Once we were slaves. Now we are free. These two simple statements contain some of Pesach’s most elusive paradoxes and radical possibilities. The Passover seder is a complex, nuanced ritual that embodies liberation and oppression at the same time. It asks us not only to remember slavery, but relive it; not only to celebrate freedom, but to take it for ourselves.

For thousands of years, the Jewish people have been challenged to regard the Exodus not as a bible story or historical event, but as a part of our own lived experience. The haggadah tells us, “In every generation, each person must see themself as if they personally left Mitzrayim.” 

This practice of radical empathy is a crucial piece of spiritual weaponry entrusted to us by our ancestors. It served them well, helping countless generations of Jews survive millenia of oppression. Now we must continue the work our ancestors started by radically empathizing with them, with each other, and with everyone who is enslaved today.  

It is a sad truth that slavery did not end with the Exodus, or with the Civil War for that matter. Slavery and oppression persist in the United States to this day. The constitutional amendment that ended the practice of chattel slavery in the U.S. actually laid the foundation for the system that would take its place. The 13th Amendment banned slavery and involuntary servitude “except as a punishment for a crime,” taking the power to enslave away from individuals and giving it to the carceral state. 

After the war, southern plantation owners needed a new source of free labor. They found it in state prisons, which exploded in population during reconstruction and were conspicuously full of newly freed Black people. The slave patrols that had once pursued fugitive slaves became the police forces that arrested Black people, largely on minor or fictitious charges. The courts gave them heavy sentences, and they were forced to work without pay under brutal conditions nearly identical to antebellum slavery. Gradually, prisons and police spread across the country and became ubiquitous fixtures of American oppression. 

As we celebrate our liberation tonight, we must remember that not everyone in this country is free, and recognize that none of us can be truly free until all of us are. Though none of us are in prisons tonight, the system of carceral violence oppresses us all. It is from this shared experience that the possibility of abolition arises. If we can come to terms with our own oppression and practice radical empathy with incarcerated people, we can replace performative allyship with authentic solidarity, and open our hearts to a world of transformation and possibility.

The word kavanah is often translated as intention. It comes from the phrase kavanat ha-lev, which means “preparation of the heart.” The Jewish people believe that rituals are incomplete if they are performed rote, devoid of intentionality or emotional authenticity. Kavanot prepare our hardened hearts to be opened, so love can reach us. A Chasidic teaching explains why the Torah tells us to place the words of Judaism’s central prayer, the Sh’ma, “on our hearts,” (Deuteronomy 6:6) not in them. Our hearts are too hard to put anything inside of. Instead, we place the words on top of them, so that when they break, the words can fall inside. In the words of the Kotzker Rebbe, “There is nothing so whole as a broken heart.”

 
One of the first things Jews are supposed to say after waking up every morning is a blessing for prisoners to be freed. We begin the Seder with this same energy. Let us remember that the work of liberation is sacred. Let us open our hearts to a world without prisons and without police.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, מַתִּיר אֲסוּרִים
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam, matir asurim.
Blessed are you, who frees the prisoner. 
 

“Those who decide upon a course, and declare their intention, saying, ‘we will go free the prisoner and redeem the captive,’ the Holy One provides them with the opportunity, and they go and do it. Those who merely think in their hearts, and don’t declare their intention, the Holy One affords no opportunity.” — Avot de-Rabbi Natan, 8:5

אַשְׁרֵי הַגַפְרוּר שֶׁנִשְׂרַף וְהִצִית לֶהָבוֹת
.אַשְׁרֵי הַלְהָבָה שֶׁבָּעֲרָה בְּסִתְרֵי לְבָבוֹת
...אַשְׁרֵי הַלְבָבוֹת שֶׁיָדְעוּ לַחְדוֹל בְּכָבוֹד
.אַשְׁרֵי הַגַפְרוּר שֶׁנִשְׂרַף וְהִצִית לֶהָבוֹת
Ashrey ha-gafrur sheneeshraf ve-heetzeet lehavot,
ashrey ha-l’hava sheba’arah be-sitrey levavot.
Ashrey ha-levavot sheyadu lachdol be-kavod…
ashrey ha-gafrur sheneeshraf ve-heetzeet lehavot.
Blessed is the match consumed in kindling the flame.
Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart.
Blessed is the heart with strength to stop its beating for honor’s sake.
Blessed is the match consumed in kindling the flame.

This poem was written by Hannah Szenes, a Jewish resistance fighter who fought the Nazis during World War II. After parachuting into Yugoslavia, she was captured by German soldiers. In prison, the Nazis tried to get information from Hannah by brutally torturing her, but she refused to jeopardize her comrades. On November 7, 1944, she was executed by firing squad at just 22 years old. Hannah wrote timeless poetry in prison. In her own words: “I gambled on what mattered most. The dice were cast. I lost.”

Light the candles and say:

בָּרוּך אַתָּה יי אֱלהֵינוּ מֶלֶך הָעוֹלָם
:אַשֶׁר קִדְשָנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָנוּ לְהַדְלִיק נֵר שֶל יוֹם טוֹב
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam,
 asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitzivanu l’hadlik ner shel yom tov.
Blessed are you, who sanctifies us with your mitzvot,
and commands us to light holiday candles.
 

Over the course of the seder, we drink four cups of wine. Each cup symbolizes one of the four promises Hashem made to B’ney Yisra’el at the beginning of their journey out of slavery. (Exodus 6:6-7) 

     1. I will take you out of oppression in Mitzrayim.  
     2. I will free you from slavery.
     3. I will redeem you.
     4. I will make you a people.

Tonight, we make these same promises of abolition, liberation, transformation, and community to each other and to everyone who is enslaved in prisons or oppressed by police today.
 

Sometimes, something needs to be destroyed in order to make room to create something new. People often expect abolitionists to have a complete vision of the systems that will replace incarceration and policing, though no one alive today has the luxury of knowing a world where those systems don’t exist. This does not mean we can’t say ‘no’ to police and prisons. The Zapatistas teach “one no, many yeses.” The possibilities of a post-carceral world are endless, but they all start from the same point: abolition. 

What would it mean to say no?

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam, borey p’ree ha-gafen.
Blessed are you, who creates the fruits of the vine.
 

Shehecheyanu is one of the most common and versatile brachot in Jewish liturgy. It is recited on special occasions, like the birth of a child or upon converting to Judaism, and when doing something for the first time in a year, like celebrating Pesach or eating a seasonal fruit. It is a blessing of renewal, a way of offering gratitude not only for life but for the cycles we find ourselves part of within it. Shehecheyanu offers us an unquantifiable, qualitative way of thinking about time. Instead of drawing our attention to the ways in which we grow old, it reminds us of the ways in which we become new again.

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְמָנוּ וְהִגִיעָנוּ לַזְמָן הַזֶה
Barukh atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam,
 shehecheyanu, ve-kiyimanu, ve-higiyanu lazman hazeh.
Blessed are you, who has kept us alive and sustained us, 
and enabled us to reach this moment.
 

Jewish tradition has long seen handwashing as vital to physical and spiritual health. Though the Torah never explicitly commands us to wash our hands, the rabbis of the Talmud considered it a duty sacred enough to be incorporated into Jewish law. They found an asmachta, a biblical ‘hint’ that implies its importance. The verse (Leviticus 15:11) doesn’t describe handwashing as a way of cleansing oneself, but as a way of preventing the spread of ritual impurity from one person to another. Anyone a person deemed ‘impure’ touches becomes impure themselves, unless the first person rinses their hands before contact occurs. This implies that handwashing is not an act of individual cleanliness, but a practice of mutual protection.

The pandemic has made it clearer than ever that our personal wellbeing is inextricably tied to the health of our communities. Measures like wearing masks and social distancing do more than benefit our individual health. These practices help prevent COVID from spreading, and minimize the chance we will pass the virus onto others in our community. 

The concept of public health is still unfamiliar to many living in the United States’ highly individualistic society, and it is anathema to the capitalists and politicians trying to find a way to profit off the pandemic. American society emphasizes independence, the liberty of each person to do what they please, without any obligations to anyone else. Sadly, many Americans’ reactions to the virus have been informed by their perception of the dangers to their health, and their health alone. 

Too many people say, “I’m healthy, the virus won’t hurt me, why should I wear a mask?” They sound like the ‘wicked son’ mentioned in the Four Children section of the traditional haggadah: “What does this ritual mean to you?” To you, and not to him. Like the wicked son, people who refuse to wear a mask because they don’t see the personal benefit cut themselves off from the collective and remove themselves from their com- munities. They fail to see their responsibility to their fellow human beings.

Many Americans, especially white people, fail to see why they should care about abolition. They say, “I have never been to prison. The police don’t harass me. I am not a ‘criminal.’ Why should I care about abolishing police and prisons?” They fail to understand that no one can be free until everyone is, that the carceral state oppresses us all. The Exodus that we commemorate tonight wasn’t an individual departure from slavery. It was a collective liberation of an entire people. Tonight, let us remember that our health, our happiness, and our liberation are in each other’s hands.
 

The concept of ‘purity’ makes many who’ve grown up in a Christian dominated culture feel uncomfortable. It calls to mind the creepy fetishization of women’s virginity and the doctrine of ‘original sin’ that treats our bodies as impure sources of moral contamination. The Jewish idea of purity is completely different. Every morning, we say “ Elohai, neshama she-natata bee, tehora hee, ” which means, Eternal, the soul you have given me, it is pure. Judaism doesn’t seek to rid us of ‘original sin’, it tries to help us return to our spirits’ and our  bodies’ natural purity. 

Long before the struggle upward begins,
there is tremor in the seed.
Self-protection cracks,
Roots reach down and grab hold.
The seed swells, and tender shoots
push up toward light.
This is karpas: spring awakening growth.
A force so tough it can break stone.
 

Spring is a time of regrowth. After lying dormant for a long, bleak winter, the Earth rubs the slumber from her eyes and sprouts new life. The seder uses a fresh green vegetable to symbolize the natural world’s reawakening and the spiritual rebirth that liberation affords us. 

We dip the karpas into salt water, which symbolizes our ancestors’ tears. By mixing symbols of pain and rebirth together, the karpas ritual reminds us that oppression and liberation are intrinsically linked, that the road to freedom must pass through ha-metzer, the narrow place. Dipping karpas in salt water reminds us that our freedom is incomplete, but as Ronnie Horn explains, the salt water is also transformed by touching this symbol of rebirth. This reminds us that “tears stop. Spring comes. And with it the potential for change.”

:בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech haolam, borey p’ri ha-adama.
Blessed are you, who creates the fruits of the earth.
 

We did not weep
when we were leaving-
for we had neither
time nor tears,
and there was no farewell.
We did not know
at the moment of parting
that it was a parting,
so where would our weeping
have come from?

We did not stay
awake all night
(and did not doze)
the night of our leaving.
That night we had
neither night nor light,
and no moon rose.
That night we lost our star,
our lamp misled us;
we didn't receive our share

of sleeplessness-
so where
would wakefulness have come from?

— Taha Muhammad Ali

At this point in the Seder, we take a piece of matzah and break it down the middle. One half will remain on the table. The other half will be hidden, to be found later as the afikomen. Once the matzah is broken, it cannot be repaired completely. We can pick up the pieces and do our best to put them back together, but, to some extent, irreparable damage has been done.

As we break the middle matzah, we remember the break in Palestinian life that came when the State of Israel was established in 1948. The new Israeli state destroyed hundreds of villages and left hundreds of thousands of Palestinian people displaced. In the spring of 1948, Haganah, the militia that would later become the Israeli Defense Force, launched Plan Dalet, its campaign to ethnically cleanse Palestine of its rightful inhabitants. Zionist militias carried out campaigns of terror and violence. 

On April 21, the first night of Pesach, Haganah commenced Operation Bi’ur Chametz, which means “burning the leaven,” a sickening reference to the Jewish ritual of eliminating all traces of bread from the home before Passover. With incendiary bombs, gunfire, and psychological warfare, Zionist forces expelled Palestinian citizens from their homes in Haifa. Historian Ilan Pappe recounts, “without packing any of their belongings or even knowing what they were doing, people began leaving en masse… Cooked food still stood on their tables, children had left toys and books on the floor, and life appeared to have frozen in an instant. In the early hours of April 22, people began streaming to the harbour... The boats in the port were soon filled with living cargo. The overcrowding in them was horrible. Many turned over and sank along with all their passengers.”

In Israel today, Palestinians are still second-class citizens. The little territory Israel hasn’t stolen from them yet is being occupied. There is an epidemic of mass incarceration among Palestinian people, especially Palestinian youth. One in five Palestinian people have been imprisoned. Israeli police regularly kill unarmed Palestinian people, mistaking them for ‘terrorists.’ In June of 2020, police killed an autistic Palestianian man named Iyad Halaq. Protesters drew comparisons between his death and the murder of George Floyd, and stood in solidarity with Black Lives Matter. 

As we break this piece of matzah, let us recognize the finality of death. The precious lives of George Floyd, Iyad Halaq, and millions of other Black and Palestinian people murdered by the carceral state can never be replaced. Yizkor, the Jewish memorial prayer for the dead offered on major holidays (including Passover) teaches us how to remember those we’ve lost. To “bind their soul in the binding of life,” we promise to practice tzedakah on their behalf. Tzedakah is often translated as ‘charity’ in English, but more precisely, it means pursuing justice through redistributing resources. By building a better world, the dead live on through us, and their lives become intertwined with our own and the lives of those we’ve touched.

הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא דִי אֲכָלוּ אַבְהָתָנָא בְאַרְעָא דְמִצְרָיִם
 .כָּל דִכְפִין יֵיתֵי וְיֵיכֹל, כָּל דִצְרִיךְ יֵיתֵי וְיִפְסַח
.הָשַׁתָּא הָכָא, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּאַרְעָא דְיִשְׂרָאֵל
.הָשַׁתָּא עַבְדֵי, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין 
Ha lachma anya dee achaloo ahavtanah be-arah de-Mitzrayim. 
Kol deechfeen yeytey ve-yeychol, kol deetzreech yeytey ve-yipsach. 
Ha-shata hacha, le-shana ha-ba’ah be-arah de-Yisra’el. 
Ha-shata avdey, le-shana ha-ba’ah beney choreen.
This is the bread of poverty that our ancestors ate in Mitzrayim. 
All who are hungry may come and eat, all who need may join us.
 This year we are here, but next year we will be in the world to come. 
This year we are slaves, but next year we will be free.
 

This is the year that squatters evict landlords,
gazing like admirals from the rail
of the roofdeck
or levitating hands in praise
of steam in the shower;
this is the year
that shawled refugees deport judges,
who stare at the floor
and their swollen feet
as files are stamped
with their destination;
this is the year that police revolvers,
stove-hot, blister the fingers
of raging cops,
and nightsticks splinter
in their palms;
this is the year
that darkskinned men
lynched a century ago
return to sip coffee quietly
with the apologizing descendants
of their executioners.

This is the year that those
who swim the border's undertow
and shiver in boxcars
are greeted with trumpets and drums
at the first railroad crossing
on the other side;
this is the year that the hands
pulling tomatoes from the vine
uproot the deed to the earth that sprouts the vine,
the hands canning tomatoes
are named in the will that owns
the bedlam of the cannery;

this is the year that the eyes
stinging from the poison that purifies toilets
awaken at last to the sight
of a rooster-loud hillside,
pilgrimage of immigrant birth;
this is the year that cockroaches
become extinct, that no doctor
finds a roach embedded
in the ear of an infant;
this is the year that the food stamps
of adolescent mothers
are auctioned like gold doubloons,
and no coin is given to buy machetes
for the next bouquet of severed heads
in coffee plantation country.

If the abolition of slave-manacles
began as a vision of hands without manacles,
then this is the year;
if the shutdown of extermination camps
began as imagination of a land
without barbed wire or the crematorium,
then this is the year;
if every rebellion begins with the idea
that conquerors on horseback
are not many-legged gods, that they too drown
if plunged in the river,
then this is the year.

So may every humiliated mouth,
teeth like desecrated headstones,
fill with the angels of bread.

?מַה נִשְׁתַּנָה הַלַיְלָה הַזֶה מִכָּל הַלֵילוֹת
Ma nishtana ha-laila hazeh meekol ha-leylot?
What makes this night different from all other nights?

,שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין חָמֵץ וּמַצָה 
?הַלַיְלָה הַזֶה, כֻּלוֹ מַצָה
Shebechol ha-leylot anoo ochleen chametz oo-matzah,
ha-laila hazeh, coolo matzah? 
On all other nights we eat chametz and matzah. 
Tonight, we only eat matzah?

,שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין שְׁאָר יְרָקוֹת 
?הַלַיְלָה הַזֶה, מָרוֹר
Shebechol ha-leylot anoo ochleen she’ar yerakot,
ha-laila hazeh, maror? 
On all other nights we eat all sorts of vegetables. 
Tonight, bitter herbs?

,שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵילוֹת אֵין אָנוּ מַטְבִּילִין אֲפִילוּ פַּעַם אֶחָת 
?הַלַיְלָה הַזֶה, שְׁתֵּי פְעָמִים
Shebechol ha-leylot eyn anoo matbeeleen afeeloo pa’am echat,
ha-laila hazeh, shtey feyameem?  
On all other nights we don’t even dip vegetables once. 
Tonight, two times?

,שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין בֵּין יוֹשְׁבִין וּבֵין מְסֻבִּין 
?הַלַיְלָה הַזֶה, כֻּלָנוּ מְסֻבִּין
Shebechol ha-leylot anoo ochleen beyn yoshveen oo-veyn mesubeen,
ha-laila hazeh, coolanoo mesubeen? 
On all other nights we eat sitting or reclining. 
Tonight, all of us recline?
 

.עֲבָדִים הָיִינוּ — עַתָּה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין
Avadim hayinu — atah beney chorin.
Once we were slaves — now we are free.

Once we were slaves to Pharaoh in Mitzrayim, but Hashem took us out from there with a strong hand and an outstretched arm. If the Holy One had not taken our ancestors out from Mitzrayim, we and our children and our children’s children would still be enslaved there. Even if all of us were wise, understanding elders, knowledgeable about the Torah, it would still be our duty to tell the Exodus story. Anyone who adds to the telling of the Exodus story is praiseworthy.

“Once we were slaves to Pharaoh in Mitzrayim, but Hashem took us out from there with a strong hand and with an outstretched arm.

A strong hand, what does this mean? Through justice our hands are strengthened. 
"I, Hashem, have called you in justice, and strengthened your hand. I have sustained you and made you a covenant as a people to be a light for the nations—to open blind eyes, to bring prisoners out of jail, and those who dwell in darkness out of prison." (Isaiah 42:6-7)

An outstretched arm, what does this mean? With a mighty arm those sentenced to death are redeemed.
"Let prisoners’ cries reach you. With your great arm, save those who are condemned to death." (Psalm 79:11)

What does the ‘perfect’ child ask?
What are the rules and how can I follow them?
This child needs love. They are living with fear. 
Fear that they will be beaten again. Fear that they will go to bed hungry. Fear that they will never be good enough. Fear that they will not be able to provide for their family. Fear that if their parents find out they’re gay, they will be out on the street. Fear that they will bring their family shame. Fear that they will be abandoned.
Tell them I love you. 

What does the ‘problem’ child ask?
What do these rules mean to you? (To you, and not to them.) 
This child needs love. They are living with anger. 
Anger that the rules are so arbitrary. Anger that well-intentioned white teachers humiliate them in class. Anger that their classmates make fun of their worn-out clothing. Anger that they are powerless to stop him from hurting her. Anger that the police took him away, but left her hurt. Anger that no one understands.
Tell them I love you.

What does the ‘special’ child ask?
What’s this?
This child needs love. They are living with shame.
Shame that they can’t be normal. Shame that they have needs. Shame that their father is in prison. Shame that they are failing their classes. Shame that they need help. Shame that he touches them. Shame that they can’t tell anyone. Shame that they want to die, and surely that’s a sin. 
Tell them I love you. 

What should we say to the silent child?
This child needs love. Tell them I love you. 

My skin is black
My arms are long
My hair is woolly
My back is strong
Strong enough to take the pain
Inflicted again and again
What do they call me?
My name is Aunt Sarah

My skin is yellow
My hair is long
Between two worlds
I do belong
But my father was rich and white
He forced my mother late one night
And what do they call me?
My name is Saffronia
 

My skin is tan
My hair is fine
My hips invite you
My mouth like wine
Whose little girl am I?
Anyone who has money to buy
What do they call me?
My name is Sweet Thing

My skin is brown
My manner is tough
I'll kill the first mother I see!
My life has been rough
I'm awfully bitter these days
Because my parents were slaves
What do they call me?
My name is Peaches!

Throughout the Exodus narrative, we encounter the expression “hardened heart” over and over again. Three Hebrew verbs are used in this expression nearly interchangeably: lechazek, to strengthen, is used 12 times, lichvod, to burden/weigh down, is used 6 times, and likshot, to be difficult, is used once. The expression is used in eight different ways: Pharaoh’s heart was hardened (5 times), Pharaoh hardened his heart (3 times), the Egyptians hardened their hearts (once), Hashem hardened Pharaoh’s heart (5 times), Hashem says he will harden Pharaoh’s heart (3 times), Hashem says she will harden the Egyptians’ hearts (once), Hashem says they have hardened the Egyptians’ hearts (once), and Hashem says that Pharaoh’s heart is hardened (once). 

Through these subtle shifts between past, present and future tense, passive and active voice, narration and prophecy, the Torah presents us with a complicated and somewhat troubling explanation of the Egyptians’ behavior. In some places, we’re told Pharaoh and the Egyptians hardened their own hearts. In others, we’re told Hashem has hardened them. Other times, we aren’t told who’s doing the hardening at all.

This seems to challenge the doctrine of free will. In some verses, it almost seems like Pharaoh and the Egyptians are being used as puppets in a divine play. Hashem tells Moses, “I have hardened his heart in order to put these signs of mine in his midst, so into the ears of your children and your children’s children you may tell the story of how I made a mockery of the Egyptians... and you will know that I am God.” (Exodus 10:1-2) Another verse provides a puzzling clue. Hashem tells Moses to tell Pharaoh, “I am sending all of my plagues into your heart.” (Exodus 9:14) 

What can we learn from the story? 
What does it mean to have a hardened heart? 
Do we harden our own hearts, or do others? Or do our hearts harden themselves? 
To what extent do we control our behavior? 
Did Hashem really take the Egyptians’ free will away? 
If so, why? 
 

Pesach is a joyful holiday for the Jewish people, a time to recount the many miracles that set us free. But even as we celebrate, we acknowledge that countless Egyptians had to die in order for B’ney Yisra’el to be liberated. A well-known midrash (traditional story that fills in the gaps of the Tanach) tells that as the Red Sea crashed over the Egyptians, the angels started joyfully singing. Hashem rebuked them: “My creations are drowning, and you are singing before me?” 

In a ritual similar to ‘pouring one out’ to commemorate friends who’ve passed away, we traditionally spill a little wine from our glasses as each plague is read, to diminish from our joy. This reminds us that we can celebrate victory, even violent victory, over our oppressors and mourn the loss of human life at the same time. 

דָם
dahm — blood

צְפַרְדֵעַ
tz’fardeya — frogs

כִּנִים
keeneem — lice

עָרוֹב    
arov — beasts

דֶבֶר
dever — pestilence

שְׁחִין
sh’cheen — boils

בָּרָד
barad — hail
  
אַרְבֶּה
arbeh — locusts

חשֶׁךְ
choshech — darkness

מַכַּת בְּכוֹרוֹת
makat bechorot  
slaying of the firstborn

This year, many of us will have a more personal relationship with the ten plagues than ever before. For many, the concept of a “plague” was fairly abstract before the pandemic. It’s easy enough to conjure up images of corpses piling up during the Black Death, with plague doctors wearing those sick bird masks, but before COVID struck, most Americans struggled to imagine what living in plague times would really be like.

One group of people who did not have to imagine what a plague would be like was the community of gay and trans people who lived through the AIDS crisis. This new and unknown disease decimated the US population of queer people, claiming over 300,000 lives and infecting one in every nine gay men. Because the people getting infected were primarily queers and drug users, Christians and conservatives considered HIV to be a divine punishment for moral failings, going so far as to label it “the gay plague” and refusing to use government resources to find a cure. Consequently, the United States did next to nothing to curb this public health crisis.

Someone said he asked for it.
Asked for it—
when all he did was go down

into the salt tide
of wanting as much as he wanted

                           — Mark Doty, from “Tiara”

To this day, the World Health Organization considers AIDS to be a global pandemic. Fortunately, treatments have been developed that allow HIV+ people to live relatively normal lives, but due to grossly inadequate healthcare, many Americans can’t afford these lifesaving drugs, and despite decades of tireless activism, much of the stigma around AIDS remains. In the majority of US states, sexual transmission of HIV is a crime. Hundreds of queer people have been successfully prosecuted and incarcerated for knowingly or unknowingly infecting sexual partners with the AIDS virus. HIV transmission laws are a prime example of the state’s criminalization of health and illness. 

During COVID, our bodies have been moralized, pathologized, and criminalized in unprecedented ways. Potential COVID-spreading behavior like hosting gatherings and shirking shelter-in-place orders have been made punishable by fines and jail time. Instead of being treated with leniency and compassion, housing insecure people have been met with increasingly draconian laws and unprecedented shows of force in a misguided attempt to slow COVID’s transmission. Police have used pandemic regulations as a pretext for racist harassment and violence.

Worst of all, the US government has allowed COVID to run rampant through jails, prisons, and concentration camps. One in five American prisoners has tested positive for coronavirus. In some states, upwards of 50% of incarcerated people have contracted COVID. Facilities are woefully unprepared to handle the virus, with most lacking even the most basic necessities, such as soap and facemasks. At least 2500 prisoners have died of COVID. Because of massive overcrowding, social distancing is virtually impossible in ICE detention centers. It is not known how many ICE detainees have contracted COVID, because a mere 17% of those who report symptoms have been tested. 

Jewish activists have reminded the world that one of the Holocaust’s most famous victims, Anne Frank, did not die from the gas chambers at Bergen-Belsen, but from an outbreak of typhus that spread rapidly due to the camp’s overcrowded and unsanitary conditions. When an epidemic of typhus spread through the Warsaw Ghetto, the Nazis did little to slow its spread, so the Jews took matters into their own hands. Despite cramped conditions and a starvation diet of 200 calories per day, the Jews organized highly effective autonomous public health campaigns, including courses on public hygiene attended by 900 people at a time, large-scale sanitization efforts, and an underground school that secretly trained medical students and conducted research on the epidemic. Through these mutual aid efforts the Jews of Warsaw were able to bring the typhus outbreak to a stop. 

As this current plague unfolds, let us learn from history. Casting moral judgment on those who spread the virus due to their living situation is unhelpful carceral thinking. We need to fight the criminalization of disease and work to free everyone we can from prisons and detention centers. Through mutual aid, we can bring COVID to a halt. 
 

.אִלוּ הוֹצִיאָנוּ מִמִצְרָיִם, דַיֵנוּ
.אִלוּ נָתַן לָנוּ אֶת הַשָׁבָּת, דַיֵנוּ
.אִלוּ נָתַן לָנוּ אֶת הַתּוֹרָה, דַיֵנוּ
Eelu hotzi’anoo mi-Mitzrayim, dayenu.
Eelu natan lanu et ha-Shabbat, dayenu.
Eelu natan lanu et ha-Torah, dayenu.
If we’d been brought out of Mitzrayim, it would have been enough.
If we’d been given Shabbat, it would have been enough.
If we’d been given the Torah, it would have been enough.
 

If we supported Black Lives Matter,
but didn’t show up to actions — lo dayenu.  
It would not have been enough.

If we came to actions whenever we could,
but didn’t give money to bail funds — lo dayenu.  

If we donated to bail funds when we had the money,
but didn’t make reparations — lo dayenu.

If we gave reparations to Black people,
but didn’t listen to their voices — lo dayenu.

If we truly heard them when they spoke,
but failed to recognize Black people aren’t a monolith — lo dayenu.

If we realized the diversity of Black people and their experiences,
but didn’t practice radical empathy with them — lo dayenu. 

If we radically empathized with everyone oppressed by white supremacy,
but failed to reflect on our role within that system — lo dayenu. 

If we understood our place in white supremacist culture,
but didn’t work to oppose it — lo dayenu. 

If we tried to dismantle white supremacy,
but couldn’t shake the idea that police are necessary — lo dayenu.

If we saw police as an unnecessary evil,
but didn’t call to defund them — lo dayenu.

If we advocated for defunding the police,
but didn’t believe police abolition was possible — lo dayenu.

If we accepted the possibility of police abolition,
but failed to consider that prisons can be abolished too — lo dayenu.

If we came to see prison abolition as a real possibility,
but couldn’t picture what it might look like — lo dayenu.

If we started imagining a world without prisons,
but couldn’t overcome our need for punishment — lo dayenu. 

If we let go of the idea that wrongdoers must be punished,
but didn’t challenge our own carceral thinking — lo dayenu.

If we unlearned our carceral thought patterns,
but didn’t learn about transformative justice — lo dayenu.

If we opened our minds to a justice that heals instead of punishes,
but didn’t take accountability for our own actions — lo dayenu.

If we held ourselves accountable,
but didn’t practice self-compassion — lo dayenu.

If we showed compassion to ourselves and all others,
but didn’t love each other with all of our hearts, 
and all of our spirits,
and all of our selves — lo dayenu.
It would not have been enough. 

בְּכָל־דוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ
:כְּאִלוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִצְרַיִם
Be-chol dor va-dor chaiyav adam leerot et atzmo
ke-eeloo hoo yatza mee-Mitzrayim
In every generation, we must see ourselves
as if we personally left Mitzrayim.
 

The Hebrew name for Egypt, Mitzrayim, literally means “the narrow place.” Within oppression, our choices seem few and our hopes seem slim, and our narrow minds fail to see any way out. Hagar, Abraham’s Egyptian slave whose mistreatment foreshadows B’ney Yisrael’s oppression in Mitzrayim, was cast out into the desert with her son. Dying of thirst, Hagar cried out in despair. An angel appeared, and “opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water.” (Genesis 21:19) May our eyes also be opened, to see a way out of the narrow place into the wide expanse of possibility. 
What would it mean to be free?

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, גָאַל יִשְׂרָאֵל
Baruch atah Adonai, ga’al Yisra’el.
Blessed are you, who redeems the Jewish people.

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam, borey p’ree ha-gafen.
Blessed are you, who creates the fruit of the vine.
 

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free
I wish I could break all the chains holding me
I wish I could say all the things that I should say
Say 'em loud, say 'em clear, for the whole round world to hear

I wish I could share all the love that’s in my heart
Remove all the bars that keep us apart
I wish you could know what it means to be me
Then you’d see and agree that every man should be free

I wish I could give all I’m longing to give
I wish I could live like I’m longing to live
I wish that I could do all the things that I can do
Though I’m way overdue, I’d be starting anew

For the second time tonight, we wash our hands. The first time was a silent ritual, but now in anticipation of eating matzah, we add a blessing thanking Hashem for sanctifying us through mitzvot, commandments from the Torah. In Judaism, holiness isn’t something reserved for a select few, it isn’t something specific to synagogues or pilgrimage sites, and it isn’t something passively bestowed upon us. Holiness is a perpetual, active practice that anyone can access anywhere, at any time. Everyday acts like eating food and washing our hands become acts of holiness when we practice gratitude. 

The first time Hashem appears to Moses, it is in the form of a burning bush. Hashem calls Moses’ name, and like Abraham before him, Moses responds, “hinneni,” here I am. This single word reveals the depth of his presentness, the extent of his curiosity, and his willingness to listen. After calling Moses, the very first thing Hashem says is “take your shoes off your feet, because the place where you stand is holy ground.” (Exodus 3:5) There is nothing in the text to indicate that this place was holy because of anything that happened there in the past, so it stands to reason that it was that very encounter that brought holiness to that space. By removing his sandals, Moses physically prepares his body to make room for holiness. By washing our hands, we invite holiness into our lives too. 

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם,
.אֲשֶׁר קִדְשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָנוּ עַל נְטִילַת יָדַיִם
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam,
asher kid’shanu be-mitzvotav, ve-tzivanu al netilat yadayim.
Blessed are you, who makes us holy with your mitzvot, 
and commands us to wash our hands.
 

Rabban Gamliel used to say, “anyone who has not spoken of these three things on Pesach has not fulfilled his obligation: the Paschal sacrifice, matzah, and maror.”

The Paschal sacrifice our ancestors used to eat when the Temple stood, what was its significance? It commemorated the Holy One passing over the homes of B’ney Yisra’el on the night the firstborn Egyptians were slain. 

(Point to the matzah.)

This matzah that we are eating, what is its significance? It commem- orates our ancestors’ dough not having time to rise before they had to leave Mitzrayim when the Holy One redeemed them. 

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם הַמוֹצִיא לֶחֶם מִן הָאָרֶץ
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam, ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz.
Blessed are you, who creates bread from the land.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
.אֲשֶׁר קִדְשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָנוּ עַל אֲכִילַת מַצָה
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam, 
asher kid’shanu be-mitzvotav, ve-tzivanu al achilat matzah. 
Blessed are you, who makes us holy with your mitzvot, 
and commands us to eat matzah.
 

This maror that we are eating, what is its significance? It commemorates the Egyptians embittering the lives of our ancestors in Mitzrayim. 

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
 .אֲשֶׁר קִדְשָנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָנוּ עַל אֲכִילַת מָרוֹר
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam,
asher kidshanu be-mitzvotav vetzivanu al achilat maror. 
Blessed are you, who makes us holy with your mitzvot, 
and commands us to eat maror.
 

Let us remember the wisdom of Hillel the Elder, the Mishnaic sage whose kinder, more lenient understanding of the Torah has shaped Jewish law for centuries. Here are a few of his sayings:

In a place without humanity, strive to be human. 
Do not separate yourself from the community.
Do not judge your friend until you have arrived at their place. 
If I am not for myself, who is for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?
 

Kabbalah, the mystical core of Jewish theology, teaches that before the world was created, there was an infinite expanse of divine light. In order to make room for the physical world, Hashem had to contract their infinity and pour their light into divine vessels. But the finite vessels could not hold the infinite light, so they shattered, leaving countless sparks, shards of the divine scattered across the world. Humanity was put on earth to find these sparks of light and put them back together, in a process called tikkun olam, the reparation of the world. 

Tikkun olam means pursuing justice, fixing what is broken, making ourselves and the world around us whole again. The Lubavitcher Rebbe once said, “If you see what needs to be repaired and how to repair it, then you have found a piece of the world that has been left for you to complete. But if you only see what is wrong and how ugly it is, then it is you yourself that needs repair.” Without a vision of what a world without prisons might look like, without a plan to overthrow the police, all we can learn from the carceral state is despair. If we cannot yet imagine a better world and how to go about building it, we need to prioritize our own healing and growth. Before we can liberate each other from this broken world, we must liberate ourselves from hopelessness.
 

Forget your perfect offering!
Just ring the bells that still can ring.
There is a crack in everything,
that’s how the light gets in.
 

.שִׁיר הַמַעֲלוֹת: בְּשׁוּב יי אֶת־שִׁיבַת צִיוֹן הָיִינוּ כְּחֹלְמִים
 .אָז יִמָלֵא שְׂחֹק פִּינוּ וּלְשׁוֹנֵנוּ רִנָה
.אָז יֹאמְרוּ בַגוֹיִם הִגְדִיל יי לַעֲשׂוֹת עִם־אֵלֶה
.הִגְדִיל יי לַעֲשׂוֹת עִמָנוּ הָיִינוּ שְׂמֵחִים
.שׁוּבָה יי אֶת־שְׁבִיתֵנוּ כַּאֲפִיקִים בַּנֶגֶב
.הַזֹרְעִים בְּדִמְעָה בְּרִנָה יִקְצֹרוּ
.הָלוֹךְ יֵלֵךְ וּבָכֹה נֹשֵׂא מֶשֶׁךְ־הַזָרַע בֹּא־יָבֹא בְרִנָה נֹשֵׂא אֲלֻמֹתָיו

Shir ha-ma’alot: be-shoov Adonai et shivat tziyon hayeenu ke-cholmim. 
Az yemaley s’choak feenu ool’shoneynu reena. 
Az yom’ru ba-goyim heegdeel Adonai la-asot eem eleh.
Heegdeel Adonai la-asot eemanu, hayinu semeychim. 
Shoovah Adonai et-shivateynu ka-afeekeem ba-negev. 
Ha-zoreem be-deemah be-reenah yeekzoru. Haloch yelech oo-vocha 
nosey meshech ha-zarah. Bo yavo ba-rina nosey aloomotav. 

Song of Ascents: When we returned to returning, we were like dreamers. Our faces were filled with laughter, our tongues with song. Even the goyim said, “They have been made great.” We had been made great, and we were happy. Return us to returning, like streams in the desert. Those who sew their tears reap joy. When we go forward and cry, we carry precious seeds with us, and we will return with song and our harvest. (Psalm 126) 

Liberation and transformation are inextricably linked. Liberation is a collective transformation, but we too need to be transformed in order for liberation to take place. Part of this transformation has to be a process of unlearning carceral logic. We are challenged to “make ourselves a new heart and a new spirit.” (Ezekiel 18:31) If overcoming our shortcomings seems insurmountable and transformation seems impossible, let us remember the wisdom of Rabbi Tarfon: “You do not need to finish the task, but neither are you free to give it up.”
What do we need to change in ourselves to become free?

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam, borey p’ree ha-gafen.
Blessed are you, who creates the fruits of the vine.
 

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.
 

Since the days of Abraham, hospitality and kindness to strangers have been paramount Jewish values. After all, as in the book of Genesis, a stranger may be an angel in disguise. We begin our telling of the Pesach story with an invitation to all who are hungry to come and eat. The pandemic has made it harder to practice this kind of hospitality. The necessity of social distancing has not only made inviting the needy into our homes risky and logistically difficult, but it has fanned the flames of fear and suspicion and caused many to perceive homeless people as a potential ‘threat.’  This fear has made the already precarious lives of housing insecure people even more dangerous, and has been used by cities as a pretext to evict squatters, demolish homeless encampments, and send the vulnerable to prison rather than giving them a place to live.

Jews traditionally believe that the prophet Elijah will return to earth to announce the arrival of the Moshiach, the Messiah, and herald the world to come. According to Jewish legend, Elijah has already returned and he walks among us, disguising himself as a poor beggar, wandering the earth, waiting for someone to treat him with kindness instead of fear or contempt and invite him into their home so he may tell them the Moshiach is coming. This implies that the world to come, a world without police or prisons, is always possible, and all we need to do is recognize the opportunity to bring it about. The opportunity to spark the revolution is always within grasp, hidden in plain sight. 
 

There is a secret agreement between past generations and the present one. Our coming was expected on earth. Like every generation that preceded us, we have been endowed with a weak messianic power. The myth of progress has made the working class forget both its righteous anger and its spirit of sacrifice, for both are nourished by the image of enslaved ancestors rather than by the ideal of liberated grandchildren. 
The Jews were prohibited from inquiring into the future; the Torah and the prayers instruct us in remembrance. This does not imply that for the Jews the future became homogeneous, empty time. For, each second is the small gateway in time through which the Messiah might enter. There is no moment that doesn’t carry revolutionary opportunity.
 

On the second night of Passover, Jews begin a practice called counting the Omer, which enumerates the 49 days between the beginning of  Pesach and Shavu’ot. Along with Pesach and Sukkot, Shavu’ot is one of the Jewish calendar’s three major agricultural festivals. Just as the first day of Passover marks the day B’ney Yisra’el left Mitzrayim, Shavu’ot commemorates the day the Jewish people received the Torah at Mount Sinai. 

The counting of the Omer is not just the act of watching time tick by. It is more than the rote calculation of days. In many ways, the antithesis of counting the Omer is a prisoner scratching tallies on their cell walls to keep track of the “empty, homogenous time” they are forced to spend behind bars. The seven weeks leading up to Shavu’ot are filled with eager antici- pation of the ‘re-giving’ and renewal of the Torah. Counting the Omer is an act of spiritual preparation. As Moses said, “Teach us to number our days, so we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12) Let us unlearn the capitalist’s carceral idea of time as a homogenous void. Let us open our eyes and see the revolutionary potential of each moment. 

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
:אֲשֶׁר קִדְשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָנוּ עַל סְפִירַת הָעֹמֶר
Baruch atah Adonai eloheynu melech ha-olam, 
asher kidshanu be-mitzvotav ve-tzivanu al sefirat ha-omer.
Blessed are you, who makes us holy with your mitzvot, 
and commands us to count the Omer.

Today is the __ day of the Omer.
 

At the beginning of the Exodus, four promises were made to B’ney Yisra’el: they would be taken out of slavery, given freedom, redeemed, and made a people. The last promise only came true after the first three were fulfilled. B’ney Yisra’el had to be liberated before they could reach Sinai and become the Jewish people. Barring divine intervention, it is impossible for abolition, liberation, or transformation to take place with- out a community to take root in. If we want to be delivered from slavery, we must free each other. No one will save us. When B’ney Yisrael was trapped between the Red Sea and Pharaoh’s army, Moses cried to Hashem for help. Instead of splitting the sea, Hashem simply responded, “Why do you cry out to me? Tell them to move forward.” (Exodus 14:15) The sea couldn’t part until someone took the first step.
How do we transform a community?

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן
Baruch atah Adonai, eloheynu melech ha-olam, borey p’ree ha-gafen.
Blessed are you, who creates the fruits of the vine.
 

The traditional haggadah does not conclude with a dramatic crescendo or a grand statement. It ends with a short acknowledgement that the seder has been completed properly. However, there is a line hidden in this passage with profound implications: “As we have been deemed worthy to prepare this seder, so may we be worthy to fulfill it.” If the seder is a reenactment of the Exodus, then its fulfillment is a new journey out of oppression. May reliving our journey from slavery in Mitzrayim give us the strength to end slavery today.  

!לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין
L’shana haba b’ney choreen!
Next year in freedom!