The Art of Redemption

“And when your child will ask tomorrow, saying, ‘What is this?’ you shall tell him: with a strong hand did the Lord bring us out of Egypt, from the house of bondage.

And every firstborn of My children I shall redeem.” (Shemot 13:14–15)

How does one “redeem” a child?

In Jewish thought, redemption is not only historical or political; it is also existential and educational. We redeem a child when we educate him or her in a way that they will discover what their higher purpose is. In the case of a Jewish child, this meaning emerges from a deep and inspiring Jewish education.

As the great American philosopher Hilary Putnam argues, part of what makes every child like a “firstborn” is that each human being arrives in the world as a radical, unpredictable novelty that cannot be reduced to biology or replication.[1]

The Promise of Meaning

As Jewish parents we make a solemn promise that our children will not be ordinary, but will be the inheritors of a unique and wonderful mission, to live by God’s commandments and consequently help move mankind toward the final redemption. We proclaim our children to be destined to become a light and blessing to the nations; this is a covenant between the child and God.

But one could ask: What gives parents the right to bring a child into an eternal covenant without his consent? How can we commit a child to a lifelong mission that he or she may not choose to fulfill? For that matter, do we even have a right to bring a child into the world without his consent?

Judaism turns the tables on this argument with a remarkable response: On the contrary, would it not be a great injustice to bring a child into the world without giving him a higher mission?

While Socrates declared that a life without thinking is not worth living, Judaism teaches that life without ethical and spiritual commitment is no life at all. As A.J. Heschel put it, “To be is to stand for; to live is to be committed.”[2]

How could we, as responsible parents, throw our children into a turbulent and brutal world—a world in which they can be overwhelmed—without giving them a higher purpose to make it all worthwhile?

The dignity of man stands in proportion to his obligations. To withhold this awesome responsibility is to deny our children the opportunity to experience the highest, truest value of living in this world.

This is the highest form of redemption, of real freedom and dignity.

Na’aseh ve-nishma

At Sinai the Jews committed themselves to the Torah with the words na’aseh ve-nishma—“We shall do and we shall hear.”[3] Even before they understood what the Torah would require of them, the Jewish people committed themselves to the uncertain task of serving the Creator of the universe because they realized that without this commitment, life would be empty and meaningless.

From the moment of birth, children learn by saying: Na’aseh ve-nishma, “we shall do and we shall hear.” In this way they begin their journey on the road of commitment. But if we do not give them something worthy of this commitment, their road could lead to tragedy. And so, we place their feet on the road to holiness that, although not yet known, is the most challenging and most rewarding mission life can offer—to become a servant of God, and a blessing to all nations.

“And when your child will ask tomorrow, saying, ‘What is this? (when we sit around the Pesach table and tell the story of the Exodus of Egypt)” you shall tell him: with a strong hand did the Lord bring us out of Egypt, from the house of bondage.” (Shemot 13:14) Children need to know the reasons why. It is our duty to give them answers that will help them find meaning in the world around them.

To be is to live with a mission. “The greatest gifts you can give your children are the roots of responsibility and the wings of independence.”[4]

There is no greater bondage than a meaningless freedom.

Notes:

[1] Hilary Putnam, “Cloning People,” in The Genetic Revolution and Human Rights, ed. Justine Burley (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 13–21.

[2] Abraham Joshua Heschel, Man Is Not Alone (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1951), 29.

[3] Shemot 24:7; Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 88a.

[4] Denis Waitley, The Seeds of Greatness (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1983), 81.

Questions for the Shabbat Table

1. If a child never chose the covenant, is Jewish education an act of love — or a form of spiritual coercion? Can both be true at once? Do you feel gratitude toward your parents for the education they gave you—whether Jewish or not—or do you feel resentment in having your path chosen for you?
2. Do obligations really make us more dignified — or do they sometimes diminish us? Can you think of examples where duty feels oppressive rather than ennobling? And if redemption comes through education, what happens to those who do not receive a “deep and inspiring” Jewish education? Are they less redeemed?
3. Is it fair for parents to tell their children they are destined to “be a light to the nations”? Could this create unbearable pressure rather than inspiration? In your own life, do you feel uplifted by being able to provide “light” to others?