We know that the Pesach Seder is all about asking questions, at least four questions, but that pales in comparison to the number of questions that are asked before Pesach. And in the run up to Pesach this year, I was struck by a question that truly surprised me – one that made me pause and wonder: Why is it that so many people are still sceptical about not being allowed to eat kitniyot?
Granted, it’s only Ashkenazim who have this doubt but why does this one rule seem to cause such confusion every year? Has this always been the case, or has there been a failure over the years to explain this tradition clearly enough?  Could it be that somewhere along the way, we’ve missed the opportunity to connect the reasoning behind this law to the hearts of those who follow it?
We know that mitzvot aren’t meant to be a burden, they’re guides to help us experience freedom and so, if a law like this causes confusion, then maybe it’s time to step back and ask: Why do we do what we do?
The answer is that while we have different categories of mitzvot – Mishpatim like not to steal or murder which make perfect logical sense and Chukim – supra-rational laws like Shatnez and even Kashrut, the truth is that the majority of what we do, doesn’t necessarily make sense!
If we just stick with Pesach for a moment. After spending so much time and effort to ensure that our homes are chametz free, does it seem logical or rational, on the night before Pesach, to put out ten pieces of bread and search for them with a candle, feather and wooden spoon!
Let’s be honest, if we were to compile a ‘Top 5 Most Illogical Things Jews Do’ list, this would up there with:
- Leaving the comfort of our homes, when we know it will rain, to sit in a flimsy hut that we had to build, and shaking a palm branch and expensive lemon!
- Crying over the destruction of the Temple every Tisha B’Av and then arguing about whether the fast ends at 8:43 or 8:44!
- Waiting six hours after eating meat to have a cup of tea but only if you’re Ashkenazi. If you’re Dutch, it’s an hour. And if you’re Sephardi, it depends on who you ask!
- Not touching electricity on Shabbos but setting up a 17-plug timer system that NASA would envy!
- Putting on our right shoe first but tying the left lace first!
Do I need to go on? I’m not even mentioning second day Yom Tov, putting on black leather boxes, attaching strings to the corners of our garments! You can all compile your own top 10!
The point is this: Much of what we do doesn’t make sense, so why do we do it?
Who said, “Tradition!”?!
That’s not good enough though, is it?
So let me give you two answers:
The first is to know that rabbis don’t sit around thinking of ways to make people’s lives more difficult – we’ve got better things to do with our time!
In fact, there’s an established principle in the Gemara: A decree is never made unless most people could actually live by it. (Avodah Zarah 36a)
That tells us something profound. Halacha was never meant to break the human spirit, chas v’shalom – it was designed to guide it. To shape and elevate it. To speak to real people, with real lives, doing their best.
Judaism doesn’t expect us to be angels, all it asks us to be is honest, grounded, striving human beings and that’s not a burden – it’s a blessing!
Secondly, and equally if not more beautiful an idea is found in the Gemara: G-d doesn’t act like a tyrant toward His creatures. (Avodah Zarah 3a)
If rabbis are too busy than certainly G-d is!
Mitzvot aren’t burdens imposed from Above, but pathways of connection designed for our benefit and our growth. Like a parent doesn’t impose rules unnecessarily on their children but only to ensure their safety and success so too our Father in Heaven doesn’t instruct mitzvot to dominate us, but to elevate us.
This dual sensitivity – Divine and rabbinic – reflects a Judaism rooted, not in perfectionism, but in compassion; not in unreachable ideals, but in the sanctification of real, imperfect, striving human life.
Now, if G-d isn’t a tyrant and the rabbis only make rules people can live with, we’d think Judaism would be perfectly logical and straightforward, right?
Simple, reasonable, nothing too surprising.
But then we look at what we actually do, and we realise that Jews are some of the most brilliantly illogical people on earth!
And if you sometimes, or even a lot of the time, think: ‘None of this makes sense!’ – you’re absolutely right. That’s the point! Judaism was never meant to make perfect human sense because as the prophet Yeshayahu teaches: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, and your ways are not My ways, says G-d.”
G-d doesn’t think like us, and we don’t think like G-d. He doesn’t ask us to follow Him with perfect logic – He asks us to walk with Him in faith.
And that’s what we do. For thousands of years, we’ve kept doing these things – some logical, many not – because deep down we know that they connect us to something real, to something Eternal.
And G-d sees that, as it says in Yirmiyahu: “I remember the kindness of your youth, the love of your bridal days, how you followed Me into the wilderness.”
We were illogical then too – following G-d into a desert with no map, no SatNav, no five-year plan. No catering! Just trust.
So when some of us don’t eat rice for eight days a year, when we build a Succah in the rain, when we argue over candle-lighting times like it’s a US Tariff, we’re still walking through that wilderness, still showing G-d that we remember, that we’re in this relationship, that we’re still here.
And maybe that’s the greatest logic of all: a people who, in a world of chaos, confusion, and forgetting – refuse to forget. A people who remember where they came from, to Whom they belong, and where they’re going.
So, yes, we may seem illogical at times. We may stumble through strange laws and quirky customs, but in reality, we’re doing the most logical thing of all: we’re remembering who we are. Remembering the kindness of our past, the love of our youth, and the faithfulness of our G-d.
And that, my friends, is not just a tradition – it’s a treasure!
So amongst the craziness, let’s remember that the beauty of our practice isn’t in the logic – it’s in the love.Â
And may we continue to walk through the wilderness of life, with the same faith and trust that brought us to freedom in the first place.