March 2010, Jewish Stories

possible reactions within each one of us and among all of us as we struggle with the role of sacred stories in our lives. But the authors of this parable didn’t just capture the essence of this timeless challenge; they also came up with a smart solution, still viable and vital today, even if often overlooked. “At p’tach lo,” the Haggadah instructs: “It is your responsibly to open for them.” It is the duty of parents, teachers, and leaders to open the doors to curiosity, and to transmit our values by making the stories become alive, accessible, and meaningful to everyone sitting at our table.

How do we, today, provide access to the sacred story? Before tackling the “how” I’d like to suggest that we examine the “why.” What meaning can we make of this story today? Why should it matter at all?

“There are master stories that we tell our-
selves and by which we interpret and respond to
the events which impinge on our lives.” 1 James
Fowler, a professor of theology and human de-
velopment writing about the life of faith, identi-
fied stories as a key ingredient in the development
and shaping of our personalities and collective
contracts. “Our master stories” he continues, “dis-
close the ultimate meaning of our lives.”
The story of the Exodus is clearly one of the
Western world’s master stories, and is arguably
the mega-master story of the Jewish people.
Like many other grand stories, the biblical saga
of how the Hebrews suffered as slaves and
found their way to freedom presents their de-
scendents with a link to the past and a message
of hope for a better future. Like all great stories,
the Exodus is framed in a basic grid: struggle
and resolution. The stories of Cinderella,
Hamlet, and even Avatar — currently the best-
selling “story” — recall transformation, echo-
ing struggle and the hope for resolution. We
cherish these stories and pass them on because
they mirror and mold what’s stored in our
minds; they remind us of how we see the world
— a story of struggle and survival.

For most Jews seated around seder tables
today, the Exodus story is more about historical
and national survival — an act of strengthening
our collective identity by retelling the struggle
that forged us as a people. In answer to the
question “why tell the Exodus story?” most of
us will reply, as the Haggadah instructs:
“Remember where we Jews came from: We suf-
fered and survived.”
But there’s another way to answer this ques-
tion, and perhaps this other “why” can make
this story and its radical message accessible and
important to many more of us today. Jewish
stories, according to mystical Jewish teachings,
are not important just because they happened
once, but because they keep happening. The
stories, retold, enable us to eat the fruit, sur-
vive the flood, flee Egypt, and reactivate reve-
lation. These master stories give voice to our
most cherished notions, private and public, per-
sonal and collective — of what is sacred, what
really matters, and what our role is in the
world. As the People of the Book, connecting
to our recycled stories reaffirms our identity. As
human beings, these same stories are agents of
transformation, resonating with our deeper
selves. Stories are equipment for living. We
read books and go to the movies because sto-
ries, more than anything else, teach us, move
us, and help us grow. “Stories hide meanings
as a bottle contains wine and as the body is
filled with soul,” states the Zohar. The personal,
often private meaning that each one of us
makes of these stories is the real reason for the
survival of our master stories. The Exodus story
is the master story of our people; it is also the
personal master story for each one of us. And,
like every story, like all scriptures, the sacred
story is but a gateway to an endless, timeless
conversation that can inform our minds, touch
our souls, mark our journeys, and bring us
closer to ourselves and to each other.