On Telling and Not Telling Our Full Story

The Passover Haggadah promotes two Jewish origin stories. The dominant story is Avadim hayinu, which relates how once “we were slaves (avadim hayinu) to Pharaoh in Egypt,” and G!d removed us. A second story, more submerged in the Haggadah, is Mit’ḥilah, which announces how originally (mit’ḥilah), our ancestors were idol worshipers, and G!d redirected us. 

Why does the Haggadah give us two separate tales to recall? 

The Mishnah instructs us to tell the Passover story beginning big’nut, “with disgrace,” and end b’shevaḥ, “with praise.” Each story accomplishes this. In the subsequent Talmudic discussion, Shmuel and Rav debate the fulfillment of this instruction.

Commonly interpreted, Avadim hayinu focuses upon the physical aspects of being a slave in Egypt. The forced labor, torture, food deprivation—all were horrific, and Shmuel bids us to remember all of it. Mit’ḥilah, on the other hand, stresses the spiritual and psychological aspects. The dehumanization, the seeming hopelessness, Pharaoh’s mind games—all were devastating, and Rav invites us to consider it all. 

Both move from “disgrace” to “praise.” Both end with at least the optimism of release from the ravages of each aspect of slavery.

That interpretation suggests that slavery has specific components: Rav focuses on the physical; Rav on the emotional-spiritual. Both weigh heavily in every instance of slavery from then until now. I myself have often evoked this meaningful interpretation at my seder table. 

However, after reading The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story and experiencing the racial justice pilgrimage of the Conservative Movement’s Social Justice Commission, I came to understand this discussion differently. The disagreement does not point to two aspects of slavery. It points to something deeper. There are two distinct origin stories of our people—just as we have two origin stories for the United States.

America’s origin stories

In the United States, the dominant origin story of 1776 relates that we were victimized by the British. This was particularly the case in such areas as taxation and representation. Yet, in this telling, we overcame our oppressors. We became a free country that welcomed all peoples to “the land of the free.” This origin story implies that all who came since 1776 have been treated better than the British treated us, because we pledge allegiance to the ideal of “liberty and justice for all.” 

Yet, for Black Americans, our country was not created ex nihilo in 1776. They know of a more submerged origin, one that begins in 1619, when the first ship carrying human cargo, slaves, arrived on our shores—the beginnings of a culture where human worth was measured by the color of one’s skin. In this origin story, white Americans did not openly welcome all people, before or since 1776. 

Moreover, the promise inherent in “the land of the free” applied largely to white people, especially landed men. Black people were kidnapped, forced to adopt new names, a new religion, a new culture and, of course, to live subservient to white people. Their dignity and existence were subject to the laws—and whims—of white people. “Liberty and justice” did not apply to Blacks in America.

A new lens

These dual origin stories provide a new lens to view the Haggadah.

Shmuel’s origin story, like America’s 1776 story, focuses upon our victimhood and became our dominant narrative. Pharaoh enslaved us—and throughout history, Jews have suffered at the whims of hostile regimes. The Haggadah announces this in the Vehi SheAmdah paragraph that concludes both origin stories: “In every generation, they try to destroy us.” 

Shmuel’s origin story acknowledges antisemitism throughout Jewish history. We have been beset by those who would do us harm. The truth of this origin story especially resonates in the wake of the Holocaust, and in the wake of the Simḥat Torah Massacres of October 7, 2023. Living at a time when antisemitism is again common and, indeed, prominent and emboldened, and antisemitic acts are as violent as ever, Shmuel’s focus remains relevant, necessary, and cautionary. 

Rav’s origin story, like the 1619 story, harks back many centuries earlier in history. This story relates that we were all once idolaters, and that something idolatrous remains within our cultural “DNA,” or at least we should be wary of it. The story cites a passage from Joshua, which locates our beginnings in the time of Teraḥ, the non-Jewish “father of Abraham and Nahor.” 

This passage is itself a liturgical retelling of history, recited during a covenant affirmation ceremony of the entire people who had crossed the Jordan River with Joshua into the Promised Land. This passage announces their basic self-understanding, and it invites us to consider what might constitute the idolatry, at least as far as Rav’s insistence on our recalling it at our Passover seder. The first sentence of this reads:

“Thus asserted Adonai, God of Israel: In olden times, your ancestors—Terah, father of Abraham and father of Nahor—lived beyond the Euphrates and worshiped other gods.”

We usually think of Abraham as the first Jew, overcoming the idolatrous beliefs of his surroundings. But let us note that this text suggests that Abraham himself was an idolater, and some commentators of the Haggadah highlight this. Finally, this passage ends with Jacob and his family all going down to Egypt, signalling the beginning of our enslavement. This passage, then, quite notably draws a line from our idolatry to our enslavement.

So, in considering this alternative, less sanguine origin story, what do we really know about Abraham when he hears G!d’s call to leave his family, country, and culture to go start a new spiritual endeavor in the land of Israel? The first thing we learn is Abraham’s obedience and commitment to the new spiritual endeavor: He does as G!d commands. 

The text immediately adds:

 וַיִּקַּ֣ח אַבְרָם֩ אֶת־שָׂרַ֨י אִשְׁתּ֜וֹ וְאֶת־ל֣וֹט בֶּן־אָחִ֗יו וְאֶת־כׇּל־רְכוּשָׁם֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר רָכָ֔שׁו 

וְאֶת־הַנֶּ֖פֶשׁ אֲשֶׁר־עָשׂ֣וּ בְחָרָ֑ן וַיֵּצְא֗וּ לָלֶ֙כֶת֙ אַ֣רְצָה כְּנַ֔עַן וַיָּבֹ֖אוּ אַ֥רְצָה כְּנָֽעַן

Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother’s son Lot, and all the wealth that they had amassed, and the people that they had acquired in Haran; and they set out for the land of Canaan.

Wait. What? Abraham and Sarah had slaves? Yes, our ancestors were slaveholders. This is apparently what Rav wants us to consider on Passover evening. As we tell our story we were once slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, and we were once slaveholders in Canaan. 

We need to probe this further, after which we need to consider why our Haggadah has kept both Shmuel and Rav’s origin stories and laid them one after the other. These will be considered in Part 2.