The bearded and the beardless
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One of my favorite ideas to share at the Seder – though I can no longer remember the Haggadah in which I discovered it – emerges from a passage we read in the middle of Maggid, which is actually a mishnah (Ber. 1:5). It records a statement of R. Elazar b. Azariah, that despite being approximately seventy years old, he had never merited the knowledge that we must recall the Exodus even at night. It was only when he heard the argument of the sage Ben Zoma that he finally knew the law.
Per my favorite idea, this is a story about the power of youth. While R. Elazar b. Azariah is an elderly sage, Ben Zoma is among the younger generation – as seen by the fact that his first name, Shimon, is unknown to R. Elazar b. Azariah. Ben Zoma literally means “Zoma’s son.” The great rabbis of the era knew of this young scholar’s wisdom, but he was so young in their eyes that they referred to him solely as his father’s child.
Yet, despite Ben Zoma’s youth, he was able to teach something revolutionary to R. Elazar b. Azariah. Indeed, according to several commentators – such as Rashba and Meiri – Jews never recited the third paragraph of the Shema until Ben Zoma argued for it!
Thus, the idea I find so brilliant: on the night when we encourage children to ask questions, on a night when we focus on educating the next generation, we tell them a story of a young, precocious scholar who taught the great rabbis of his era something that they had never previously known – something that is not only celebrated by them, but something we practice to this very day. It’s a story that urges the youngest among us to share their thoughts and their knowledge, without fear of how their youthfulness will be perceived.
And, as important an idea as this is, I came across an idea this year by Rabbi Meir Goldwicht (whose Haggadah I have been enjoying, hence this idea and the last) that amplifies its resonance even more.
Because the Mishnah that we quote is phrased strangely. R. Elazar b. Azariah describes himself as ke-ven shiv‘im shana. And while I translated that above as “approximately seventy years old,” the Talmud itself notes another translation, “like a seventy-year-old.” This is to teach us something different: that R. Elazar b. Azariah was not an elderly sage but an eighteen-year-old himself! As the Talmud tells us (Ber. 27b–28a), he had been offered a leadership position due to his brilliance, yet his wife feared that his visible inexperience would lead to problems. Thus, a miracle occurred, and he grew the long, flowing beard of an elderly sage overnight.
As someone who is unable to grow a beard, I find this story inspiring. But it also recontextualizes the idea I shared above. Because no longer is R. Elazar b. Azariah an elderly sage and Ben Zoma a young lad – instead, they are both eighteen-year-old contemporaries highly regarded for their brilliance.
Yet they have contrasting perspectives on optics, on identity. For R. Elazar b. Azariah, optics matter. Without a long, flowing beard he cannot truly be seen as a sage. If he doesn’t look the part, he cannot be the part. Ben Zoma, however, is unperturbed by such things. Indeed, as R. Goldwicht points out, it is Ben Zoma who utters the well-known statement, “Who is wise? One who learns from everyone” (Avot 4:1). For Ben Zoma, all that matters is a person’s dedication and knowledge.
We thus read this story on Seder night, not only to teach us about the power of youth but about emphasizing the importance of what’s inside rather than what’s outside. Matzah, after all, is bread without the any of the trappings – and is the focus of our Pesaḥ.
And for that reason, every evening when we say the final paragraph of the Shema, we state our disinterest in external shows of religiosity. Ben Zoma, the boy with no care for appearances, taught the Jewish world to learn from anyone – and thus we did.