ALL OF US:

Not only does the Haggadah contain multiple narrative threads, but also each thread and each ritual contain a multitude of interpretive possibilities. There is an archaeology to the Haggadah, it is a layered compendium of biblical texts, rabbinic texts, medieval texts, and modern texts interwoven and stitched together, with the seams visible to close readers, embracing a diversity of ages, sages and sensibilities.

But the Haggadah is more than that. Much more.

More of an invitation than a recitation, the Haggadah is engineered to elicit comments and debate from its readers. The Hebrew word "haggadah" doesn't mean "story"; it means "telling," an observation made even more interesting when one considers that the first thing one does in the maggid/telling section is not tell but ask a question: Mah nishtanah? "What makes this night different?"

Unlike every other liturgy, the Haggadah not only allows for interruption but also welcomes it. Unlike every other liturgy, the text of the Haggadah is directed not toward God but to the people sitting across from you at the table. The Haggadah reminds us that our stories are not only endlessly diverse, but also endlessly evolving, as in the case of the sages described in the Haggadah, all of whom continued to find new meanings in each word throughout their lives.

Most of all, the Haggadah is a reminder. It's a reminder that our stories, interpretations and insights--diverse and evolving as they are--must sit side by side, literally and figuratively, with the stories, interpretations and insights of every other Seder participant. Each person, regardless of age, stature or wisdom is an equal stakeholder. Memorable as the rhetorical device of the four children may be, its point is not merely to prompt us to identify with one child or another; its point and power is to remind us that all four children figured out a way to sit at the table together. Who knows if the rabbis described in Haggadah--Eliezer, Akiva and Tarfon (among others)--actually liked each other? What we do know is that they made space for each other, debating until the break of dawn, their insights preserved in the text together with those of other rabbis.

Memorable as the rhetorical device of the four children may be, its point is not merely to prompt us to identify with one child or another; its point and power is to remind us that all four children figured out a way to sit at the table together.

The Haggadah is not just a story of one of us; it is the story of all of us. On one hand, this story is authentic to our respective lived experiences, and on the other hand it is inclusive and interconnected with the lived experiences of others. There is a lexical correspondence between the Hebrew word "haggadah" and the Hebrew root gid, meaning "sinew" or "tendon," that which binds or connects us. That is what the Haggadah is: a story that invites other stories, that connects those stories one to another. It's an inclusive tool of identity formation that binds each participant to a larger narrative and binds the Jewish people together through the ages.

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