Why is Moses not mentioned in the Haggadah? When I was younger, I would wrinkle my nose at this question and dismiss it as a “klutz kasha,” a meaningless query that betrays an ignorance of how the Haggadah was edited. There is no author who “excluded” Moses from the Haggadah; the Haggadah is a collection of texts that accumulated over centuries. The omission of Moses is simply a coincidence.
Now I see this question differently. We can find profound truths in “drash,” poetic interpretations that reveal what is hidden between the lines. Unconscious realities can lie within what appears to be a random coincidence, and so it is with Moses’s absence from the Haggadah.
The desire to write our name begins in elementary school, when we instinctively scribble it everywhere, haltingly written in pencil. It is a short jump from the scribbles of elementary school to the plaques that announce adult successes. From the very beginning of our lives, we hope that something bearing our name will endure into the future. We build physical monuments to ourselves, hoping to achieve a small measure of immortality.
Ancient Egyptians were famous for building monuments. The Colossi of Memnon are two enormous 60-foot-tall statues of Pharaoh Amenhotep III; they are estimated to weigh 720 tons each. The bust of Ramesses II at the British Museum weighs over seven tons. In 2017, the statue of Psamtik was discovered at the Souq Al-Khamis archaeological site; it is 30 feet tall, and the torso alone weighs three tons.
Jews have had a very different attitude toward monuments. The second of the Ten Commandments is “You shall not make for yourselves any graven image.” The primary focus of this prohibition is idol worship, but the Talmud says it also includes a universal prohibition against creating a full-body statue of a human being.
This steadfast opposition to monuments can create conflict. In Central Park, near 90th Street and Fifth Avenue, sits the statue of Fred Lebow, the founder of the New York Marathon. Lebow was born in Romania to a very observant family; his given name was Fischel Lebowitz. When the statue was about to be unveiled in 1994, Lebow’s brother objected on halakhic grounds. As The New York Times described it, “the night before the statue’s dedication in Central Park… Mr. Mitrovich (who commissioned the statue) and a rabbi ducked under the blanket covering the statue. The rabbi used a metal file to chip the statue between Fred Lebow’s left thumb and forefinger.” This small gesture may seem petty from a reporter’s perspective, but it reflects a deep-seated Jewish discomfort with monuments.
In 1860, a controversy raged among American Jewry regarding a proposed statue. The philanthropist Judah Touro had recently passed away, and the New Orleans Jewish community wanted to erect a statue of Touro to honor his philanthropy. Several community members objected, stating that the prohibition of making graven images prevented it.
Eventually, a query was put to four prominent European rabbis: Zacharias Frankel, Nathan Marcus Adler, Shlomo Yehuda Rapoport, and Samson Raphael Hirsch. All four rejected the proposed statue as inappropriate.
Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch’s reply is particularly interesting. He argues that all honorary monuments are contrary to Jewish custom, and Jewish history has virtually no record of them. The only exception is Absalom, who is a rebel and a failure; an exception that proves the rule. Hirsch also cites the Talmud (Shekalim), which teaches that we do not place a monument at the burial places of the pious; the best way to honor the righteous and to continue their good name is through performing good deeds. Hirsch recommended that instead of spending money on a statue, the community of New Orleans should establish a charity in Touro’s memory.
Immortality is never carved in stone. The ancient Egyptian monuments now look a bit absurd; they ironically highlight the transience of the pharaohs and how ephemeral their accomplishments were. When the bust of Ramesses II arrived at the British Museum, Percy Shelley wrote the poem Ozymandias, which at its end mocks the Pharaoh’s pretensions:
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Centuries later, Ramesses II seems pathetic, grasping at a power that is long gone, his dreams of immortality reduced to a collapsed statue in the middle of a barren desert.
There can be no greater contrast to this than the way Jews memorialize Moses. The Torah tells us that the location of Moses’ burial place is unknown. Moses does not even have the simplest marker on his grave, let alone a monument depicting his greatness. And yet Moses has truly achieved immortality; every day, billions of people around the world recall Moses’s teachings.
This is why it is particularly fitting that Moses’s name is omitted from the Haggadah. First of all, his absence speaks louder than words; the fact that everyone wonders why Moses’s name is missing is in itself a powerful tribute to his memory. Beyond that, Moses’ life is woven into every moment of the Seder; none of this would have happened without him. Every day of Jewish history carries Moses’s legacy. Moses is “Moshe Rabbeinu,” Moses our teacher; it is his teachings on which we meditate day and night.
An enormous piece of carved stone is not the path to immortality. But we can grasp eternity when we live a life of values, love, and goodness; in doing so, we build a spiritual legacy for the future.
What lives on are spiritual legacies, and we carry those with us into the Seder. When we sit down to read the Haggadah, we don’t sit alone. Joining us are the tunes of our parents and grandparents, and the insights of teachers and rabbis. We join together with all of our ancestors at the Seder. And of course, Moses is at the head of the table, quietly leading us to a better future.
The Seder, which tells the remarkable story of the Jewish people, is their legacy; and that is far greater than any monument.
Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.
