My life,
you were a door
I was given to walk through (“Door and Sentence” by Jane Hirshfield)

Stepping out of my front door in 2018 into a bright spring day, I started walking on a daily basis. These daily walks carried me through the often unknown parts of the landscape of my city and carried me through the lonely time of the pandemic. I was walking the green spaces and the streets around my house, exploring my surroundings, learning the language of moving in space, and connecting with places and people along the way. These strolls connected my inside with the outside, walked me from the privacy of my home to the public realm and opened up my headspace.

Stepping out of Egypt

Every year we open the Haggadah like the door of a house and enter the space of enslavement, bondage and salvation through the recurring celebration of the Seder, with its symbolic foods, its stories and its rich imagery. Through our journey in this space, we break free from the shackles of slavery and then we take ourselves “out of the house of bondage”—as it is written in Exodus 20:2—into freedom.

The drama as we read it in the story in the book of Shemot starts with a renewed experience of incarceration. To exit the “tzar,” the narrowness of Mitzrayim, the Jewish people must first step back into that confinement and agree to a renewed narrowing of their world. They must have faith that they will reenter a space of abundance. They must have confidence in the protection offered by Hashem, by painting the doorframes of their houses with blood as a sign of their trust in Him, and then by locking themselves inside.

The following night Hashem travels with force through the Egyptian lands and punishes the Egyptian people. “For I will pass through the land of Mitzrayim tonight,” it says in Exodus 12:12.

There is fearful silence throughout this deadly walk. Bnei Yisrael, trapped inside their homes, cannot see what is happening outside—but they can “hear the voice of the Eternal God walking” (Ramban on Genesis 3:8), bringing death and despair to Mitzrayim. 

And then the Torah brings an incredible amount of movement into the narrative and the doors of the enslaved people open wide: the Jewish people step hastily out of their homes and start moving out of the land that held them captive for so long.

It is a hectic start for the traveling Bnei Yisrael, with little time to think about where the journey will lead. Although they are protected under the wings of Hashem, who walks before them in a pillar of a cloud, and with the guidance of their leaders Moshe, Aharon and Miriam, stepping out into the unknown is a skill that needs to be learned. A mixture of excitement and anxiety remains with the community during the escape which will lead the people to unknown lands.

Opening up into wide spaces

Hashem hardens the hearts of the Egyptians once again, and they pursue the fleeing Jews with fury and chariots. Yet there is another door to freedom which appears to be tightly closed: the sea. To set over the people has to cross the Yam Suf. The Torah tells us how Moshe, with Hashem’s help, parts the sea opening up into a large corridor, allowing the Jewish people to cross on dry ground. 

Passing through this door requires another test of courage: The Midrash mirrors the fear of entering the unknown and the hesitation of the people to throw itself into the sea. Only when one courageous man, Nachshon ben Aminadav, jumps into the water is the spell broken (Mekhilta DeRabbi Shimon Ben Yochai 14), and the people cross the sea. 

Walking through

From the story of the Exodus, we learn that when we encounter new challenges, it is normal to experience feelings of anxiety, despondency or cowardice. We have to have courage to jump into the water and enter the unknown, to give us the opportunity to connect with places and people anew along the way.

This teaching seems imperative to me, in our personal lives and out there in our polarized world. To open doors to a world which often seems confusing, to step out into the world of those who think and live differently from us, seems oftentimes uncomfortable. We shy away from encountering its provocations and noisy chatter. 

The order of the Seder itself teaches us to open the doors for the poor, to let the “other” have a seat at our table, confronting our reality with theirs. Facing and listening to controversial issues allows us to learn new things and to engage with the unknown. Precisely not to retreat into the confines of our own preconceptions for fear of conflict is mandatory, for it keeps us alive, lets us breathe and grow. 

To quote Jane Hirshfield once more, I believe we are given those doors—for those who are hungry to come and eat, for Elijah the prophet, who symbolizes our hope for a better future, and for ourselves to walk through and step out of limited spaces into Hashem’s huge, wild and exciting world—so that we may find the ability to change the world. 

There is a reason why we read the Haggadah each year anew: Hashem teaches us the tools for transformation over and over, for without using them, we will remain forever in our self-imposed isolation and bondage. Opening all these doors, and believing they can open into something new, gives us the chance to sing a song of joy and liberation on the “other side of the sea.”