As Passover approaches, tsedakkah activity is everywhere. Where I live in Israel, people come knocking at my door; the local supermarket has placed cartons at the checkout counter for donations; fliers come in the mail. The local religious council and several of my neighbors are involved.

Nationally, the generosity is organized on a massive scale. Chasdei Yosef and Chasdei Na’ami are leading examples. This year, they are bringing Passover supplies—wine, matzot, meat, eggs, poultry, sugar, oil, fruits and vegetables, and other essentials—to some 40,000 in need in over 200 localities throughout Israel. Both are non-governmental organizations, funded by private donations.

These are not the usual appeals which are made throughout the year for the poor. These are intended specifically to assist our fellow Jews in preparing for Passover. It is known in Jewish law as kimcha d’Pischa (the flour of Passover), or maot chitin (wheat monies), and everyone who can is obliged to help. The idea is surprisingly simple: that no Jew should be without the funds necessary for the means to enjoy Passover. Just as we all went out from Egypt together, so we should all be able to celebrate our freedom together.

It is a custom with an illustrious history. In the aftermath of the Holocaust, thousands of survivors in the DP (Displaced Persons) camps of Europe received Passover packages, in addition to food, clothing and other shipments the rest of the year. Back in the days of the Soviet Union, many tons of matzot were sent annually by the Jews of the free West to their co-religionists in the USSR, whose atheistic, anti-Semitic government only grudgingly permitted to reach their Jewish citizens. During those years, many families made a symbolic place setting at the Seder table for the Russian Jew who could not attend, to show that he was not forgotten.

Just a few years ago in Israel, thousands of reservists were called up for emergency duty on Passover eve and the army had not had time for the usual festival preparations. When word got out about their predicament, scores of private individuals cooked and baked extra portions. Supplies were delivered to the soldiers at the front by car, truck, motorcycle; by every means of conveyance, not excluding love.

The custom of kimcha d’Pischa also provides the answer to a question that should trouble us as we commence the Seder. For at the very beginning, right after kiddush, we declaim our magnanimity: “Whoever is hungry, come and eat…!” It’s in the traditional haggadah, and everyone recites it, yet I have never seen anyone stop at that point to go out the door and search down the street for poor wayfarers. Isn’t it hypocritical, then? Who do we think we are fooling?

The answer is that, if we belong to a community which looks after the poor, and if we personally have contributed to the cause, then there really should be no one to whom to address those words. In the event that someone does turn up, we should have it in our hearts to be ready to welcome them into our homes.

But it goes beyond that. Passover is meant to be more than just a family gathering; more even than a remembrance and celebration of the founding of the Jewish people. On Passover night we strive to re-live the Exodus, “as if we ourselves were delivered from slavery in Egypt.”

So it’s important to know that they were not only leaving somewhere; they were going somewhere. They were heading for an experience of unparalleled majesty: the splitting of the sea and the giving of the Torah at Sinai. As the Haggadah says: “And with great awe—this refers to the revelation of the Divine Presence.” On Seder night, we strive for a glimpse of that greatness.

Rashi tells us that the Jewish people at Sinai were one. Sinai was made possible by that unity. That means that economic and social inequalities could not have existed; they would have impeded their access to ultimate spirituality. If one feels better than his neighbor because he has more, if his neighbor is jealous or resentful because he has less, it’s hard to concentrate on the voice coming from the mountain. Indeed, would we have been worthy of G-d speaking to us if that were the case? Taking care of the poor thus becomes a pre-requisite for the Pesach experience.

This is the bread of poverty that our fathers ate in Egypt…this year we are here, next year in Jerusalem, this year we are slaves, next year free men!

What is the connection between what they ate in Egypt and our hopes for the future? The Midrash (Tana d’Bei Eliyahu Raba 23) says that Jews of Egypt had one great mitzvah—tseddakah. Even in the midst of poverty and oppression, they looked after one another, to make sure that no one lacked bread. In that merit they were redeemed from the house of bondage.

Just as we all went out from Egypt together, so we should all be able to celebrate our freedom together.

by Rabbi Yisrael Rutman

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