Torah

The Telling - Magid

The central part of the is called Magid, the telling. Beginning with Avadim Hayyinu - We were Slaves, it extends to the meal. The purpose of this  section is to recount the story of the Exodus and encourage a discussion of its meaning for our lives. The Haggadah tells the story exodus by presenting a series of Midrashim or Rabbinic interpretations of Deuteronomy 26:5 - 8. This section can be confusing. It can also inspire some interesting table discussions. In a rush to get to the meal, any families skip the section of the Haggadah beginning with, “My father was a wandering Aramean” until the plagues. In the interest of encouraging people not to leave Magid out I have rewritten it in simple language to be used either along with, or in place of, this section of the Haggadah.

Come and hear the story of our people,

The story we relive on Seder night:

How our ancestors went forth

From the straights of Mitzraim

To the open places of rejoicing and faith.

This story belongs to you and me.

An age-old story, it becomes our own

when we tell it on Seder night.

" A wandering Aramean was my father.

he went down to Mitzraim few in number.

There he became a great nation,

mighty and numerous.”  (Deut. 26:5)  

In Egypt we discovered our distinctiveness.

Few in number, we learned

that greatness is more than numbers.

"The Egyptians treated us harshly and oppressed us,

they imposed hard labor on us.”   (Deut. 26:6)  

Their harshness wounded us with false accusations.

with venom and hate and distrust.

" W e cried out to Adonai,

the God of our ancestors,

He heard our voice

and saw our affliction,

our toil, and our oppression. ”  (Deut. 26:7)

What did Adonai see in Mitzraim?

He saw families torn asunder,

and children made to suffer. 

God saw the cruelty of Egypt

and the helplessness of Israel.

"So Adonai brought us out of Egypt

with a mighty hand, with an out-stretched arm

with awe and signs and wonders.”  (Deut. 26:8) 

Egypt and Israel felt God’s presence

In every corner of the land.

His signs filled the earth and the sky

His wonders could be seen in every Israelite’s eye.

With a mighty hand He demanded

Justice for the oppressed.

With plagues and wonders the Egyptians learned

The lesson of God's power.

So may God’s signs be present today

To teach us of Your justice

and Your mighty acts.

We continue with the Ten Plagues:

Now, why are we so concerned with this simple love story [The Book of Ruth] and why has it been included in the canon? It contains a kind of sensuality but no transcendental element. It is a story about human beings and what they do to one another, with one another. God, as we said, plays almost no role in it. 

Why, then, is it sacred? What makes it sacred? We shall analyze the major characters in the cast, but first a few words about the problem they all share, the problem of strangeness. One of the major themes of the book is how to overcome strangeness. In general, Jewish tradition insists on every person’s right to be different. As a Jew, I must believe that having been a stranger in Pharaoh’s Egypt, I am therefore compelled to respect all strangers for what they are. I must not seek to change their ways or views. I must not try to make them resemble me. Every human being reflects the image of God, who has no image. Mine is neither purer nor holier than yours or theirs. Truth is one for all of us, but the paths leading to it are many. In the eyes of the father, all his children are worthy of his love. The other is in my eyes, the center of the universe, just as I ought to be in his or her eyes. Only in dictatorships do all citizens look alike, speak alike, and behave alike. In their servitude or civility, they reject the other, for the other eludes them. They denounce and hate the stranger, for the stranger is freer than they. 

The story of Ruth may sound as an apology of proselytism. It is not. The Jewish religion has consistently, with very rare exceptions, discouraged conversion. Before a person is accepted into the fold, he or she must be forewarned of what he or she may have to endure. The candidate must be aware of the persecutions, the sufferings, the torments, the massacres that fill and crowd Jewish memory. Are you ready for all this, the candidate is asked. Won’t you prefer a quieter life? Maybe less interesting. Even on the individual level, efforts are being made to discourage the candidate. To convert, he or she is told, means to leave not only your present faith but also your family. You will be like a newborn child, with Abraham and Sarah as parents. According to halakha, which is not really interpreted very often, in this case, a convert actually has to celebrate bar mitzvah 13 years later, or bat mitzvah 12 years later. To frighten the candidate, the candidate is told something which may sound strange and disturbing. The candidate is told that the convert may theoretically -- I insist, theoretically -- because of his status of newborn child with no family, that the candidate therefore may marry his sister or even his mother. And I wonder what Sigmund Freud would say to all this. If this wouldn’t frighten the prospective convert, what will?

But why discourage conversions? Because we were too often victims of forced conversion? The reason may be a deeper one. In Jewish tradition, it is the freedom of the stranger, his or her right to self-definition, that must be respected. It is because the “Other” is other, because he or she is not I, that I am to consider him or her both sovereign, and instrument used by God to act upon history and justify his faith in his entire creation. 

When are we suspicious of the stranger? When he or she comes from our midst. There is a difference between ger, nokri, and zar. Scripture is kind to the first two, to the ger and the nokri, and harsh to the third, the zar, for only the zar is Jewish, and a Jew who chooses to estrange themself from their people, a Jew who makes use of his Jewishness only to attack and denigrate Jewish life and Jewish history, as embodied by the Jewish people, of whom it may be said shehotzi et atzmo min hak’lal, who removed himself from the community, who shares neither its sorrow nor its joy, that Jew is not our brother, nor is he our equal; that Jew is a stranger. As for real strangers, objective strangers, strangers who really are from other traditions, other milieus, other disciplines, other people, other nations, other cultures, they must be treated with dignity. Of course, one finds here and there in the vast Talmudic literature statements and references that could be interpreted as excessive praise of the Jewish person and faith, but then, one finds everything in the Talmud. One could find as many statements and opinions emphasizing human equality. All men and women who believe in God are equally heard by God, who understands all languages -- though He hears and understands Yiddish a little bit better. But He receives prayers everywhere. 

But then why the love for Ruth? Because while Jewish religion discourages conversion, it loves converts. 

Ruth is not the only one. Other celebrated cases have been recorded, not without a certain measure of understandable pride. The emperor’s nephew Aquila or Onkelos -- what a marvelous story. When he came to tell the emperor, telling him he wants to convert, the emperor said, “Are you crazy? Don’t you know that the Jewish people is destined for persecution? Why do you want to join the Jewish people?” And he said, “Because Jewish children alone are studying and learning the mystery of creation,” and for this, he was drawn to the Jewish people and converted. Then there is a story of the king of Himyar in the fifth century; the Khazars of the eighth century; the learned proselyte of Obadiah, Obadiah of Normandy; some princes; a few bishops; a British aristocrat, Lord George Gordon, who one day decided to convert to Judaism and live as a Jew, dress as a Jew, pray as a Jew, observe Jewish law and tradition and custom even in prison till his death. 

In Talmudic literature, a bizarre phenomenon emerged: some of our cruelest enemies are said to be among the converts. Take, for instance, the general Nebuzaradan, the murderer of hundreds of scholars and thousands of children. What did he do when there was no one left to kill? Halakh venitgayyer-- converted. The same has been said of Nero -- after fiddling, he converted. A descendant of Haman -- do you know what he did? Not only did he convert; he established a yeshiva in Bnei Brak. The meaning of these legends? To teach us that history is never finished, good may emerge from bad, evil’s triumph is and must be temporary, repentance is granted even to killers. There may be one day, high priests and learned individuals among their descendants. Or the other way around. These legends teach us modesty. Not all our ancestors have been prophets and poets. Not all have with their scholarship contributed to the glory of God and God’s law. Some may have committed sinful and criminal acts that brought dishonor to humanity. In other words, there is no collective, eternal guilt; there is only individual responsibility. 

In other words, in Jewish history, everything could be possible, and so everything is possible.