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Take the middle matzah and break it into two, one piece larger than the other. The larger piece is set aside to serve as afikoman. The smaller piece is put back, between the two matzot. |
בַּעַל הַבַּיִת יִבְצַע אֶת הַמַּצָּה הָאֶמְצָעִית לִשְׁתַּיִם וּמַצְפִּין אֶת הַחֲצִי הַגָדוֹל לַאֲפִיקוֹמָן. |
We break the middle of the three matzot (plural for matzah) in half, place one half of the broken matzah between the other two whole ones, and “hide” the other half to be retrieved later in the Seder for the afikoman.
Understanding Yachatz involves a closer look at its two parts: breaking and hiding.
Breaking the middle matzah enables the two subsequent steps of the Seder: (1) Maggid, the narrative telling of the Passover story, and (2) Motzi Matzah, blessing and eating the matzah, which takes place intentionally with a broken piece. A passage in Deuteronomy (16:3) refers to matzah as lechem oni, which can be translated as “poor bread,” “bread of the poor,” or “bread of affliction.” With this term in mind, the Talmud teaches that, “Just like a poor person will only have a piece [i.e., not a whole], so too here [during the recitation of the Maggid and for Motzi Matzah] we should use but a piece” (Tractate Pesachim 115b-116a). Thus, breaking the matzah creates for us a state of incompleteness, of uncertainty, of oni. It is a re-enactment of our time of slavery, which was a necessary precursor to redemption.
Hiding the other half matzah is not quite as important from a ritual perspective — it was often just put under the tablecloth. Over time, the process of hiding the broken matzah and then finding it became a means to maintain children’s interest in the goings-on of the Seder.
Breaking is a complex concept. It separates, it destroys, and it also enables rebuilding. Whether because of structural limits or deficiencies, the inability to retain external or internal pressure, the act of moving away from the status quo, or the act of clearing space for redevelopment, breaking can be transformative. Above all, breaking is natural.
In Jewish mystical tradition, the world itself was created from a primordial breaking. The Kabbalah maintains that God’s energy in creating the world could not be contained in vessels. The vessels therefore shattered and released the energy of creative light into the world. Breaking releases energy trapped in form. In what is referred to as shvirat ha’kailim, “breaking of the vessels,” creative energy overwhelms form, breaks free, and invigorates its surroundings.
Breaking as the genesis of creating is not limited to a one-time occurrence. Rather, it is a vital pattern embedded in all levels of life. It is said in the name of Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav (1772–1810, Chassidic rebbe born in Uman, Ukraine) that at every stage of personal development, there is a shvirat ha’kailim, a breaking of our current form and release of energy, enabling a re-creation of the self.
“The breaking from wholeness is a step in ego development. There is no coming to consciousness without pain.” —Carl Jung (twentieth-century Swiss psychiatrist)
“There is a crack, a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in.” —Leonard Cohen (Canadian singer-songwriter)
It is significant that Yachatz precedes the central part of the Seder, Maggid, the telling of the narrative. There can be no redemption — personal, national, or spiritual — if we are unable to first acknowledge that there is brokenness in need of repair. The Buddha famously taught that life is suffering and that there is a way to alleviate it. As the amazing journey of the Jewish people began with being broken as slaves, we all begin our journey to freedom with a similar gesture. For in every event of destruction there is hope and opportunity, the seeds of renewal. After all, tikkun olam, fixing the brokenness in the world, is our Jewish mission.
In Yachatz two pieces are hidden. One piece is hidden between the two whole matzot and one is hidden more deeply, exiled to another space. One gets revealed at the end of our narrative and is incorporated into the Motzi Matzah; the other remains hidden in the subconscious. It is not revealed for some time, as we carry on with our narrative, rituals, and meal. Ultimately, the deeply hidden is looked for and found by the child (in us) who remembers that there was something missing. Revealing and re-integrating that hidden piece is the culmination of the work of redemption.
To personalize this experience of redemption, think about what is psychologically concealed within you, what it would mean to seek out the concealed and then re-join the concealed with the revealed (i.e., the afikoman). Consider what it feels like to know that there is a piece of you hidden somewhere and you don’t yet have access to it, you may not have defined it, and you might not even remember that it’s missing. Describe the feeling when your parts reveal themselves and you unite them and utilize them. That is personal redemption.
“Veiling is therefore a constant, necessary feature of our limited and imperfect social and psychological condition. It is no wonder that in the history of esoterically minded ideologies, redemption is conceived to be the achievement of transparency, both within the mystical tradition, but also within psychoanalytic conceptions of health and harmony. (It is worth noting that the word ‘apocalypse’ means unveiled or revelation.) . . . announcing the existence of the esoteric is the beginning of its disclosure.”
—Moshe Harbertal (Concealment and Revelation)