It's one of the more perplexing moves that the Torah employs. It tells us that when we are asked by our children about the various practices that we follow Pesach night in commemorating the story of yitzias mitzrayim, we should respond by elucidating the entire Exodus story. In addition to this imperative, we are informed of an obligation to tell over to our children the story of yitzias mitzrayim. What distinguishes this second commandment from the former directive is the absence of a prompt for the required behavior. "V'hegadeta levincha bayom hahu" - seemingly independent of any inquisitive stimulus, the Torah mandates us to tell the story to our children.
To be sure, the two divergent imperatives pose no conceptual contradiction. We might simply assume that the Torah is indeed describing a response in the second command as well, but the Torah goes one step further in describing the nature of our response in this second directive - respond to questions by explaining the entire story.
I characterize this suggestion as a mere theoretical possibility, however, because the Torah throws in one crucial obstacle in actually subscribing to this approach. In its presentation of the two mitzvos, the Torah introduces the chiyuv of telling (v'hegadeta) first, and only afterwards relays the normative of responding to questioning. And the sequence does indeed seem rather strange. Clearly, the purpose of the former directive is not in characterizing our responses toward inquiry, as we might have preliminarily suggested, for the commandment sets in before the mere mention of a prompting query. It is the resolution to this question - understanding this directive of volunteering the story on the Seder night without prompt - that shaped my view on a very different issue that has engendered Yeshiva campus discussion over the past couple of weeks.
We'll get back to that in a minute. I never really bought into the concept or attributed much value of symbolism. Admittedly, the concept has its place, and an essential one at that, within the context of halacha. But, beyond that, it seems quite difficult to convince anyone that the fact that one thing can be seen to symbolize another adds to its value in any significant way.
And so, I thought my position on the now infamous issue - to split or not to split - would be relatively predictable. I have personally heard steadfast proponents of the position supporting the merge of the two positions within a single personae appeal to the need to maintain the symbolic embodiment of Torah U'Madda. It made more sense, however, that this decision be made irrespective of the mere symbolic value that one choice may carry. If I were to believe that the institution would flourish best with a separate President and Rosh Yeshiva, any appeal to the symbolic advantage of having the two fused within one personality would seemingly fail to intrigue me. In short, why invoke the esoteric concept of symbolism to defend the need to take someone who can fill the two posts at one time?
It was no accident, however, that Dr. Lamm announced his decision to hang up his boots two weeks before Pesach. Indeed, the answer to the aforementioned question lies within the message that underlies the presentation of the Torah in Parshas Bo of the two divergent forms of sippur yitzias mitzrayim.
Symbolism means little, and the aforementioned argument means alot, when analyzed from the sole perspective of actual truth. The facts that comprise my argument are all true, and the logic of the argument proceeds relatively cleanly. Nonetheless, the Torah points out, through its unique blend of directives, the need to concern ourselves with the possibility of the onlooker reaping implicit messages, even inaccurate messages, that will trickle down to him by sheer accident. When dealing with children, for instance, the Torah charges us with taking for granted the human element that will inevitably lead some to draw their own conclusions, or not draw the proper necessary conclusions, in an array of situations. Once we take that phenomenon as a given, we can no longer simply evaluate the mere accuracy or truth of our arguments and actions, but must consider the ease with which that truth or accuracy can be obtained by someone else. In this realm, of course, symbolism carries crucial import.
It is this same line of logic that we can employ when addressing the infamous voting question, and the same mode of reasoning that governs a whole host of life decisions. Granted, for instance, that my vote will not affect the outcome of a particular election, the need to recognize the seeming infinite effects of my single act, in its influencing others who act simply by following my lead, who will in turn affect others in the same manner, solidifies the need for me to head to the polls.
And similarly, our obligation on the seder night seems to be formulated as such. The clear divide between the proactive directive of haggadah - telling the story - and the responsive normative of answering our children's questions, against this backdrop, makes perfect sense. Sometimes, children will not ask. If we were to simply respond, we would lose all those who did not muster up the courage to inquire about the meaning behind our religious worship.
The relevance of describing such an approach, particularly within the context of educating our children, is also quite clear. Children often hesitate to ask. And so, even if your actions are entirely right, the requirement of accompanying deep explanation for that to shine through, threatens that children might glean the wrong message from your perfectly admirable conduct. And so, we are directed to both respond and initiate - not to count upon the inquisitive child, but to proactively compensate for the need to generate an implicit message. We are directed to recognize the need to understand how education works - the unspoken factor - and engage in it properly on the one night that we focus our observance on education.
And so, it is the educational role that the leader of an institution like Yeshiva plays that directs us toward employing this concept in formulating a response to the President/Rosh Yeshiva split question. It is in choosing a leader that we often succeed in best articulating a methodology that underlies our behavior. And the mere ability for the mass public to view a leader that clearly and accessibly highlights the ability to merge two seemingly competing disciplines, as a President/Rosh Yeshiva would, does the job. The student who would normally take for granted the inconsistency contained within the doctrine of Torah U'Madda might never ask about it; we might thus never be able to respond to that presumption. And so, even though we will be able to explain, we won't be able to do so without the prompt of the question. Therefore, the role of the leader of an institution is to de facto function as a maggid - to implicitly answer that question by embodying the co-existence of Torah U'Madda, thereby clearly rejecting the seeming inconsistency.
It is for this very same reason that our staff has devoted a year to crafting a Commentator that aimed to typify the incorporation of obedience of and respect for halacha with a high level of journalistic integrity. For if we had not done so, even one individual who aspires to enter the field of journalism might incorrectly intuit a mandate to choose between halacha and journalism, without trying the seemingly daunting task of merging the two. I personally never intended on pursuing a career in this field, and the single-bodied President/Rosh Yeshiva might not necessarily outperform two separate individuals at either post. But that makes no difference. The recognition of the underlying message of the Torah's presentation of the holiday of Pesach, validates our concern for an audience far broader and more diverse than ourselves, and our concern for them drives us forward. Our decisions account for the future and so should Yeshiva's.