A Note for the Goyim at the Seder Table | Passover haggadah by Noraa Kaplan

Search Library

Shalom! Or as your people might say, “Howdy!” (I did not just make that joke.) I need you to understand two things: (1) you are very much wanted here. A Jew loves you enough that they invited you to participate in this most sacred ritual, because they believe in you and want to build a better world together with you. And (2) you’ve got to be respectful of this space.

Bringing your goyish friends to seders is a tradition as old as time. I personally drag many of your friends (you all know each other right?) to my seders every year. Some years, there are more goyim than yids. You might not know it, but you actually have a lot of amazing insight that will enrich the seder conversation. Don’t be afraid to take part in discussions, share reflections and connections from your own cultural experiences, and ask questions. More importantly: don’t be afraid to feel things, to let this quintessentially Jewish story move your heart.

I’m going to get in trouble for saying this. In my opinion, if you’re doing your job right, while you’re at the seder you’re a Jew. Welcome to a world of hurt, but also a breathtakingly beautiful tapestry of life. Don’t be afraid to access your neshama, your precious soul. The traditions you’re going to engage in tonight are poignant and absolutely saturated in meaning. You’re going to feel things. Humor is a uniquely Jewish instinct, not to mention a survival strategy. Let yourself laugh tonight, but don’t let your laughter or your skepticism keep you from feeling the full weight of what you need to feel. And please don’t let your laughter be at our expense.

My ancestors developed these rituals to survive unimaginable violence. If you’re at this seder, it’s likely your ancestors survived violence too. If not, it’s likely you have had to survive violence in this life. If not, I know you’ve experienced the spiritual violence of living in this broken world, watching people die day after day, feeling hopelessness and despair. Use this despair—let it be useful to you for once—to connect with us.

The story of the Exodus is a story about ancestors. My Judaism and the Judaism of so many people I know has meaning because it kept my ancestors alive. This should not preclude you from finding meaning tonight. The vast majority of the best Jews I know don’t have Jewish ancestors, at least not biologically. Jews who found Judaism later in life give me hope that a better world is possible. They have been my lovers and my friends, and I’m honored to call them my chosen family. I’m not bringing this up in hopes of converting you, by the way. (We don’t do that.) I’m telling you this because I want you to know that no matter where you come from, you can find beauty in the ways people have survived, along with radical insight that we all need if we to do the same. You are welcome here, an invited guest—perhaps it’d be rude not to cry?

All I ask of you is that you respect the traditions you encounter tonight, and respect the people who are sharing them with you. Don’t be scared of things you don’t understand. Nothing is arbitrary tonight, I promise you. Everything has its reason. Everyone has a reason to be here, too. Take this opportunity seriously (not too seriously, of course, we’re Jews y’know. Oy vey, etc.) and fully grasp this rare moment of stepping fully into someone else’s skin. The Haggadah says be-chol dor va-dor chayav adam lirot et atzmo ke’ilu hu yatza mi-Mitzrayim, in every generation, one is obligated to see themselves as if they left Mitzrayim. Chayav adam, the phrase meaning “one is obligated,” literally means ‘humans are responsible.’ The text does not specify that Jews are obligated. It’s a universal mitzvah for anyone who is willing to accept it.

It is told that Adam was created alone to make peace among his descendents, so one person will not be able to say to another, “My father, is greater than your father.” Whether or not other Jews would agree with me about your Jewish status tonight, I think most would agree if you’re going to eat our bread of affliction and our bitter herbs, you might as well take the same radical imaginative leap that we do. Allow yourself not only to imagine slavery and liberation tonight, but to relive it, to embody it. Through this practice of radical empathy, abolition becomes possible.

haggadah Section: Introduction

Source: Min Ha-Meitzar: An Abolitionist Haggadah from the Narrow Place by Noraa Kaplan