Peace, with commentary by Haviva Pedaya, for details see below)

I. Prelude to the Pre-Seder of 5786

Nine Hundred Days of War: חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle) at the Forefront of the Haggadah Nine hundred days of war. A third year in which the Passover Seder transpires amidst conflict. Immediately after the seventh of October, during our initial pre-Seder in Beersheba, I positioned חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (One Little Goat, a traditional Aramaic cumulative song sung at the conclusion of the Passover Seder) (the traumatic cycle) at the very beginning of the Haggadah. Following the singing of Tzvia Frank Vigoda, we all chanted it at the forefront of the Haggadah to remind ourselves of the great cyclical nature of life and death, and of the immense wheel within which we revolve, are entrapped, and with which we must contend. Thus it was last year, when we held the pre-Seder at the Alsheikh Center for Traditional Music in Tel Aviv, accompanied by a profound and soul-shaking rendition of חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle), performed at my specific request by Ruchama Carmel, Shchori, and others.

This year, we are once again compelled to invoke חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle) at the head of the Haggadah, its words remaining as painfully relevant as ever. Together, we dream of redemption within a sovereign state, yet we must not allow the dream of future redemption to shatter wondrous moral virtues.

The Infinite Circle: Between the Circle of Light and the Circle of Blood The entire Haggadah is encompassed by the circle—the infinite circle, the infinite circle of light, the circle of the Seder plate; the plate which embodies the Kabbalistic sphere of Malkhut (Kingship). It is a circular motion that can bestow goodness, yet heaven forbid, it can devolve into a traumatic loop, into the bloody cycle of חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle). In it, we repeatedly witness the endless cycle of the smiter who smites the one who preceded him. We stand there as spectators, as victims, and as victimizers, with no end to the suffering.

Therefore, we offer a prayer at the outset of this Seder to halt the cycle of blood, and to transition towards spiritual elevation, toward a process of inner Avodah (sacred service), into the infinite circle of light.

חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle) as Man's Cyclical Journey: The Commentary of Rabbi Moshe Chaim Kleinman At the conclusion of the Haggadah, I cited a commentary that interprets the processes of חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle) in a deeply individual, existential manner, as the cyclical journey of a person throughout their life. Here, the protagonist is every human being, akin to the concept of the ages of man presented by Shakespeare in As You Like It (Act II, Scene VII), and akin to the concept set forth in the Midrash regarding the order of the formation of the embryo in Ecclesiastes Rabbah (Kohelet Rabbah 1:3). Every person can be the גדי / Gedi (goat), can be the שונרא / Shunra (cat), can be the כלבא / Kalba (dog); can be the ox, the stick, the water, the fire. Every person is all of these.

Nevertheless, the capacity for integrative growth is the ability to attain sublimation—to develop all these bestial, predatory, and violent aspects, and to gather them into a place of illumination, through the light brought forth by a transcendental perspective on existence.

This beautiful commentary, which I included in the Haggadah, was authored by Rabbi Moshe Chaim Kleinman of Brisk, and from there it also appears in the Siddur of Rabbi Jacob Emden, the Beit Yaakov Siddur.

From Individual Interpretation to Collective Contemplation I believe that specifically today, as a realization of the Biblical principle of "הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה / This day" (as in Exodus 13:4, "This day came ye out"), we must look upon חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle) not solely through an individual interpretation—though that remains my favored and preferred existential stance—but also through a collective one. We must examine the dynamics that arise within every group, between us and within us. We can view our existence as a goat or an ox, as a cat or a dog, yet we must restrain violence and cultivate goodness, striving to reach those deep integrations between water and fire—and the circle of life. We must scrutinize the relationships between man and his fellow, group and group, nation and nation, for the profound meaning of חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle) is a cycle of blood, a repetitive, cyclical chain of victim and victimizer.

II. Introduction: The Seder Night as a Ritual of Fellowship and Consciousness

A Ritual of Fellowship and Consciousness What is unique about the Seder night is that, on the one hand, it is intrinsically designed as a ritual for a Chavurah (fellowship)—a ritual that invites a drawing near of hearts and faces among its members. It is a profound endeavor to gather together the concepts of fellowship, family, and community; to grant a voice to all—to women, to children, to men. All are given a voice; all sing, all speak. Conversely, it may be entirely expounded as a mystical journey, the soul's solitary voyage. It bears both interpretations, summoning key moments of integration between them throughout the Seder.

The Architecture of the Seder: The Tension Between the Circle and the Square It is instructive to contemplate its structure. There is a highly ordered architecture to this evening; it is literally sculpted, fashioned in perfection. The great tension—the conflict, the collision, or the drama of the night, perhaps its counterpoint—revolves around the tension between the circle and the square.

Both the circle and the square appear in a binary form. That is to say, the fated circle is the circle of חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle)—we are entrapped within the circle of חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle). Indeed, this was the foundation of my decision, since the first Seder following the seventh of October, to transpose חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle) to the beginning of the Haggadah, in order to speak of the peril of the fated circle and the necessity of our extrication from it. Yet, there is also the circle of destiny, the chain of metamorphoses and spiritual transmutations emerging from the traumatic wound. The circle is further represented by the Ke'arah (the Seder plate)—the mystical plate, the plate of esoteric secret (Sod), the plate of wisdom, the plate of containment. These are the two principal actors of the circle.

Running along the entirety of the Haggadah is an additional axis, for it moves along axes of length and breadth. Throughout the Haggadah lies the axis of the square: אַרְבַּע קֻשְׁיוֹת / Four Questions, אַרְבָּעָה בָנִים / Four Sons, אַרְבַּע כּוֹסוֹת / Four Cups, and more. Even numerous songs and stanzas within the Haggadah are deliberately shaped into four lines; one can feel their meter and their music.

The tension I shall present stems from the fact that there are also positive aspects to the square. That is: the capacity to confront the world in an ordered manner, with a rational, swift, and lucid doctrine, on the political plane (the square); and conversely, the capacity to sustain a mystical and spiritual consciousness (the circle). These are not contradictory elements; on the contrary, at their root, they can be complementary, striving toward wholeness. Thus, we find the tension between the two types of squares and the two types of circles: fate and destiny, mechanical thought versus a lucid, awakening consciousness.

All of this, we are asked—as communities and as families—to orchestrate into a single evening, shared by individuals of varied consciousness. Therefore, as I have stated, it is critical to read the Haggadah well in advance and prepare beforehand. On the Seder night itself, one should not refer to the Haggadah as anything other than a musical score learned in advance, an internalized structure. Now, we arrive to perform it, and to perform it with profound consciousness and spiritual intention (Kavanah); the living, intentional performance is the Seder night itself.

Because this Seder night of the year 5786—the third year of an expanding regional war—is so distinct and so difficult to enter into; because various communities and individuals arrive from vastly different extremes, making it difficult to speak of a unified communal consciousness; therefore, I have said that I am attempting to teach the Haggadah, so that perhaps some may begin to deeply know it.

III. Mending the Circle: The Plate, the Matzot, and the Breaking

The Plate as a Symbol of Infinity and the Shekhinah The table is, of course, the ultimate symbol of the shared space—it is the symbol of the home, the state, the region, the world. Upon it rests the קערה / Ke'arah (Seder plate), which symbolizes the circle, the mystical circle. At the very commencement of the Seder, we articulate simultaneously the mystical circle and the profound dread of the fated circle.

There may be those who resist the concept of opening the Haggadah with חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle), yet I perceive this as a definitive statement: the choice is entirely yours. Each individual may make their own decision subsequently, but at the very least—since I presume many will choose not to commence the evening with this song—one must intentionally pause and attune oneself to this profound meaning. The Seder night is a festival commemorating a past redemption, situated within the present reality of a regional חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle), calling upon us to pray for a future emancipated from subjugation to this cyclicality.

The mending of the circle is intrinsically bound to the initial steps taken at the head of the Seder. According to the tradition I received, the signs of Passover were invariably arranged upon a round plate. The round plate is undoubtedly an object rooted from the outset in the culture of the round tray in Eastern lands; however, a profound symbolic meaning is evident here as well. It comes to symbolize simultaneously the אינסוף / Ein Sof (Infinity) and the שכינה / Shekhinah (Divine Presence). The Shekhinah as an aspect of the plate is conceptually clear: it is the vessel, the receptacle, the receiver. The Ein Sof is frequently depicted as a circle because it encompasses all existence.

Within the circle, at the upper echelon of the plate, rest the three Matzot. They constitute the signs of כתר / Keter (Crown), חכמה / Chokhmah (Wisdom), and בינה / Binah (Understanding)—they are the signs of דעת / Da'at (Knowledge). They represent the tension between יש / Yesh (Substance) and אין / Ayin (Nothingness), which form the primary inquiries subsequently introduced into reality: how do we engage with knowledge and understanding throughout the Seder and within reality itself?

The plate, in its very circularity, represents מלכות / Malkhut (Kingship)—Malkhut, the Shekhinah, is the plate that contains all—and as stated, the circle also represents the Ein Sof. In more robust Kabbalistic terminology, we may call this מְמַלֵּא כָּל עָלְמִין וְסוֹבֵב כָּל עָלְמִין / Memale Kol Almin and Sovev Kol Almin (Filling all worlds and Encompassing all worlds). The Encompassing (Sovev) is the circumference, the Infinite, the boundary of the plate. The inwardness (Pnimiut) is the plate itself, Malkhut. The personal symbolism of the entire circle is מלך שהשלום שלו / "The King to Whom peace belongs". To each of the divine attributes (Middot), we can bind the attribute of peace and ask ourselves how we are currently navigating the Yesh and the Ayin. These are the three Matzot situated at the head of the plate: Keter, Chokhmah, and Binah.

Breaking the Matzah: The First Act of the Seder Now, the first act that emerges, following the tension structurally embedded from the start between the Infinite and the Plate, is contemplation. I believe every Seder opens with this contemplation of the tension between the circle and the Matzot—the Matzot that also represent the Shekhinah.

There are traditions wherein immediately at the onset of the Seder—as in the custom of Moroccan Jewry, for instance—they elevate the plate and immediately thereafter break the Matzah (יחץ / Yachatz), thereby representing the splitting of the Red Sea, the breaking of severe judgments (דינים / Dinim). This year, the primary act of breaking shall be dedicated to shattering the cycle of חד גדיא / Chad Gadya (the traumatic cycle). In any event, even those who do not follow these specific esoteric interpretations break the Matzot at the very beginning of the Seder to represent the element we suspend from that exact moment.

The אפיקומן / Afikoman, therefore, is an element suspended from the process of the circle; it exits outward—and this is the Shekhinah, the fracture, the void. This fracture remains in a state of waiting and suspension until the conclusion of the Seder, whereupon it will return like a missing piece of a broken puzzle, reintegrating into the holistic picture. Is this the return to sanity? The return to history? The return to the Self? Or is it perhaps suspended violence that we seek to return in a mended and sane manner, as a constructive rather than destructive attribute of judgment (Din)?

Again, it may be that as you perform these acts, there is considerable ambient noise from the family and various distractions around you. Yet, you—in your internal consciousness—can direct your intention (כוונה / Kavanah): What is this remnant that we are suspending? Or, if there is time and the capacity to expand the discourse, to learn and to teach, then one can truly reflect: What is this entity we currently wish to suspend from the table? It could be the violence itself, it could be the anxiety, the panic, or the vengeance we crave, with the profound aspiration that through a sublimative process, they will be transmuted into נחמה / Nechamah (consolation). We desire for one distinct element to depart the table at this moment, allowing us to focus our consciousness entirely upon the Infinite Light.

IV. The Circle within the Square and the Square within the Circle

Rabbi Shimon Ibn Lavi: The Tension Between the Circle and the Square Among the Masters of the Secret (Ba'alei HaSod) The first concept I wish to introduce is a deeply cherished teaching by Rabbi Shimon Ibn Lavi in Ketem Paz, his comprehensive commentary on the Zohar, wherein he elucidates the tension between the circle and the square among the mystics.

Rabbi Shimon Ibn Lavi (c. 1486 – c. 1585) was a Kabbalist who resided in Libya. In his commentary, he explains: The supernal, concealed world resembles a circle. A circle indicates that which has neither beginning nor end; by virtue of its very form and revolution, one can delineate neither a starting point nor a conclusion. In contrast, the square is composed of four lines and four corners. Therefore, he states that the square is the עטרה / Atarah (Crown), meaning the Sefirah of מלכות / Malkhut (Kingship), from which and below, boundaries are delimited by measure and proportion.

Our fundamental capacity to construct a mended world lies in our ability to measure—to deliberately assess an action (לשער מעשה / Lesha'er Ma'aseh). This assessment mirrors the act of the Holy One, blessed be He, who, when engraving the worlds, measured and declared: "This pleases Me, and this does not please Me" (דין יהניין לי ודין לא יהניין לי). Measuring is an act of establishing criteria. It generates the standards for reality, serving as both an intellectual and a spiritual yardstick, enabling the creation of a reality that we sustain, and which, in turn, sustains us.

Four States of the Circle and the Square There are four states:

1. The circle encompassing the square: A state wherein consciousness encompasses, and simultaneously relinquishes, mundane life and this world.

2. The circle within the square: A state wherein this world confines consciousness within it.

3. The circle holding the square within it: A state wherein the World to Come resides in profound awareness.

4. The square holding the circle: The state of the Shekhinah entrapped within this world and its manifold states of exile.

The Quadruple Rhythm in the Haggadah Our world necessitates these tools of focusing upon reality. Due to this need for focus, the rhythm of four recurs throughout the Haggadah. It is a constant rhythm speaking of the אַרְבָּעָה בָנִים / Four Sons—the wicked, the simple, the wise, and the one who knows not how to ask—the אַרְבַּע קֻשְׁיוֹת / Four Questions, and the אַרְבַּע כּוֹסוֹת / Four Cups. All these represent the quadruple rhythm, which I wish to connect to the paradigm of פרד"ס / PaRDeS (the four levels of exegesis).

In these times, we must update the concept of PaRDeS to reflect our capacity to hold four dimensions of consciousness: פשט / Pshat (literal), רמז / Remez (allegorical), דרש / Drash (homiletical), and סוד / Sod (mystical). We must carry them forward: not viewing Pshat merely as literal commentary akin to Rashi, nor Remez solely as allegory, nor Drash as mere legend, nor Sod exclusively as Kabbalah. Rather, if we interpret this slightly differently, we see it as a posture within the world that sustains physical existence while simultaneously enabling spiritual existence. PaRDeS serves as a paradigm and an operational guide for discourse among groups holding conflicting perceptions of reality. To this endeavor, I have devoted time and resources since the seventh of October.

The Seder Night: The Circle Attempts to Hold the Square Within It The Seder night is, inherently, a night wherein the circle attempts to hold the square within it; wherein the World to Come—the realm of freedom and redemption—steps forward and says: "Let us now attempt to hold the exile within." Yet, let it be understood, when I say that it holds the exile within, it does not imply a renunciation of the pulsation of exile. The pulsation of exile is a permanent mode of existence, of moral attributes (Middot), without which redemption loses its meaning.

Let us recall that in many Jewish communities, the musicality of the Haggadah often mirrored the mournful melodies of Tisha B'Av. This phenomenon is common to Ashkenazim, Babylonians, and Moroccans alike. True, the Seder recounted the tale of the past redemption from Egypt, while the people resided in temporary diasporic homelands; they spoke in the "mother tongue" but thought in the "father tongue"—the language of the Land of Israel and of rebuilt Jerusalem. The synchronization between the mother tongue and the father tongue remains a primary task, particularly when considering these languages in their philosophical and allegorical sense.

Jews insisted on conducting the Seder even as conversos, even behind the Iron Curtain. We must not allow the current dream of redemption, or the dream of future redemption, to shatter moral values—for that is an exile from which there is no liberation. Therefore, the tension between the square and the circle is a constant tension that we are obligated to hold and sustain. This is what the story of fate comes to remind us. How much more so must we remember this during days of fateful historical processes.

The Afikoman: Defining the Void and the Fracture After performing the act of hiding the אפיקומן / Afikoman from ourselves, it is absolutely essential that every family, every community, and every group define for itself the symbol of the Afikoman. What does the Afikoman symbolize for me? What is the element I am hiding, suspending, setting aside? What do I hope to restore to myself at the conclusion of this evening of the Haggadah? The restoration of the self? Communal thought? The mending of the relationship between Israeliness and Jewishness? What do we hope for at the end of this night? Some measure of consolation, some hope, some action? Where do we locate ourselves within this endeavor?

Each person may engage with this according to what resonates with them and their own concepts. Yet, it is highly worthwhile to establish these primary pulses and consider what we truly desire here. This process may manifest in a more whole and harmonious manner for those suited to it, and it may emerge in a more immediate, harsh manner for those who feel the burden of these concepts—and indeed, they are exceedingly heavy.

V. The Bread of Affliction: The Shekhinah in Exile

Let us now proceed to the "bread of affliction" of which the Haggadah speaks. As I have stated, the Seder night opens with the recognition that the journey is both circular and infinite.

We arrive at the declaration: הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא / "This is the bread of affliction." In our home, the home of my grandfather, it was always pronounced with a Tzere vowel—Hei Lachma Anya—never with a Patach (Ha). It was explained and illuminated that this refers to the Shekhinah—the Shekhinah residing in exile. Therefore, following the custom of the Babylonian Kabbalists, we would rise, stand, and recite these words three times in Hebrew, never forsaking their recitation in Judeo-Arabic, fortifying ourselves time and again with this contemplation of the Shekhinah.

As noted, this is the inwardness of the plate—"the whole earth is full of his glory" (Isaiah 6:3). Yet, this aspect is also one of fractured light.

Rabbi Moshe Cordovero: The Dual Faces of the Shekhinah One of the great luminaries of Kabbalah, Rabbi Moshe Cordovero (1522–1570), from the lineage of the Spanish exiles, profoundly delineated that חכמה / Chokhmah (Wisdom) is dual-natured and possesses two faces. In Kabbalah, there is אמא עילאה / Ima Ila'ah (the Supernal Mother) and אמא תתאה / Ima Tata'ah (the Lower Mother), a Supernal Shekhinah and a Lower Shekhinah. Yet, one of the most profound insights articulated by Rabbi Moshe Cordovero is that Wisdom possesses two gazes: with one gaze, she looks upward to receive further knowledge, abundance, and wisdom; with the other, she looks downward to illuminate her face with compassion (חמלה / Chemlah) upon all who are below her. And this compassion of Wisdom extends to all creatures—absolutely all creatures.

If we speak of creatures, how much more so does this apply to all human beings. This concept appears in his work Tomer Devorah (The Palm Tree of Deborah) and recurs in his Kabbalistic commentary on the Zohar. He repeatedly asserts that the Shekhinah does not ascend to unite in supernal unification (Yichud) until these lower faces, which are turned toward the profane and toward sorrow, are elevated from below to above. That is to say, the mending (Tikkun), the sublimation, the metamorphosis, the aiding of the suffering—the mending must precede the unification. Only then do the faces of compassion ascend to join the supernal faces of Wisdom.

"And it shall be supernal. How so? The Shekhinah in affliction below—expands into the world of sorrow. That is, she looks and sees, she goes from door to door gathering every plea, every request, every song, every commandment, every goodness, every charity, and then the lower faces that gaze downward in compassion are elevated upward." (Paraphrase of Rabbi Moshe Cordovero)

Rabbi Moshe Cordovero is a philosopher, a Kabbalist, and the author of the ethical treatise Tomer Devorah. It is evident that matters written in an ethical text are intended to serve as standards for human conduct. This was his intention: to describe the divine realm as a mirror reflecting a moral standard of behavior. I believe this is the central dynamic of this moral attribute. A person, every person, is required to possess both the face of wisdom and the face of compassion.

Slavery within the Four Dimensions of PaRDeS If you observe the Haggadah closely, you will notice that a vast number of its stanzas and songs are structured precisely in four lines. For example, "הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא... כָּל דִכְפִין..." / "This is the bread of affliction... Let all who are hungry...". One can feel that many songs follow a four-line rhythm, which is highly significant in light of the square structure that is so fundamental to the Haggadah.

How do I understand slavery? Slavery exists on every plane of פרד"ס / PaRDeS (the four levels of exegesis: Pshat, Remez, Drash, Sod). The planes of PaRDeS are the planes of consciousness and perception through which the world is processed, and it is in our hands to mend it or destroy it.

Since the seventh of October, I have sharply refined the project of PaRDeS. I believe that human dimensions of consciousness must be honed and lucid, each distinct unto itself. I do not believe that mysticism should artificially color and wash the entirety of reality in light; I do not believe that political insights must negate the existence of spiritual consciousness. Furthermore, I do not even believe there must be perfect symmetry among all dimensions of consciousness. Striving for such symmetry can be a grave error. Rather, the opposite is true: each dimension of consciousness must be permitted to perform its own lucid work.

Therefore, I propose the following:

• פשט / Pshat (Literal): Slavery in comprehending concrete reality. This involves understanding the plain truth, recognizing where politics does not transcend the bounds of reality. Granted, this is highly debatable, but now is not the occasion for such debate.

• רמז / Remez (Allegorical): The second slavery, which I bind to the realm of fantasy. Just as I bind Pshat to political reality, I bind Remez to fantasy, the media, fake news, and the like—an enslavement of the imagination.

• דרש / Drash (Homiletical): I bind this to the moral demand (Drisha). If we err here, we enter yet another state of slavery, failing to grasp the decisive step required of us when a moral imperative cannot be evaded.

• סוד / Sod (Mystical): This is the slavery of failing to understand the secret of the soul's exile—the fundamental exile that accompanies existence, and the inherent relativity of all achievements in this world.

For me, this is PaRDeS. In every one of these planes, we can be slaves without even realizing it. Achieving integration among all four of these planes is a lifelong project. It does not occur in a single moment; it is a labor of profound inner work (Avodah). Yet, one must labor to become truly free. Any other illusion of redemption is false.

I have developed these concepts into structured exercises that can be transmitted and expanded into a framework for study and discourse among varying groups.

VI. The Journey of the Soul in Exile: Upper Exiles and Lower Exiles

The Soul's Journey in Exile: Upper Exiles and Lower Exiles I have titled this evening "The Journey of the Soul." Why? Because in certain Kabbalistic texts, the existential journey of humanity is defined as the journey of the soul in exile. Primarily, according to Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism, the very descent into this physical world constitutes an exile. As expressed in the well-known Hasidic melody: "מִפְּנֵי מַה יָּרְדָה הַנְּשָׁמָה מֵאִגְּרָא רָמָה לְבֵירָא עֲמִיקְתָּא? / For what reason did the soul descend from a high roof to a deep pit?" Indeed, this is the plummet of the soul into this world. The perception of this world as an exile is a dimension of consciousness that grants us a sense of proportion and relativity regarding the power-driven achievements of this earthly realm.

Therefore, "Upper Exiles and Lower Exiles" (גלויות עילאות וגלויות תחתיות / Galuyot Ila'ot and Galuyot Tachtiyot)—this unique Kabbalistic concept—addresses the process wherein existential enlightenment occurs as you realize the multiplying planes upon which you are exiled from your own self. This realization is not always easily revealed to us; rather, it is uncovered through our errors and transgressions. We have not always acted optimally, nor do we boast of every deed. The fundamental question is: Have we ultimately managed to learn from these events? Through this suffering, through the initial conditions of existence thrust upon us, and through the myriad mistakes we have made—have we arrived at a state of liberation and purification? That is the journey through the upper exiles and lower exiles.

The Haggadah as a Post-Destruction Text The notion that the Seder night, or Passover itself, speaks solely of the Egyptian redemption in a simplistic, religious-nationalist manner, is categorically incorrect. This is neither the purpose nor the intention of the festival. It is certainly incorrect from a Kabbalistic perspective, but even from a plain homiletical standpoint, it is false, for many of the texts of the Passover Haggadah were authored following the destruction of the Second Temple, and amidst the embers of that very destruction.

Observe: The sages who authored the Passover Haggadah and its derivatives were not the men who brought a lamb to the courtyard of the Temple and sacrificed it with joy and songs of Hallel. They were individuals already sitting in exile and dispersion—in Lod, in Bnei Brak, and in Yavneh. Meaning, at the exact moment they were casting the memory of Egypt and the redemption from it, they were acutely experiencing the destruction within the Land of Israel. When we listen closely to this, we hear the dual resonance chamber of the Haggadah and perceive something far more profound concerning its nature.

The Haggadah seeks to establish a memory, but what kind of memory? It is a mechanism the Jewish people have known throughout their history—repeatedly traversing a post-destruction consciousness that attempts to generate a primordial memory of something that has not yet occurred, from a place where we seemingly no longer reside. The Haggadah is not an apocalyptic text; it does not speak of a redemption achieved through the force of arms or born of catastrophic destruction. It speaks, and concludes, with the prayerful hope: "לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין / Next year, may we be free people," in a rebuilt Jerusalem.

The Four Questions and the Pulses of the Seder Night These Four Questions present our opportunity. There are several profound "pulses" throughout the evening. Whoever conducts the Seder and convenes a community, family, or friends, may note on a piece of paper the core symbols they wish to ask the assembled to interpret. As I exemplified earlier: the Plate, Infinity, the Shekhinah, the tension between the circles, the breaking of the Matzah, the moment of the fracture, the definition of the Afikoman—the definition of the void, the definition of the element we choose to suspend.

This element brings us to the square. We have departed the circle and arrived at the square. The square, as I defined it, is the paradigm of פרד"ס / PaRDeS, and we engage with it through the אַרְבָּעָה בָנִים / Four Sons who ask these questions. Observe, as well, the structure when we ask "מַה נִּשְׁתַּנָּה / Mah Nishtanah": there are four inquiries—

• "הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻּלּוֹ מַצָּה / On this night, only matzah."

• "הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה מָרוֹר / On this night, bitter herbs."

• "הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה שְׁתֵּי פְעָמִים / On this night, we dip twice."

• "הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻּלָּנוּ מְסֻבִּין / On this night, we all recline."

This is the distinct nature of the night. Four is a paradigm, a Gestalt, of the cosmic universe of reality within a given world. It is the Gestalt of a reality that does not seek to destroy the world, which the Seder night endeavors to comprehend.

VII. Ponder the Path of Thy Feet: Humility as the Motto of the Seder Night

Bahya ben Asher: The Attribute of Humility I wish to pause and speak of the profound humility with which one must approach the Seder night. Let us examine Kad HaKemach by Bahya ben Asher—a fourteenth-century Kabbalist and commentator who lived in Spain. He was associated with the circle of Solomon ben Aderet, yet was also deeply involved with the esoteric circles of the Zohar.

He posits that the attribute of humility is the mean between the first extreme, which is pride, and the second extreme, which is degradation:

"And behold, the mean in all other attributes is the balanced and good path for a person to traverse and conduct himself by, without yielding to either of the extremes, which is an evil thing."

And upon this, he notes that Solomon said: "פַּלֵּס מַעְגַּל רַגְלֶךָ / Ponder the path of thy feet" (Proverbs 4:26).

My guiding motto for this entire evening is this verse: "פַּלֵּס מַעְגַּל רַגְלֶךָ וְכָל דְּרָכֶיךָ יִכֹּנוּ / Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be established." It is a wondrous verse from the wisdom of Proverbs; I view it as the spiritual motto for the entire evening and the defining principle for the interplay between the circle and the square. That is to say, establish your circle—for within the circle you contemplate, you relinquish the ego, and you form existence. And then, "let all thy ways be established"—your subsequent steps within the square are sustained.

The Peles: The Balances and the Standards of Measure This attribute of humility is exceedingly profound. Note that the verse states, "פַּלֵּס מַעְגַּל רַגְלֶךָ / Ponder (Pales) the path of thy feet." He interprets "to ponder" (לפלס / Lefales) from the root of פלס / Peles—the scale, the balances. I spoke earlier of the scales, of the standards of measure. The scale represents the mean between the two pans, with nothing deviating outward. And then:

"All your attributes shall be established—all of a person's attributes, for it is the straight path upon which to walk. And this is why he added an explanation, stating immediately thereafter: 'אַל תֵּט יָמִין וּשְׂמֹאול / Turn not to the right hand nor to the left' (Proverbs 4:27), meaning that one should walk in the middle and not deviate toward either extreme."

Naturally, he speaks here of right and left in the celestial context of the divine attributes of חסד / Chesed (Loving-kindness) and דין / Din (Judgment). Yet, one might suggest that if we wished to gather Israeli society toward a middle path, this would serve as an excellent paradigm. Above all, we must generate the middle path—the middle path in the sense I have described, which is inextricably linked to humility and the balanced mean.

Judah Loew: The Circle, the Dance, and the Point in the Center Why did I state that the circle, in a certain sense, entails existing without ego? I will briefly invoke the words of Judah Loew of Prague (c. 1520 – 1609). In his work Be'er HaGolah, Judah Loew discusses this primarily in the context of the מָחוֹל / Machol—the dance. But the word "מחול" in Hebrew denotes not only dance; it also shares a root with "לְחוֹלֵל" (to generate, to create).

"To indicate this matter of elevation, for the dance is a revolution and a circle, and there is no circle without a center. And it is known that the center, which is the midst of the circle, is distinct from the entire circle, for the center stands in and of itself—it leans neither to the right nor to the left, neither forward nor backward. And because of this, the center is distinct from everything."

And this moment, when we establish a point within the circle—a point that is neither right nor left—perhaps it shall be the very point from which we can truly listen to one another within Israeli society. Seekers of peace, as I understand it, must strive to generate (Lechollel) a middle ground between the opposing poles.

Judah Loew reiterates this in his work Tiferet Yisrael, Chapter 36, emphasizing again that the point is the essence, and it is the absolute center of the circle. For me, the figurative imagery of the point and the circle is a fundamental element in the meditations and the exercises of consciousness associated with the eve of Passover.

VIII. Seventy Years: Remembering the Exodus at Night

'Seventy Years' In the Haggadah, it is stated: "הֲרֵי אֲנִי כְּבֶן שִׁבְעִים שָׁנָה, וְלֹא זָכִיתִי שֶׁתֵּאָמֵר יְצִיאַת מִצְרַיִם בַּלֵּילוֹת / Behold, I am as a man of seventy years, yet I did not merit that the exodus from Egypt be recounted at night" (Mishnah, Berakhot 1:5). Several homilies (Midrashim) are brought forth regarding this:

Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah said: "Behold, I am as a man of seventy years, yet I did not merit that the exodus from Egypt be recounted at night, until Ben Zoma expounded it, as it is stated: 'לְמַעַן תִּזְכֹּר אֶת יּוֹם צֵאתְךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם כֹּל יְמֵי חַיֶּיךָ / That thou mayest remember the day when thou camest forth out of the land of Egypt all the days of thy life' (Deuteronomy 16:3). 'The days of thy life' indicates the days; 'all the days of thy life' includes the nights."

Suddenly, individuals sit and remember the exodus from Egypt both by day and by night. This is a moment signifying that perhaps, previously, they did not actually sit and converse throughout the entire night. Suddenly, this practice evolves—sitting and speaking all night long. And we understand what "the night" is. Night is not merely linear time, a pulse within the twenty-four-hour cycle; it is also the long night of the soul, the night of exile, the night that yearns for love, song, and redemption. In this sense, the night is everything. It is also the night wherein—as the Sages expound following the destruction of the Temple—there are celestial watches, during which the Holy One, blessed be He, roars and weeps over the destruction of His house (Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 3a).

Indeed, the question is: What are we asking during this night? For we have been situated in a state of profound הסתר פנים / Hester Panim (concealment of the Divine Face) over the past two to three years. These chaotic processes are global processes. Our lives are transpiring within a great night. Literally, there are multitudes across this region who do not sleep, who cannot find slumber. Figuratively, we possess no tools to truly comprehend the ramifications of what is currently unfolding beneath this darkness, this chaos.

The Four Sons as Four Inquiries of Consciousness Initially, when I established this Seder—this pre-Seder—I hoped I might manage to compress into it an interpretive discourse on reality, society, and politics. However, it simply seems too vast for a single evening. I may separate that into a subsequent discourse, but I will state here the absolute necessity.

I propose translating the "Four Sons" and these four questions. Let us not speak of a wise son, a wicked son, a simple son, and one who knows not how to ask. Rather, let us speak of four questions racing among us, within every individual: the wise question, the wicked question, the simple question, and the wounded question. (I elaborate on this on page 23). I am condensing these four questions, refining them, and I find them acutely relevant for this Seder night as well.

The Wise Question: "What are the testimonies, and the statutes, and the judgments?" "מָה הָעֵדֹת וְהַחֻקִּים וְהַמִּשְׁפָּטִים / What mean the testimonies, and the statutes, and the judgments...?" (Deuteronomy 6:20). This is the wise question. Come, friends, what must be done so that it may be better for all, so that it may be more pleasant for everyone to live in this place, in this state, in this land, in this world? What are the correct principles? What is the constitution? What are the laws? What are the judgments? Asked in the most direct manner, leveled on the scales (Peles HaMoznayim), precise and unvarnished—this is the first question, an exceedingly wise inquiry.

The "Wicked" Question: "What mean ye by this service?" The second question, "מָה הָעֲבֹדָה הַזֹּאת לָכֶם / What mean ye by this service?" (Exodus 12:26), is one we traditionally understand through negation. Indeed, the wicked one mocks and says, "What mean ye by this service?" Yet, if we examine this question inversely, it is an excellent question. It essentially asks: Cast aside ideologies; let us ask, what is the praxis our society requires? Over ideologies, one can war indefinitely; regarding praxis, we can converge from disparate places and extremes.

The act of peacemaking is also a praxis. Agreements and covenants are praxis. If we diminish the weight of ideological declarations—even while everyone is angry, hateful, and harboring deep resentments against one another—if we adhere to the moral code, which remains eternally stable regardless of what fantasies and dreams of grandiose redemption saturate the atmosphere; and if we ask ourselves what praxis can unite us all, distilling matters down to concrete action—this can prevent the shattering that is already unfolding, that is occurring constantly.

The Simple Question: "What is this?" "מַה זֹּאת / What is this?" (Exodus 13:14)—this, of course, is the simple question. I believe that so many among us in Israel today are collectively asking: What is this? What is happening to us here? People are enduring horrific suffering and do not fully comprehend what is occurring, to whom it is occurring, or why it is occurring. Events continue to roll forward in a seemingly fatalistic, autonomous manner. People in the North sit, scarcely able to escape their situation. We see people weeping on the news, people being killed, people being wounded. We gaze upon the entire Middle East—and certainly, there are those who interpret this with immense euphoria. They speak of the situation in "redemptive" language. This is not the posture of the spiritual person. If we view this from the perspective of naked humanity, it is clear there are unfathomable systems of suffering here, existing in masses and scopes impossible to measure in the present, with future ramifications impossible to calculate.

The Wounded Question: The Son Who Knows Not How to Ask What have we endured within Israeli society over nearly three years? Physical wounding, communal wounding, moral wounding from the death and suffering of the other. It is incomprehensible. The son who knows not how to ask is bereft of words. He has lost all measure in the face of terror and destruction. Such has he been since the destruction of the Temple.

And this dynamic frames our circle within a square that truly challenges us: How can we declare, "הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא / This is the bread of affliction"? To whom are we opening the door? What are we doing with all of this?

The mending (Tikkun) must begin with us, here, in the home, in the state, but crucially and urgently—in philosophical discourse, in language, in the capacity to define a new language by creating a structure for speaking of the dimensions of consciousness. And this is precisely what the four sons present.

Ultimately, when the Haggadah was edited and finalized following the destruction of the Second Temple, it brought forth four voices, four voices of questioning: What is happening? What do we do? For the son who knows not how to ask is already utterly traumatized; he no longer possesses a question; he does not know what to ask. This is how I understand the Haggadah; this is how I understand the outcry of these four sons.

The Wise and the Wicked reside in the greatest conflict of ideology versus praxis: If so, toward what do we distill matters? How do we order them? And the "What is this?" and the "One who knows not how to ask"—they are the traumatized ones.

The Four Who Entered the Orchard (PaRDeS) as a Parallel to the Four Sons If we parallel them to the four who entered the Orchard (PaRDeS)—Akiva, Elisha (ben Abuyah), Ben Zoma, and Ben Azzai (Tosefta, Hagigah 2:3-4; Babylonian Talmud, Hagigah 14b)—this illuminates the matter extraordinarily. There is no doubt that the four who entered the Orchard parallel the four sons of the Haggadah. In my view, this is beyond doubt.

We have two pairs here: Elisha and Akiva are the first pair—the Wise and the Wicked. And Ben Zoma and Ben Azzai—the one who seemingly died of love or madness, and the one who gazed and was stricken—they parallel "What is this?" and the profound silence.

If the Wise and the Wicked are two poles, if Akiva and Elisha are two poles, then the silent ones, the enamored ones, and the dead ones are the center—the medium that turns toward these poles and implores them to converge upon a path that will be good for all.

Between Circle and Square: Wisdom, Praxis, and the Healing of Trauma We do not currently have the luxury of time to engage solely in narcissism, solely in meditations, solely in mindfulness, solely in calming the consciousness—although it is legitimate. It is legitimate. Any person running to a shelter or a safe room—and I constantly hear the sirens—these events are unbearable. So it is obvious we wish to consider how to traverse these days with greater quietude, in a state of relaxation. Of course we do. It is clear that consciousness is freedom and a source of strength, and we wish to cleave to it. Yet, it is also egoistic to remain solely in that realm, unless I possess no resources to think of the collective.

It is logical that amidst the distress of bombardments, while running to a safe room or shelter (if available), we desire thoughts of the World to Come; we lean upon the strength and resilience that only the circle can provide. But we must also direct our minds to the square, and this is a daily labor—not only for Passover—and it is demanded of us. It is tested by our ability to bring to the table guests who differ from our opinions, and in our capacity to engage in this very discourse. For I have heard from so many friends, men and women, that there is fracture within families, that there are people who find it difficult even to speak to one another. It begins from this place.

Therefore, I say: "כְּנֶגֶד אַרְבָּעָה בָנִים דִּבְּרָה תוֹרָה / The Torah speaks of four sons"—it is simply wondrous. They established the four sons, attached verses to each, yet did so beautifully. And it is our duty—"אַתְּ פְּתַח לוֹ / You open [the conversation] for him"—we must open the door for everyone and open the capacity to ask.

If we so choose, we can align the four cups from the beginning of the Haggadah with each of the four sons. Frequently, I have recommended incorporating four daughters as well and assigning them roles. But today, I believe both the son and the daughter must be gathered to the essence—it is not about posing a feminist question or a masculine question. It is vital to state: the son and the daughter, the mother and the father, are all gathered to this nexus of wisdom, praxis, and the healing of trauma.

The healing of trauma—this is what the simple son and the son who knows not how to ask are begging of us. So many young sons and daughters, who are still serving, are asking us to help with this very point. And the assistance of the wise son and the wicked son is to unite, to generate a dialectic between the poles, movement, and agreement. The assistance is to bring forth the statutes and the correct service (Avodah)—that is the help, that is the square, it is not the circle. But the square is absolutely necessary as well.

IX. "And This is What Has Stood": Promise, Repentance, and Redemption

"Vhi She'amda": The Promise and the Shekhinah "וְהִיא שֶׁעָמְדָה לַאֲבוֹתֵינוּ וְלָנוּ / And this is what has stood by our fathers and us"—observe, we continually witness this rhythm, the square: "שֶׁלֹּא אֶחָד בִּלְבָד עָמַד עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ, אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר עוֹמְדִים עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ, וְהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא מַצִּילֵנוּ מִיָּדָם / For not only one has risen up against us to destroy us, but in every generation they rise up to destroy us, and the Holy One, blessed be He, delivers us from their hands." There is a deeply rooted esoteric tradition that "וְהִיא / And this [She]" refers to the שכינה / Shekhinah (Divine Presence).

On the literal level (פשט / Pshat) of the Haggadah, this refers to the Divine promise. For immediately prior, the text states that God made a promise to Abraham: "בָּרוּךְ שׁוֹמֵר הַבְטָחָתוֹ לְיִשְׂרָאֵל, בָּרוּךְ הוּא / Blessed is He who keeps His promise to Israel, blessed be He." Thus, it is this very promise that is being discussed; the promise is what has stood. Yet, Nachmanides, in his commentary on the Torah portion of Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 30:2), states: He promises that you will repent.

That is to say, Nachmanides insists that redemption cannot manifest without preceding repentance (תשובה / Teshuvah). He does not assert that God simply promises to redeem you unconditionally. Recall the renowned debate among the Tannaim: Which precedes which? Does redemption precede repentance, or does repentance precede redemption? (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 97b). Nachmanides asserts: Repentance precedes redemption.

But when the Sages debate, they raise the inevitable question: What will occur if no one repents? Nachmanides answers: The Divine will orchestrate historical circumstances such that the nation will be compelled to repent. And repentance, among its many profound dimensions, is the ultimate return to the self.

The Afikoman and the Restoration of the Self "The restoration of the self"—I believe this is one of the core concepts the אפיקומן / Afikoman represents in the Haggadah. It embodies the hope for the restoration of the self, the return from exile, and specifically, the return from the inner exile of the soul. This remains intensely relevant, even as we are currently consumed by the ramifications of this exile on a massive collective level.

"Arami Oved Avi": The Descent into the Pit and the Ascent from It We recite the words of the Haggadah while partaking of the four cups, eventually arriving at the text that stands at the very fulcrum of the evening. In actuality, this rhythm of "אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי / A Syrian ready to perish was my father" is extracted from a scene of profound confession and thanksgiving in the Torah. When a person brings the first fruits (ביכורים / Bikkurim), they are joyous and moved. In a reflective moment acknowledging the goodness bestowed upon them, they declare: "אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי, וַיֵּרֶד מִצְרַיְמָה, וַיָּגָר שָׁם בִּמְתֵי מְעָט; וַיְהִי־שָׁם, לְגוֹי גָּדוֹל עָצוּם וָרָב / A Syrian ready to perish was my father, and he went down into Egypt, and sojourned there with a few, and became there a nation, great, mighty, and populous" (Deuteronomy 26:5). "And he went down into Egypt"—compelled by the Divine decree.

I interpret this entire passage as the pinnacle of the Haggadah. At its heart, historical memory is delineated as a pit. It echoes Joseph's descent into the pit, a falling deeper and deeper, culminating in the climactic verses: "וָאֶעֱבֹר עָלַיִךְ וָאֶרְאֵךְ מִתְבּוֹסֶסֶת בְּדָמָיִךְ, וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי, וָאֹמַר לָךְ בְּדָמַיִךְ חֲיִי / And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live" (Ezekiel 16:6). Indeed, this speaks to a nation that has repeatedly emerged from crematoria, from holocausts, from expulsions, and has been told that it shall live out of blood, and despite blood.

And now, the nation must consider—the entirety of the Jewish people must deeply consider—how this historical trial of exile and immense suffering does not morph into a trauma that imprisons it in an eternal covenant of blood. This is the existential question standing before us. "In thy blood, Live" requires a radically new interpretation and a renewed life mission.

This descent into the pit concludes with the piercing cry of "אַיֵּה / Ayeh" (Where?). I brought the teachings of Likutei Moharan to elucidate this specific point, but time does not permit me to teach it at this moment. As I mentioned, perhaps we will convene a smaller Chavruta (study fellowship) following this pre-Seder to delve into it.

Further on, you can witness the continuation: the verses signifying the ascent from the pit. There is a tangible trajectory here, both musically and figuratively—like a plummet into an abyss, a desperate cry, followed by an elevation and an ascent from the depths. Often, our Sages generate a profound, poetic literary statement simply by juxtaposing and arranging existing verses, without needing to utter a single new word.

XI. Likutey Moharan, the Name "Ehyeh" (I AM), and the Cry

A passage from Likutey Moharan appears in the Haggadah I edited, specifically from Likutey Moharan Tinyana, Torah 12. I will briefly offer a few words upon it. I cited Rabbi Nachman of Breslov twice in the Haggadah I authored, as I cherish his profound contemplations on the Divine Name "אֶהְיֶה" / "Ehyeh" (I AM, as in Exodus 3:14, "אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה / I AM THAT I AM") and the profound connection between the Name "Ehyeh" and the צעקה / Tze'akah (the primal cry).

The manner in which the cry serves as the attempt to discover the solution, the Supernal Glory, brings us to a state where, precisely from the sheer magnitude of His concealment and hiddenness, He animates places. This requires explanation—it is a vital principle revealed by Rabbi Moshe Cordovero: specifically, the infinity of God is indifferent.

What does it mean that the infinite dimension of the Divine is "indifferent"? It sounds akin to apathy, but it signifies that because He is utterly infinite, there are no hierarchies within Him. Therefore, in a certain sense, Rabbi Moshe Cordovero marvels and asks: How can it be that God is an insulted King (מלך עלוב / Melekh Aluv)? He is an insulted King because He bestows upon us all the power in the world, and by His very power, we perpetrate evil. By the life-force of God Himself, we commit evil in the world. This is the absolute infinity of God. From this divine capacity, the spiritual attribute of השתוות / Hishtavut (equanimity) is derived for humanity.

Rabbi Nachman returns to this concept, asserting: On the one hand, His glory fills all existence; yet, this extends even into places of defilement and idolatry. That is to say, in the absolute lowest abyss to which a person has fallen, the Infinite Light remains present, for it is non-hierarchical. Precisely when you are driven to despair, saying, "There is no revelation of the Shekhinah here, there is nothing holy here"—the desperate cry of "אַיֵּה" / "Ayeh" (Where?) immediately touches the very concealment of the Divinity that is intimate to every person, elevating him directly to the Divine Name "אֶהְיֶה" / "Ehyeh".

There is an additional reflection by Rabbi Nachman concerning the Name "Ehyeh", connected to a mystical innovation regarding this Name by Rabbi Isaac Luria (brought forth in his name by Rabbi Hayyim Vital). The Kabbalists frequently engaged in the permutation and reverse reading of letters. The word אהיה (A-H-Y-H), when read backward, becomes ה-י-ה-א (H-Y-H-A)—which auditorily forms a literal, guttural cry. I have attempted to demonstrate this vocally. Incidentally, this has influenced me deeply; it echoes in my poetry and manifests in musical pieces I have composed.

This entire primal scream embodied in the reversed letters of A-H-Y-H is encapsulated in the call "אַיֵּה" / "Ayeh". As we recite in the liturgy: "אַיֵּה מְקוֹם כְּבוֹדוֹ לְהַעֲרִיצוֹ / Where is the place of His glory, that we may revere Him?" Traditions from the Baal Shem Tov, Rabbi Ephraim, and Rabbi Nachman are brought concerning this matter. This also bears a profound connection to the musicality of the prayer leader (the Shaliach Tzibbur) when reciting "Where is the place of His glory," and the sacred tradition to immensely elongate the vocalization of the word "Ayeh"—as if one is truly, desperately searching for something lost in the dark.

XII. Pesach, Matzah, and Maror: The Heart of the Haggadah

Therefore, this is what lies before us—this is the ascent from the pit. We arrive here at the very heart of the Haggadah: "כָּל שֶׁלֹּא אָמַר שְׁלוֹשָׁה דְּבָרִים אֵלּוּ בַּפֶּסַח, לֹא יָצָא יְדֵי חוֹבָתוֹ, וְאֵלּוּ הֵן: פֶּסַח, מַצָּה, וּמָרוֹר / Whosoever hath not said these three things on Passover hath not fulfilled his obligation, and these are they: the Passover sacrifice, unleavened bread, and bitter herbs" (Mishnah, Pesachim 10:5). For these were the concrete elements. They were the praxis of the Passover festival. In practice, when the people observed the festival of Passover, they possessed the lamb offering termed "Pesach," they partook of the Matzah, and they partook of the Maror. These are the three manifestations; if a person enacts them, he has fulfilled Passover, according to the method of the Sages, according to the method of the Haggadah.

I believe that so many times we all—most of us, I imagine—heard as children the homiletic teaching (Drashah) that "פֶּסַח / Pesach" is an acronym for "פֶּה-סָח / Peh-sach" (a speaking mouth). I experience it more acutely at this moment as the fracture between the mouth and the act of speech, and the profound demand placed upon language itself.

In the year this Haggadah was written, there were still hostages held in the tunnels. I acknowledge Dr. Avi Ofer—I see he is present here—from the Democratic Civil Movement. Good evening, Avi. I know you have fought on many fronts, not only on this one, but on numerous planes. You struggle. Thank you.

The Matzah as Supreme Freedom: Between Exile and Cognitive Redemption The Matzah represents the supreme freedom. It is profound, yet according to Kabbalah, humanity is inherently situated in a state of supreme freedom; the soul, from its genesis, resides in a state of supreme freedom. Consequently, this state is identified with the Sefirah of בינה / Binah (Understanding). There are even Kabbalistic schools that referred to Binah as "מִצְרַיִם / Mitzrayim" (Egypt) and "בֵּין הַמְּצָרִים / Bein HaMetzarim" (between the straits). The departure and the subsequent descent into this physical world constitute the fall into slavery.

Thus, once again, we have two Matzot: the Matzah that represents the שכינה / Shekhinah (Divine Presence), and the Matzah that represents supreme freedom. This encapsulates the tension between existing within a fractured exile in the world, and dwelling within a state of redemptive consciousness.

The Maror and the Sacrifice: The Sweetening of Judgments The Maror is the sacrifice and the sanctification of the Divine Name. In these years, I have preferred to bind Pesach specifically to the mending of speech, and the Maror to the mending of the sacrifice. Unquestionably, Israeli society over these past three years has offered numerous sacrifices. Just today, we heard of those killed in Nahariya, and every single day we hear of further casualties and deepening agony within Israeli society and the people of Israel.

The חרוסת / Charoset was perpetually identified in the Midrash with the mortar from which the Hebrews were compelled to knead bricks, and it was consistently defined that within this mortar lay the blood of the victims and the dead. Therefore, I preferred, this time, an interpretation of the Maror and the Charoset that points toward the sacrifice.

The most terrifying peril for a society that feels it has made a colossal sacrifice is the insidious notion that, precisely because of what has already been sacrificed, one must sacrifice even more; that it becomes agonizingly difficult to halt these processes, due to the overwhelming feeling that so much has already been forfeited. This is a dreadful, looming danger at our doorstep. For at every single moment—even amidst the unfolding of a regional war of the current magnitude—at every moment, it is always right to strive for covenants, for agreements, and for the cessation of destructive processes that generate ever more victims on massive scales, the proportions of which are unimaginable across the entire region. This will forever remain true. And it will forever remain true to declare that even if sacrifices were made—they were ultimately offered to build life, and not to generate further death.

XIII. The Sweetening of the Sacrifices: The Path to Agreements

Therefore, I propose: What constitutes the sweetening of the sacrifices? It is written on page 43. The sole sweetening is the profound realization that the inherent meaning of the sacrifice is that we are absolutely compelled to reach a consensus, to forge agreements, in order to establish the infrastructure for a new political order. These agreements must advance irrespective of reconciliation or mutual understanding. There is no correlation between reaching agreements and being "right." Agreements are designed to pave a path toward a reasonable, sustainable future.

So, what does the sacrifice demand of us? What does the Maror demand of us? Forgiveness regarding the past, agreements in the present, and the construction of sustainable good for the sake of the future—for the sake of the four sons and the four daughters. This is the precise moment to synchronize the circle and the square. And this is the profound meaning of the sweetening of judgments (המתקת הדינים / Hamtakat HaDinim) according to Kabbalah.

Again, I am not attempting to state this in a partisan political manner. I assume that among those listening, there are individuals who lean further to the left, and those who lean significantly to the right. I am attempting to articulate these concepts in language that is as abstract as possible at this moment, seeking to pave the middle path—a path that facilitates dialogue and mending (Tikkun), enabling us all to reside in this place and inhabit it within a moral framework and an aspiration toward the good. Agreements and covenants are forged with enemies first, and only subsequently with allies. Only in this manner can we halt the perpetual cycle of recurring victimhood.

"In Every Generation": Memory, the Ancestors, and the New Song From this perspective, I say: "בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם / In every generation, a person is obligated to regard himself as though he had gone forth from Egypt" (Mishnah, Pesachim 10:5)—to arrive in the Land as if we had never before entered it. The profound meaning of "In every generation" is that a person must transmit the memory of the ancestors to his child.

This is because our ancestors desire to be redeemed alongside us. This is the essence of tradition; this is the meaning of religious hermeneutics. This is the reason why religious individuals, but also completely secular individuals, delve into Hebrew tradition, seeking to extract relevant meaning from it. Our fathers desire to be redeemed with us; our mothers as well. Therefore, they implore us not to forsake the spirit of the Jewish conscience, the Jewish morality transmitted from generation to generation.

Honi the Circle-Maker and the Seventy Years Seventy years—says Honi the Circle-Maker (Honi HaMe'agel), who knew how to draw circles. Honi was a man of mandalas. He was perpetually drawing mandalas; he knew how to execute them (Babylonian Talmud, Ta'anit 23a). This evokes the wondrous mandalas drawn by Bilha Yinon—the mother of the peacemaker Maoz Yinon, of Ma'ayan, and of the entire family.

And for seventy years, we were as in a dream—in a dream, in our own eyes. And this regularization of Judaism and Israeliness is the "New Song" (שִׁיר חָדָשׁ / Shir Chadash): How does each individual wish to define for themselves what constitutes a "New Song"? For the Jewish homiletical tradition asserts that a "New Song" denotes a sustainable redemption. A "song" (שִׁירָה / Shirah, feminine) implies a transient redemption; a "New Song" (שִׁיר חָדָשׁ / Shir Chadash, masculine) is a sustainable redemption.

I wish to propose that a sustainable redemption is one wherein we know how to contain the exile within it. When we know how to encompass the correct dimension of exile within reality—then, when we possess a standard for the relativity of matters within concrete reality, and from a profound recognition of the existence of others, of communities, individuals, and nations, we can approach the labor of redemption.

The Hallel, the Sacrifice, and the New Song We know that the eating at the Seder night stands in place of consuming the sacrifice, the Paschal lamb. When the Children of Israel would bring the sacrifice to the Temple to slaughter the festival offering, they would sing. In the Temple, when the lambs were brought, the fellowships (Chavurot) would arrive in Jerusalem to slaughter the festival offering and roast it within the confines of the courtyard. And amidst the slaughtering, they would recite the Hallel.

This is the reason that today, as we observe the Passover night as a memorial to redemption, we partake of the meal and, amidst the eating, we sing the Hallel, subsequently reciting the Grace After Meals (Birkat HaMazon). This is intended to mirror the ritual of eating the lamb, wherein the recitation of the Hallel historically occurred between the bringing to the altar and the eating in the courtyard.

This is a moment we can perceive as profoundly significant; perhaps, amidst the meal, we can discourse upon this New Song, which is truly a song of redemption. For me, in my childhood, when my grandfather would rise and declare: "לְפִיכָךְ אֲנַחְנוּ חַיָּבִים לְהוֹדוֹת, לְהַלֵּל, לְשַׁבֵּחַ, לְפָאֵר, לְרוֹמֵם, לְהַדָּר, לְבָרֵךְ, לְעַלֵּה וּלְקַלֵּס / Therefore we are obligated to thank, praise, laud, glorify, exalt, honor, bless, extol, and adore"—I cannot even articulate the sheer intensity of the emotion.

Presently, before you, I merely speak the words rather than singing them, but I believe contemplating "What is the New Song?" constitutes a true pinnacle. There are not many such blessings recited over an abstract concept—a blessing whose entire essence is simply the blessing of redemption. And here, it is truly put to the test: How do we comprehend redemption? This defines the intentionality (Kavanah) directed toward the very recitation of this blessing.

XIV. Redemption: Not Sovereign Power, but a Moral Order Formed by Reflection

I personally do not conceive of redemption as a sovereign power wielded over a group, a regime, or a state. I believe that is a profoundly insufficient definition. As we discussed regarding upper exiles and lower exiles, and the soul's journey into this world—a world that is entirely chaotic—every act of establishing "order" (Seder), in the absolute fullest sense of the word, is intrinsically linked to the capacity to establish diverse standards of measure. (I will expand upon this, God willing, in a forthcoming article).

Yet, the world is chaotic to such a degree that it is seemingly seductive, and ostensibly justified, to attempt to impose a single, uniform standard upon it—and precisely therein lies the distortion. It can mutate into a force that merely amplifies the chaos. We must gaze upon the disparate fragments, these sparks, the shattered pieces of this vast fractal—which is no longer a fractal at all. We must locate radically divergent standards of measure, fraught with dissonance among them, and attempt to pave a path through it all.

Therefore, the profound meaning of "What mean ye by this service?" lies in discovering the praxis. And therefore, immense significance lies in discovering and contemplating what constitutes the New Song. The Seder night is an opportunity wherein each individual orchestrates the theater of the soul, the theater of the nation, and the theater of society within their own community, attempting at that very moment to symbolically enact the mending (Tikkun) to which they aspire.

"Ponder the Path of Thy Feet": The Middle Path in Kabbalah and Hasidism It is clear to me that I could have expanded upon this significantly. There are numerous other Kabbalistic and consciousness-based intentions (Kavanot) I prepared. I merely wish to pause and see if there is anything essential I have omitted.

I shall not conclude without mentioning a brief teaching by Rabbi Joseph Caro, recorded in his work Maggid Meisharim. In one of his revelations, he too writes concerning this beautiful verse: "פַּלֵּס מַעְגַּל רַגְלֶךָ וְכָל דְּרָכֶיךָ יִכֹּנוּ / Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be established" (Proverbs 4:26).

"This is the Lower Matronita (Matronita Tata'ah), that he should direct to her the Supernal Sefirot. And the term 'ponder' (Pales)—this means to say that he should emanate judgment and mercy equally, and not one excessively."

As you know, he experienced revelations that he would receive at dawn. Sometimes, even though it was the Mishnah revealing itself to him, she would impart commentaries on the Torah on Shabbat mornings. It is deeply fascinating to consider the rationale of the Mishnah revealing herself to offer Torah commentary. He himself is already immersed in Kabbalah, and he is a descendant of the exiles from Spain and Portugal.

I believe one reason for this is that it functions like concentric circles of consciousness within him, like spirals rushing into one another. The secret (Sod) reveals something to the homily (Drash), the homily reveals something to the literal meaning (Pshat), and he exists within a cognitive spiral that unfolds revelation from layer to layer.

When he is told "Ponder the path of thy feet," he is told: "This is the Matronita"—meaning the Lower Matronita, the Shekhinah. You must direct toward her the supernal circle of the Sefirot, the supernal diamonds. He then asks: What is the meaning of "the term Pales"? Why is the language of Pales used here?

He too explains, akin to the Alshich, that "Pales" stems from the root of a scale, a balance weight—so that you may emanate judgment (Din) and mercy (Rachamim) equally. This is the method to sustain reality: abundant mercy, and also judgments, but not solely judgments. Yes, abundant mercy, judgments—and this path is the middle path.

Rabbi Jacob Joseph of Polonne: Peles as the Removal of the Ego Among those who deeply cherished this verse, "Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be established," was Rabbi Jacob Joseph of Polonne, one of the primary articulators of Hasidism and the teachings of the Baal Shem Tov. In his commentary on the Torah portion of Devarim (in his work Toldot Yaakov Yosef), he writes:

"This means to say that he should be balanced (B'Mishkal), that a person should conduct himself with balance, to remove personal gratification from every matter, that he should act solely for the sake of Heaven; then, 'thy ways shall be established,' and no stumbling block shall come by your hand."

Let us pass this through the filter of Hasidism for a moment. It is not merely a matter of physical gratification; it is the matter of the ego. If we remove the ego from ourselves—which is the circle, as we said, "Ponder the circle of thy feet"—meaning, the consciousness that generates a release from all the ego's machinations, only then can you locate the correct balance for reality. At that precise moment, you can break the Matzah and commence the theater of the Seder night.

Moses Hayyim Luzzatto (Ramchal): "I Sleep, but My Heart Waketh"—and the Voice of My Beloved Knocketh One final, brief thought. Moses Hayyim Luzzatto (Ramchal) writes in Ma'amar HaGeulah (Discourse on Redemption):

"And 'my heart waketh'—that the slumber of exile has not fallen upon it as upon the rest; and this is called 'I' (Ani), concerning which it is stated: 'אֲנִי יְשֵׁנָה / I sleep' (Song of Songs 5:2)."

That is to say, humanity constantly suffers from the dual state of exile, concerning which it is stated, "I sleep"—and "my heart waketh" is the guarantee of redemption.

He continues:

"And the truth is that in the day of Israel, amidst the sheer force of the great darkness and at the extremity of the gloom, where it intensifies the most; and furthermore, when they have already distanced themselves from the Source to the greatest degree—then the visitation must occur. And therefore he stated: 'קוֹל דּוֹדִי דוֹפֵק / The voice of my beloved knocketh' (ibid.)."

We know that Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik identified this moment of "the voice of my beloved knocketh" in a truly dramatic, perhaps even radical manner, one that might not be universally accepted. Rabbi Soloveitchik explicitly linked it to the gavel in the hands of the UN Secretary-General upon the establishment of the State of Israel, declaring that he palpably felt this "voice of my beloved."

I believe that right now, this is being put to the ultimate test. This test, as I have stated—as a human being, as an individual, as a group, as a community, and as a nation—is to ponder the circle, behavior by behavior, walking the middle path. Now, as profound destabilization has occurred in the intergenerational journey, a renewed interpretation is demanded regarding the meaning of Israeliness, Zionism, the State, its goals, its direction, and the profound meaning of soft redemption.

Conclusion: The Afikoman, the Mandalas, and the Prayer for Mending I hope we have managed to taste something of the hope, the suffering, the illumination, the freedom, and all that the festival signifies for us.

There are customs wherein the children hide the Afikoman, and there are customs wherein it is accepted that the parents hide it and the children seek it. Yet this game of hiding and seeking between children and parents—regardless of who hides and who seeks—is obviously intended, once again, to symbolize intergenerational memory and the capacity to transmit matters to one another. It is a transmission by virtue of which we live—this dynamic of transmission and concealment.

So, this is the finding of the Afikoman on the Seder night.

May it be the Divine Will that what has been hidden from us shall be revealed to our eyes. Would that we truly merit something of the taste of the restoration of the self, and the restoration of the capacity to speak amongst ourselves. I am deeply grateful that you were here. I hope this was even a minuscule fraction of what is possible given the current circumstances and conditions. And a prayer for healing, for peace, for compassion, for containment, for understanding, and for new growth—in the Land and in the world, in every single place. Thank you very much.

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