The seder officially begins with a physical act: lighting the candles.  In Jewish tradition, lighting candles and saying a blessing over them marks a time of transition, from the day that is ending to the one that is beginning, from ordinary time to sacred time.  Lighting the candles is an important part of our Passover celebration because their flickering light reminds us of the importance of keeping the fragile flame of freedom alive in the world.

Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha'olam asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav, v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Yom Tov.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has sanctified us with laws and commanded us to light the festival lights.

As we light the festival candles, we acknowledge that as they brighten our Passover table, good thoughts, good words, and good deeds brighten our days.

Pesach is a time of inclusion.

On seder night, there are two moments where we metaphorically open our doors and invite others in. One is at the opening of the Magid portion of the seder, when we say, “All who are hungry come and eat.” There is a beautiful message here: we were once slaves; poor and hungry, and we remember our redemption by sharing what we have with others.

The other, comes towards the end of the seder, when we have the custom of pouring a fifth cup of wine, which we claim is for Elijah the Prophet. This is a statement of faith, a statement that says that although we are a free people, our redemption is not yet complete, and we believe that it will come.

From the most downtrodden to the most celebrated, the message is clear: everyone is welcome and everyone is necessary. Why is it that we go out of our way to include all at our seder table? Perhaps it is because when we make room for others, we have the opportunity to make room for ourselves as well. In fact, the Mishnah (Pesahim 10:5) teaches us that:

בכל דור ודור חייב אדם לראות את עצמו כאילו הוא יצא ממצרים In every generation a person is obligated to see themselves as if they left Egypt

The seder presents us with the obligation of identifying with the generation that left Egypt and internalizing that experience. And through that internalization, we come to feel the redemption as if it was our own as well to - לראות את עצמו. Further, the reliving of the story of the Exodus affords us the opportunity see one’s true self. It is only when we are able to see ourselves clearly, that we are able to be redeemed. But perhaps the only way we are able to see ourselves, is when we are truly able to see those around us. This message of inclusion is Pardes’s message too, and our hope is that this Haggadah Companion which offers something for everyone, will add new meaning to your seder and help bring the Jewish people a little closer together.

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 the 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. 

The Seder Plate

We place a Seder Plate at our table as a reminder to discuss certain aspects of the Passover story. Each item has its own significance.

Maror – The bitter herb. This symbolizes the harshness of lives of the Jews in Egypt.

Charoset – A delicious mix of sweet wine, apples, cinnamon and nuts that resembles the mortar used as bricks of the many buildings the Jewish slaves built in Egypt

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

Zeroah – A roasted lamb or shank bone symbolizing the sacrifice made at the great temple on Passover (The Paschal Lamb)

Beitzah – The egg symbolizes a different holiday offering that was brought to the temple. Since eggs are the first item offered to a mourner after a funeral, some say it also evokes a sense of mourning for the destruction of the temple.

Orange - The orange on the seder plate has come to symbolize full inclusion in modern day Judaism: not only for women, but also for people with disabilities, intermarried couples, and the LGBT Community.

Matzah

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

The fifth ceremonial cup of wine poured during the Seder. It is left untouched in honor of Elijah, who, according to tradition, will arrive one day as an unknown guest to herald the advent of the Messiah. During the Seder dinner, biblical verses are read while the door is briefly opened to welcome Elijah. In this way the Seder dinner not only commemorates the historical redemption from Egyptian bondage of the Jewish people but also calls to mind their future redemption when Elijah and the Messiah shall appear.

Miriam’s Cup

Another relatively new Passover tradition is that of Miriam’s cup. The cup is filled with water and placed next to Elijah’s cup. Miriam was the sister of Moses and a prophetess in her own right. After the exodus when the Israelites are wandering through the desert, just as Hashem gave them Manna to eat, legend says that a well of water followed Miriam and it was called ‘Miriam’s Well’. The tradition of Miriam’s cup is meant to honor Miriam’s role in the story of the Jewish people and the spirit of all women, who nurture their families just as Miriam helped sustain the Israelites.

The seder plate holds the main symbols of a traditional Passover seder-- the shank bone, egg, karpas, charoset, and maror. The Kabbalists of the Middle Ages added hazeret, another kind of bitter lettuce. And in recent years feminists have added an orange on the seder plate to symbolize women's leadership roles and full empowerment in Jewish life.

The artichoke however is a new development. What is an artichoke? Surely a work of God's imagination! Many petals, with thistle and a heart. To me this has come to represent the Jewish people.

We are first of all, very diverse in our petals. We call people Jews who are everything from very traditional Orthodox Hassidim, to very liberal secular. We are Reform, Reconstructionist, Orthodox, traditional, Modern Orthodox, Conservative, Renewal, and, of course, post-denominational. We are social justice activists and soldiers; we are Israelis and Jews of the Diaspora. We are young, old, single, married. Many are vegetarian, while others swear by Hebrew National. Our skin can be white as Scandinavian, dark black as Ethiopian, and we now welcome many Chinese and Latin American adoptees. Lately we add another category, that of interfaith.

Like the artichoke, which has thistles protecting its heart, the Jewish people 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. Let the thistles protecting our hearts soften so that we may notice the petals around us.

EVERY JEWISH FAMILY produces a unique version of the Passover seder—the big ritual meal of traditional foods, served after and amid liturgy, storytelling, and song. We’re all surprised at each other’s customs: You eat lamb? You don’t sing “Chad Gad Ya”? And yet, virtually every seder does share a few common elements. Matzoh crumbs all over the floor. Wine stains on the tablecloth. A seder plate containing the traditional symbols of the holiday: a roasted shank bone and hardboiled egg, recalling the days of the Temple sacrifices; horseradish and salt water for the bitterness of oppression; parsley for spring; haroset, a mixture of wine, nuts, and fruit symbolizing mortar and the heavy labor performed by the Israelite slaves. And for lots of us, an orange. The ancient Hebrews who fled into the wilderness didn’t know from citrus fruit, and there certainly weren’t any Valencias on Grandma’s seder plate. Starting in the 1980s, the new holiday symbol has been showing up on an ever-increasing number of Passover tables. The custom originated with the teacher and writer Susannah Heschel, who first set it out as a symbol of inclusion for lesbian and gay Jews, and in following years for all those who have been marginalized in the Jewish community. Thanks largely to the Internet, Jewish women adopted the fruit as a symbol of their inclusion, and now there are oranges on seder plates all over the world, as well as alternative stories about how they got there in the first place. Regardless of its genesis, that orange now makes several subtle spiritual and political statements. For one thing, it represents the creative piety of liberal Jews, who honor tradition by adding new elements to the old. The orange also announces that those on the margins have fully arrived as coauthors of Jewish history, as does the presence of another new ritual item, the Miriam’s Cup, which acknowledges the role of Moses’ sister, the singer-songwriter-prophet, in the story. The orange is a living part of the ancient pedagogic strategy of Passover. We are commanded to teach our children about the Exodus from Egypt in a manner so vivid that everyone at the table—but especially the kids—remembers (not merely imagines but actually remembers) what it feels like to be a hungry, hunted slave. The seder makes memory manifest, tangible, and solid as Grandpa’s kiddush cup. Just like the shank bone, the orange is there so that someone under the age of thirteen will ask, “What’s that thing doing on the seder plate?” The orange is there so that Mom or Dad can say, “I’m so glad you asked that question. The orange is a symbol of the struggle by Jews who used to be ignored by our tradition—like gays and lesbians, and women, and Jews by choice—to become full partners in religious and community life. The orange is a sign of change, too, because now all kinds of Jews are rabbis and cantors and teachers and leaders. And the orange is a mark of our confidence in the Jewish future, which means that someday maybe you too will bring something new to the seder plate.” The orange on the seder plate is both a playful and a reverent symbol of Judaism’s ability to adapt and thrive. It also celebrates the abundant diversity of creation. After all, God, who made the heavens and the earth, and dinosaurs and lemurs and human beings, is clearly a lover of variety and change—not to mention oranges.

All Jewish celebrations, from holidays to weddings, include wine as a symbol of our joy – not to mention a practical way to increase that joy. The seder starts with wine and then gives us three more opportunities to refill our cup and drink.

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.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything, who chose us from all peoples and languages, and sanctified us with commandments, and lovingly gave to us special times for happiness, holidays and this time of celebrating the Holiday of Matzah, the time of liberation, reading our sacred stories, and remembering the Exodus from Egypt. For you chose us and sanctified us among all peoples. And you have given us joyful holidays. We praise God, who sanctifies the people of Israel and the holidays.

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.

We praise God, Ruler of Everything,
who has kept us alive, raised us up, and brought us to this happy moment.

Drink the first glass of wine!

Tonight we drink four cups of wine. Why four? Some say the cups represent our matriarchs—Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah—whose virtue caused God to liberate us from slavery.

Another interpretation is that the cups represent the Four Worlds: physicality, emotions, thought, and essence.

Still a third interpretation is that the cups represent the four promises of liberation God makes in the Torah: I will bring you out, I will deliver you, I will redeem you, I will take you to be my people (Exodus 6:6-7.) The four promises, in turn, have been interpreted as four stages on the path of liberation: becoming aware of oppression, opposing oppression, imagining alternatives, and accepting responsibility to act.

The Four Freedoms were goals articulated by United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt on January 6, 1941. In an address known as the Four Freedoms speech, he proposed four fundamental freedoms that people "everywhere in the world" ought to enjoy: Freedom of Speech- The right to say and stand up for what you believe in. Freedom of Worship- "Freedom of everyone to be able to worship god in their own way."Freedom of Want- Being able to have basic necessities such as clothing, food, and shelter.Freedom from Fear- Neighbors get along with each other and people were not constantly in fear for their well-being.

Questions to ponder: Do you see any problems in each freedom? Do you feel we live in a world where we are experiencing each freedom? What would your personal four freedom be?

The four cups of wine are traditionally linked to the four promises God made to the children of Israel:

As it is written: "I will bring you out from under the burdens of Egypt. I will deliver you from bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and great judgements. I will take you to be my people and I will be your God" (Exodus 6: 6-7).

Tonight we dedicate the four cups of wine to important or inspirational women in our lives- individually or as a community- who have worked towards redemption and freedom in their own ways. Please take a minute to think about who you would like to dedicate the first cup to.

Traditional Masculine Blessing

Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech ha'olam borei p'ri hagafen.

Traditional Feminine Blessing

B'rucha At Yah Eloheinu Ruach ha'olam boreit p'ri hagafen.

You are blessed, Our God, Spirit of the World, who creates the fruit of the vine.

Non-gendered Blessing

The following alternative kiddush was written by Marcia Falk, a prominent Jewish feminist liturgist. Her blessings avoid the problem of God’s gender because they do not reference God as a person-like being. In addition, they locate the power of blessing with the people ("Let us bless" rather than with God’s inherent blessedness ("Blessed are you")

N’vareykh et Eyn Hahayim matzmihat p’ri hagefen.

Let us bless the Source of Life that ripens the fruit on the vine.

Some of this clip originally appeared on Ritualwell.org.

The beginning of the seder seems strange. We start with kiddush as we normally would when we begin any festive meal. Then we wash, but without a blessing, and break bread without eating it.

What’s going on here?

It seems that the beginning of the seder is kind of a false start. We act as if we are going to begin the meal but then we realize that we can’t – we can’t really eat this meal until we understand it, until we tell the story of the exodus from Egypt. So we interrupt our meal preparations with maggid (telling the story). Only once we have told the story do we make kiddush again, wash our hands again (this time with a blessing) and break bread and eat it! In order to savor this meal, in order to appreciate the sweet taste of Passover, we must first understand it.

Urchatz

In washing our hands,
we also think of those who don't get to share
in the basic human right of abundant, clean water

of people deprived of water
by the weather
in Somalia, in India,

and those deprived of water
by human action
in places like First Nations communities in Ontario and Canada, and Flint, Michigan

We wash our hands
and accept our responsibilities
to those threatened
by the presence and absence of water

and commit to urging those
with the human power to change things and to stop
washing their hands
of what the world needs them to correct.

Together as we wash our hands, they move into the bowl of water, and back out of the water. Why do we do this? Are our hands really getting clean without soap? We won’t be eating for some time, why do we do this so early?

The washing of our hands suggests that we are open to question. One question that is always asked is about hope.

Rick Recht answers in his song:

This is the hope that holds us together, Hatikvah, the hope that will last forever, the hope is still real.

From the Diaspora, to the exodus, to the holocaust, to war, to independence, to more wars, to threats, bombing, and peace, Israelis never give up hope. We are strong people because we have hope. And the hope holds us together. That’s why the Israeli National Anthem is Hatikvah, because that means hope.

By Ronnie M. Horn 

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.

And why do we dip karpas into salt water?

To remember the sweat and tears of our ancestors in bondage.

To taste the bitter tears of our earth, unable to fully renew itself this spring because of our waste, neglect and greed.

To feel the sting of society's refusal to celebrate the blossoming of women's bodies and the full range of our capacity for love.

And why should salt water be touched by karpas?

To remind us that tears stop. Spring comes. And with it the potential for change.

Passover combines the celebration of an event from Jewish memory with a recognition of the cycles of nature. As we remember the liberation from Egypt, we also recognize the stirrings of spring and rebirth happening in the world around us. The symbols on our table bring together elements of both kinds of celebration.

We now take a vegetable, in this case parsely, to represent our joy at the dawning of spring after our long, cold winter. Whatever symbol of spring and sustenance we’re using, we now dip it into salt water, a symbol of the tears our ancestors shed as slaves. Before we eat it, we recite a short blessing:

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.

We look forward to spring and the reawakening of flowers and greenery. They haven’t been lost, just buried beneath the snow, getting ready for reappearance just when we most needed them.

We all have aspects of ourselves that sometimes get buried under the stresses of our busy lives. What has this winter taught us? What elements of our own lives do we hope to revive this spring?

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.

The top Matzoh

And bottom Matzoh are,

it is said,

Pesach substitutes

For the two loaves of challah on Shabbat,

Supposedly a reminder

Of the two portions of manna

They received  in the dessert

Every Friday before Shabbat.

 

But the middle matza?!

Ah,

That's for the seder.

We break it in half

And call it the bread of affliction,

Just like the unleavened bread

We ate as we fled slavery

 

Matza Number Two,

The afflicted matza,

We break it in half

And separate ourselves from joy

So we don't forget the pain

That has been ours.

We break it in half

And separate ourselves from the joy

So we can remember the pain

Of others.

All this pain

Lives in this first half of the afflicted matzoh

And we eat this half now,

So that we do not forget that we were slaves

So that we do not enslave others.

 

But--

We separate the second half of the afflicted matza

(The Afikomen)

From all that hurt

So that we don't forget the  joy that can follow the sorrow.

So that we don't forget the times that we changed things for the better.

And after the meal we will search for that happiness

And we will find it.

And then we eat the Afikomen together

So we don't forget that it is good to be alive

 And we are obligated to share that joy.

Blessed One-ness, we are so grateful for the obligations to remember pain and share joy.

Amen

 

When we break the Matzah in half, we are symbolizing the split of the red sea. When we break the Matzah, we symbolize the hope that we can eat. When the red sea split, it symbolized the permission; yes you may pass, after hearing the word NO NO NO. During the Seder we get bored and we ask “When can we eat” and until this breaking of the Matzah, we get told NO NO NO. It is hope that there is food, and that we have permission to eat it. 

"We are instructed in the Holiness Code to treat the strangers in our midst with justice and compassion:

"When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall do him no wrong. The stranger who sojourns with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Leviticus 19:33).

This teaching permeates Jewish tradition and is echoed 35 times in the Torah – the most repeated of any commandment. The history of the Jewish people from Egypt through the Holocaust until today reminds us of the many struggles faced by immigrants throughout the world. As a community of immigrants, we are charged to pursue justice, seek peace and build a society that is welcoming to all of God's creatures, regardless of their immigration status.

In Genesis, three strangers visit Abraham, and he welcomes them into his home and into his heart without question (Genesis 18:1-22). This virtue of hachnasat orchim, welcoming the stranger, drives both our commitment to protecting undocumented immigrants from deportation and our dedication to the hospitality and inclusion of all people."

—Excerpt from the Union for Reform Judaism's Resolution on Protecting Individuals at Risk of Deportation from the United States

The central imperative of the Seder is to tell the story. The Bible instructs: “ You shall tell your child on that day, saying: ‘This is because of what Adonai did for me when I came out of Egypt.' ” (Exodus 13:8) We relate the story of our ancestors to regain the memories as our own. Elie Weisel writes: God created man because He loves stories. We each have a story to tell — a story of enslavement, struggle, liberation. Be sure to tell your story at the Seder table, for the Passover is offered not as a one-time event, but as a model for human experience in all generations.

Written in Aramaic, "Ha lachma anya" begins the narration of the Seder by inviting the hungry to our table. Aramaic, Jewish legend has it, is the one language which the angels do not understand. Why then is Ha Lachma spoken in Aramaic? To teach us that where there is hunger, no one should rely upon the angels, no one should pray to the heavens for help. We know the language of the poor, for we were poor in the land of Egypt. We know that we are called to feed the poor and to call them to join our celebration of freedom.

(Pour the Second Cup of Wine -- there will be a blessing a little later.)

Learn the Four Questions (aka Ma Nishtana) for Passover - whether you're the youngest child yourself or you're coaching someone else. :) Watch this short video to practice saying the words and to learn all the cool ways that seder night is different. Featuring Jason Mesches.

Following the framework of the Four Questions of the Passover haggadah, we ask four alternative questions for discussion. These questions are meant to spark conversations that can happen throughout the seder.

First Question

Read this narrative aloud and then discuss the question below.

“When I found out I got into the University, I immediately called my ‘real’ mom in Afghanistan, whom I haven’t seen since I was 14. My family, which belongs to the Hazaras, lived under the constant threat of the Taliban, until, one day the latter tried to run me over with a car. My parents feared for my life, and sent me to Iran. At first I was crying all the time. It hurt too much being on my own. When things got tougher there too, I headed to Europe.

I was just 17 when I came once more close to dying, this time in my attempt to cross to Samos on a boat from Turkey, along with four more Afghans. I had never seen the sea before and although I knew how to swim, the waves terrified me. When the sea got really rough and the oars of the boat broke one after another, there was panic. I was rowing with all the strength I had in me. What kept me going was a 13-year-old boy who was constantly asking me ‘If I fall in the sea, will you save me?’ ‘As long as I am alive, you have nothing to fear’, I kept telling him. We are still good friends with this boy.

I love Thessaloniki, the town where I live now, but if I could, I would return to Afghanistan without second thoughts. My country is beautiful, there are amazing landscapes, natural resources and high mountains. The only thing missing is peace...” —Hamid, age 25, from Afghanistan, now living in Greece

Through the Passover Seder, we reconnect with our biblical journey to liberation, and, yet, we retell the story now mindful of those who are not yet free—those whose futures are, therefore, bound up in our future. We recognize, as Hamid does in this powerful narrative, that the way we live has bearing on the lives of those who are not yet free. Why do you think we retell this story each year? With an eye to the struggles of our time, whose future do you feel is bound up in yours?

Second Question

Put yourself back into the story of the Exodus: What do you remember from leaving Egypt? 

Third Question

What do you think makes some people stay and continue to experience unimaginable trauma and others flee in search of refuge and asylum? Can you understand both decisions? 

Fourth Question

Just as we open the door for Elijah, to what or to whom do you want to open the door in your own life this year? What fears do you have about doing so? 

from the HIAS Seder Supplement http://www.hias.org/passover2016-supplement

For more information about how to become part of the Jewish response to the global refugee crisis, visit hias.org/helprefugees. 

“Why on this night when we remember the oppression and resistance of Jews should we also think about the lives of people of color?” Because many Jews are people of color. Because racism is a Jewish issue. Because our liberation is connected.

White Ashkenazi Jews have a rich history but are only a part of the Jewish story. Mizrahi & Sephardi Jews; Yemeni Jews; Ethiopian Jews; Jews who trace their heritage to the Dominican Republic, to Cuba & Mexico; to Guyana & Trinidad; descendants of enslaved Africans whose ancestors converted or whose parents intermarried.

Jews of color are diverse, multihued and proud of it — proud of our Jewishness and proud of our Blackness. But though our lives are joyous and full, racism forces us down a narrow, treacherous path. On the one hand we experience the same oppression that afflicts all people of color in America — racism targets us, our family members, and our friends. On the other hand, the very community that we would turn to for belonging and solidarity — our Jewish community — often doesn’t acknowledge our experience.

Jews of color cannot choose to ignore the experiences of people of color everywhere, anymore than we would ignore our Jewishness. We must fully inhabit both communities and we need all Jews to stand with us, forcefully and actively opposing racism and police violence.

But in order to do so, we must pare our past trauma from our present truth: our history of oppression leaves many of us hyper-vigilant and overly preoccupied with safety. As Jews we share a history that is overburdened with tales of violent oppression. Though different Jewish communities have varying experiences, none of us have escaped painful legacies of persecution, including genocide. This past is real, and part of why we gather today is to remember it. But the past is past. However seductive harsh policing, surveillance and incarceration may be in the short term, it will never serve us in the end. Not when those tactics brutalize other communities, humiliating and incarcerating our neighbors and perpetuate a status quo that leaves low-income communities of color on the other side of a sea of fear — still trapped; still stranded. The only real way out of the Mitzrayim of our fears is solidarity. Only by forging deep connections and sharing struggle with other communities will we creating the lasting allies who will walk with us into the promised land of our collective liberation. That is true Jewish freedom — true and lasting safety.

They cried to Moses, “What have you done to us, taking us out of Egypt ... it is better to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness” (14:11-12).

When Moses led the Jews out of Egypt, it was a moment of great risk and great change. As the passage above shows us, though life under Pharaoh was cruel and crushing, it was also familiar — a known fear. After a century of servitude, freedom. What changed? It was the Jewish people daring to imagine for themselves something greater. Daring to take great risks and face great fears to find liberation. This willingness to stand up for justice is a strength we have found again and again. When the oppression of economic exploitation demanded it, our grandparents found it in the labor movement; when the civil rights movement demanded it, our parents travelled to the South to register voters. Now this moment demands again that we take risks for justice.

What our neighbors in communities of color are asking — what the Jews of color in our own communities need from their fellow Jews — is that we push past the comfortable and move to action. In the streets, in our synagogues and homes, with our voices, our bodies, our money and resources, with our imaginations. In doing so we must center the voices and the leadership of Jews of color and other communities of color, while forming deep partnerships and long-term commitments to fight for lasting change.

Passover is a time of remembrance but also one of renewal — of looking ahead toward the spring and new growth that will sustain us through the seasons to come. Once we spent spring in the desert. It was harsh and difficult but from that journey grew a people who have endured for centuries. What would happen if we took that journey again, not alone in the wilderness but surrounded by friends and allies, leaving no one behind? 

This is a modern interpretation of an ancient standard, which is part and parcel of the Seder: the Four Children. By reading and discussing the Four Children, and then responding to it through modern themes, we can come to an understanding of who we are and our relation to the our Children. The source of this section are four verses from the Tanakh which briefly mention children asking, or being told about, the Exodus from Egypt. Using these very general verses, the Rabbis created four prototypes which are given to show us that we must teach a child according to the child's level.

At the time the Haggadah was created, it was safe for the rabbis to assume that most Jewish adults had the knowledge available to teach their children about the Exodus. At that time, perhaps, all adults did know about the Exodus from Egypt and the Jews' struggle against Pharaoh. However, in subsequent generations, not all adults are familiar with the story told in the Haggadah, with the people of Israel, with their history. It isn't only the children that need to be taught, but their parents as well. To complicate matters, each Jew is coming from a different orientation with regard to his or her Judaism.

In today's world, Jews may identify themselves in a variety of ways. One may be ritually, culturally, or intellectually orientedor unconnected. And yet, however modified one's Judaism may be, there is still some level of concern about the Jewish people that causes Jews to at least ask the questions about the Exodus from Egypt. If they weren't interested, they wouldn't ask. We must answer them, and enable them to teach their children.

The ritual Jew asks: "What are the laws that God commanded us? " This Jew defines herself by the rituals, the laws and guidelines of Pesach. We call on her to seek the meaning that underlies all of these acts, so that they have relevance for all of us today.

The unconnected Jew asks: "What does this ritual mean to you?" This Jew feels alienated from the Jewish community and finds it difficult to identify with the rituals, perhaps because of his upbringing or experiences. Yet we recognize that he is still interested, if only because he asks these questions, and we call on him to see these rituals as a way of affirming the universal beliefs that gave rise to them.

The cultural Jew asks: "What is this all about?" She shows little concern with the ritual or psychological ramifications of the Exodus, even while embracing this reenactment of our ancestors; flight from Egypt. We call on her to recognize that it was a deep sense of faith that enabled these rituals to transcend the generations. It was belief in a vision of future freedom that caused us to celebrate our first Exodus and hear the echo of the prophets' call: "Let all people go!"

The intellectual Jew refrains from asking direct questions because he doesn't lean in any direction, preferring instead to let the text speak for itself. We call on him to understand that true freedom can only be obtained when we question authority and challenge power, even if that power be God Himself. It is our responsibility to question not only the text but the status quo too, and share this message of freedom with all people everywhere.

nstead of writing about four sons, I'd like to write about four daughters. They are not divided into the traditional categories - they are, rather, silenced, forgotten and excluded. The Book of the Generations of Adam (Genesis 5) describes the world's 10 male forebears, from Adam to Noah; but not one word is devoted to their mates, the world's mothers. The Haggadah, too, speaks of four sons without mentioning the daughters. And these are not the only examples: Jewish memory usually focuses on the history of men, while female experience is doomed to oblivion.

As a historian of silenced memories and of voices excluded from the canon, I wonder whom I should commemorate. Should it be Eve, who saw seven open heavens and the vision of a chariot: "And she gazed steadfastly into heaven, and beheld a chariot of light, borne by four bright eagles ... and angels going before the chariot" ("The First Book of Adam and Eve," Ch. 33). Or maybe it should be Emzera, Noah's wife, daughter of Barechel, whose name is not mentioned in Genesis, but appears only in the Book of Jubilees (4:33)? Or maybe her great-grandmother, Edna, daughter of Danel, wife of Hanoch son of Yered, Methuselah's mother, named in Jubilees 4:20, or Hanoch's mother, Beraka, daughter of Retsuiel (Jubilees 4:16) - the mothers of the family of man, who took part in the transition from nature to culture?

Or perhaps it should be the echoing voices of Job's daughters - Yemima, Ketziah and Keren-Happuch - whose father disinherited them but gave them "three-stringed girdles about the appearance of which no man can speak; For they were not earthly work, but celestial sparks of light flashed through them like the rays of the sun" ("The Testament of Job," translated by M. R. James, Cambridge University Press, 1897). It is said that when Yemima put on the girdle, she "sang angelic hymns in the voice of angels, and she chanted forth the angelic praise of God and the songs that she eulogized, the wind has written on her dress," and when Ketziah put it on, "her mouth assumed the dialect of the heavenly rulers and she sang the praise of the work of the High Place and if any one wishes to know the work of the heavens he may take an insight into the hymns of Ketziah."

Or should I celebrate the memory of four 20th-century female authors, who undid the generations during which women were relegated to silence and obscurity and illuminated unknown corners of men and women's physical and emotional lives? First I might mention Dvora Baron (1887-1956), who wrote wonderful stories and was the first to show that a woman could write literature in Hebrew, although no woman before her had done so, from the end of the biblical period to the early 20th century. When she began to write, she shed light on previously unseen aspects of Jewish family life in the Russian townships and described moments of human torment and grace as they had never been described before.

The second is the mystically oriented poet Yocheved Bat-Miriam (1901-1980), whose enigmatic language captured both the visible and the hidden world and whose poems contained prayers about the eyes of the spirit opening in the depths of the material world. Bat-Miriam wrote the lines that inspired my study of mystical thought regarding the unity of opposites: "And greater than visible is the invisible, and more wonderful than 'being' is the secret of infinite nothingness on high, command me, Lord, and I will see / what lies beyond the border of the eye." Her poetry fell silent after her son, Zuzik, died in the 1948 war, leaving her inconsolable.

The third is Dahlia Ravikovitch (1936-2005), who sang wonderfully from a woman's perspective of happiness in the depths of pain in the poem "Hemda," which appeared in the 1959 collection "The Love of an Orange." She dared to speak of the affront and pain felt by a girl, an outsider, who comes to live on a kibbutz, thereby shattering the idealized, unreal image of kibbutz childhood, in her 1976 book "Death in the Family."

Ravikovitch wrote penetratingly of women's unheard-of plight in her chilling poem "Hovering at a Low Altitude," challenging society for remaining silent about the anguish of raped and murdered women. Her far-reaching, probing, critical gaze and the depth of her compassionate, iconoclastic humanity found expression in her poems about the pain of Arab mothers who lost their children in the first Lebanon war: "This is the history of the child / who was killed in his mother's belly / in the month of January 1988 / for reasons of national security" ("A Mother is Walking," from the translation by Rachel Tzvia Back, published in the collection "With an Iron Pen"). In her writing about the fate of war casualties and the victims of human society, she expressed human empathy beyond all accepted boundaries.

Fourth I will mention Amalia Kahana-Carmon, who brought forth a new voice and a unique viewpoint while at the same time creating an unprecedented language in her 1966 book "Under One Roof." Thus, for example, in her story "Naima Sasson Writes Poems," written from a double perspective, of a child and of a grown up, she created a new language and paved the way for gender-focused criticism long ahead of its time.

The "four sisters" I have commemorated here were artists who sought freedom and knowledge and refused to accept the place tradition accorded them. All four broke through male-decreed conceptions of knowledge, truth, equality and justice as these relate to women's place in society, and they did so while making audible the silenced female voice that had been excluded from written memory.

By Rachel Elior

Our story starts in ancient times, with Abraham, the first person to have the idea that maybe all those little statues his contemporaries worshiped as gods were just statues. The idea of one God, invisible and all-powerful, inspired him to leave his family and begin a new people in Canaan, the land that would one day bear his grandson Jacob’s adopted name, Israel.

God had made a promise to Abraham that his family would become a great nation, but this promise came with a frightening vision of the troubles along the way: “Your descendants will dwell for a time in a land that is not their own, and they will be enslaved and afflicted for four hundred years; however, I will punish the nation that enslaved them, and afterwards they shall leave with great wealth."

Raise the glass of wine and say:

וְהִיא שֶׁעָמְדָה לַאֲבוֹתֵֽינוּ וְלָֽנוּ

V’hi she-amda l’avoteinu v’lanu.

This promise has sustained our ancestors and us.

For not only one enemy has risen against us to annihilate us, but in every generation there are those who rise against us. But God saves us from those who seek to harm us.

The glass of wine is put down.

In the years our ancestors lived in Egypt, our numbers grew, and soon the family of Jacob became the People of Israel. Pharaoh and the leaders of Egypt grew alarmed by this great nation growing within their borders, so they enslaved us. We were forced to perform hard labor, perhaps even building pyramids. The Egyptians feared that even as slaves, the Israelites might grow strong and rebel. So Pharaoh decreed that Israelite baby boys should be drowned, to prevent the Israelites from overthrowing those who had enslaved them.

But God heard the cries of the Israelites. And God brought us out of Egypt with a strong hand and outstretched arm, with great awe, miraculous signs and wonders. God brought us out not by angel or messenger, but through God’s own intervention. 

Interpretation of the first committee's design for the reverse of the Great Seal of the United States in 1776, which was never used. This was Benjamin Franklin's design, originally suggested for the obverse, but the committee chose Pierre Eugene du Simitiere's design for that side. This interpretation was made in 1856 by Benson J. Lossing. Franklin's design was: Moses standing on the Shore, and extending his Hand over the Sea, thereby causing the same to overwhelm Pharaoh who is sitting in an open Chariot, a Crown on his Head and a Sword in his Hand. Rays from a Pillar of Fire in the Clouds reaching to Moses, to express that he acts by Command of the Deity. Motto, "Rebellion to Tyrants is Obedience to God." Thomas Jefferson, a member of the committee, liked the motto enough to later use it on his personal seal.

Scanned from The Eagle and the Shield by Patterson and Dougall, page 21 Originally printed in The New Harper's Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 74, July 1856, page 180, article Great Seal of the United States by Benson J. Lossing

I knew from the very beginning that my baby brother was going to be special. We had to hide him from the crazy Egyptian soldiers who were seeking out and killing all the newborn Israelite babies due to Pharaoh’s command. Whenever they came to our house and we hid him, somehow, he knew to stay quiet. One time he farted really loud but the guard didn’t hear (or smell!) it. It was kind of a miracle now that I think about it. And also a plague... We actually didn’t even give him a name because we were so scared that he might be killed and didn’t want to become too attached.

When baby bro Moses (I like to call him “Chalupa Batman”) got so big that we couldn’t hide him anymore (it’s not like our slave accommodations were so spacious… they were more like an individual WeWork office), my mom suggested that the only way to save him was to send him down the Nile in a basket, hoping that he might find a better future downriver.

I followed Chalupa down along the banks of the river, and watched as Pharaoh’s daughter, Daenerys Targarean, pulled him out of the water and decided to keep him! She was a Mother of Hebrews, and the one who named him Moses – an Egyptian name meaning “I drew him from the water.” I’m not quite sure how I got through her personal security guard, Paul Blart, but I ran up to her and let her know that if she needed a nursemaid for the baby, that I could help find her one. And just like that, my mom became her own son’s nursemaid!

When he inevitably was weaned (Mom would’ve kept nursing til his Bar Mitzvah if she could’ve) we went back to slave life, with no real interaction with him for decades, until one day my big brother Aaron disappeared, and then we heard murmurings around town about an Egyptian man who had come out as being a Hebrew. And he was advocating for us. And bringing miracles. And that Aaron was his press secretary ... er … spokesperson. And wouldn’t you know it, but that out and proud Hebrew man was my baby brother.

Along the way he seemed to have picked up a speech impediment – hence the need for Aaron’s support – as well as a few magic tricks and a personal unbreakable relationship with a God who self-described as “I am that I am” – sounds like a kind of sweet potato if you ask me ... I Yam that I Yam … We are starving after all. Is it time for the festive meal yet?

It turned out Pharaoh was crazy stubborn! Despite some crazy plagues he just wouldn’t agree to either just let us go, or to shift to a sharing economy – he called it Democratic socialism … the fiery hail didn’t quite make him “feel the Bern.” But, in the ultimate twist of irony, his own firstborn was killed along with the firstborn children of man and beast in all of Egypt – except for ours. Schadenfreude – taking pleasure in the pain of another. A great word I learned from Avenue Kuf! Have you seen Avenue Kuf? I learned what the internet is for.

That last night in Egypt we painted our doorposts with blood, quickly shared a roasted lamb with our neighbors (how we had lamb to eat despite being slaves I’m not quite sure…), and ate bitter herbs (we had dried and packed all the delicious ones!). Because we weren’t sure if there were bathrooms in the desert where we were going, we made sure to make our bread in such a way that we’d be sure to not need to use the bathroom for at least a week – hopefully we make it to the Promised Land by then.

If you ask me, the Egyptians would’ve gotten off way easier had they had a female leader. The palace would have been more of a safe space. Pantsuits would have been introduced way earlier into historical garment records.

I should mention: while Mom was nursing Moses for Pharaoh’s daughter I got tight with two of her royal helpers from the local dance academy. They inspired me to take moments to just dance – it’ll be okay – and so one of my most noteworthy moments was leading all of our women – like a million of us! – in dancing after we passed through the Red Sea. We couldn’t do the electric slide due to being so close to water, and everyone knows that Hebrews are incapable of square dancing – no one is willing to follow instructions – so circles it was!

In the end, I’m actually described as a prophetess in the Bible – pretty sweet. I have a mystical well that follows me (and the Israelites) as we wander in the desert – you know you’re jelly. Many families put a cup on the Seder table filled with water in my honor due to my story’s close association with it. While I end up dying before both Moses and Aaron, which admittedly is a bummer, at least I had the chance to have it all, rolling in the deep.

Remember the days of old:consider the years of many generations (Deut. 32:7)

Every year, hundreds of giant sea turtles swim hundreds of miles from their homes near Brazil to a tiny island in the Atlantic Ocean in order to find their mates.  For years, scientists tried to understand how the turtles could find their way every time, from so far away. It was a tiny island, and even airplanes sometimes had trouble finding it. 

What do you think it was?? 

Once upon a time, a very, very long time ago, when the dinosaurs lived, that little island was closer to Brazil, and it used to be a short swim from where the turtles lived. It is in their memory to know where to go, even though they themselves don't remember, they have a memory together of the way that it used to be, and they heard stories from their turtle parents about that special place.

Each year, they go there together to remind themselves of the trip that their ancestors used to take.

Tonight, we are just like those turtles. 

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? 

Pharaoh and Moses Go To A Conflict Counselor

by Dave Cowen

Conflict Counselor
So what brings you two in today?

Pharaoh
Honestly, things have been pretty rough.

Conflict Counselor
Moses, would you say that’s true?

Moses
I’d say it’s been rough but it doesn’t have to be anymore.

Pharaoh
I just don’t understand, you really don’t want to be my slaves anymore?

Moses
No, we don’t.

Conflict Counselor
Pharaoh, what does it feel like to hear Moses say he and his people don’t want to be your slaves anymore?

Pharaoh
You know, it really hurts. I feel like we’ve done some beautiful things together. I mean, we couldn’t have built these pyramids if you weren’t our slaves. And those pyramids wouldn’t be a wonder of the world for years to come if it wasn’t for what we built together.

Moses
But now it’s time for us to go.

Pharaoh
But I think there’s so much more we could still be and do together. We could keep building wonders of the world. We could build a Great Wall or a Hanging Gardens. We could build a Great Library. There’s a site in Alexandria that I think would be perfect for a Great Library.

Moses
But me and my people don’t want to do those things. We want to go to our homeland of Israel

Pharaoh
Ugh. This homeland. Always with this homeland. You think life’s going to be so much better in this magical homeland? Well, I doubt it.

Moses
It’s got to be better than this.

Conflict Counselor
Moses, what happens for you when Pharaoh disregards your wish to go to Israel?

Moses
It’s more what happens to him. G-d’s going to keep plaguing him and his people.

Pharaoh
It’s the worst. First the water turned to blood. Then there were frogs and locusts. And so many other things. So many things.

Moses
And yet you keep resisting what He’s telling you, which is that our relationship is over.

Conflict Counselor
Why do you keep resisting, Pharaoh?

Pharaoh
My heart, it just feels hardened.

Conflict Counselor
Why do you think that is?

Pharaoh
Well, I think I saw Moses’s relatives Jacob and Joseph getting along so well with my Dad, the previous Pharaoh, all those years, and honestly, I feel jealous. Like, why can’t I have that with the Jews, too?

Conflict Counselor
And yet, you have the exact opposite.

Pharaoh
It’s true.

Conflict Counselor
Sometimes the best way to love someone is to let them go, Pharaoh.

Moses
This is your last chance. You saw what G-d just did to the first born.

Conflict Counselor
So what will you do, Pharaoh, will you let Moses and his people go?

Pharaoh
OK, Fine, fine, whatever, fine, OK, sure.

Conflict Counselor
That didn’t sound very sure.

Pharaoh
I’m sure. I am. I’m sure. Just go. Just go.

Conflict Counselor

And you won’t change your mind?

Pharaoh
As of this moment. As of this moment, I can promise I won’t change my mind.

Conflict Counselor
Moses, what would happen if Pharaoh changes his mind again?

Moses
I don’t know. But I don’t think he wants to find out.

Pharaoh
So this concludes our counseling?

Conflict Counselor
I guess it does. If you think this is a real sea change for you, Pharaoh. Do you agree, Pharaoh, that this a real sea change for you?

Pharaoh
I believe it is.

Conflict Counselor
Do you agree, Moses?

Moses
We’ll see what happens to the sea.

On Passover, we read about the ten plagues God unleashed on the Egyptians. The plagues we see today, however, are not punishments from God, but ones of our own doing – because ending hunger is not a matter of resources, but of political will. As we read each of these plagues aloud, we dip a finger into the wine and touch a drop onto our plate. This reminds us that, even as we celebrate freedom, our freedom is not complete when anyone still experiences hunger.

(Dip your finger in your glass and place a drop of wine on the plate for each plague.)

ALL READ TOGETHER IN UNISON

1. INDIFFERENCE, the failure to recognize food insecurity in our own communities

2. SHAME, the undue burden we place on hungry people

3. INDIGNITY, the failure to treat hungry people with the respect they deserve

4. STEREOTYPING, the persistence of harmful misinformation about who is hungry

5. ABSENCE, the lack of data showing the true scope of this problem

6. HUMILIATION, the pain parents feel when they cannot provide enough food for their children

7. FATIGUE, the exhaustion from the constant cycle of poverty and hunger

8. ANXIETY, the lingering fear that SNAP benefits will not last the whole month

9. BUREAUCRACY, the system that prevents rapid action on this issue

10. APATHY, the greatest plague of all — the failure to make ending hunger a national priority

DAYEINU  - IT WOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH

One of the most beloved songs in the Passover Seder is Dayeinu. Dayeinu commemorates a long list of miraculous things God did, any one of which would have been pretty amazing just by itself. For example, “Had God only taken us out of Egypt but not punished the Egyptians – it would have been enough.” “Dayeinu,” translated liberally, means, “Thank you, God, for overdoing it.”

Dayeinu is a reminder to never forget all the miracles in our lives. When we stand and wait impatiently for the next one to appear, we are missing the point of life. Instead, we can actively seek a new reason to be grateful, a reason to say “Dayeinu.”

LET'S SING:

Ilu ho-tsi, ho-tsi-a-nu, ho-tsi-a-nu mi-Mitz-ra-yim, ho-tsi-a-nu mi-Mitz-ra-yim, da-ye-nu!

If he had brought us all out of Egypt, it would have been enough!

CHORUS: Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu! Ilu na-tan, na-tan la-nu, na-tan la-nu et-ha-Sha-bat, na-tan la-nu et-ha-Sha-bat, da-ye-nu!

If he had given us Shabbat it would have been enough!

CHORUS: Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu! Ilu na-tan, na-tan la-nu, na-tan la-nu et-ha-To-rah, na-tan la-nu et-ha-To-rah, da-ye-nu!

If he had given us the Torah it would have been enough!

CHORUS: Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu! Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Dai, da-ye-nu, Da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu!

A CONTEMPORARY DAYEINU

So let’s bring Dayeinu into the present. We are grateful, and yet what miracles and accomplishments would be sucient (dayeinu) in today’s world for us to be truly satisfied?

When all workers of the world receive just compensation and respect for their labors, enjoy safe, healthy and secure working conditions, and can take pride in their work... DAYEINU

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

When technology is for the production and conservation of energy and our other natural resources is developed so that we can maintain responsible and comfortable lifestyles and still assure a safe environment for our children... DAYEINU

When the air, water, fellow creatures and beautiful world are protected for the benefit and enjoyment of all... DAYEINU
When all politicians work honestly for the good of all... DAYEINU

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

When people of all ages, genders, races, religions, cultures and nations respect and appreciate one another... DAYEINU

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

When all children, men and women are free of the threat of violence, abuse and domination; when personal power and strength are not used as weapons... DAYEINU

When all people have access to the information and care they need for their physical, mental and spiritual well-being... DAYEINU

When food and shelter are accepted as human rights, not as commodities, and are available to all ... DAYEINU

When no elderly person in our society has to fear hunger, cold, or loneliness... DAYEINU
When the people of the Middle East, and all people living in strife, are able to create paths to just and lasting peace... DAYEINU

When people everywhere have the opportunities we have to celebrate our culture and use it as a basis for progressive change in the world... DAYEINU

TOGETHER: 

If tonight each person could say this year I worked as hard as I could toward my goals for improving this world, so that one day all people can experience the joy and freedom I feel sitting with my family and friends at the Seder table... DAYEINU, DAYEINU

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.

THE SECOND CUP!

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.

L'Chaim....!

One of the favorite hits from our salon, CROSSING OUR RED SEA, presented by The Braid in 2018

We’re Gonna Sing Dayenu

Start the Torah, Genesis, Ark, Noah, what a mess
Babel’s Tower, God has power, Abraham let’s go,
Sarah’s barren, can’t have children, Isaac isborn, try to kill him, Sarah’s Dying, Isaac’s crying, Rivka is hisbeau

Esau’s tricked, too bad, birthright sold, brother’s blessed,
Beth El, to find a wife, andthen Jacob marries twice
Rachel’s hotter, Leah’s first, Twelve sons, it could be worse
Joseph’s dreaming, brothers hate him, throw him down there, goodbye

We’re gonna sing Dayenu It’s the song we’re learning While the brisket’s burning We’re gonna sing Dayenu They may really hate us But God always saves us

Joseph Viceroy, save the food, new king, he hates the Jews Boys in river, gave us shivers, Moses kills a dude
Bush flames, God exclaims, Save my people, can’t lose Ten plagues, they’re mad, Egypt chases hard,

Cross Sea, we’re free, now the story really starts
Eating manna, it’s God’s will, Moses tarries, calf is built God’s rage, burns bad, broke the tablets, shattered them, We get grace, saving face, let’s all say Baruch Hashem!

We’re gonna sing Dayenu It’s the song we’re learning While the brisket’s burning We’re gonna sing Dayenu They may really hate us But God always saves us

Get the law, write it down, oral Torah, don’t you doubt Mishkan, build it right, don the robes of holy might
Vayikra, Kohanim, they were holy, served the Name Holiness and sacred rites, oh that must have been a sight. . .

Count ‘em up, sent spies, so evil, they were fools Fringes rule, Korah, all his posse in a hole
Red Cow, rock and staff, Bilaam’s curse, a talking ass Ba’al Peor, kills two more, Moses honors Phineas

We’re gonna sing Dayenu It’s the song we’re learning While the brisket’s burning We’re gonna sing Dayenu

They may really hate us But God always saved us

Say the Sh’ma, bind hand, Moses dies outside the land,
Big wall, it falls, Led a big invasion
Deborah of the Judges’ fame, someone butchered Samson’s mane King Saul, Agag, David puts his faith in God,
New King, Solomon, Union of the North and South
Temple slayed, blown away, what else do I have to say

We’re gonna sing Dayenu It’s the song we’re learning While the brisket’s burning We’re gonna sing Dayenu They may really hate us But God always saves us

Second Temple, build it big, Greek control, makes us sick Purim, Esther, Hanukkah, we rock
Romans, burned down, second Temple to the ground
Then they say we killed their god, exiled, beaten, hurt and shot Wrote the Mishnah, Talmud Sage, halakha, awesome age Caliph’s sword, violent horde, rats, plague, awful sores

But there’s good news all the more, Jewish study of the law,
Then we’re back on Israel’s shores, saved our nation, never bored!

Ilu ho-tsi, ho-tsi-a-nu,
Ho-tsi-a-nu mi-Mitz-ra-yim,
Ho-tsi-a-nu mi-Mitz-ra-yim,
Da-ye-nu!

.. CHORUS:

.. Dai, da-ye-nu,
.. Dai, da-ye-nu,
.. Dai, da-ye-nu,
.. Da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu!
..
.. Dai, da-ye-nu,
.. Dai, da-ye-nu,
.. Dai, da-ye-nu,
.. Da-ye-nu, da-ye-nu!

Ilu na-tan, na-tan la-nu,
Na-tan la-nu et-ha-Sha-bat,
Na-tan la-nu et-ha-Sha-bat,
Da-ye-nu!

.. (CHORUS)

Ilu na-tan, na-tan la-nu,
Na-tan la-nu et-ha-To-rah,
Na-tan la-nu et-ha-To-rah,
Da-ye-nu!

.. (CHORUS)

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.

Matza, or unleavened bread, is one of the staples of the Passover seder. But what can matza teach us? Use this extended meditation by Rabbi Jay Michaelson to explore how matza can instruct us in conscious, embodied living.

Jewish law requires that a surprisingly large amount of matzamaror, and matza/maror "sandwich" be eaten during the Passover seder. Most observance of this mitzvah falls into one of two categories: ignoring the legal requirements, or wolfing down huge sheets of unleavened bread in a mixture of piety and masochism.

I think that these size requirements, though, are really demanding that we eat enough matza and maror to notice it. Thus, I recommend turning the practice into an eating meditation.

Let's focus on the matza . You might begin with a contemplation of the matza itself, using the four worlds as a guiding map.

On the level of asiyah (action, materiality, body), feel the matza itself, its weight, the way it feels in your hand. Notice if any sensations arise in the body: salivation, perhaps. Then move to the level of yetzirah (formation, emotion, heart): notice what the large piece of matza evokes in your heart. Are you looking forward to eating it? Dreading it? Worrying about your digestion? Maybe you're remembering -- perhaps very subtly -- seders past, when you sat with your parents and schemed around the Afikoman. Maybe you're feeling, at this moment, some of the love, or trepidation, or confusion, of the seder where you are. Try to feel these emotions in the body, as events of the body, and see them for what they are: simultaneously evanescent and essential.

On the level of briyah (creation, thought, mind), I invite you to consider all that went into the production of this matza. How many people -- the farmers growing the grain, the bakers, the mashgiach (supervisor of the kosher status of the food), the truck drivers -- were involved in bringing it to your table? Think about the ingredients of the matza , along the lines of Thich Nhat Hanh's "Interbeing": the matza depends on wheat which depends on rain which depends on clouds. Without the cloud, there is no matza . Or, the matza depends on a baker whose life depends on a myriad of causes and coincidences. Let your mind expand the matza beyond the sheet in your hand, to as many causes in the universe as you care to imagine. Know that everything we hold, everything we see, is part of a web of life.

Finally, on the level of atzilut (emanation, spirit, soul), allow yourself to ask: if the matza is really just a node on this "web of life," what is it, really? What is "matza" about matza ? What is "you" about you? Everything we are, and everything we see, is really a cause or condition of something else, fleeting, empty of separateness, and unable to satisfy us on a permanent basis. Consider, too, the context of this matza -- its symbolism, and how the bread of slaves became the bread of freedom, due only to the context of its creation.

Okay, you can eat.

As you eat, work again through these four worlds. Notice the physical sensation of the matza in your mouth. Experiment with not swallowing anything that hasn't been thoroughly mashed up and liquified (this can take a while with matza ...), and see how that feels. Emotionally, do you feel connected? Resentful? Curious? Nostalgic? Try to call the mind back, when it wanders, to this moment, eating this food, as Jews have done for three thousand years.

On the intellectual level, consider the matza in the light of the four elements, which, while not scientifically descriptive of reality, do describe our experience remarkably well. Can you taste the earth-element in the matza? How about fire -- necessary to bake it, perhaps evinced by some burn marks, and also, in some systems of thought, necessary to digest it as well? Notice how your mouth releases water to help chew the dry food. And observe that, even in unleavened bread, there are small pockets of air. Really, our experience of the matza is really an experience of its constituent parts. There is never a moment at which we experience "matza" -- it's always an experience of an ingredient, which is itself actually an experience of particular chemical properties. On our phenomenal level, we experience matza . But if there really is an Infinite Being, who is eating and what is being eaten?

Sometimes we leap right into the historical, legal, and cultural aspects of the matza and maror. This is alright, but if you think about it, they're all on the intellectual plane, with only small tinges of the spiritual and emotional. What about our bodies, our hearts, and our souls? Eating matza is one of many embodied practices within the Jewish tradition; it connects us to the Earth and draws our attention to the cyclicality and the linearity of our lived experience. So I invite you to use mindfulness to enliven your seder, not by distraction, but by attention. Take as long as you need; the gefilte fish won't spoil, and neither will the salty egg. This act of eating connects you to generations of godwrestlers. If you pay enough attention to it, you might taste the Oneness they encountered all those years ago, one Egyptian night, rushing into freedom.

Dipping the bitter herb in sweet charoset | maror  |מָרוֹר   

  In creating a holiday about the joy of freedom, we turn the story of our bitter history into a sweet celebration. We recognize this by dipping our bitter herbs into the sweet charoset. We don’t totally eradicate the taste of the bitter with the taste of the sweet… but doesn’t the sweet mean more when it’s layered over the bitterness?

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָֽׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָּֽנוּ עַל אֲכִילַת מרוֹר

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

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

The question of why we eat maror would at first glance appear to be an obvious one. When I probe a little deeper, however, two questions emerge for me. First, why would I want to evoke pain and suffering on a night when I want to feel celebratory? My second question goes to the ritual itself. How is eating lettuce or horseradish supposed to help me experience or relate to the bitterness of slavery? No matter how much fiery hot horseradish we put in our mouths, it seems to me we are not any closer to understanding the experience of the Israelites in Egypt.

I believe that our use of maror at the seder is less about experiencing the hardships of Egypt, but rather an opportunity to experience and reflect how we can meaningfully engage sorrow and pain in both our personal and national lives. Suffering and sadness are part of everyone’s story. It is the unavoidable price we pay for being vulnerable and limited. We need tools and opportunities to integrate the hard and painful parts of our lives into our story without allowing them to erase all the joy and gratitude we still want to experience.

The Baal HaTanya (Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liady, 1745-1812) draws a fascinating distinction between two types of sadness. The first he refers to as bitterness, a form of regret or sadness that emerges from a sense that things are broken, or less than ideal. This form of sadness is positive, he says, because it emerges from a place of idealism, hope, and a powerful desire to change. We are “bitter” because we sense that a vital and healthy part of ourselves is not finding expression in the world. It is precisely our capacity for hope and transformation that makes this type of sadness possible. Our sense of loss is informed by our appreciation for a whole. The second type of sadness is depression. This type of sadness “closes our hearts” with despair, numbs our feelings, and blocks out all joy. From this perspective, perhaps we eat maror to explore how to move from a sadness that holds us back to a sadness that can lead to growth and change. When dealing with hard things I often find I am choosing between allowing sadness to dominate my mood or trying to ignore it and put it aside altogether. The narrative of the seder refutes this false dichotomy. We don’t deny the difficulties and pain, but maybe we can put it into a wider context that includes joy and gratitude. We make room for sadness but we don’t let it take over. We eat the maror with the matza.

Another approach emerges from a comment of Rabbi Yeshayahu Horowitz (1568-1630) in a drasha about Pesach. Commenting on the talmudic requirement to chew the maror as opposed to just swallowing it, he writes that our teeth represent 32 levels of wisdom, and that by chewing the maror with our teeth we sweeten it. As opposed to denying difficulty or sadness we must engage it and reflect upon it. Although I am never grateful for going through the painful moments of my life, I am sometimes surprised at what they teach me about myself and who I am. Both as individuals and as a people, we are products of our challenges as much as our successes; sadness as well as joy. While I cannot deny the hard feelings associated with the difficult or sad moments of my life, I can “sweeten” them by accepting them as an essential part of my story. The suffering in Egypt and the memory of that suffering was part of what made the Jewish people.

 Our eating of maror and talking about slavery might also carry with it a lesson about the negative power of shame. I don’t like sharing my stories of pain or difficulty. They often feel like stories of failure. It often feels like my pain is a result of my inadequacy in managing my life or lack of success. If I were a better person, more capable, wiser, more powerful, my story would be all about happiness. Sadness becomes associated with failure. By including the pain and humiliation in our national story of birth and redemption we are reminding ourselves that pain, sadness, and difficulty are part of everyone’s story. I don’t need to paper over it or pretend it’s not there. My challenge is to include fully the hard parts of my story, both individually and nationally, and still feel joy and gratitude. Our plates include bitter herbs right next to the matza and the wine.

Rabbi Zvi Hirschfield teaches Talmud, Halakha and Jewish Thought.

Eating a sandwich of matzah and bitter herb | koreich | כּוֹרֵךְ

When the Temple stood in Jerusalem, the biggest ritual of them all was eating the lamb offered as the pesach or Passover sacrifice. The great sage Hillel would put the meat in a sandwich made of matzah, along with some of the bitter herbs. While we do not make sacrifices any more – and, in fact, some Jews have a custom of purposely avoiding lamb during the seder so that it is not mistaken as a sacrifice – we honor this custom by eating a sandwich of the remaining matzah and bitter herbs. Some people will also include charoset in the sandwich to remind us that God’s kindness helped relieve the bitterness of slavery.

Korech:  Mixing the Bitter and the Sweet

One of my favorite moments of the seder comes just before dinner is served.  It is called Korech.  It is also known as the Hillel sandwich.  It is the moment when we eat maror (the bitter herbs) and the charoset (the sweet apple and nut mixture) on a piece of matzah.  What a strange custom to eat something so bitter and something so sweet all in one bite.  I can taste it now, just thinking about it, and the anticipation is almost too much to bear.  I dread it, and I long for it all at the same time.  Why do we do such a thing?  We do it to tell our story.

The Jewish people tells our story through our observance of Jewish holidays throughout the year.  The holidays of Passover, Chanukah and Purim remind us just how close the Jewish people has come to utter destruction and how we now celebrate our strength and our survival with great joy, remembering God’s help and our persistence, and our own determination to survive. 

We also tell the story throughout our lifetime of Jewish rituals.  The breaking of a glass at a Jewish wedding reminds us that even in times of life’s greatest joys we remember the sadness of the destruction of the Temple.  When we build a home, some Jews leave a part unfinished to remember that even when building something new, we sense the times of tragedy in the Jewish people.  And on Passover we mix the sweet charoset with the bitter maror, mixing bitter and sweet of slavery and freedom all in one bite.

Throughout each year and throughout our lifetimes, we challenge ourselves to remember that even in times of strength, it is better to sense our vulnerability, rather than bask in our success.  We all have memories of times in which bitter and sweet were mixed in our lives, all in the same bite.  Judaism says, sometimes life is like that.  We can celebrate and mourn all at the same time.  And somehow, everything will be ok.  What is your korech moment?

 

Have a participant open the door for Elijah. Make sure that all participants have an extra wine glass that has not been used for the previous three cups of wine and will not be used for the fourth cup of wine. Pour a cup of wine into the additional wine glass. Raising the additional cup of wine and read as a group:

Gathered around the Seder table, we ultimately pour four cups, remembering the gift of freedom that our ancestors received centuries ago. We delight in our liberation from Pharaoh’s oppression.

We drink four cups for four promises fulfilled.

The first cup as God said, “I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians.”

The second as God said, “And I will deliver you from their bondage.”

The third as God said, “I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments.”

The fourth because God said, “I will take you to be My People.”

We know, though, that all are not yet free. As we welcome Elijah the Prophet into our homes, we offer an additional cup, a cup not yet consumed.

An additional cup for the more than 68 million refugees and displaced people around the world still waiting to be free – from the refugee camps in Chad to the cities and towns of Ukraine, for the Syrian refugees still waiting to be delivered from the hands of tyrants, for the thousands of asylum seekers in the United States still waiting in detention for redemption to come, for all those who yearn to be taken in not as strangers but as fellow human beings.

This Passover, let us walk in the footsteps of the One who delivered us from bondage. When we rise from our Seder tables, may we be emboldened to take action on behalf of the world’s refugees, hastening Elijah’s arrival as we speak out on behalf of those who are not yet free.

Place this additional cup of wine down untasted.

Go around the table and share your gratitude statements. Breathe.

Reflect on Elijah the prophet. He was worried we wouldn’t keep Jewish traditions. He’d be surprised – but proud.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם הַזָּן אֶת הַכֹּל

Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha’olam Hazan Et Hakol.

We acknowledge the Unity of All and express gratitude for there being food for each of us this evening.

Discussion topic: Who are the prophets of our time? Who do you look up to, or make it a point to listen to what they have to say about the world today? Toast to them over Cup #3 of wine/juice.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן

Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha’olam Borei Pri HaGafen.

We acknowledge the Unity of All, and express gratitude for the fruit of the vine.

Drink Cup #3.

CUP OF REDEMPTION

At a traditional seder we fill a cup of wine for the prophet Elijah who is a symbol of redemption.

At this seder we are raising a cup of water as a symbol of the redemption that women have brought through the generations.

All: Water is the symbol of life.

Reader: The biblical prophet Miriam saved her brother from the waters of the Nile, she led the song of victory aber the waters of the red sea parted and God gave abundant water to the people.

Reader: We remember Miriam the prophet, who danced at the Sea of Reeds to celebrate the  Exodus, a well of fresh water was said to follow her in the desert so that the Israelites always had water to drink. We remember Prophet Miriam

Reader: Instead of being enslaved, Harriet Tubman, known as a conductor of the Underground Railroad, set out with her two brothers, and followed the North Star in the sky to guide her north to freedom always walking near the water’s edge.

Reader: We remember, Harriet Tubman, conductor on the Underground Railroad, who led 300 captured Africans from slavery to freedom, as she sang Wade in the Water, a warning to those who followed that the water would protect them from trouble and offer redemption.

All: We acknowledge that water itself is necessary to sustain life. Water is the symbol of redemption.

The Racial Justice & Inclusivity Haggadah

Download here: https://globaljews.org/resources/holidays/passover/racial-justice-and-inclusivity-haggadah/

This is the time set aside for singing. Some of us might sing traditional prayers from the Book of Psalms. Others take this moment for favorites like Chad Gadya & Who Knows One. All of these options are below. To celebrate the theme of freedom, we might sing songs from the civil rights movement. Or perhaps your crazy Uncle Frank has some parody lyrics about Passover to the tunes from a musical. Or maybe the Maccabeats put out a new song this year. We’re at least three glasses of wine into the night, so just roll with it.

We are going to conclude our dinner tonight with a celebratory toast - a l’chaim.

Rather than filling our own cup tonight, though, and focusing on us as individuals, let’s fill someone else’s cup and recognize that, as a family and group of friends, we have the resources to help each other and those in our community if we are willing to share our resources and collaborate – whether those resources are time, money, skills, or any of the other gifts we bring to one another.

Many of us around the table may already share our resources in different ways - volunteering in our communities, providing pro bono services, donating to charities, or by advocating or lobbying officials. For others we may still be exploring the ways we’re hoping to share our resources and are looking for outlets to do so.

We are now going to fill our 4th cup of wine and I want to invite you to fill someone else’s cup instead of your own. As you fill someone else’s cup, let’s share with each other our answer to the following:

How can I help in changing the world?

In a moment, our Seder will be complete. However, we remember that working against oppression in the world is our never-ending responsibility. We recommit ourselves to the vision of a world filled with peace and justice for all. We work for a world where "nation shall not lift-up sword against nation nor study war anymore." We work for a world where people are not treated differently because of their race, their religion, their gender, their age, their marital status, their skin color, the people they love, their profession or their politics. We work for a world that affirms the inherent worth and dignity of every person on our planet and assures basic human rights for everyone, everywhere. Like Nachshon standing at the shore of the Red Sea, we are not waiting for a miracle but rather proceeding with faith that G-d will support us and give us the strength and resolve to work together to heal the world.

We close our Seder by saying, "L'Shanah Haba'ah B'Yerushalyim", which means "Next Year in Jerusalem." For centuries, this declaration expressed the Jewish people's goal to return to our homeland. Even after the founding of the State of Israel in 1948, these words still resonate with us. We all have our own personal aspirations and dreams that we are striving for. As we conclude our Seder, may we have the strength and the will to continue working toward our personal Jerusalem and toward a world where all people will live in shalom -- peace, safety and freedom.

Sweet Charoset to the tune of “Sweet Caroline”

May be shared with credit line: © 2020 by Marc I. Leavey, M.D., Baltimore, Maryland

-

Before it begins, I get some nuts and apples

And cinnamon to make it strong

Chag in the spring

Prepare for Seder table

The family comes to sing this song

Dip, carpas dip

Reaching out, some for me, some for you

Sweet Charoset

Every year it seems so good

We sit reclined

Tell the story as we could

And then we

Go through the night

And we read the Hagadah

We started with cups one and two

After we eat

We bentch and say the Hallel

Then it’s time for the second two

Dip, carpas dip

Reaching out, some for me, some for you

Sweet Charoset

Every year it seems so good

Sweet Kosher Wine
to the tune of “Sweet Caroline”
by Neil Diamond
Adonai said, “I never will forget you.
I will make Pharaoh set you free.”
Now here we are, drinking the wine we savor
As we recall our slavery.
(Chorus)
Hands...pouring wine,
Reaching out, red for me, white for you.
Sweet kosher wine,
You make seders seem so good
(so good, so good, so good)
We all recline
And we drink you like we should.
Adonai said, “If you can learn to trust me
Then in the end you’ll just be fine.”
Now here we are, all of these long years later
Drinking our favorite seder wine.
(Repeat chorus)
© 2012 Barbara Sarshik