In every generation, as Jews, we’re asked to see ourselves as though we personally came out of Egypt. The root of the word Egypt, in Hebrew, is tzar “narrow.” The experience of Egypt is one of constriction and, I think, is about binaries. It evokes an either, or attitude which pushes us to believe we must accept narrow self-understandings or choose between seemingly contradictory emotions or values.
The command to see ourselves as though we personally came out of Egypt is the central mandate of the Passover Seder, yet it lends itself to at least two distinct interpretations.
Recalling the Exodus of my Israelite ancestors might, quite reasonably, lead me to a stance of guardedness and fear – a scarcity mentality in which I pledge to do anything necessary to ensure I’m never oppressed again. On the other hand, recalling redemption might encourage me to assume a stance of abundance, a sense that my freedom emboldens, and behooves, me to liberate others.
The Haggadah, the “book of telling” from which we read on Seder night, reflects both of these postures, sometimes in the same breath – or mouthful. Emerging from the ashes of the Temple’s destruction by the Romans in 70 CE, the Seder rituals replaced pilgrims’ offering of the Passover sacrifice in Jerusalem.
Celebrated through centuries of dispersion and persecution, the Seder’s rituals and themes reflect both profound paradoxes and deep longing. We dip parsley and eggs — symbols of rebirth and spring — into salt-water, symbolizing the tears of our ancestors; matzah symbolizes our freedom but is called “bread of our affliction.” I could go on and on.
Perhaps the most explicit manifestation of this holiday’s bitter-sweetness comes through the “Hillel Sandwich,” the last thing we eat as part of the Seder, prior to the meal itself. We are instructed to combine haroset (sweet mixture of fruits and nuts) and maror (the bitter herbs, forcing us to taste the bitterness of oppression) and to eat them between two pieces of matzah. Apparently, Rabbi Hillel, the first-century sage and namesake of Jewish centers on campuses across the globe, initiated this practice.
This year, I’m thinking about how this mixing — this holding of both-ness —is emblematic of other teachings for which Hillel was known. Perhaps most famously, he taught the following three questions as one: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am only for myself, what am I? If not now when?” These three questions formed the arc of a curriculum I taught this semester to a diverse cohort of Jewish students as part of the Narrow Bridge Project. It was powerful to wrap up our eight weeks of learning together just now, as we prepare for Passover, because these questions of R’ Hillel are the very questions the Exodus compels us to ask: how do I stay safe, how can I save others, how do I do both at once – now?
The cohort explored these questions as students and activists with differing understandings of the Jewish past, present and future. Some came in hopeful, others brought despair; some were steeped in knowledge and/or experience of the subjects at hand, others were dipping their toes in for the first time. They represented the various characters that the rabbis imagine seated around the Passover table, reflected in the Haggadah through the “Four Sons/Children” motif. They had differing thoughts and feelings about what it means to celebrate freedom while still tasting the bitterness of oppression, and about what it means to consider the toll that our own freedom takes on others, not responsible for our oppression. We wrestled there, for instance, with what the founding of the state of Israel has meant for Palestinians; similarly, at the Seder, we reflect this consideration and increase empathy by removing sweetness from our wine glass in acknowledgment of the suffering the ten plagues inflicted upon innocent Egyptians.
Whether Jewish or not, all of us today can relate to the experience of entering this spring burdened by feelings of vulnerability, even as we celebrate the arrival of warm weather and increase in COVID vaccinations. With so many groups targeted for hate, based on their race, gender or creed, and with all of us targeted by a pandemic that has stunned and smitten us through both its longevity and reach, the arrival of spring finds us utterly spent. We are exhausted by the daily psychological stress of asking, “how do I stay safe, how can I help keep others safe, how do I do both at once?” Many of us are holding deep grief and feelings of brokenness. We fear that our world is broken, that our democracy is broken, perhaps that we are broken.
Passover speaks to this brokenness and aspiration toward repair. The Seder ritualizes it. We ceremoniously break one piece of matzah near the start of the Seder (this is called Yahatz) and hide it; the dramatic culmination of the Seder comes through children’s search for this broken hidden piece, called the Afikomen. The Seder cannot conclude without the wild seeking and joyful finding, and without its promise of eventual wholeness. At the same time, the Seder pushes us to reenact liberation and an achievement of wholeness, not because we have arrived at them, but to help us believe we can. These themes of paradox and longing frame the Seder; they are in stark relief near its beginning and at its very end.
At the start of the “telling” section of the Haggadah — as we prepare to celebrate! — we acknowledge that we’ve still got a ways to go: “This year, we are slaves,” we declare, “next year, may we be free people.”
And finally, every Passover Seder closes with the words, “Next year in Jerusalem.” The fact that Jews everywhere recite this blessing, even those having Seders in Jerusalem, makes plain that it does not refer to the ancient city, or to any physical destination at all. In Hebrew, the word for Jerusalem is yerushalayim, a word, which, literally, means “they shall see wholeness” – yiru-shalem. This is the objective toward which all of the Seder is directed. It is reflected in all the seeming paradoxes we’re pushed to hold through its rituals and it articulates the central yearning that Passover—and, I’d argue, life more broadly—challenges us to hold; of being able to care for self alongside caring for others, of being able to celebrate our world, our society and ourselves, even while acknowledging where work is needed, even while grieving.
Brokenness and pain are inevitable features of the human condition, but we dare not let them define us. Whatever you are holding, however you are hurting, please know there are people throughout the university, standing by to support you in shouldering the burden. The chaplain team is awesome (you can find us here and Father Edmund and Imam Amir, who are both new, can’t wait to celebrate Easter and Ramadan, respectively, with you) and the Hillel team is too. All of us wish you a spring that inspires a belief that hope is real and that greater wholeness lies just around the bend. We’re also all down to help you find it.
(For more resources for Passover, which begins this Saturday evening--including this piece about Passover in my own home--please visit this page.)
