We all know that Pesach is characterized by the power of speech. If we fail to mention three essential elements, we have not fulfilled our obligation. This is known as amirah. The mitzvah to recount the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim is sometimes called Haggadah and sometimes sippur, meaning the telling of a story. During the Seder, we recite or sing Hallel, an expression of praise to Hashem. Finally, after witnessing the destruction of the Egyptians at the sea, we sang a shirah to Hashem, which is the loftiest form of human speech. The Arizal teaches that the word Pesach is a contraction of peh sach, “the mouth that speaks,” signifying that the core of Pesach lies in reclaiming our ability to speak and to daven to Hashem. But why is this process specifically tied to Yetzias Mitzrayim?
We learn from the Zohar Hakadosh that in Mitzrayim, we lost our voice. Though this concept has multiple meanings, the most basic is that our bondage in Egypt stripped us of the ability to express ourselves, particularly through prayer to Hashem. The first sign of geulah came when we began to regain our capacity to be mispallel. This is vividly illustrated in the verse, “It happened that the king of Egypt died and the Bnei Yisroel groaned…they cried out. Their outcry… Hashem heard their moaning” (Shemos 2:23). The Zohar explains that each of these terms signals Klal Yisroel beginning to rediscover its voice, progressing toward formal tefillah and ultimately shirah. But we still need to understand why we lost our ability to communicate and why it was renewed specifically at that moment.
One explanation lies in the nature of speech itself. When Hashem created Adam, He imbued him with the power of speech (Targum to Bereishis 2:7). After Adam’s sin, and following Noach’s failure to redeem humanity, Hashem chose to begin anew with a nation that would devote itself to atoning for Adam’s failing and dedicate its existence to spreading kevod Shomayim. Since speech is the essence of human identity, this new people needed not just a new language, but a new spiritual voice, one that would define them as a distinct presence in the world (see Kuzari, Maamar 1). As we have previously discussed in these pages, the Ten Plagues reversed the Ten Statements with which the world was created, allowing Am Yisroel, the spiritual successor to Adam, to emerge as a new version of humanity. Thus, we first had to lose our voice, only to rediscover a deeper, never-before-heard spiritual expression.
Rav Moshe Shapiro (Shiurei Rabbeinu 1:369) adds an insightful dimension to this idea. He also addresses the question of why this had to unfold specifically in Mitzrayim. He notes that the Torah itself (Devorim 11:10) draws a fundamental distinction between Egypt and Eretz Yisroel: Egypt relies on the Nile for irrigation and doesn’t need rainfall. Eretz Yisroel, however, is dependent on rain from above. In other words, Eretz Yisroel requires tefillah, while Egypt is devoid of prayer. Egyptians believed they could thrive without ever turning their gaze upward—they had the Nile and saw no need for the Creator.
This contrast reaches back to the beginning of creation. At the world’s inception, there was no rain because man had not yet been formed to pray for it (Rashi, Bereishis 2:4–5). This intimate connection between tefillah and rain is explored extensively in Gemara Taanis. We fast during droughts, offering increasingly intense prayers for the blessing of rain. My rebbi, Rav Yitzchok Hutner, often emphasized that in our natural world (as opposed to the one-time miracle of the monn), the only gift from Hashem that still comes directly from above is rain. Therefore, both Gemara and halacha treat rain as the clearest sign of Divine response to human tefillah.
To say it more directly: Mitzrayim represents the antithesis of prayer, while Klal Yisroel as a people, and Eretz Yisroel as a land, are the sources of all tefillah. In Rav Moshe Shapiro’s words, “Rain is literally the answer to our prayers. Rain arrives only as the result of prayer.” In much of the world, rain seems like a mere weather event—scientifically predictable. But for Am Yisroel, rain is a ladder to heaven, a constant reminder of Divine oversight. Rav Shapiro adds, “For this reason, Chazal (Taanis 8b) refer to the ‘great day of rain.’ It is great because it cements the bond between man and his Creator.”
Rav Shapiro concludes that this is precisely why we had to be born, formed, and ultimately redeemed from Mitzrayim. We needed to experience a G-dless land that believed it had no need for tefillah or a Creator because it had a substitute. Only through this could we slowly relearn the art of speech—specifically tefillah—to remind us that humanity’s purpose is to communicate with Hashem and turn to Him for everything. Rain is merely one metaphor among many for how we are to live.
Let me share a story I heard as a child, which I only truly began to appreciate as I matured. A chassidishe rebbe was overheard by his chassidim davening for something specific. “Ribono Shel Olam,” he pleaded, “please, shik tzurik di shiksa—send back the gentile woman.”
Out of respect, the chassidim searched for deeper meanings in the rebbe’s tefillah—through gematria, notarikon, or even Kabbolah—but found nothing. Eventually, one elder chossid, who had grown up with the rebbe and felt comfortable enough to ask directly, said, “Rebbe, what was that all about?” The rebbe laughed warmly and replied, “The rebbetzin had a disagreement with the housekeeper and she quit. The rebbetzin is elderly and frail. Who do you think is now doing the dishes and scrubbing the floors? So I’m asking Hashem to send her back.” His old friend added, “The rebbe is teaching us that we can—and must—ask Hashem for anything, even something that seems trivial, because He is so close to us.”
While for Klal Yisroel, tefillah is indeed elevated and filled with kedusha, it must also be practical, something we engage in daily, even hourly. “Shik tzurik di shiksa.” That is the beauty and power of Pesach. We are a people reborn to become Hashem’s nation. We must both revere and love Him—feel His awe, but also His closeness. We can ask Him for anything. He can send it immediately, just as He makes it rain upon us and our fields. The posuk (Tehillim 65:10) says that the entire earth desires rain. We, however, ask for much more. Yet, that is just a detail. Once we understand that asking is our role, and we do so with sincerity and humility, we can be certain that Hashem wants to hear from us.
Perhaps now we can also understand why Pesach uniquely emphasizes speech. Kol hamarbeh harei zeh meshubach—the more we speak, the more praiseworthy we are, because we are doing exactly what we were created to do. The Egyptians tried to replace the Creator with the Nile. In return, they were met with plagues, destruction, and the collapse of their empire. This is why we had to witness their downfall through the Ten Makkos. Rav Tzadok Hakohein of Lublin explains that while Hashem could have destroyed Egypt in an instant, each makkah broke down another layer of their idolatry and arrogance, dismantled before our very eyes.
As we recently learned in Daf Yomi (Sanhedrin 67b), the Hebrew term for Egypt’s sorcerers is mechashfim, those who oppose Heaven. Why is this title uniquely applied to Egypt? The answer is now clear. Egypt embodied heresy, worshipping a creation of G-d and elevating it to divine status. Watching their downfall only strengthened our emunah in Hashem. When we recount the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim to our children, grandchildren, families, and talmidim, we reinforce the eternal truth learned over 3,300 years ago: All good things come from one Source—Hashem. For that, we are not only grateful. We are reminded of our identity and how to live in constant relationship with our Father in Heaven. We can ask Him for anything, knowing that He alone holds the power to make it happen.
May we all soon merit to see the true geulah b’meheirah b’yomeinu.
