Rage, Despair, Confusion, and Compassion:
Bob Dylan and Two Pesach Messianic Visions
Last week, the Ramaz Class of 2025 put on a production of Annie which was done in a 24-hour span. It was an incredible experience of teamwork and bonding for our seniors.
Of the many incredible feelings I had as I watched our amazing teenagers on stage, was the realization that maybe the song that we all need right now is tomorrow. This is because thinking about tomorrow can “clear away the cobwebs and the sorrow.”
Yes, Pesach is a story of the past and an obligation to remember. It is a moment to put ourselves in the shoes of our ancestors. But, right now, to be honest, as we are living in a continually depressing and confusing world, it is natural to be thinking mostly about tomorrow – hoping for a brighter future.
The Haggadah echoes this hope. After the meal, the focus in Haggadah is not on the past, but on the future. We read the Hallel HaGadol, sing l’Shana HaBa BeYerushalayim, pour the cup of Eliyahu, and sing songs that conclude with visions of a future redeemed.
Two of these visions from the Haggadah stand out, the first is about the voices within us and the second is about the importance of preserving the voices of compassion and empathy, even in times of fear.
The Messianic Vision of Elijah-VeHeishiv Avot-Generational Voices
When we pour the cup of Elijah, it reminds us of the pasuk that we read on Shabbat HaGadol.
הִנֵּ֤ה אָנֹכִי֙ שֹׁלֵ֣חַ לָכֶ֔ם אֵ֖ת אֵלִיָּ֣ה הַנָּבִ֑יא לִפְנֵ֗י בּ֚וֹא י֣וֹם ה' הַגָּד֖וֹל וְהַנּוֹרָֽא׃
I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of GOD.
וְהֵשִׁ֤יב לֵב־אָבוֹת֙ עַל־בָּנִ֔ים וְלֵ֥ב בָּנִ֖ים עַל־אֲבוֹתָ֑ם׃
He shall reconcile the hearts of the parents with children and children with their parents…
Malachi 3:23
Part of a dream of a better tomorrow is the vision of bringing together generations. And while there is a profound and timeless truth to the value of all of us hearing the differing voices of past and future generations around the table, this year, I read that pasuk a bit differently.
I read it as a vision of hearing the young and old voices within ourselves. We each have many voices inside us, voices of justice and empathy, voices of thinking locally and globally. We have voices that echo our youth and ones that reflect a mature, wiser approach. Listening to all these voices helps us be truly human and authentic.
Bob Dylan echoes this dynamic of the journey of different foci in his famous song “Back Pages.”
Lies that life is black and white, Spoke from my skull. I dreamed
Good and bad, I define these terms, Quite clear, no doubt, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now
Dylan is saying that old voices are ones of surety, clarity, and confidence. And while confidence is essential at times and while there are many things that we know better as we grow older, there are many things that make us feel increasingly confused and unsure, making us feel more and more like children.
We are searching for more answers and asking more questions in a confusing world. These are the young and the old voices that live inside of us that need to live together--ironically in both incongruity and in harmony.
From the four questions, to the four children, the Seder is not only an exercise in questions and answers, but it is a forum for the young and old both around the table and in all of us to dialogue and engage. Even if an older person is alone at the Seder, he/she has to ask the questions, challenge, and answer.
Tomorrow, there will be a messianic age where voices of wisdom and the voices of curiosity are enmeshed with one another.
The Messianic Vision of Zechariah-Karev Yom-Living in the Gray
Later in the Seder we read a famous poem called וּבְכֵן וַיְהִי בַּחֲצִי הַלַּיְלָה.
“And so it happened at midnight.”
It is a poem about all of the miracles that happened to our people at night and concludes with a vision of redemption based on Zecharia 14:7. It says,
קָרֵב יוֹם אֲשֶׁר הוּא לֹא יוֹם וְלֹא לַיְלָה, רָם הוֹדַע כִּי לְךָ הַיּוֹם אַף לְךָ הַלַּיְלָה,
Draw near the day that will be neither day nor night
Rabbi Avi Weiss in his new incredible Haggadah, Yehi Ohr, shares a thought about his confidence in commenting on this line. He writes:
“Concerning Israel and the wellbeing of the Jewish community, each side (left and right) has much to contribute, and so we sing, karev yom ash hu lo yom v’lo laila, the day will come when it is no longer day nor night. This is the dream of “twilight expanded” wherein opposites not only coexist but..make space for the other thus thriving and flourishing in dialectic.”
Making space for all voices is hard, especially these days. In a time where our people have been tortured, raped, kidnapped, put in cages, and abused on the worse imaginable levels, our hearts are full of tears and anger. We all want to cry out and lash out. Yet, we have to remain balanced and grounded.
In his incredibly insightful article, “Morality in Times of Fear,” Rabbi Donniel Hartman gives us the inspiration to be committed to the moral, religious obligation of self defense while not blurring the boundaries of self defense and revenge.
Rabbi Hartman writes, “Despite our fears, our Jewish obligations to our fellow must include the other. This is true even when translating it into policy is never simple or clear. It goes without saying that in each case, our right to safety and security must be prioritized. Self defense, however, cannot be allowed to make us indifferent to our responsibility.”
Our Torah obligates us to defend ourselves and destroy our enemies. We are a people that has a Torah that tells us to obliterate Amalek from our world and our minds. While that same Torah shares obligations like the pesukim below.
Devarim 23:8
לֹֽא־תְתַעֵ֣ב אֲדֹמִ֔י כִּ֥י אָחִ֖יךָ ה֑וּא לֹא־תְתַעֵ֣ב מִצְרִ֔י כִּי־גֵ֖ר הָיִ֥יתָ בְאַרְצֽוֹ׃
You shall not abhor an Edomite, for such is your kin. You shall not abhor an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in that land.
Shemot 23:4
כִּ֣י תִפְגַּ֞ע שׁ֧וֹר אֹֽיִבְךָ֛ א֥וֹ חֲמֹר֖וֹ תֹּעֶ֑ה הָשֵׁ֥ב תְּשִׁיבֶ֖נּוּ לֽוֹ׃ {ס}
When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back.
Yes, we were victims to the Egyptians in the cruelest ways possible for hundreds of years. Yes, victimhood by the Egyptians required fighting back. Yet, victimhood in our tradition did not lead to self righteousness, it led to a level of empathy. It led to telling us that we cannot hate the Egyptians. It led to telling us that we should help our enemies. It led to a blueprint for life that still makes room for forgiveness and support of even those that stand up against us.
We have a Seder where we beg God to pour out the Divine wrath on our enemies with sfoch. And we have a Seder where the tradition is to dip out drops of wine for the death of our enemies.
In full transparency, this is what I am struggling with this year in the deepest of ways. My heart is full of rage and despair. We should all cry and scream during our seders. I am sure I am not alone when I say that I often feel like I have no room for anyone else’s pain outside of the pain of Am Yisrael—the pain of my people in Israel and all over the world. Sometimes, I simply cannot think broadly.
But, to be fully human is to push against that inclination. We must be able to answer another famous Bob Dylan’s question. “How many ears must one man have, before he can hear people cry?” We must never forget those ears.
Pesach is about struggling to free ourselves of ideas and the bonds of shoulds and the agendas of others. It is about us wrestling within ourselves and having the courage and strength to live beyond binaries, and live with discomfort and contradiction.
What we do with those contradictions, I do not know, but maybe part of the lesson of the Seder, and maybe one of the challenging, but treasured gifts of the human condition is that sometimes the questions just have to live inside us.
Maybe that is the messianic supernatural light, the יִֽהְיֶה־אֽוֹר that Zecharia speaks about. It is a light that can contain contradiction as it is, according to Rashi, a light that is שִׁבְעָתַיִם, seven times more powerful than anything we can ever imagine.
As hard as it is, we need to live beyond a lens of us or them, young or old. We need to set our tables for many—fighting with all of our strength for our people, crying, wailing and, at once, committing to a vision of a redeemed world for all humanity, for a better tomorrow.
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