March 29, 2026|י"א ניסן ה' אלפים תשפ"ו The Child Who Opts Out - Understanding the Rasha at the Seder
Print ArticleImagine I gave you a simple assignment.
Take out a piece of paper and draw the Four Sons from the Haggadah.
You would probably start easily enough. The wise son – maybe he’s holding a sefer, asking thoughtful questions. The simple son – perhaps younger, curious, sincere.
But then you get to the rasha, the wicked son.
What would he look like?
Would he look angry? Rebellious? Maybe dressed in black leather? Maybe looking defiant, arms crossed? Or perhaps looking bored and disengaged? Is there a certain TV or movie character that you would draw if you could pick the rasha?
Do you know what the rasha looked like in most medieval haggadot? Throughout much of the Middle Ages until the end of the 19th century, he was viewed as a medieval soldier. Professor Jeffrey Wolf suggested that the wicked son is a wayward son whose intentions are aimed at the destruction of the Jewish people and the Torah. To become a soldier in medieval times, a Jew had to convert his religion, betray his people, and join the enemy that had been persecuting him for centuries. The soldier played a central role in carrying out harsh decrees against the Jews, starting from the Rhineland massacres and onward. The soldier symbolized the threat to every Jewish mother and the embodiment of wickedness for every Jew. In the Lieberman Haggadah published in Chicago in 1879, the wicked son is smoking, leaning back in his chair and gesturing with his hand, representing the young immigrant who rebels against his parents. I think that it would be a fascinating study to see the rasha in pictures throughout the ages, and how each one of you would draw the rasha.
The Haggadah never actually tells us what the rasha looks like. It only records what he says.
Yet somehow, in our imagination, we immediately picture him a certain way.
Which raises a deeper question: Who exactly is the rasha of the Haggadah? Is he really the villain we often imagine – or is something much more subtle happening in the text?
This morning I would like to explore three questions: whom the Torah and Chazal have in mind when they describe the rasha, what our response to the rasha is according to the Torah and Chazal, and what broader lessons that response teaches us today.
If you only looked at the Chumash, it would not be so obvious that the speaker is a rasha at all. The Torah says that when your children ask, “Mah ha’avodah hazot lachem?” – “What is this service to you?” – you respond that it is a Pesach sacrifice to God, who passed over the homes of Bnei Yisrael when He struck the Egyptians and saved our houses.
On the surface, the child simply sees his father bringing a sacrifice and asks: what is going on?
It does not sound so wicked. It sounds like a question.
More than fifteen hundred years later, however, the Talmud Yerushalmi interprets this pasuk very differently. The Yerushalmi identifies this questioner as the wicked son. We respond to him – but we also criticize him.
Then we encounter the Mechilta, where we find three versions of the response. One version says that if he had been in Egypt he would not have been redeemed. Another explains why: because he excludes himself from the nation, we respond by excluding him. And a third version introduces the striking phrase that we “blunt his teeth.”
Why are there so many versions? What exactly is the difference between them?
Then we encounter a fascinating difficulty in the Rambam.
In the Rambam’s text of the Haggadah, the rasha clearly sits at the Seder table as one of the four sons. Yet when the Rambam discusses the mitzvah of sippur yetziat Mitzrayim – telling the story of the Exodus – he writes that one must teach the child who does not know how to ask, the simple child, and the wise child.
But he does not mention the rasha.
Is the rasha not at the table? Did the Rambam not himself include him in the Haggadah? Why then is there no mitzvah to tell the story to him?
I read a fascinating article by Rav Nerya Gutel, a rav and professor in Eretz Yisrael, who suggests that the rasha of the Chumash, the rasha of Chazal, and the rasha of the Rambam are actually different figures. Each represents a different type of “problem child” – someone who challenges what we are doing and what we are celebrating.
According to his reading, the rasha of the Chumash is not such a bad character. Moshe tells the people that when they arrive in Eretz Yisrael many years later, their children will ask about the sacrifice. That makes sense. A new generation, in a new land, removed from the experience of the Exodus, may struggle to understand why these rituals still matter. The child questions. And the father explains.
Another way to understand this child is as part of the natural process of differentiation. Children grow by questioning their parents. The rasha represents the stage where a child says, “I’m not going to accept this blindly. I need to understand whether this is really meaningful for me.” That process – though uncomfortable – is actually part of healthy growth. It can lead to a deeper, more mature faith. And that is why we are not critical of the rasha. We explain to the rasha what we are doing.
But the rasha of the Yerushalmi is different. He’s not struggling to understand – he’s just disengaged. The avodah feels heavy, inconvenient, like too much effort. And that, the Yerushalmi says, we cannot accept. Because when a person opts out simply because it feels like a burden, he’s not just rejecting a ritual – he’s stepping outside the story of the Jewish people.
Then comes the striking phrase: oto ha’ish – “that man.” God redeemed us, not that man.
Rav Amnon Bazak points out that in Chazal the phrase oto ha’ish often refers to Jesus, the founder of Christianity. Early Christianity often tried to persuade Jews that belief alone was sufficient – that mitzvot were unnecessary. Faith without obligation. Belief without action.
Pesach stands for the opposite message. Pesach demands work – cleaning, preparing, cooking, telling the story, performing the rituals. A meaningful Jewish life requires effort and hard work. When the rasha dismisses the avodah as unnecessary, Chazal respond sharply because his attitude echoes an ideology that undermines the entire structure of Torah life.
Then we encounter the Mechilta, which presents an even harsher portrait. Here the rasha is not lazy. He is rebellious. Ideologically disconnected from the history and destiny of his people. That is why the response becomes harsher: he – not oto ha’ish – excludes himself from the collective story.
Rav Gutel therefore suggests that across the sources we meet several types of “problem children”: the one who struggles to adapt, the one who avoids responsibility, and the one who rebels outright.
I like the analysis, but I find it difficult to believe that the child in the Torah – the next generation simply asking questions because he struggles to adapt – would be called a rasha at all. A struggling child, yes, but a rasha – his behavior according to Rav Gutel doesn’t seem to fit that description.
And that is why I think that there is a different way to understand the rasha of the Torah and I think that that is not only the rasha of the Torah, but that is the rasha of our haggada and the rasha of the Rambam.
The rasha of the Haggadah is not exactly the rasha of the Yerushalmi or the Mechilta. In the Yerushalmi we say “li v’lo l’oto ha’ish.” In the Mechilta we say “li v’lo lecha” – God redeemed me and not you. We speak directly to the rasha. But in our Haggadah we say “li v’lo lo” – God redeemed me and not him. We are not even speaking to him. We are speaking to the others in the room.
The message of the rasha is so toxic that we do not engage him directly.
This helps explain the Rambam. The rasha sits at the table – but there is no mitzvah to tell him the story. The response does not exist for him. That’s why in the Rambam’s Haggadah the rasha is at the table asking his question, but when the Rambam discusses the mitzvah of sippur yetziat Mitzrayim, he excludes the rasha. There is a value in responding to the rasha’s critique but not directly to the rasha. What is the value in responding to the rasha’s critique? We’ll return to this question later.
There is another subtle difference as well between the Mechilta and the Rambam. According to the Mechilta of Rabbi Yishmael, the rasha commits two sins הוציא את עצמו מן הכלל וכפר בעיקר – he excludes himself from the community and he rejects God. Rav Soloveitchik explains that the rasha excludes himself from the nation by rejecting the rituals of Pesach and secondly, he denies fundamental principles of faith in God and in yetziat Mitzrayim. The Rambam, however, describes the rasha asשהוציא את עצמו מן הכלל כפר בעיקר לפי – he commits one sin of excluding himself from the history and destiny of the Jewish people and that act alone is akin to what the Rambam explains as being poresh mi-darchei tzibbur – separating from the community for which the person does not retain a portion in the world to come. That act alone – separating from the nation – is enough to place him outside the covenantal story.
And that is why communication becomes impossible.
But how does this connect to the rasha of the Torah? The Vilna Gaon makes a remarkable observation. For the other sons the Torah says “vehigadta levincha,” “ve’amarta elav.” You should tell your son. You should say to him. But regarding the rasha the Torah simply says “va’amartem.”Just say it. Not to him – say it. In fact, Rav Soloveitchik explained that a precedent for the GRA’s understanding is the Rambam – that’s why the Rambam says that we don’t address the rasha. We respond to the others and not to the rasha.
We declare the message, but we do not address him directly.
But now we face a profound question.
What should we do today?
Before we answer that question, we need to step back and ask a more fundamental one: What exactly is happening at the Seder? What are we trying to accomplish on this night?
Rabbi Sacks writes that through the Haggadah, more than a hundred generations of Jews have handed on their story to their children. The word Haggadah means “to tell,” “to relate,” “to expound.” But it comes from another Hebrew root – a-g-d – which means “to bind,” “to join,” “to connect.”
By reciting the Haggadah, we are not just conveying information. We are creating connection. We are binding our children to Jews across the world and across time. We are linking them to a shared past and a shared future, to a history and a destiny, and making them characters in that unfolding story.
Every other nation in history has been united because its members lived in the same place, spoke the same language, or shared the same culture. But the Jewish people – scattered across continents, speaking different languages, living in different societies – have been bound together by a narrative: the story of Yetziat Mitzrayim, told in the same way, on the same night, year after year.
More than the Haggadah is the story of a people, we are a people of a story.
And if that is what the Seder is about – not just telling a story, but binding people into it – then we can begin to understand why the rasha presents such a challenge.
The rasha is not just asking a question.
He is stepping outside the story.
“Mah ha’avodah hazot lachem” – to you, not to me.
He removes himself from the shared narrative that binds us together.
And that helps explain why, according to the Rambam and the Vilna Gaon, we do not engage him directly on this night. Not because we are afraid of his question – but because engaging him directly risks shifting the Seder from an act of transmission into an act of debate.
But the Seder is not primarily a debate.
It is an act of connection.
It is an act of continuity.
It is an act of transmission.
And that is why the response to the rasha is so unique.
Our Haggadah seems to follow the Rambam and the Vilna Gaon: we do not engage the rasha according to the text of our Haggada. Yet today many people who feel distant from Judaism still sit at our Seder tables. Should we truly ignore them?
In 1957, the Lubavitcher Rebbe wrote a letter where he pointed out that there is actually a fifth child: the one who is absent from the table entirely. At least the rasha is present. He is engaged – even if rebelliously. So how do we relate to the rasha nowadays?
Rav Shlomo Wahrman was a tremendous talmid chacham and Rosh HaYeshiva of HANC for many years. He passed away 13 years ago. In his sefer Orot HaPesach, Rav Wahrman sets up a debate between the Vilna Gaon and the Chazon Ish. Based on the text of the Vilna Gaon, Rav Warhman believes that the Vilna Gaon maintains that even today we would ignore the rasha. The Chazon Ish, however, writes that in earlier generations, when God’s presence was manifest through open miracles, rejecting God was a clear act of rebellion. But today God’s presence is hidden. Faith is more difficult. Therefore, the proper response is not rejection – but love.
We bring the rasha close with bonds of affection.
There is much evidence for this inclusive approach. On Yom Kippur by Kol Nidrei, we begin the evening by declaring “anu mattirin l’hitpalel im ha’avarynaim” – we are praying with the sinners. We don’t exclude them. In fact, Rav Nachman of Breslov taught that the word tzibbur is an acronym: tzaddikim, beinonim, reshaim – the righteous, the people in the middle and the wicked. A community includes everyone.
And yet, perhaps the Vilna Gaon and the Chazon Ish are not really arguing. Maybe they are talking about different times of the year.
All year long, we must embrace and engage those who feel distant, like the Chazon Ish prescribes. But Seder night is different.
On Seder night we do not debate cynicism. We proclaim faith.
Why?
The Kli Yakar explains that the difference between the wise son and the wicked son in the Haggadah lies largely in timing and intent. The wise son asks “tomorrow,” – v’haya ki yish’alcha bincha machar laimor – after the mitzvah has been performed, showing that his question reflects a genuine desire to understand and not to challenge; we therefore welcome his inquiry. The wicked son, however, interrupts the ritual itself and asks, in effect, “Why are you doing this?” – not to learn, but to mock or undermine the practice. There is a difference between questioning belief and refusing action. In an essay entitled, “Faith and Doubt,” Rabbi Lamm distinguishes between three different types of faith – but we will only concern ourselves with two at this point. The first type, cognitive faith, is faith about the nature of God and our role in this world. Questions in this type of faith are welcome, because we achieve deeper understanding through questions. However, there is a second type of faith, called functional faith, which means that we must act faithfully. Questions about belief are welcome but when it is time to act – we act; we act as if we believe.
Building on this idea, the Seder’s response to the wicked son is itself a lesson about when it is appropriate to challenge. In a deeper sense, we do not fully engage his question that night, because the moment of the mitzvah is not the time to debate whether the ritual should be done at all. The message is that some commitments precede explanation. Judaism makes room for questions and philosophical exploration, but there is also a framework: when the Torah calls upon us to act, we act. In that sense, the non-response to the wicked son is actually a response—it teaches him that there is a time to question and a time to perform, and the night of the Seder begins with faithful action before discussion.
Rav Tzadok Hakohen points out that at the conclusion of our answer to the wicked son, the Torah states, “Vayikod ha’am vayishtachavu”— the people who heard Moshe’s message bowed down. Rashi explains that the Bnei Yisrael were filled with joy at the prospect of the coming redemption, entering Eretz Yisrael, and the children they would have there. But if the child here refers to the wicked son, why is there excitement? Rav Tzadok Hakohen explains that even the wicked son ultimately has the potential to repent and become righteous. The fact that he remains at the table demonstrates that hope for him is not lost. By not directly engaging the wicked son’s cynicism at the Seder, we are teaching him an important lesson: the non-response itself is meaningful. Ignoring the rasha at this time is not dismissal – it is a deliberate educational act, emphasizing that some challenges are met through action and commitment rather than debate.
Second, the Beit HaLevi explains that all year long, we embrace the rasha and we tolerate his cynicism, but on the seder night, the night when there is a unique mitzvah of sippur yetziat mitzrayim, we must protect the others at the table. Cynicism can consume the room. I’m sure many of us have experienced gatherings of family or friends that were supposed to be so joyous, but there’s that one person who is the Debbie Downer who ruins the entire mood and we don’t want this happening on the night of the seder. Think about how much we’ve spent for the entire family to be together or how much time we’ve cleaned and shopped and cleaned and shopped and cleaned and shopped some more preparing for this beautiful evening only to have someone ruin the mood. But it’s more than that. The night of Pesach is meant to create a transformative experience of faith. We cannot allow corrosive skepticism to dominate the atmosphere.
But perhaps the presence of the rasha at our Seder is itself a message – to each of us – to raise our game.
Many of us instinctively recoil from kefira, from heretical ideas and from the people who voice them, because we sense how destabilizing they can be. But Rav Kook taught that there is value in everything—there is even “honey” within heresy. If our faith is genuine and deeply rooted, we don’t have to be afraid of the cynic.
And sometimes, it’s not only about how we respond – it’s about what we choose to see.
There is a powerful story recorded by Yaffa Eliach in Tales of the Holocaust. Someone who had gone off the derech witnessed a disturbing scene in the camps: a Jew was charging a piece of bread for the opportunity to put on tefillin. To him, it was proof of religious hypocrisy – how could someone exploit others in such a moment?
When this was reported to the Bluzover Rebbe, he offered a completely different perspective:
“Why do you choose to focus on the one Jew who was small enough to charge a ration of bread? Look instead at the hundreds of Jews who were so holy that they were willing to give up their only piece of bread just to perform a mitzvah for one minute.”
That is a profound shift.
The cynic focuses on the one who charges.
The person of faith sees the hundreds who sacrifice.
So what’s the response to the rasha?
Not dismissal.
Not anger.
But growth – and perspective.
Like the Bluzover Rebbe, we have to decide where to look. Will we fixate on the voice that tears down – or on the many who are still building, still believing, still sacrificing?
And even more than that – cynicism itself should push us to grow. It should force us to strengthen our faith, to be able to say with clarity and conviction:
“Zevach Pesach hu la-Hashem.”
This is my ritual. This is my tradition.
It should sharpen our thinking and compel us to express our beliefs with greater honesty and depth. We don’t run from those questions – we engage them. And even if we don’t have the perfect answer in the moment, we are not afraid. We carry the question with us, reflect more deeply, and return stronger.
Never back down from cynicism.
Learn from the Bluzover Rebbe: choose what to see.
See the faith.
See the commitment.
See the quiet heroism of those who are still willing to give up their “piece of bread” for a mitzvah.
And let the presence of the rasha not weaken us – but elevate us. Let it become the catalyst that pushes us to refine what we believe, to articulate it more powerfully, and ultimately – to believe it more deeply.
And finally, there is one more powerful lesson – perhaps one of the most important of all.
The Torah is teaching us how to face discouragement.
How often do we try to share something meaningful – a Torah idea, a Shabbat experience, a moment of faith – and the response is indifference? Or worse, dismissal? We open our hearts, and it feels like it lands nowhere. It can be deeply disheartening.
Pesach prepares us for that reality.
Because there will often be a rasha at the table.
Someone who rolls their eyes.
Someone who challenges.
Someone who distances themselves from the story we hold so dear.
But the Torah reminds us: that is not the whole picture.
There are also the chacham, the tam, and the one who does not yet know how to ask. There are those who are searching, those who are open, those who are quietly waiting to be reached.
The rasha may not respond.
But the others will.
In 1935, a man named Bill Wilson found himself in Akron, Ohio. He was a recovering alcoholic, barely holding on. He was on a business trip that was falling apart, and he felt himself slipping, dangerously close to relapse.
But Bill had discovered something that had changed his life:
he could stay sober by helping another alcoholic.
So he began asking around. He didn’t know anyone. He just wanted one person – someone he could speak to, someone he could help.
Eventually, he was introduced to a local alcoholic. Bill sat down with him and poured out his heart – his story, his struggles, his insights, everything he had learned about recovery.
And nothing happened.
The man wasn’t interested.
He didn’t change.
He didn’t stop drinking.
By every external measure, it was a failure.
Bill could have walked away right then – discouraged, embarrassed, defeated. He could have concluded: This doesn’t work.
But he didn’t.
He asked to meet another person.
That next person was Bob Smith, a surgeon whose life was unraveling because of alcohol.
This time, something was different.
Bill didn’t preach.
He didn’t lecture.
He simply spoke – honestly, humbly, humanly.
And Dr. Bob later said that for the first time, he felt understood – not judged.
That meeting changed his life.
Dr. Bob became sober. And together, Bill and Dr. Bob founded what would become Alcoholics Anonymous, a movement that has transformed millions of lives around the world.
Think about that for a moment.
The turning point didn’t come from success.
It came from the refusal to stop after failure.
The first person? No impact.
The second person? A transformation that would ripple across generations.
If Bill had measured his efforts by that first conversation, there would be no AA.
And that is a deeply Jewish lesson.
You are not always responsible for who you succeed with.
But you are responsible for whether you keep trying.
Sometimes one heart is closed, and another is open – and you don’t always know which is which.
Sometimes the seed you plant doesn’t grow right away. Sometimes it takes years. Sometimes it grows in ways you may never see.
The Torah teaches us this through the Four Sons.
We don’t always speak to the rasha – sometimes he isn’t ready to hear.
But we do speak at the table.
Because there are others who are listening – the chacham, the tam, the one who doesn’t yet know how to ask.
So we don’t stop.
We don’t say, “He’s not listening, so why bother?”
We speak. We share. We tell the story – with honesty, depth, conviction, and love.
And we trust that something is happening beneath the surface.
Because when we live Torah and speak Torah with authenticity and pride, some will listen, some will grow – and perhaps, even the rasha.
Because the rasha is still at the table.
And if he is still at the table, the story is not over.
So on Seder night, we do not allow cynicism to silence us.
We lean in.
We tell the story with pride.
We declare our faith.
We celebrate our past – and our future.
And we remember: every word of Torah spoken with sincerity plants a seed.
And perhaps one day, the very child who once asked,
“Mah ha’avodah hazot lachem?” – with distance or defiance –
will sit at his own Seder table, look at his children, and say:
“Let me tell you the story of how Hashem took us out of Egypt.”
Because in the end, we are not just telling a story.
We are a people of a story – bound together across generations by the words we speak on this night.
And as long as that story is still being told –
as long as the rasha is still at the table –
then he is still part of that story.
And the story… is not over.