“When a Slave Becomes King”
By: Chaim Seidler-Feller’
D’var Torah for Pesach
As God prepares to strike the firstborn and unleash the mashchit (the destroyer), God instructs the Israelites to daub their doorposts and lintels with the blood of a sacrificial lamb and adds a rather puzzling directive: “וְאַתֶּ֗ם לֹ֥א תֵצְא֛וּ אִ֥ישׁ מִפֶּֽתַח־בֵּית֖וֹ עַד־בֹּֽקֶר”--“None of you shall leave the doors of your houses until morning” (Exodus 12:22). It is clear to all of us that God had the ability to distinguish between Egyptians and Israelites, and had even required a precautionary measure to mark the dwellings of the Israelites. So, why was it necessary to insist upon a further restriction, as if there is concern for the safety of those who would leave their homes during the heavenly onslaught?
In a profound commentary on the text, Rabbi J.B. Soloveitchik suggests that God was acting as the ever-present moral educator. God was concerned that liberated Israelite slaves who had suddenly been transformed into masters might react naturally and, given the opportunity, would avenge themselves on the tyrants who had mercilessly oppressed them, as had occurred in the insurrections in ancient Rome, in the bloody Peasants’ Revolt in medieval England, and in many other slave uprisings throughout history. “They [the slaves],” writes R. Soloveitchik, “were eager to settle a long account of cruelty... The brutish drive for vengeance, for gratification of the satanic in the human, was irresistible.” He further points to the psychological warning proffered by the sage of Proverbs (30:21–22): “תַּ֣חַת שָׁ֭לוֹשׁ רָ֣גְזָה אֶ֑רֶץ…תַּֽחַת־עֶ֭בֶד כִּ֣י יִמְל֑וֹךְ”--“The earth shudders because of three things... because of a slave who becomes king...” That is, beware of the overwhelming rush of power coursing through the body and mind of the freed slaves as they rise up victoriously from their state of powerlessness to become the new rulers. They, the victims, more often than not, will become the new victimizers. This was precisely what God sought to prevent.
On a deeper level, it was not simply that God was fearful that the Israelites would exploit the moment of Egyptian weakness and the chaos occasioned by the murderous rampage of the ‘destroyer’ and join in the violent bloodshed. Rather, the concern was that by merely witnessing the infliction of the death plague, the Israelites would be tainted by the unsparing violence and would be inured to the dread of spilling human blood. This, in turn, would diminish their resistance to perpetrating murderous actions themselves. The injunction to remain homebound was thus a rule that was introduced to protect and shape the Israelite character and to shield our ancestors from the debilitating effects of implied complicity.
Is it any wonder, then, that liberation did not, in our tradition, bring with it a persistent hatred of Egypt and the Egyptian people? On the contrary, the Torah explicitly implores us not to nurture hostility toward the Egyptians, decreeing “לֹא־תְתַעֵ֣ב מִצְרִ֔י כִּי־גֵ֖ר הָיִ֥יתָ בְאַרְצֽוֹ”--“Do not despise an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in his land” (Deuteronomy 23:8). Despite our history of suffering and persecution, we are cautioned not to carry the weighty burden of enmity and animosity in our hearts. In this way, our hearts are to remain open to our adversaries and to the strangers in our midst. What results is a stunningly counter-intuitive psychological disposition that insists that precisely because we endured a history of agonizing assaults and are intimately familiar with the experience of victimhood, we have an obligation to care for the vulnerable and the socially disenfranchised, and even to reach out to our enemies as we act to resolve our conflicts.
Especially this year, when we are surrounded by inordinate suffering inflicted on us and by us, I would suggest that we take seriously the Haggadah’s implicit counsel to transition from a focus on “In every generation they stand up against us to destroy us,” on what they have done and continue to do to us—the negative memory—to “In every generation one must look upon oneself as if you had personally left Egypt,” to what we can do for ourselves and for others—the positive, constructive memory. The text urges us to transcend our concentration on the predatory actions of others and our consequent misery that feeds a compulsion to fight back against them and dedicate ourselves to freeing our spirits from the cancerous blight of hatred and resentment, and to rebuilding the human support systems that would allow us to pursue our redemptive mission together with our partners in healing and re-creation.
The account of our enslavement in Egypt that could so easily have devolved into a life-long cry of Jewish anguish is turned around at the Seder and becomes foundational to a worldview that envisions human transformation, the gradual betterment of society, and the pursuit of peace and co-existence.
As we witness the ongoing devastation and bloodshed in Gaza, brought about by our very own maschit, let us no longer remain silent and indifferent. For the sake of Zion, for the love of Israel and Judaism, our generation must fulfill the sacred charge to see ourselves as if we left Egypt and call out with urgency for an end to the senseless violence. The people of the Exodus can do no less.
