To grow
and that the heart remains humble.
To grow means
also to deepen,
to draw near to the roots.
To grow
so that the shell is refined,
the prepuce removed
To grow so that there may be growth,
as an act of love for the seed of life
that You planted within me,
not as an afterthought.
— Sivan Har-Shefi, “Yigdal”
(from Zarka, Kibbutz HaMeuchad Publishing, p. 66)
As Shabbat HaGadol approaches, in these trembling days of war, we will soon ask—as generations have before us—Mah Nishtanah (“What has changed?”). And so much has changed. We have all changed in these years. The world is undergoing immense and forceful transformations. There is something in this that can paralyze faith and spirit.
And within this, Shabbat HaGadol is a refusal to be silenced. It is an ancient and eternal Jewish command to listen, even through the noise of war, for the enduring mission we have taken upon ourselves: to grow, and to cultivate sacred and worthy life—even under the most painful conditions. As Sivan Har-Shefi writes: to grow, and that the heart becomes more humble.
So what is the meaning of Shabbat HaGadol? What does it truly demand of us?
In his teaching for Shabbat HaGadol in the year 1872, the Sefat Emet shared a remarkable idea in the name of his grandfather: “Shabbat HaGadol is so called because it causes arrogance and false greatness, those not for God, to cease.”
Shabbat HaGadol, he teaches, is not a title but an action: to quiet within us arrogance and self-importance. One might even say it is an ironic term (lashon sagi nahor): it calls upon us to become smaller, to contract, to make space within ourselves—not only in our cupboards before Passover, but in our spiritual work, in our character as individuals and as a people. This is for the sake of the growth of the people and the world in devotion to God.
The work before the Day of God is inner work, of the individual and of the collective, of the one who conquers their inclination for the sake of their Creator. It is an ethical and spiritual discipline that keeps the heart humble, so that one may serve God and take part in something greater and more awe-inspiring than oneself.
What is truly great is not the private ego, which is one of life’s stumbling blocks. Nor even the people of Israel, who may—God forbid—stumble in their covenantal mission. Only God is truly great. We must remember this greatness. To cleave to it in every circumstance. To pray it at all times. To study and live it. To believe.
Thus teaches Rabbi Azariah Figo, one of the great sages of 17th-century Italy, in Binah La’Itim: the words of the haftarah from the prophet Malachi on Shabbat HaGadol call for a great faith: “For the greatest of the wonders of that hoped-for day will be the universal recognition by all humanity of God’s divinity… as it is said (Zephaniah 3:9): ‘Then I will transform the peoples to a clear language, so that all may call upon the name of the Lord and serve Him with one accord.’ …And afterward will come the great day, when all nations will see Israel as believers, children of believers, and from them the whole world will learn…”
In other words: the inner ethical work of humility taught by the Sefat Emet is complemented by a work of faith—of moral and spiritual imagination—of the great hoped-for day for all humanity. This is a demanding spiritual practice, one of righteousness and courage: to grow into a people of faith who envision and affirm good for all who are created in the image of God, and who seek protection and peace for themselves and for all people and nations.
This is the demand—always, and especially now, as we live in this beloved land: to quiet arrogance in our character, and to restore hope in the great day through the work of faith and courage.
This is the preparation for the Exodus from Egypt in every generation, and the preparation for the building of Jerusalem and this beloved land in every time.
And so, on the night of the Seder itself, Jews in every generation refuse to be trapped in the Egypt that lurks everywhere. They demonstrate, with sacred devotion, how to build Jerusalem and the Land of Israel.
Out of a broken and divided world, the Maggid section of the Seder begins with a declaration of spiritual independence: “This is the bread of affliction. All who are hungry, come and eat; all who are in need, come and partake in the Passover. This year we are here; next year in the Land of Israel. This year we are slaves; next year we are free.”
The mission of great faith is “all who are hungry” to see, to invite, and to care for all who are hungry. As Rabbi Yaakov Emden teaches, and as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes: to be the opposite of Egypt, its antithesis, not to deny the humanity of the other human being.
Within all that is broken and painful, the redemption of the Exodus and the building of the Land of Israel lie in the ability to turn our gaze toward the other, every other: every Jew, every Israeli, every Palestinian, Iranian, Lebanese, Syrian who seeks good; every human being who seeks life—kol dikhfin (“all who are hungry”).
That is why the Seder ends with the words: “Next year in rebuilt Jerusalem.” In Egypt, pyramids were built on the backs of human oppression. But we, our mission is integrious: to build a world of seeing one another’s faces, of extending a hand in responsibility, kindness, and compassion. From this, Jerusalem is built.
We are living through difficult and challenging days. The strength required of us penetrates deep within and overflows. The boundaries within our people and society, and between peoples, are growing more distant. The levels of despair, numbness, and violence are rising. The levels of sensitivity and gentleness are decreasing and are perceived as dangerous weakness. There is no attentiveness to the work of character; no attentiveness to the work of faith and to the covenant of the great day.
These cannot be repaired through violence of any kind. Not through hatred toward any person—not toward settlers, not toward Palestinians, not toward Jews, not toward any human being. The work of courage and peace demands of us a noble and eternal calling: to believe that there is room for everyone; to practice “all who are hungry” (kol dikhfin); to protect everyone; to believe in that which is greater than all of us—to grow, and for the heart to become more humble.
“Behold, I send you”, this is the mission. This is the daily Farming of Faith. Each day distances and draws us closer. Each day depends on the work of faith and showing up, to say hineni: ”here I am.”
We have returned to Zion not in order to hate within it, nor to despair of it. We have returned to Zion to build, in this broken and divided world, a home that calls out “all who are hungry,” even from within the great sorrow. To weep, and to open a door to the neighboring home, and to protect the image of God within them and within us. To build, within trauma and pain, a gentle hope for a rebuilt Jerusalem.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum is the Director of the Rabbanut Yisraelit Network and Co-Director of the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Ritual Center. She serves as a board member of Tag Meir, 929, Meitarim Network, Yanshuf, IJCIC, is a Honey fellow, and was the recipient of the Hebrew University Flegg Prize and co-recipient of the Stulman prize. Her work spans and links tradition and innovation, working toward Jewish spiritual-ethical renaissance through the renewal of community life in Israel and the struggle for human dignity. Tamar served as rabbi of Congregation Magen Avraham in the Negev; as a congregational rabbi in White Plains New York alongside Rabbi Gordon Tucker. She is co-editor of the Mashiv Haruach Jerusalem poem anthology (2014), co-author of the Lev Shalem commentary for Pirkei Avot (2018). In 2010 she was named by the Forward as one of the five most influential female religious leaders in Israel for her work promoting pluralism and Jewish religious freedom.
and that the heart remains humble.
To grow means
also to deepen,
to draw near to the roots.
To grow
so that the shell is refined,
the prepuce removed
To grow so that there may be growth,
as an act of love for the seed of life
that You planted within me,
not as an afterthought.
— Sivan Har-Shefi, “Yigdal”
(from Zarka, Kibbutz HaMeuchad Publishing, p. 66)
As Shabbat HaGadol approaches, in these trembling days of war, we will soon ask—as generations have before us—Mah Nishtanah (“What has changed?”). And so much has changed. We have all changed in these years. The world is undergoing immense and forceful transformations. There is something in this that can paralyze faith and spirit.
And within this, Shabbat HaGadol is a refusal to be silenced. It is an ancient and eternal Jewish command to listen, even through the noise of war, for the enduring mission we have taken upon ourselves: to grow, and to cultivate sacred and worthy life—even under the most painful conditions. As Sivan Har-Shefi writes: to grow, and that the heart becomes more humble.
So what is the meaning of Shabbat HaGadol? What does it truly demand of us?
In his teaching for Shabbat HaGadol in the year 1872, the Sefat Emet shared a remarkable idea in the name of his grandfather: “Shabbat HaGadol is so called because it causes arrogance and false greatness, those not for God, to cease.”
Shabbat HaGadol, he teaches, is not a title but an action: to quiet within us arrogance and self-importance. One might even say it is an ironic term (lashon sagi nahor): it calls upon us to become smaller, to contract, to make space within ourselves—not only in our cupboards before Passover, but in our spiritual work, in our character as individuals and as a people. This is for the sake of the growth of the people and the world in devotion to God.
The work before the Day of God is inner work, of the individual and of the collective, of the one who conquers their inclination for the sake of their Creator. It is an ethical and spiritual discipline that keeps the heart humble, so that one may serve God and take part in something greater and more awe-inspiring than oneself.
What is truly great is not the private ego, which is one of life’s stumbling blocks. Nor even the people of Israel, who may—God forbid—stumble in their covenantal mission. Only God is truly great. We must remember this greatness. To cleave to it in every circumstance. To pray it at all times. To study and live it. To believe.
Thus teaches Rabbi Azariah Figo, one of the great sages of 17th-century Italy, in Binah La’Itim: the words of the haftarah from the prophet Malachi on Shabbat HaGadol call for a great faith: “For the greatest of the wonders of that hoped-for day will be the universal recognition by all humanity of God’s divinity… as it is said (Zephaniah 3:9): ‘Then I will transform the peoples to a clear language, so that all may call upon the name of the Lord and serve Him with one accord.’ …And afterward will come the great day, when all nations will see Israel as believers, children of believers, and from them the whole world will learn…”
In other words: the inner ethical work of humility taught by the Sefat Emet is complemented by a work of faith—of moral and spiritual imagination—of the great hoped-for day for all humanity. This is a demanding spiritual practice, one of righteousness and courage: to grow into a people of faith who envision and affirm good for all who are created in the image of God, and who seek protection and peace for themselves and for all people and nations.
This is the demand—always, and especially now, as we live in this beloved land: to quiet arrogance in our character, and to restore hope in the great day through the work of faith and courage.
This is the preparation for the Exodus from Egypt in every generation, and the preparation for the building of Jerusalem and this beloved land in every time.
And so, on the night of the Seder itself, Jews in every generation refuse to be trapped in the Egypt that lurks everywhere. They demonstrate, with sacred devotion, how to build Jerusalem and the Land of Israel.
Out of a broken and divided world, the Maggid section of the Seder begins with a declaration of spiritual independence: “This is the bread of affliction. All who are hungry, come and eat; all who are in need, come and partake in the Passover. This year we are here; next year in the Land of Israel. This year we are slaves; next year we are free.”
The mission of great faith is “all who are hungry” to see, to invite, and to care for all who are hungry. As Rabbi Yaakov Emden teaches, and as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes: to be the opposite of Egypt, its antithesis, not to deny the humanity of the other human being.
Within all that is broken and painful, the redemption of the Exodus and the building of the Land of Israel lie in the ability to turn our gaze toward the other, every other: every Jew, every Israeli, every Palestinian, Iranian, Lebanese, Syrian who seeks good; every human being who seeks life—kol dikhfin (“all who are hungry”).
That is why the Seder ends with the words: “Next year in rebuilt Jerusalem.” In Egypt, pyramids were built on the backs of human oppression. But we, our mission is integrious: to build a world of seeing one another’s faces, of extending a hand in responsibility, kindness, and compassion. From this, Jerusalem is built.
We are living through difficult and challenging days. The strength required of us penetrates deep within and overflows. The boundaries within our people and society, and between peoples, are growing more distant. The levels of despair, numbness, and violence are rising. The levels of sensitivity and gentleness are decreasing and are perceived as dangerous weakness. There is no attentiveness to the work of character; no attentiveness to the work of faith and to the covenant of the great day.
These cannot be repaired through violence of any kind. Not through hatred toward any person—not toward settlers, not toward Palestinians, not toward Jews, not toward any human being. The work of courage and peace demands of us a noble and eternal calling: to believe that there is room for everyone; to practice “all who are hungry” (kol dikhfin); to protect everyone; to believe in that which is greater than all of us—to grow, and for the heart to become more humble.
“Behold, I send you”, this is the mission. This is the daily Farming of Faith. Each day distances and draws us closer. Each day depends on the work of faith and showing up, to say hineni: ”here I am.”
We have returned to Zion not in order to hate within it, nor to despair of it. We have returned to Zion to build, in this broken and divided world, a home that calls out “all who are hungry,” even from within the great sorrow. To weep, and to open a door to the neighboring home, and to protect the image of God within them and within us. To build, within trauma and pain, a gentle hope for a rebuilt Jerusalem.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum is the Director of the Rabbanut Yisraelit Network and Co-Director of the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Ritual Center. She serves as a board member of Tag Meir, 929, Meitarim Network, Yanshuf, IJCIC, is a Honey fellow, and was the recipient of the Hebrew University Flegg Prize and co-recipient of the Stulman prize. Her work spans and links tradition and innovation, working toward Jewish spiritual-ethical renaissance through the renewal of community life in Israel and the struggle for human dignity. Tamar served as rabbi of Congregation Magen Avraham in the Negev; as a congregational rabbi in White Plains New York alongside Rabbi Gordon Tucker. She is co-editor of the Mashiv Haruach Jerusalem poem anthology (2014), co-author of the Lev Shalem commentary for Pirkei Avot (2018). In 2010 she was named by the Forward as one of the five most influential female religious leaders in Israel for her work promoting pluralism and Jewish religious freedom.