Pour Out Thy Wrath & Miriam's Cup | Passover haggadah by Noraa Kaplan

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In the traditional haggadah, the blessing over the third cup of wine is sandwiched between two very different quotes from the book of Psalms. The last line of the prayer before the third cup is “Hashem will bless their people with peace.” (Psalm 29:11) The first line of the passage that follows is (as rendered in the Maxwell House haggadah’s ye olde English) “Pour out thy wrath upon the heathen who will acknowledge thee, and upon the kingdoms who invoke not thy name.” (Psalm 79:6) Talk about range!

It is strange and somewhat disturbing that the text should switch so rapidly between a prayer for peace and a cry for divine vengeance. Even more troubling: this short passage of verses from the imprecatory psalms (the set of psalms that curse enemies and pray for divine retribution) is meant to be recited while opening the front door for the prophet Elijah. In other words, the only part of the seder that is traditionally meant to be shared with the outside world is a call for violence. Understandably, many readers with contemporary sensibilities are shocked or offended by this section and decide to omit it from their seder.

However, it is important to note that without divine violence, there would be no seder, no Exodus, no Torah. B’ney Yisra’el was not delivered from slavery through peaceful protest or civil disobedience, but through ten plagues that decimated a population, left a horrific path of destruction, and took countless innocent lives. Though the midrash says Hashem rebuked the angels for singing as the Egyptians drowned in the Red Sea, the Torah includes the song B’ney Yisrael sang at that moment, and it’s considered to be sacred. One has to ask: is there a meaningful difference between celebrating past divine violence and praying for it today?

Some attempt to reconcile prayer for divine violence with a peaceful faith by saying we can’t judge these texts by modern standards, that just as animal sacrifice is no longer practiced in contemporary Judaism yet the Torah passages about it are still read to this day, the imprecatory psalms are a reminder of Jewish history, a product of a more violent time. Others justify liturgical use of these texts by saying they provide an outlet for our anger at our oppressors, that instead of turning to human violence, they encourage us to let Hashem mete out the punishment.

Another way of thinking about this comes from the language of the text itself. Pour out thy wrath—not unleash thy wrath, not act on it. The vivid metaphor compares anger to a rainstorm. In addition to its spiritual significance, Passover is one of Judaism’s three major agricultural holidays. Along with its autumn counterpart, Sukkot, it bookends a cycle of daily prayer for protection from drought. From the first morning of Sukkot until Pesach, Jews traditionally say during the Amidah prayer, “cause the winds to blow and let the rain fall.” From the first morning of Pesach until the beginning of Sukkot, Jews say “let the dew fall” instead, in keeping with ancient Israel’s dry and rainy seasons. On the first morning of each of these holidays, a special longer prayer is added praying for rain and dew.

Since the days of Noah, rain has been associated with divine anger. Geshem, the prayer for rain recited on Sukkot, begins by telling us the name of the angel of rain: Af-Bree. The first part of the angel’s name, af, means ‘anger.’ The second part, bree, means ‘health.’ It is said that this name is supposed to represent two ends of a spectrum of precipitation: a torrential downpour and a gentle drizzle. One possible translation of Af-Bree is “healthy anger.” Perhaps instead of praying for an outpouring of violence, we can ask ourselves and each other to pour out our wrath by letting it go.

One of the most joyful rituals held in the days of the Temple was nisuch ha-mayim, the pouring of the water. Every morning of Sukkot, water would be drawn from the pool of Siloam and carried in an elaborate procession to the Temple for a libation ceremony. And every night, at the pool of Siloam, there was ecstatic revelry, joyful song, and dancing with lit torches. The Mishnah says, “He who has not seen the rejoicing where the water is drawn has never seen rejoicing in his life.” (You had to be there.)

In order to make room for this kind of transcendent joy in our life, we need to find healthy ways of releasing our anger. This is possible through jouissance, enjoyment that exceeds ordinary happiness and goes beyond the distinction between pleasure and pain, past the boundaries of meaning, and, often, against the law. Jouissance is the ecstasy of a riot, the thrill of theft, the triumph of gay sex, the rapture of rupture, the bliss of filth, the adrenaline of danger, the drunken blurring of Haman and Mordechai on Purim, the young passion of the Song of Songs, the spontaneous, morally ambiguous song that broke out at the Red Sea.

With this kavanah of revolutionary joy, let’s return to the imprecatory psalms and allow ourselves to pour out our wrath without judgment, and take pleasure in imagining our revenge on the police who do everything they can to crush our happiness.

Pour out your wrath on them, may your blazing anger consume them. (Psalm 69:25)
Let them be extinguished like a burning thornbush. (Psalm 118:12)
Let a blazing wind be their lot. (Psalm 11:6)
Let them wither like grass. (Psalm 37:2)
Let them be like chaff in the wind. (Psalm 35:5)
May their eyes grow dim, may their loins collapse continually. (Psalm 69:24)
Like a snail that melts away as it moves,
like a woman’s stillbirth, may they never see the sun! (Psalm 58:9)

Strike the face of my enemies. (Psalm 3:8)
Smash their teeth in their mouths, shatter their lion’s fangs. (Psalm 58:7)
May they be clothed in a curse like a garment,
may it enter their entrails like water, their bones like oil. (Psalm 109:18)
May they be clothed in disgrace,
may they be wrapped in shame like a robe. (Psalm 109:29)
Let the net they hid capture them,
let them fall into it when disaster strikes. (Psalm 35:8)

May no one show them mercy. (Psalm 109:12)
May their days be few. (Psalm 109:8)
Let burning coals fall upon them,
cast them into deep pits that they may not rise again. (Psalm 140:11)
May they be frustrated and terrified, disgraced and doomed forever. (Psalm 83:18)
The righteous will rejoice when they see revenge,
they will bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked. (Psalm 58:11)
For you listen to the oppressed and do not forsake prisoners. (Psalm 69:34)

Midrash tells us that when B’ney Yisra’el arrived at the Red Sea, it did not automatically part for them. Even when Moses lifted his staff, the sea did not split. It wasn’t until a man named Nachshon walked into the water up to his neck, and then all the way up to his nostrils that the sea parted. Someone needed to make the choice to go first.

On the other side of the Red Sea, after the waters crashed down on the Egyptians and drowned them, we’re told that all of B’ney Yisra’el offered a spontaneous joyful song. But the song couldn’t start until Moses’ sister, Miriam the prophetess, took her timbrel and led all of the women in a dance. Someone needed to make the first move.

The name Miriam means “bitter sea.” Interestingly, the very first place B’ney Yisra’el stopped after departing from the Red Sea was a place called Marah, which means “bitter.” It was called this because the water they found there was too bitter to drink. Hashem instructed Moses to cast a piece of wood into the well. When he did so, the water became sweet. Jewish tradition holds that while they wandered in the desert, B’ney Yisra’el drank from a miraculous well that followed Miriam wherever she went. But what if the well did not follow her—what if wherever B’ney Yisra’el went, the well was there all along, but Miriam, like Hagar before her, was able to open her eyes and see it?

Since the 1980s, in addition to the cup traditionally set on the seder table for the prophet Elijah, Jewish feminists have placed a cup for Miriam. To honor the source of water she provided in the desert, many have adopted the custom of having each guest pour a little water from their own glass into her cup. Tonight, as we add our water to Miriam’s cup, we say the name of something that enrages us, so we may pour out our wrath and let go of it. Let the undrinkable waters of our bitter sea be made sweet, and quench our thirst.

(Each person at the table pours some water from their glass into Miriam’s cup.)

.וּשְׁאַבְתֶּם-מַיִם בְּשָׂשׂוֹן מִמַעַיְנֵי הַיְשׁוּעָה
Oo-shavtem mayim be-sason mi-mainey ha-yeshu’a.
In joy, you shall draw water from the wells of redemption. (Isaiah 12:3)

Of course, not even a prophetess is free of wrongdoing. Towards the end of her life, Miriam was involved in one of the Torah’s most deeply personal episodes. Miriam and her brother, Aaron, are jealous of Moses’ special relationship with Hashem. In their bitter resentment, Miriam and Aaron bad-mouth Moses for being married to a Cushite woman. The term Cushite refers to people from Nubia, the kingdom south of Egypt where Sudan is today. In other words, Miriam ends up casting judgment on her brother for marrying a Black woman.

Hashem is enraged with Miriam’s lashon ha-ra, a Hebrew expression which literally translates as ‘evil tongue’ and refers to malicious gossip. As punishment for her racist gossip, Hashem strikes Miriam with leprosy and her skin becomes “as white as snow.” (Numbers 12:10) Aaron begs his brother to intercede for her. Despite Miriam’s jealousy and her prejudice against his wife, Moses offers a simple, earnest prayer for her without hesitation. He says, “el na, refa na la—please God, please heal her.” (Numbers 12:13)

Understandably, not everyone will want to pray for racists. For some of us, it would be unhealthy to pray for those who’ve harmed us. Moses was under no obligation to pray for his sister’s recovery, and neither are we obligated to pray for our oppressors. But some of us may choose at this time to follow Moses in praying for the disease of white supremacy to be lifted from our oppressors’ skin. In this way, we can place our trust in the redemptive possibility of transformation.

.אֵל נָא רְפָא נָא לָה
El na, refa na la.
Please God, please heal her.

We offer this same prayer for everyone in our community who is sick or hurting and in need of healing, and to everyone in American concentration camps and prisons whose lives are at risk from COVID.

(Say the names of people you want to be healed.)

Mi sheberach avoteynu, mekor ha-bracha le-eemoteynu
Bless those in need of healing with refuah shleymah,
the renewal of body, the renewal of spirit, and let us say, amen.

haggadah Section: Bareich