It was a damp night in
1878. David Gutman was speaking to a group of pioneers who had joined
him in celebrating the first Seder night on land known as Mulabbis, what
later became the settlement of Petach Tikva.
"Today we are the first
birds to greet the light of dawn," prophesied Gutman, an optimistic and
tireless man. The reality in which they lived was quite dismal, rife
with diseases and complicated by an existential struggle. But on that
Seder evening, the pioneers bandied about their comprehensive vision of
hope, liberation and light. (These details and more were revealed
recently with the publication of Yoel Moshe Solomon's personal diary, by
his family).
Tonight, 136 years
later, in much more prosperous times, living under true sovereignty and
independence, we will mark Judaism's original independence day, the day
our nation was born some 3,500 years ago. While this original
independence day doesn't try to compete with modern Israel's
Independence Day three weeks from now, it does imbue a phrase we will
shortly recite with contemporary credence: "The nation of Israel,
throughout the generations."
Gutman and his friends,
just like Hillel who "put Pesach matzah and bitter herbs together and
ate them," Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua and their colleagues in Bnei
Brak, or other generations of Jews, imagined themselves -- as
individuals and as a nation -- going out from Egypt. If the generations
of Jews had never imagined themselves undertaking that journey and
establishing the traditional Seder evening, it's doubtful whether we
would even be able to speak about a state of the Jewish people.
The Jews were
commanded: "In every generation, each individual must imagine himself as
if he was going out from Egypt." This was meant to prevent us from
languishing in the present, disregarding the future and severing
ourselves from the past. It is a code, and its function it is to balance
the clear sense of, "Here I was born, here my children were born to
me."
While no ceremony such
as the Pesach Haggadah has been produced for either Independence Day or
Jerusalem Day, which are both just around the corner, the guiding
principle is the same for all three: If, in every generation, each
person is able to imagine himself putting on the vibrant masks of
bravery and revival, it will contribute decisively to our continuity,
our memory of history and our nation's taste for life, both as
individuals and a state.
Of all four sons in the
Haggadah, poet Natan Alterman loved the simple one best. In his poem,
"A Simple One," the simple son was portrayed as neither boor nor
buffoon, but as someone intoxicated and overwhelmed by the miracles and
wonders happening all around him. Alterman's simple child has a purpose:
to prevent us from lapsing into the indifference to miracles that
characterizes those "wise" ones, who perceive such things as normal and
take them for granted.
Indeed, neither the birthday of the Jewish
people nor the birthday of the Jewish state, linked together by the
chain of generations, lie within the realm of normalcy or self-evidence.
While there is no problem getting used to their existence, we must
always remember, recite and repeat, making sure such milestones are
never taken for granted. 
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