Wealth From The Broken Pieces

By Yochanan Gordon

Pesach is the holiday of freedom. Our forefathers were liberated from Mitzrayim on Pesach, and while we are busy retelling the story, we are engaged in a process meant to catapult us into existential freedom. But what does freedom actually look like for us?

We conclude the Seder with the hopeful declaration, “Next year in Jerusalem,” representing the ultimate expression of national redemption. Yet even if our Seder doesn’t end with Eliyahu Hanavi announcing the geulah, there is still a form of liberty unfolding that night. The question is: how is it expressed? How do we know, by the end of the evening, that—in the words of the Chassidic song—we were ois-ge-poi’elt ales git, that the formula worked, and that we’ve emerged freer than when we entered?

The truth is that the process itself is redeeming. Simply reciting the words and fulfilling the mitzvos of the night confers a degree of freedom upon anyone who participates. However, there is a certain experience that seems to be nearly universal: the presence of “smallness” intruding upon what we imagine to be a conceptually idyllic Pesach Seder.

Take a moment and picture your Seder. Chances are, the image you conjure, while partially accurate, doesn’t include the inevitable disruptions: the spilled wine that raises tensions, the crying baby, the misbehaving child, the unexpected friction that quietly unsettles the majesty of the evening.

And for some, it’s even more pronounced. There are those who approach Pesach not with anticipation, but with dread—knowing they’ll be in situations they would not have chosen, simply hoping to get through the experience somewhat intact.

Why is it like this? If it were occasional, we could dismiss it as circumstance. But it feels almost built into the fabric of Pesach itself: within the grand narrative of liberation lies an undercurrent of chaos that threatens to obscure its beauty—unless we understand it.

To begin unpacking this, consider one of the more unusual practices of Pesach night. Some have the custom to recite Hallel after Ma’ariv on the first nights of Pesach, even though Hallel is recited again during the Seder. According to the Arizal and the Kabbalists, this first recitation is actually the primary one, while the Hallel within the Seder is of lesser significance.

In the language of the mekubalim, the first Hallel draws down mochin d’gadlus—a state of expanded consciousness—while the repetition during the Seder takes place within mochin d’katnus, a state of constriction. Throughout the rest of the year, the order is the reverse: we move from smallness to expansiveness. On Pesach, however, we are first given a glimpse from above—a top-down clarity—and only afterward do we descend into the process of working upward from below.

This pattern mirrors exactly how our forefathers left Egypt. Without prior merit, Hashem lifted them out in a moment of pure grace. Only afterward did they spend seven weeks refining themselves, preparing to receive the Torah at Har Sinai.

With this in mind, we can begin to understand the nature of the Seder itself.

The Haggadah speaks of four sons: the wise, the wicked, the simple, and the one who does not know how to ask. The task of the one leading the Seder is to speak to each of them in a way that makes them feel seen, valued, and included.

But these four sons are not just sitting around the table—they are within each of us. At different moments in life, in different moods and circumstances, we embody each of these personas. This is not something to be embarrassed by; it is part of the totality of who we are.

There is a popular word—nachas—that people often use when expressing hopes for their children. But what does it really mean? For some, it conjures an image of perfection: the child who excels in learning, who follows an ideal path, who reflects a certain vision of success.

But perhaps nachas is something deeper. Perhaps it is the ability to take joy in our children—and in life—not only in their polished moments, but in their complexity. To appreciate what is, not just what we imagine should be.

Rav Kook writes that it is impossible to produce wine without dregs. Those very sediments, often seen as undesirable, are what deepen and enrich the wine. Similarly, the word tzibbur is understood as an acronym for tzaddikim, beinonim, and reshaim; without all of them, we would not be a complete people.

This idea is reflected in the very structure of the four sons. The roshei teivos of chacham, rasha, tam, v’she’eino yodea lish’ol form the word cheirus—freedom.

And this brings us to a remarkable teaching. Regarding the luchos, the Torah uses the word charus—engraved. Chazal note that the same letters spell cheirus—freedom. True freedom is embedded within the very act of engraving, of carving something out through effort and process.

After the first tablets were shattered, Hashem commanded Moshe: “Psal lecha shnei luchos avanim karishonim.” Chazal teach that Moshe was permitted to keep the shavings from the carving of the second tablets—and from those fragments, he became extraordinarily wealthy.

It is here that everything comes together.

If cheirus means engaging with the full spectrum of who we are—with all four inner “sons”—then the psolet, the cast-off fragments, represent those parts of life we are tempted to dismiss: the inconveniences, the imperfections, the regaim of katanut.

Yet it was davka from those fragments that Moshe’s wealth emerged.

The very word pesal (to carve) shares a root with pesoles (waste). What appears to be discardable is, in truth, the source of richness.

We began with a question: if Pesach is about freedom, why is it so often accompanied by frustration, tension, and smallness?

The answer is that it is precisely through those moments that freedom is revealed.

It is in the imperfect Seder, in the unexpected disruptions, in the company and situations we did not choose, that we are given the opportunity to experience a deeper kind of liberation—the ability to embrace life in its entirety.

Moshe became wealthy from the fragments of the luchos. And we, too, become spiritually wealthy through the fragments of our own lives.

Perhaps this is the mindset we are meant to carry into Pesach: not to seek perfection, but to recognize that every part of the experience—the elevated and the broken alike—is part of what makes us free. 

Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.