Nine years ago, in the synagogue where I grew up, my husband handed five silver coins to a kohen while our thirty-day-old son lay between them. The priest asked: “Which do you prefer—your firstborn son, or these five silver coins?”
My husband gave the answer every father gives: “I want my son. Here are the coins for his redemption.”
Pidyon haben—redemption of the firstborn. Most people never perform it. It only applies to firstborn sons under specific conditions: the mother can’t be the daughter of a kohen or Levite, the birth must be natural (not by cesarean), and there can be no prior miscarriages or losses. Thirty days after birth, the father pays five silver shekels to a priest and takes his son back.
I didn’t feel the earth move during the ceremony. It was meaningful because it was ancient, because we were continuing something unbroken. But I didn’t walk away transformed.
It’s only later, watching this commandment in context, that I understood what it was doing.
Why is this one of the very first mitzvot given to the Jewish people?
The commandment comes immediately after the Exodus. The Israelites have just witnessed the greatest miracle in their history—ten plagues, the sea splitting, an empire shattered, freedom handed to them by God’s own hand. And right there, in the aftermath of that overwhelming divine intervention, God says:
It’s a strange moment for this particular commandment. The people have just been redeemed by God in the most dramatic, undeniable way possible. Why is one of the first things God tells them: give Me back your firstborn sons?
Because in the biggest miracles, we miss God.
The Israelites proved this. Weeks after leaving Egypt, they’re complaining about food. Months later, they’re building a golden calf. The pattern is relentless: God acts, we experience it, we absorb it into our normal, we forget.
Pidyon haben interrupts that pattern at its source. It plants a reminder in the most intimate space we have—our families. You think this child is yours? You carried him, birthed him, feed him, stay up with him at night. The day-to-day reality is you and your spouse, your effort, your exhaustion, your love. It feels like something you did.
And it is. But it isn’t only that.
When you hand over those five coins, you’re admitting out loud: this child was given. Yes, I’m his parent. Yes, I’ll raise him. But he came from somewhere beyond me, and I don’t get to forget that.
The mitzvah mirrors other “first” offerings in Torah. Challah—you take a piece of dough and give it back to God before you eat the bread. First fruits—you bring them to the Temple before you enjoy the harvest. The first belongs to God, and by giving it back, you acknowledge that everything else does too.
The ceremony comes right after the Jewish people were redeemed from Egypt. And the word for redemption—pidyon—is the same word used for the child. God redeemed you from slavery. Now you redeem your son from Me. Don’t forget, even for a second, who the real Redeemer is.
Think about Chana. She prayed desperately for a son, and when God gave her Shmuel, she brought him to the Temple and left him there. “I prayed for this child, and now I give him back to God.” The child isn’t the point. Remembering the Giver is the point.
God gives the Jewish people two “first” commandments right after the Exodus, both about not forgetting. Rosh Chodesh—the new moon, sanctifying time—is given while they’re still in Egypt. That’s God in the calendar. Pidyon haben is given right after they leave. That’s God in the family. The two most basic structures of human life—time and children—and God immediately says: these aren’t neutral. These aren’t just yours. I’m in them, and you need to remember that.
It’s such a strange first mitzvah to give a nation fresh out of slavery. You’d think God would start with something more foundational. Belief, maybe. Gratitude. Basic morality. But God starts with: don’t forget Me in your time, and don’t forget Me in your family. Because those are the two places we forget fastest.
Parenthood is the most consuming thing most of us will ever do. The sheer volume of it—diapers, feedings, school forms, emotional crises, logistics—makes it feel entirely like our project. We’re the ones doing it. We’re the ones exhausted by it. And that’s real. But if we let that everyday reality become the whole truth, we lose something. We start thinking we’re the source, not the stewards.
Pidyon haben breaks that illusion for one moment. Thirty days in, when you’re deep in the fog of new parenthood, when it feels most like this child is your whole world and your whole responsibility, you hand him to a priest and buy him back. You admit: he was given to me. I don’t ultimately control him. He belongs to God first.
My son is nine now. The ceremony is long past. But the question it posed—who does this child really belong to?—that hasn’t gone anywhere. Every time I make decisions about his education, his time, his formation, I’m answering it.
The Jewish people stood at the edge of the wilderness, freshly freed, staring at an unknown future. And God said: before you go any further, remember this. I redeemed you. Don’t forget it in your calendar. Don’t forget it in your children.
I handed over five coins nine years ago. I took my son back. But I’m still being asked to remember who redeemed him.
