All the Seder-goers I know love reading about the “four children” in the Passover Haggadah. But they all dislike the section about the “wicked child.” The traditional text of the Haggadah, they say, treats this child with harsh prejudice. And they are right!
Four times the Torah instructs the Israelites to teach their children about the Exodus from Egypt. But our Talmudic sages believed Torah was immaculately edited, and nothing was repeated without a good reason. Each repetition, they said, gives instructions for teaching a different type of child: wise, wicked, simple, and not ready to ask.
About the wicked child, the Haggadah says:
The wicked child asks, “What does this service mean to you?”
To me, this seems a straightforward enough question. Maybe everyone else seems to know what is going on. Maybe everyone else knows the symbolic meanings of things. Maybe everyone else has a deep emotional connection. Maybe the child is a social-science researcher.
But the narrator of the Haggadah is terribly triggered by the wording of the question.
To you?!? And not to the questioner? Just as he has taken himself out of the community, and committed essential heresy, so you should set his teeth on edge, and say to him, “Because of this service God acted for ME when I left Egypt.” For ME and not for him. If he had been there, he would not have been redeemed.
Ouch!
Contemporary commentaries flare up in the child’s defence. “The wicked child is insulted.” “This is why so many people remember ritual as unpleasant.” “This illustrates the pitfalls of labelling people.” “Can you imagine God being so judgmental as to leave someone behind?”
This year, I am the wicked child. I am not in the mood for Passover, and don’t particularly feel like part of the community.
It’s not that I failed to try. I started cleaning, reviewed the Haggadah, planned a fun second Seder at the synagogue, studied new ideas and even gave a sermon about one of them. But I can’t conjure any connection between these activities and a holiday spirit.
It’s my first Passover without my wise Mom and my sensible Aunt Sylvia. During their last four years, I managed to travel 6,000 miles each Pesach just to spend part of the holiday with them. But this year, they are gone. My brother will spend the Seders with others who miss them, but I won’t be connected. No one can take their place. Perhaps friends have sensed this. For first Seder, I invited no one and no one invited me.
In Jewish symbolism, the Exodus is everything. We were slaves in mitzrayim, the narrow place, and God took us out. “Leaving the narrow place” is an archetypal pattern. Passover is zecher l’yitziat mitzrayim, commemoration of the Exodus. So, says Torah, is Shabbat. Sukkot. Financial responsibility. Kind speech. Jews also invoke the Exodus as a spiritual metaphor for just about any inner journey. National rejuvenation after acts of antisemitism. Community healing from illness and sorrow. Individual clarity after a time of confusion.
The metaphor even finds me in my lonely corner. Here I am, in the narrow place, not ready for Passover. This year, I look at others and wonder, “What does all this mean to you?” Because I don’t know what it means to me. Like the fictional wicked child, I will be at the Seder; I will even lead it. But in a personal way, I may not be redeemed.
The Haggadah’s negative reaction to the wicked child, however, has been redeemed for me. My own situation suggests a psycho-spiritual interpretation. Perhaps this child is in need of liberation. Perhaps the tools are set before her. But perhaps she is not ready yet to recognize them as her own. As long as she imagines they are only available to others, she will not be redeemed. But that is not the final word. When her attitude shifts, she too will leave the narrow place and enter a community of joy.
Commentaries: Israel Eldad, Ira Steingroot, Yaariv ben Aharon, Arthur Green. Image: morethanfour.org. Cross-posted at Rabbis Without Borders on My Jewish Learning.
Maybe the dislocation and loneliness you’re feeling actually make you at least as ready, maybe more, for Pesach as any time in the past. I think one of our biggest traps is when we (think we) already know what to expect, what we’ll experience.
Of course, we’re all the “wicked” child, but we’re also the good one, the simple one and the one not yet able to question, all at the same time. We never know where we’ll end up, but, hopefully, we’re confident that wherever it is, it will be right.
Chag Sameach.
I was very touched reading this. You are so courageous in your sharing.
When the heart is broken it is open to everything. And today looks like a beautiful day to open to.
The wicked child could also say “the rituals you observe tonight don’t mean enough to me. I’m adding my own!” Then the wicked child plunks down another cup on the table, fills it with wine, and declares that “this cup is for the person I’m missing here tonight.”
That’s what THIS wicked child will be doing this year.
Thank you.
Hi Reb Laura – I know my modern English major sense of the word ‘wicked’ probably differs from the sense you struggle against, but I cannot imagine you wicked in my sense or in any sense, most especially now when you are in grief. How could you not be? Your love for your mother and aunt will win out over your missing them. In the meantime, for someone as busy and as engaged and as pulled in as many directions as I suspect you are, perhaps some quiet is hard earned, well deserved, and much needed. Peace to you. I wish you a redemptive Passover.