Bo

Passover doesn’t arrive until April, but Parshat Bo already has us thinking about it. In detailing the first Chag haMatzot,[1] the Festival of Unleavened Bread, the parshah establishes perhaps the most fundamental dichotomy of Passover: chametz vs. matzah.

We generally assume chametz and matzah to be opposites, given their oppositional treatment in the text.[2] After all, matzah was the bread baked by our ancestors in their hurried attempt to leave the oppression of Egypt. Matzah reminds us of our last moments of servitude and our narrow, constricted existence in Mitzrayim. Tradition would later name matzah “lechem oni”[3]—the bread of poverty and affliction. Chametz, on the other hand, is the bread of decadence and freedom: baked with no time constraints, it has all the time it needs to expand and rise. It represents excess and ease—something our ancestors never experienced in Egypt—and thus, is as far as possible from everything matzah represents.

But despite this differing symbolism, there actually isn’t a lot of difference between chametz and matzah. They are composed of identical grains[4] and differ only in the length of their cooking time: leave your wheat soaking for 18 minutes or less, you have matzah; leave it soaking 18.1 minutes or more, you have chametz. For so-called opposites, the line is notably thin.

This thin line blurs more when we examine the two in the context of the Passover story. On Passover, the lechem oni reminding us of our suffering is the same stuff that enables us to become free; the bread of affliction is also the bread of liberation. And chametz, the supposed symbol of ease, ultimately comes to represent the fermenting stench of oppression.

The malleability of these symbols—and their meanings—is even more pronounced at the modern Seder, where we use matzah to represent a new idea: responsibility. We begin Maggid (the portion of the Seder where we retell our story) by holding up the matzah and declaring: “Ha lachma anya[5]—this is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.” But instead of going into the details of this affliction, the text issues a command: “Let all who are hungry come and eat. All who are in need, come and participate in the Passover ritual.” We don’t introduce the matzah as a self-serving vehicle, one by which we dwell on our own oppression—or even our own freedom—but rather, we lift up the matzah as a way of demonstrating our responsibility toward others who are still oppressed and not yet free.

The introduction of the matzah in relation to our own suffering does not serve to exemplify how far we’ve come, nor how free we are to do whatever we please. Instead, our history of affliction and our newfound freedom together obligate us to bring about the same transformation for others in our world. It is our responsibility as free people to intervene on their behalf as God did for us, to bring about a new reality where the oppressed can taste liberation and attain true freedom.

In this light, “Ha lachma anya” is just the beginning. We may start by inviting those in need to join our meal, but we shouldn’t stop there. The charge for inclusivity and social equalization is one that calls to us not just at our Seder tables, but for as long as anyone sits shackled, physically or metaphorically, in our world. The closing words of Ha lachma anya emphasize this notion: “This year we are slaves, next year may we be free.” By concluding that we are, in fact, not yet free, the passage can teach us that true freedom does not exist until everyone is free.

Passover won’t arrive for nearly three months, but we do not need to wait until then to work toward sustainable change, to enable the oppressed in our world to enjoy the same freedoms for which we already give thanks. By regularly contributing our financial, occupational and spiritual resources toward responsibly and sustainably ending oppression, we take the steps that may lead us to truly experience the fulfillment of our collective desire, that one day we may all be free.