For some people, God is an integral part of their lives, for others, there is no God. Some get stuck on the word itself.

While we may not agree on a singular concept of God, we share a common desire for goodness to prevail in the world. And this is the meaning of tonight: freedom winning out over slavery, good prevailing over evil.

Please think of something that gives you a sense of awe in your life, whether it be nature, a belief in a complexity that you don't understand, God, or a belief in humanity,

Hold the idea of some higher power, force in your mind as we move through the evening. Use whatever word in your head that will take you to this place. This night is for everyone.

Maror or bitter herb symbolizes the harshness of lives of the Jews in Egypt.

Charoset resembles the mortar used as bricks of the many buildings the Jewish slaves built in Egypt

Karpas, a green or spring vegetable, is a reminder of the green sprouting up all around us during spring and is used to dip into the saltwater

Zeroah, a  roasted bone or beet, symbolizes the sacrifice made at the great temple on Passover 

Beitzah, the egg, symbolizes another holiday offering that was brought to the temple. 

Orange or grapefruit representing equality and freedom for sexes and gender identities. The story goes that “a woman belongs on the bimah like an orange belongs on the seder plate.” 

Fruit salad representing the variety of identities within our community.  

Fair-trade chocolate represents the people who are still enslaved and forced into labor to create many of our luxuries. 

Olives remind us that not only are we not free until everyone is free, but we are not free until there is peace in our homes, in our community and in our world.

Artichoke, which has thistles protecting its heart, is like the Jewish people, who have been thorny about this question of interfaith marriage. Let this artichoke on the seder plate tonight stand for the wisdom of God's creation in making the Jewish people a population able to absorb many elements and cultures throughout the centuries--yet still remain Jewish. 

Matzah is the unleavened bread we eat to remember that when the jews fled Egypt, they didn’t even have time to let the dough rise on their bread. We commemorate this by removing all bread and bread products from our home during Passover.

Elijah’s Cup is filled with wine for the prophet, who according to tradition, will arrive one day as an unknown guest to herald the advent of the Messiah and a better future.. 

Miriam’s Cup is filled with water to honor the prophetess for the well of water that followed her when the Israelites wandered the desert after leaving Egypt. This cup honors the spirit of all women, who nurture their families just as Miriam helped sustain the Israelites.

Kadesh: Blessings over Cup #1 of wine and marking sacred time.

Urchatz: Ritually washing hands without offering a blessing.

Karpas: Eating green vegetable dipped in salt-water.

Yachatz: Breaking the middle matzah (of the ceremonial 3) to create the Afikoman.

Maggid: Telling the story. Why is this night different? 4 sons! 10 plagues! Enough already! Pascal lamb, matzah and bitter herb explanations. Cup #2.

Rachtzah: Ritually washing hands with a blessing before breaking bread.

Motzi: Blessing over bread.

Matzah: Blessing over matzah. Eat matzah.

Maror: Blessing over the bitter herbs. Eat bitter herbs.

Korech: Eating a sandwich of matzah and bitter herbs.

Shulchan Orech: Festive Meal.

Tzafun: Finding / ransoming / eating the Afikoman.

Barech: Blessing After Meals. Cup #3. Elijah.

Hallel: Singing psalms of praise. Cup #4.

Nirtzah: Seder ends. Next year in Jerusalem. Drinking songs.

We  dedicate  this  first  cup  to  those  whose  voices  ache  from being the first to cry out. We  dedicate  this  cup  to  those whose  mouths  are  full  of  salty  sea water and tears. We dedicate this cup to the unseen labor -- those who are still working, early to rise and late to bed, so  that  buildings  may  open,  trains  may  run, food may be served. We dedicate this cup to those who are risking their lives by taking care of the sick. We dedicate this cup to and those  who  begin  our  story,  who with their  voices, speak and create universes. 

Drink the first glass of wine!

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָּפֶן

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, borei p’ree hagafen.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who creates the fruit of the vine.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם,
 שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְּמָנוּ וְהִגִּיעָנוּ לַזְּמַן הַזֶּה

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam,
she-hechiyanu v’key’manu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh.

Drink the first glass of wine!

As we celebrate our liberation from bondage, we remember that security and safety are just out of reach for many of us. We pray especially for the people of Ukraine.

Sovereign of the Universe

Who hearkens to our prayers.

We stand before You in solidarity

with all who are enduring the darkness of human conflict in Ukraine.

May You protect all the innocent

at this moment of great peril for them,

their country,

for Europe and the world.

Bring fortitude to the vulnerable,

resilience to the insecure

and strength to those who live in fear.

Incline the hearts of national leaders towards peace and reconciliation

and bless them with the wisdom, vision and perseverance needed

to end this war and restore peace to the region.

Almighty God,

strengthen the hands of those who pursue peace, not war.

Bring harmony where there is hostility;

relief where there is pain and hope where there is despair.

May the One who makes peace in high places

Make peace for all on earth.

May this be your will,

And let us say Amen.

As we wash our hands
We pray,
Blessed is the Soul of the Universe,
Breathing us in and breathing us out.
May our breaths continue
And our health and the health of all
Be preserved
In this time of sickness and fear of sickness.
Holy Wholeness,
We take as much responsibility for this as we can
By observing the obligation to wash our hands
Thoroughly:
For as long as it takes to say this prayer.
Amen

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה הָ׳ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָּנוּ עַל נְטִילַת יָדַיִם

To those unfamiliar with the terrain, the desert can seem like a harsh and empty place. Indeed, the desert of the Passover story is devoid of sustenance and life. At this point in the Seder, it is tradition to reflect on liberation and rebirth as connected ideas. To symbolize rebirth, we take a vegetable, like parsley, and dip it into salt water, which represents the tears shed by our Jewish ancestors when they were enslaved. Mixing the sweet and the bitter remind us that in times of joy, it is important to remember where we came from. Similarly, as we embark on this Seder, with the promise of a nourishing meal ahead, we take a moment to reflect on those going without food as they seek a better life. Though the Jewish people may have left Egypt, many people around the world are still waiting to be freed. 

We recite this short blessing, then dip our parsley. 

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, borei p’ree ha-adama.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who creates the fruits of the earth.

Written by Justine Orlovsky-Schnitzler 

Leader:

In the spring of the year, the season of rebirth and renewal, on the festival of Pesach, we read from the Song of Songs.  The poetry of nature and of love evokes, as well, the love between God and the people Israel, and their Covenant-betrothal.

Arise my beloved, my fair one,

And come away;

For lo, the winter is past.

Flowers appear on the earth,

The time of singing is here.

The song of the dove

Is heard in our land.

Let us go down to the vineyards

To see if the vines have budded.

There will I give you my love.

Group take less than a kezayit (the volume of one olive) of the karpas (parsley), dip it into salt-water, and recite the following blessing:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei p’ri ha’adamah.

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, Ruler of the universe, who creates the fruit of the earth.

Raise the middle matzah so that everyone can see it and say:

This is the bread of affliction. Let everyone who is hungry come and eat. 

There is no prayer that goes with Yachatz. It is supposed to be a time of silent reflection. As we break the unleavened bread, we are also reminded that it is the bread of poverty that our ancestors made in the land of Egypt. A bread made with haste as they fled oppressive circumstances. This year, like most years, it also holds the weight of those who could not get out or are still running.  For several years now, it seems there is a never-ending onslaught of events that feel like a world-altering breakage. However, those who are oppressed or disenfranchised don’t need a disaster to remind them that the world has long been profoundly broken.

As we break this matzah in two, let’s openly acknowledge a brokenness too long ignored. I hope we don’t believe for a moment that we have to be pure, holy, spiritually centered, and totally psychologically healthy to start repairing the breakage.  But Yachatz is also about hopefulness and rediscovery. After the break, we still have the knowledge that we will be returning to the broken piece later on (the Affikomen). There are big things that have been wrapped up and hidden away for a beautiful and rewarding discovery down the line.

What have you discovered in the breakage that you want to carry forward? What do you want to discover or rediscover? How will you continue to heal the brokenness in our world?

“The Haggadah is like the theater sets and costumes and reviews of a play, without the actual play,” - Rabbi Noa Kushner of San Francisco.

“Reading the exodus is for the already free.” -author's childhood rabbi

Most Jews throughout history have not been free, whether from murderous regimes or famines or pandemics. What we have been is devoted to the idea that we deserve to be. “The Haggadah’s purpose is not, in fact, to present a narrative,” Rabbi Mendel Herson, associate dean of the Rabbinical College of America, explained to me. “It’s a how-to guide to finding our own personal liberation.”

The text of the Haggadah is not a retelling of the liberation story itself but a record of agreements and disagreements among its interpreters, because it is not the God-driven part of the story that we should be focused on but the human-driven one. God will come to help when God comes to help; the question is what we do between now and then.

[. . . ] we will do what millions of Jews have done before us: manifest our hope for liberation.

That is our obligation, and our privilege. All the more so in moments when the taste of freedom — from oppression, from want, from disease — is not yet ours.

source

The courage to let go of the door, the handle.
The courage to shed the familiar walls whose very
stains and leaks are comfortable as the little moles
of the upper arm; stains that recall a feast,
a child’s naughtiness, a loud blattering storm
that slapped the roof hard, pouring through.

The courage to abandon the graves dug into the hill,
the small bones of children and the brittle bones
of the old whose marrow hunger had stolen;
the courage to desert the tree planted and only
begun to bear; the riverside where promises were
shaped; the street where their empty pots were broken.

The courage to leave the place whose language you learned
as early as your own, whose customs however dan-
gerous or demeaning, bind you like a halter
you have learned to pull inside, to move your load;
the land fertile with the blood spilled on it;
the roads mapped and annotated for survival.

The courage to walk out of the pain that is known
into the pain that cannot be imagined,
mapless, walking into the wilderness, going
barefoot with a canteen into the desert;
stuffed in the stinking hold of a rotting ship
sailing off the map into dragons’ mouths,

Cathay, India, Siberia, goldeneh medina
leaving bodies by the way like abandoned treasure.
So they walked out of Egypt. So they bribed their way
out of Russia under loads of straw; so they steamed
out of the bloody smoking charnelhouse of Europe
on overloaded freighters forbidden all ports—

out of pain into death or freedom or a different
painful dignity, into squalor and politics.
We Jews are all born of wanderers, with shoes
under our pillows and a memory of blood that is ours
raining down. We honor only those Jews who changed
tonight, those who chose the desert over bondage,

who walked into the strange and became strangers
and gave birth to children who could look down
on them standing on their shoulders for having
been slaves. We honor those who let go of every-
thing but freedom, who ran, who revolted, who fought,
who became other by saving themselves.

                 Maggid – Four Questions

מַהנִּשְּׁתַּנָה

?מַה נִּשְּׁתַּנָה הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה מִכָּל הַלֵּילוֹת

Mah nish-ta-na ha-lai-lah ha-zeh mikol ha-lei-lot?

Why is this night of Passover different from all other nights of the year?

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין חָמֵץ וּמַצָּה, הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה - כּוּלוֹ מַצָּה

She-b'chol ha-lei-lot anu och'lin cha-meitz u-matzah. Ha-laylah hazeh kulo matzah.

On all other nights, we eat either leavened or unleavened bread, why on this night do we eat only matzah?

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין שְׁאָר יְרָקוֹת, - הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה מָרוֹר

Sheb'chol ha-lei-lot anu och'lin sh'ar y'rakot. Ha-lai-lah h-azeh maror.

On all other nights, we eat vegetables of all kinds, why on this night must we eat bitter herbs?

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אֵין אֶנוּ מַטְבִּילִין אֲפִילוּ פַּעַם אֶחָת, - הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה שְׁתֵּי פְעָמִים

Sheb'chol ha-lei-lot ein anu mat-beelin afee-lu pa-am echat.Ha-lai-lah hazeh sh'tei p'ameem.

On all other nights, we do not dip vegetables even once,
why on this night do we dip greens into salt water and bitter herbs into sweet haroset?

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין בֵּין יוֹשְׁבִין וּבֵין מְסֻבִּין, - הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻּלָנו מְסֻ

Sheb’khol ha-lei-lot anu och-leem bein yo-shveen u-vein m’su-been, ha-lailah hazeh kulanu m’subeen.

On all other nights, everyone sits up straight at the table, why on this night do we recline and eat at leisure?

1. How was preparing for Passover different this year? How did it compare to last year, the second Passover of the Pandemic?

2. During Passover we tell stories both of freedom from and freedom to. Share a time you experienced a lack either or both of these types of freedom.

3. The Mishnah tells us that in every generation a person must view themselves as though they personally left Egypt. This directive is especially important this year – when we’re seeing the largest number of refugees in Europe since World War II – refugees whose travels are narrated in such detail on social media and by journalists. The phrase “never again” has recently appeared again and again across the internet, in connection with the war in Ukraine. What is happening in Ukraine is not the Holocaust as nothing can compare. But at a time when there will soon be no more Holocaust survivors and it will become the next generation’s responsibility to carry the narratives forward, what do you think "never again" means in practice?

4. What stories about survival, escape, discrimination, or oppression do you feel it is your responsibility to tell? What stories do you see as your responsibility to pass down to the next generation? Why are these stories important?

BONUS QUESTION: At all times, but especially in times of widespread hardship, people of marginalized identities and communities are often the most vulnerable. What kind of ally are you or would you like to be? What is at stake for you to act as an ally?

At our tables, year by year, we meet four people:

• One who seeks wisdom in the teachings of the past.
• One who rebels, seeking new knowledge from a time of transformation.
• One who seeks truth through simplicity of heart.
• One who does not relate by asking but remains open, waiting to be filled with experience.

The Fifth Child: The Refugee Child

By Rabbi Julie Schonfeld

Each year for Passover, we gather to tell the story of the Exodus, joining with friends and family to enjoy a festive meal, eat symbolic foods, reflect, and celebrate in prayer and song. But this Passover is not like those of the last several decades. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has caused an unprecedented humanitarian crisis in Eastern Europe and ripped apart Jews and non-Jews alike during this holy season. Far too many families wait anxiously for news about missing loved ones, praying to join hands across tables once more.

When we recite the Passover Haggadah, we remember the four children and their lessons; the Wise child, the Rebellious child, the Simple child, and the child who does not know how to ask. This year, we also invite into our Seder the voice of the Refugee Child, who asks, “Who will keep me safe and when can I go home?” Especially in this time of global distress, we are called to hear the Refugee Child’s cries and ensure that they do not go unanswered. Though these cries break our hearts, we commit that we will not turn away. As a special reminder of this sacred commitment, the following can be read at the end of the “Four Children” section of the Seder:

The Refugee Child, one of the world’s most vulnerable people, has no home to shelter them, no society to protect them, and in some cases, no family to love them. In 2020, over 33 million children around the world (in addition to others including up to 4.5 million Ukrainian children in just the past several weeks) were forcibly displaced by conflict, famine, and disaster.

The Passover Haggadah traces the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt back to Joseph and his brothers, whose desperation caused them to journey there because “the famine was severe in the land of Canaan.” This eternal story describes the risks faced by displaced people, especially children, who are vulnerable to human trafficking, a modern word for enslavement.

By reading the Haggadah at the Passover Seder, we acknowledge that the Exodus is not only a story from ancient times but a story for all times. The Haggadah instructs that “in every generation we must see ourselves as if we personally left Egypt” and “in every generation tyrants will rise up against us to destroy us.”

While the Haggadah attributes the triumphant outcome of the Exodus story to miracles, the Torah clearly demonstrates that it was only through human beings acting on behalf of an unaccompanied child – the remarkable courage of Moses’s mother, Yocheved, and sister, Miriam, and the empathy of Pharaoh’s daughter – that the journey from slavery to freedom could be set in motion.

Not merely in every generation, but every year, new tyrants arise against people around the world, and more innocent children become refugees. This Passover, we must not stop at seeing ourselves as the children of Israel who were slaves in Egypt. This year, we must act with the courage of Yocheved and Miriam and the caring of Pharaoh’s daughter to raise our voices, devote our resources, and advocate passionately for concrete steps to bring the world’s refugee children to safety.

Rabbi Julie Schonfeld is CEO emerita of the Rabbinical Assembly (RA), the association of the world’s Conservative movement rabbis and founder of Leading Ethics, which helps organizations grow by building trust. She also served on the President’s Advisory Council on Faith-based and Neighborhood Partnerships.

We are told that every person should see him/herself as having personally left Egypt. How can we fulfill this obligation of radical empathy?

The Hebrew word for Egypt, Mitzrayim, literally translates to "a narrow place." It implies this image of a restrained or confined space. We might not have personal memories of enslavement in Egypt, but we all have experiences with feeling restrained or confined. That is especially true this year when we are for the most part physically confined to our home.

We can channel the emotions we have been experiencing with this confinement to bring ourselves closer to the story. More than that, we also have the gift of using the story of the Israelites' exodus from their narrow place to channel the mindfulness necessary to keep us free in our minds in the current situation. For this, we must be intentional in praying, maintaining our faith, and taking care of ourselves and each other. Every day we have the opportunity to do things that help us feel that we are leaving our "narrow place," even if we do not walk through a parted sea to do it.

Posted by Ruth Bader Ginsburg

On Passover, Jews are commanded to tell the story of the Exodus and to see ourselves as having lived through that story, so that we may better learn how to live our lives today. The stories we tell our children shape what they believe to be possible—which is why at Passover, we must tell the stories of the women who played a crucial role in the Exodus narrative.

The Book of Exodus, much like the Book of Genesis, opens in pervasive darkness. Genesis describes the earth as “unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep.”¹ In Exodus, darkness attends the accession of a new Pharaoh who feared the Israelites and so enslaved them. God alone lights the way out of the darkness in Genesis. But in Exodus, God has many partners, first among them, five brave women.

There is Yocheved, Moses’ mother, and Shifra and Puah, the famous midwives. Each defies Pharaoh’s decree to kill the Israelite baby boys. And there is Miriam, Moses’ sister, about whom the following midrash is taught:

[When Miriam’s only brother was Aaron] she prophesied… “my mother is destined to bear a son who will save Israel.” When [Moses] was born the whole house… filled with light[.] [Miriam’s] father arose and kissed her on the head, saying, “My daughter, your prophecy has been fulfilled.” But when they threw [Moses] into the river her father tapped her on the head saying, “Daughter, where is your prophecy?” So it is written, “And [Miriam] stood afar off to know what would be[come of] the latter part of her prophecy.”²

Finally, there is Pharaoh’s daughter Batya, who defies her own father and plucks baby Moses out of the Nile. The Midrash reminds us that Batya knew exactly what she doing:

When Pharaoh’s daughter’s handmaidens saw that she intended to rescue Moses, they attempted to dissuade her, and persuade her to heed her father. They said to her: “Our mistress, it is the way of the world that when a king issues a decree, it is not heeded by the entire world, but his children and the members of his household do observe it, and you wish to transgress your father’s decree?”³

But transgress she did.

These women had a vision leading out of the darkness shrouding their world. They were women of action, prepared to defy authority to make their vision a reality bathed in the light of the day.

Retelling the heroic stories of Yocheved, Shifra, Puah, Miriam and Batya reminds our daughters that with vision and the courage to act, they can carry forward the tradition those intrepid women launched.

While there is much light in today’s world, there remains in our universe disheartening darkness, inhumanity spawned by ignorance and hate. We see horrific examples in the Middle East, parts of Africa, and Ukraine. The Passover story recalls to all of us—women and men—that with vision and action we can join hands with others of like mind, kindling lights along paths leading out of the terrifying darkness.

As we rejoice at our deliverance from slavery, we acknowledge that our freedom was hard-earned. We regret that our freedom came at the cost of the Egyptians’ suffering, for we are all human beings made in the image of God. We pour out a drop of wine for each of the plagues as we recite them.

Dip a finger or a spoon into your wine glass for a drop for each plague.

These are the ten plagues which God brought down on the Egyptians:

Blood | dam | דָּם

Frogs | tzfardeiya |  צְפַרְדֵּֽעַ

Lice | kinim | כִּנִּים

Beasts | arov | עָרוֹב

Cattle disease | dever | דֶּֽבֶר

Boils | sh’chin | שְׁחִין

Hail | barad | בָּרָד

Locusts | arbeh | אַרְבֶּה

Darkness | choshech | חֹֽשֶׁךְ

Death of the Firstborn | makat b’chorot | מַכַּת בְּכוֹרוֹת

The Egyptians needed ten plagues because after each one they were able to come up with excuses and explanations rather than change their behavior. Could we be making the same mistakes? Make up your own list. What are the plagues in your life? What are the plagues in our world today? What behaviors do we need to change to fix them? 

The Passover Haggadah recounts ten plagues that afflicted Egyptian society. In our tradition, Passover is the season in which we imagine our own lives within the story and the story within our lives. Accordingly, we turn our thoughts to the many plagues affecting our society today. Our journey from slavery to redemption is ongoing, demanding the work of our hearts and hands. Here are ten “modern plagues”:  

Homelessness

In any given year, about 3.5 million people are likely to experience homelessness, about a third of them children, according to the National Law Center on Homelessness & Poverty. A recent study by the U.S. Conference of Mayors showed the majority of major cities lack the capacity to shelter those in need and are forced to turn people away. We are reminded time and again in the Torah that the Exodus is a story about a wandering people, once suffering from enslavement, who, through God’s help, eventually find their way to their homeland. As we inherit this story, we affirm our commitment to pursue an end to homelessness.

Hunger

About 49 million Americans experience food insecurity, 16 million of them children. While living in a world blessed with more than enough food to ensure all of God’s children are well nourished, on Passover we declare, “Let all who are hungry come and eat!” These are not empty words, but rather a heartfelt and age-old prayer to end the man-made plague of hunger.

Inequality

Access to affordable housing, quality health care, nutritious food and quality education is far from equal. The disparity between the privileged and the poor is growing, with opportunities for upward mobility still gravely limited. Maimonides taught, “Everyone in the house of Israel is obligated to study Torah, regardless of whether one is rich or poor, physically able or with a physical disability.” Unequal access to basic human needs, based on one’s real or perceived identity, like race, gender or disability, is a plague, antithetical to the inclusive spirit of the Jewish tradition.

Greed

In the Talmud, the sage Ben Zoma asks: “Who is wealthy? One who is happy with one’s lot.” These teachings evidence what we know in our conscience—a human propensity to desire more than we need, to want what is not ours and, at times, to allow this inclination to conquer us, leading to sin. Passover urges us against the plague of greed, toward an attitude of gratitude.

Discrimination and hatred

The Jewish people, as quintessential victims of hatred and discrimination, are especially sensitized to this plague in our own day and age. Today, half a century after the civil rights movement in the United States, we still are far from the actualization of the dream Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. articulated in Washington, D.C., a vision rooted in the message of our prophets. On Passover, we affirm our own identity as the once oppressed, and we refuse to stand idly by amid the plagues of discrimination and hatred.

Silence amid violence

Every year, 4.8 million cases of domestic violence against American women are reported. Each year, more than 108,000 Americans are shot intentionally or unintentionally in murders, assaults, suicides and suicide attempts, accidental shootings and by police intervention. One in five children has seen someone get shot. We do not adequately address violence in our society, including rape, sex trafficking, child abuse, domestic violence and elder abuse, even though it happens every day within our own communities.

Environmental destruction

Humans actively destroy the environment through various forms of pollution, wastefulness, deforestation and widespread apathy toward improving our behaviors and detrimental civic policies. Rabbi Nachman of Brezlav taught, “If you believe you can destroy, you must believe you can repair.” Our precious world is in need of repair, now more than ever.

Stigma of mental illness

One in five Americans experiences mental illness in a given year. Even more alarming, according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, nearly two-thirds of people with a diagnosable mental illness do not seek treatment, and minority communities are the least likely to search for or have access to mental health resources. Social stigma toward those with mental illness is a widespread plague. Historically, people with mental health issues have suffered from severe discrimination and brutality, yet our society is increasingly equipped with the knowledge and resources to alleviate the plague of social stigma and offer critical support.

Ignoring refugees

We are living through the worst refugee crisis since the Holocaust. On this day, we remember that “we were foreigners in the land of Egypt,” and God liberated us for a reason: to love the stranger as ourselves. With the memory of generations upon generations of our ancestors living as refugees, we commit ourselves to safely and lovingly opening our hearts and our doors to all peace-loving refugees.

Powerlessness

When faced with these modern plagues, how often do we doubt or question our own ability to make a difference? How often do we feel paralyzed because we do not know what to do to bring about change? How often do we find ourselves powerless to transform the world as it is into the world as we know it should be, overflowing with justice and peace?

Written in collaboration with Rabbi Matthew Soffer of Temple Israel of Boston

בְּכָל־דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ, כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרָֽיִם

B’chol dor vador chayav adam lirot et-atzmo, k’ilu hu yatzav mimitzrayim.

In every generation, everyone is obligated to see themselves as though they personally left Egypt.

The seder reminds us that it was not only our ancestors whom God redeemed; God redeemed us too along with them. That’s why the Torah says “God brought us out from there in order to lead us to and give us the land promised to our ancestors.”

---

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who redeemed us and our ancestors from Egypt, enabling us to reach this night and eat matzah and bitter herbs. May we continue to reach future holidays in peace and happiness.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָּפֶן

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, borei p’ree hagafen.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who creates the fruit of the vine.

Drink the second glass of wine!

DAYEINU

The Afghani Onion Dayeinu Custom

Participants hit each other (gently) with green onion stalks every time they sing the refrain "Dayeinu."

Perhaps this custom is tied to the biblical story of the Jews who complained about the manna God had given them and recalled with longing the onions in Egypt. Our ancestors were infamous for their lack of appreciation, their stubbornness, and their complaints. 

It is easy for us to sing Dayeinu and claim that "each one of these good things would have been enough." But for those in the middle of the process of liberation, it is much harder to constantly be appreciative.  

When governments end the escalating production of devastating weapons, secure in the knowledge that they will not be necessary, Dayenu.

When all women and men are allowed to make their own decisions on matters regarding their own bodies and personal relationships without discrimination or legal consequences, Dayenu.

When children grow up in freedom, without hunger, and with the love and support they need to realize their full potential, Dayenu.

When the air, water, fellow creatures and beautiful world are protected for the benefit and enjoyment of all and given priority over development for the sake of profit, Dayenu.

When people of all ages, sexes, races, religions, sexual orientations, cultures and nations respect and appreciate one another, Dayenu.

When each person can say, "This year, I worked as hard as I could toward improving the world so that all people can experience the joy and freedom I feel sitting here tonight at the seder table," Dayenu v'lo Dayenu - It will and will not be enough.

The complete lyrics to Dayeinu tell the entire story of the Exodus from Egypt as a series of miracles God performed for us. Dayeinu means "that would have been enough." This is a song of thanksgiving that reminds us that each of our lives is the cumulative result of many blessings, small and large. 

אִלּוּ הוֹצִיאָֽנוּ מִמִּצְרַֽיִם, דַּיֵּנוּ

Ilu hotzi- hotzianu, Hotzianu mi-mitzrayim Hotzianu mi-mitzrayim, Dayeinu

If God had only taken us out of Egypt, that would have been enough!

אִלוּ נָתַן לָנוּ אֶת הַשַׁבָּת, דַּיֵינוּ

Ilu natan natan lanu, natan lanu et ha-Shabbat, Natan lanu et ha-Shabbat, Dayeinu

If God had only given us Shabbat, that would have been enough.

אִלּוּ נָתַן לָֽנוּ אֶת־הַתּוֹרָה, דַּיֵּנוּ

Ilu natan natan lanu, natan lanu et ha-Torah, Natan lanu et ha-Torah, Dayeinu

If God had only given us the Torah, that would have been enough.

Dayenu means “it would have been enough.” The idea is to practice gratitude, in spite of all the difficulties of the last year and tragedies we face now, let's name some of the stuff we've felt grateful for and sing   Dayenu!

We stayed healthy.   Dayenu!

We had a safe home to live in.   Dayenu!

etc.

Aliza Boyer. 2021. Sacred Reminder.

Artist Statement: As we navigate Passover during this time of great challenge and uncertainty, we have been constantly washing our hands and sanitizing our surroundings, Rachtzah—the second hand-washing and 6th step in the seder—marks a transition in the Passover story of hardship and affliction to redemption, hope, and freedom. Rachtzah comes before the blessing and eating of matzah and sets us up for a new mindset. Washing our hands is a visceral reminder of our responsibilities: that we are all interconnected, share precious resources, and rely on one another for well-being. It is a ritual as well as a practical action, this time with a blessing that sets this washing apart and elevates the act from other times we wash our hands. It also reminds us that there are so many without access to clean water - in Texas and Oklahoma, and in the ongoing plight in Flint, Michigan. Water is vital to life, health, and growth. Rachtzah can remind us that we are responsible for protecting ourselves, one another, and the environment. Let’s hope that this year our hand-washing and symbolic expression of washing away impurity (while we sing “Dayenu”!?) helps to finally wash away what has been plaguing us for too long, and gets us closer to wider protection and greater freedom.

Artist Bio: Aliza Boyer is an artist and arts educator who has been creating handmade ketubahs and other contemporary Judaica for over 18 years through her Brooklyn-based design studio, Ketubah Graphia. After studying art at the Claremont Colleges in California, teaching, and working on public art projects in Los Angeles, Aliza moved to New York City to pursue a graduate degree in arts education at NYU. She has remained in
NYC working as an arts educator and administrator at the Museum of Arts and Design, Lincoln Center, Society of Illustrators/Museum of Illustration and more. Aliza enjoys sharing and learning about modern Jewish and cross-cultural ritual through her artistic practice, working directly with people to create meaningful designs, as well as collaborating with other illustrators and artists.

GARLIC ON THE SEDER PLATE 
Dori Midnight

I began placing garlic on our seder plate a few years ago, as it has been central to my work of reconnecting to and re-enlivening Jewish folk healing traditions and a lifelong love. After the birth of Nishmat Shoom (the queer, radical, non-zionist minyan project I am part of, whose name, inspired by this work, means Breath or Soul of Garlic), many of the Garlic Eaters in our community began adopting this practice and it has slowly crept its stinky way into many homes. For me, garlic is a symbol for reconnecting with and revealing ancestral healing and protection practices and divesting from harmful practices and institutions that offer an illusion of safety at the expense of others. Garlic helps us remember that policing, borders, militarism - violent practices based in settler colonialism and xenophobia - don’t make anyone safe. Garlic, whose teaching moves on scent and taste, reminds us of times, past and future,  in which people build a sense of protection and rootedness through connection to plants, stones, celestial bodies, soil, water, ancestral stories, with the Divine and with each other.

Garlic is braided throughout our sacred texts - held as a specific delight of shabbat, as medicine and as amulet. The term “Garlic Eaters” is found in the Talmud; Jews have identified ourselves as “Garlic Eaters” for thousands of years. Conversely, we also been identified as Garlic Eaters as an antisemitic trope - from the Roman empire through the present, Jews have been targeted and persecuted  for our affinity and association with this powerful plant. There are numerous tales from the Spanish Inquisition of inquisitors tracking down the scent of garlic to Jewish homes and killing Jews just for cooking with it. There is an abundance of antisemitic garlic-based paraphenalia in Medieval Europe, including images of Jews clutching a bag of money in one hand and a fistful of garlic in the other and texts about the “Foeter Judaica”, the Jewish Stink. We know that one tool of oppression is to try to separate people from something that is deeply beloved and to criminalize, stigmatize, and pathologize practices and traditions that sustain, nourish, and connect people.  We also know that these days, not many Jews even know about this long term, profound connection with garlic. A fifth question for Passover might be why? What happens when we lose these ancestral traditions and ancient blessings of protection? What do we turn to for protection when we’re stripped of or abandon traditions of community care and interdependence? What happens when centuries of trauma/assimilation/modernization/xenophobia separate us from the pungent blessing of garlic and seed us with shame about smelling like garlic?

 A story in my family is that my great grandmother Rae carried cloves of garlic in her bra and pocketbook as protection against the evil eye.  My mother placed garlic in my ears and fed me raw garlic when I was sick. The Talmud teaches that garlic “brightens the face, warms the body, and instills love.”  Garlic has abundant medicinal benefits, including supporting heart health, bone health, digestive and immune support. Garlic is life giving - it increases our vitality, fertility, and longevity.  Garlic is community medicine- it’s antimicrobial and antiviral properties keep us well. Valued for these gifts through many pandemics and plagues, garlic has supported many of us through COVID-19. (Check out this Yiddish plague song from 1918 singing the praises of garlic!) It’s easy to grow, easy to find, and makes everything taste infinitely better.  Garlic, which is in a way it’s own community,  teaches us about how to be our own little clove, but stay connected to the whole bulb.

Jewish folk wisdom from throughout much of the diaspora tells us that cloves of garlic were often tucked into pockets and pouches, hung on windows and doors, placed under the pillow in labor, and strung onto necklaces for protection. Garlic supports, thrives in, and embodies diaspora: it can travel in hand, pocket, bag, wagon, across land and sea, past the imaginary borders drawn by empire. It carries the dream of generations and exponential possibility: the one becomes many, the many become many more. First grown in the Fertile Crescent, it has traveled with Jews for thousands of years, weaving its way through the diaspora - a flavor present in many dishes in various Jewish cultures. And just as the bulb waits all winter underground and emerges in time, the garlic wisdom my great grandmothers planted in the dark, after many generations, has yielded, unfolded, miraculously multiplied in me, in us. 

Garlic protects through zesty and pungent stink, keeping individuals and communities well, holding boundaries while also holding us close. As we re-enliven traditions of protection that are about presence, about being really alive, about unapologetic stink, about being who we are as a form of protection, we can release all the harmful structures, internal and external, that we, and our ancestors, may have adopted to try to keep ourselves safe. We release all the ways in which we have hidden to survive, ways in which we have sought safety at the expense of others, ways in which we have been separated from our traditions, from ourselves and each other in the maw of neoliberalism, assimilation, forced migration, oppression, modernity, and collective trauma. It is heartbreaking and true that many Jews (and non-Jews) have invested in extremely harmful institutions for the sake of the illusion of safety - borders, militarism, Zionism, policing, the carceral system. And it is also true that many of us dedicate our lives to abolishing these structures and seek to undo the patterns inside ourselves as well.  Abolitionist Ruth Wilson Gilmore says, “Abolition is about presence, not absence. It is about building life-affirming institutions.” As we divest from harmful structures, we need to cultivate, remember, and nurture life affirming practices that weave safety and belonging for everyone. Garlic reminds us that safety is built through solidarity, through connection, through collective wellbeing. Garlic as torah! Garlic as life affirming practice! Garlic breathes the vital breath of abolitionist theology and grows our capacity for change and being more fully alive.

Every year, we practice liberation at Pesach, and every year, we can weave old and new practices that support us to get freer and make freedom more possible for everybody, everywhere. Garlic in our pockets, on our seder plates, hung in our doorways - they are all altars in a way. At Passover, we eat ritual foods to embody and to remember, and we craft new traditions as we need them~ we place an olive for Palestinian solidarity, an orange for queer liberation, a spoon for diasbility justice.  This year you are invited to place garlic on your seder plate,  as intention, remembrance, and commitment to practice collective care and co-liberation, and cultivating a sense of safety rooted in aliveness and connection. 

The blessing over the meal and matzah | motzi matzah | מוֹצִיא מַצָּה

The familiar hamotzi blessing marks the formal start of the meal. Because we are using matzah instead of bread, we add a blessing celebrating this mitzvah.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, הַמּוֹצִיא לֶֽחֶם מִן הָאָֽרֶץ

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, hamotzi lechem min ha-aretz.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who brings bread from the land.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָֽׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתַָיו וְצִוָּֽנוּ עַל אֲכִילַת מַצָּה

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al achilat matzah.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who made us holy through obligations, commanding us to eat matzah.

Distribute and eat the top and middle matzah for everyone to eat.

Rabbi Gamliel taught that when we tell the story of the Exodus, we must also explain the meaning of the most important symbols: zeroah, matzah, and maror. (Leader holds up each symbol as the designated portion is read.)

Zeroah (Paschhal Lamb) is a roasted shank bone, which reminds us that God told the Israelites to put lamb’s blood on our doors to escape the tenth plague, the slaying of the first born.

We eat matzah because there was not enough time for the Israelites to allow their bread to rise before they fled Egypt from slavery into freedom.

Maror are bitter herbs, reminding us how the Egyptians embittered the lives of the Israelites.

At Seder tonight, we recognize these traditional symbols as reminders of our obligation to work for the day when all people are free from injustice and oppression 

B’chol dor v’dor chayav adam lirot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatzah mi’Mitzrayim.

In every generation, we are obligated to view ourselves as if we were the ones who went out from Egypt, as it is said: And on that day tell your child, saying “For this purpose Adonai labored on my behalf, by taking me out of Egypt.” 

It was not our ancestors alone who were delivered.  We were also delivered with them. We were there and we are here in the present doing our part to pursue justice and freedom.  

In the days of the Temple, Hillel, head of the Sanhedrin, used to combine in one sandwich the three Pesach sacrifices, Pesach lamb, matzah and maror, to carry out the instruction, “They shall eat it with unleavened bread and bitter herbs” (Numbers 9:11)

We eat a sandwich of matzah, maror, and charoset, reminding us of Pesach as Hillel used to celebrate it.

The bottom matzah on the seder plate is broken and distributed. Each person takes two pieces of matzah and creates a sandwich with the charoset and maror.

Eating the meal! | shulchan oreich | שֻׁלְחָן עוֹרֵךְ

Enjoy! But don’t forget when you’re done we’ve got a little more seder to go, including the final two cups of wine!

Finding and eating the Afikomen | tzafoon | צָפוּן

The playfulness of finding the afikomen reminds us that we balance our solemn memories of slavery with a joyous celebration of freedom. As we eat the afikomen, our last taste of matzah for the evening, we are grateful for moments of silliness and happiness in our lives.

Refill everyone’s wine glass.

We now say grace after the meal, thanking God for the food we’ve eaten. On Passover, this becomes something like an extended toast to God, culminating with drinking our third glass of wine for the evening:

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, whose goodness sustains the world. You are the origin of love and compassion, the source of bread for all. Thanks to You, we need never lack for food; You provide food enough for everyone. We praise God, source of food for everyone.

As it says in the Torah: When you have eaten and are satisfied, give praise to your God who has given you this good earth. We praise God for the earth and for its sustenance.

Renew our spiritual center in our time. We praise God, who centers us.

May the source of peace grant peace to us, to the Jewish people, and to the entire world. Amen.

The Third Glass of Wine

The blessing over the meal is immediately followed by another blessing over the wine:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָּפֶן

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, borei p’ree hagafen.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who creates the fruit of the vine.

Drink the third glass of wine!

After we’ve eaten, we bless God for the good land that God has given us. We bless You, Adonai, for the land and for the food it yields. It is our responsibility to make sure that it is distributed so that every person gets the nutrition he or she needs to thrive.

There  is  a  story  about  a  man  who  was  afraid  when  he  stumbled upon G!d (Exodus 3). ​When Moses was wandering the  desert,  hiding  from  who  he  was,  G!d  encountered him  and  told  him  it  would  be  his  job  to  lead  his  people  to freedom.  Moses  is  terrified  -  he  is  sure  that  he  will  be  unable  to  do  this  job,  to  move  the  people  from  their narrowness.  G!d  promises  Moses  that  he  will  be  with  him  through  this  journey.  This  story  teaches  us  that  the  work ahead,  the  next  chapter,  will  be  one  of  great  turmoil.  Escaping the narrow place does not mean that the pain, the sorrow is over. ​The next part of our story will require us to transform our fear into awe, to move not because it will be easy, but because it is what needs to be done.

We  dedicate  this  last  cup  to  ourselves,  to  those  who  have  come so far. May your fear become awe, may you be able to carry all that is within you through the sea.

The Cup of Elijah

We now refill our wine glasses one last time and open the front door to invite the prophet Elijah to join our seder.

In the Bible, Elijah was a fierce defender of God to a disbelieving people. At the end of his life, rather than dying, he was whisked away to heaven. Tradition holds that he will return in advance of messianic days to herald a new era of peace, so we set a place for Elijah at many joyous, hopeful Jewish occasions, such as a baby’s bris and the Passover seder.

אֵלִיָּֽהוּ הַנָּבִיא, אֵלִיָּֽהוּ הַתִּשְׁבִּיאֵלִיָּֽהוּ, אֵלִיָּֽהוּ,אֵלִיָּֽהוּ הַגִּלְעָדִי

בִּמְהֵרָה בְיָמֵֽנוּ יָבוֹא אֵלֵֽינוּ

עִם מָשִֽׁיחַ בֶּן דָּוִד

עִם מָשִֽׁיחַ בֶּן דָּוִד

Eliyahu hanavi
Eliyahu hatishbi
Eliyahu, Eliyahu, Eliyahu hagiladi
Bimheirah b’yameinu, yavo eileinu
Im mashiach ben-David,
Im mashiach ben-David

Elijah the prophet, the returning, the man of Gilad:
return to us speedily,
in our days with the messiah,
son of David.

We pledge to rise up in Revolutionary Love.

We declare our love for all who are in harm’s way, including refugees, immigrants, Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, LGBTQIA people, Black people, Latinx, the indigenous, the disabled, and the poor. We stand with millions of people around the globe rising up to end violence against women and girls (cis, transgender and gender non-conforming) who are often the most vulnerable within marginalized communities. We vow to see one another as brothers and sisters and fight for a world where every person can flourish.

We declare love even for our opponents. We vow to oppose all executive orders and policies that threaten the rights and dignity of any person. We call upon our elected officials to join us, and we are prepared to engage in moral resistance throughout this administration. We will fight not with violence or vitriol, but by challenging the cultures and institutions that promote hate. In so doing, we will challenge our opponents through the ethic of love.

We declare love for ourselves. We will practice the dignity and care in our homes that we want for all of us. We will protect our capacity for joy. We will nurture our bodies and spirits; we will rise and dance. We will honor our mothers and ancestors whose bodies, breath, and blood call us to a life of courage. In their name, we choose to see this darkness not as the darkness of the tomb - but of the womb. We will breathe and push through the pain of this era to birth a new future.

In The Leader's Guide to the Family Participation Haggadah: A Different Night, Rabbi David Hartman writes: “Passover is the night for reckless dreams; for visions about what a human being can be, what society can be, what people can be, what history may become.”

We now look to a hopeful future, represented by returning to Jerusalem. We all have our own"Jerusalem" dream, anf we say together:

Next year in Jerusalem!