The Radical Possibilities of the Rituals of Passover

Rabbi Rachel Sabath Beit-Halachmi, PhD

For lovers of ritualized meaning-making, Passover is the greatest of all the holidays. Through the performance of these, we can attain all the possibilities of what ritual can mean for an individual and a community. The sheer volume, complexity and intensity of rituals in preparation for and in observance of Passover is unmatched by any other Jewish holiday. For some the intensity of the preparation has made us feel oppressed and/or obsessed; for others, they help us find redemption. This year, as we once again celebrate Pesach alone or in very small groups, we have the time to reflect on what the preparations mean and why it is THE quintessential holiday of our people.

Layered together, all the elements of Passover produce a charged environment ripe for meaning-making. But for what meaning, and for what purpose? The ancient sages, who added layers to the original early Passover celebrations, believed that the rituals themselves were so intense and profound they could enable each of us to feel ourselves as though we were personally part of the exodus from Egypt. Passover returns us to an ancient time and place, and drops us into the climax of the most powerful human drama of redemption.  

That is the power of ritual, according to one of the giants of ritual studies, Mircea Eliade (1907-1986). His most enduring and influential contribution to religious studies is likely his Theory of Eternal Return, which holds that myths and rituals do not simply commemorate heterophonies (appearances of the sacred), but – at least to the minds of the religious – rituals actually enable us to participate again in those experiences. For a traditional religious person – and maybe for the rest of us less traditional folks, too – a ritual-filled life constantly unites us with sacred time, giving our existence value.

In Judaism, as in many religions, a ritual cycle correlates certain parts of the year with mythical events, making each year an eternal repetition of the mythical age.

But Passover is even more than that because it also creates a second “Renewal of the Cosmos.” Preparing for Passover from the moment Purim ends prepares us to simultaneously reestablish a mythic world of the past and at the same time, confirm our yearning for a time of redemption in the future. Beginning with our struggles of slavery in Egypt, we end with redemption, joy and a plan to be in a rebuilt, ideal Jerusalem by next year. By the end of the night, we have ritualized our way into redemption, not only of the past but of the future. From an anthropological perspective ritual can alter the individual in such a way that they want to alter the society in which they live. One of the greatest scholars in the field of ritual, Clifford Geertz (1926-2006), reminds us that “in ritual, the world as lived, and the world as imagined… turn out to be the same world.” Whether or not one covers the kitchen in aluminum foil and changes all the dishes, the conscious celebration of the Seder itself is the most significant factor in the power of Passover for the individual and for the community.

These intense rituals remind us of what world we want to live in, and help us to create it for a moment in the ritual acts. The blessing of investing so much in the preparation and the fullness of ritual during Passover is that we can create that perfect world anew in our souls and increase our desire to create it. More than prayer or study, ritual allows us to begin to become that which we believe we should be. May it be so.

Based on an column first published in the  Jerusalem Post:     

 https://www.jpost.com/not-just-news/how-ritual-redeems-us-395235

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.

Miriam's Cup - Kos Miryam

We begin our seder with Kos Miryam, Miriam's cup. Miriam was the sister of Moses and Aaron. Legend tells of a mysterious well filled with mayim hayyim, living waters, that followed the Israelites through their wandering in the desert while Miriam was alive.

Miriam's well was said to hold Divine power to heal and renew. Just as Adonai delivered Miriam and her people, so may we be delivered and sustained on our journey, both as individuals and as a people.

THREE QUESTIONS

There is a Sefardic (Iraqi or Afghani) custom of turning to the person beside you, asking these three questions, and offering the three brief answers. 

Who are you? (I am Yisrael.)

Where are you coming from? (I am coming from Mitzrayim.)

Where are you going? (I am going to Yerushalayim.)

Who are you?

I'm Yisrael. I'm a God-wrestler. I'm someone who wrestles with the holy, with the Source of All Being, with my understanding of ultimate reality, and I expect God to wrestle back. I dance with God. I waltz with Torah. I stay up all night grappling with angels, and even if I come away limping, I know I come away blessed. I'm a wandering Aramean, and I'm wearing my traveling shoes. I'm a child of the house of Israel, and my community and I—and anyone else who hears freedom's call—are walking into the wilderness together.

Where are you coming from?

I'm coming from Mitzrayim. From the narrow place. From slavery. From constriction. From the birth canal. I'm coming from hard labor. I'm coming from the surfeit of sweetness that lulls me into forgetting the world's imperfections. I've been settling for what hurts, too fearful to risk something new. I'm coming from suffering and isolation. I'm coming from addiction to my work, addiction to success, addiction to separation. I'm coming from "if I stopped working, I'm not even sure who I'd be."

Where are you going?

I'm going to Yerushalayim. I'm going to Ir Shalem, the city of wholeness. I'm going to Ir Shalom, the city of peace. I'm going where talking to God is a local call. I'm heading toward my best imaginings of community and connection. I'm clicking my ruby slippers with fervent kavanah and moving toward the meaning of home. Maybe I'm going to a place; maybe I'm going to a state of mind. Maybe it's an asymptotic progression toward something that can't be reached. Maybe it's the journey that defines me.

Run that by me again?

I am Yisrael. I am coming from Mitzrayim. And the moon is almost full: tomorrow we're packing our bags. Grabbing the flatbread. And setting out. It's time to go.

A note on Israel:

Passover celebrates freedom, exemplified in the story of our Exodus from Egypt. That story leads our entry into Israel—not exactly a simple redemption tale. Especially not now, as Israelis and Palestinians continue to fight for their mutual Promised Land, and to shed blood in pursuit of its ownership.

In light of that situation, some of us may have complicated feelings about identifying with Israel. But “Israel” doesn’t refer only to the Land. “Israel” is the name which was given to Jacob after he spent the night wrestling with an angel of God. Therefore “the people Israel” can be interpreted as “Godwrestling people”—“people who take on the holy obligation of engaging with the divine.”

When I see the word "Israel"

When I see the word Israel I see Isra-el wrestles with God. God isvictorious

When I see the word I do not see the chosen few I see those few who choose

Those few who choose to wrestle with You, a contest in which both wrestlers are one and in which the one is victorious

I see those few who choose, among the many nations among all people, those few who choose to make love to you and those who say: I betroth myself to you whether it feels like honey or a thornbush because even the thornbush sometimes glows with fire of revelation

When I see the world Israel I know many claim it as their own. As a title a privilege a status As if God chose them

they are right in this: God chooses but they are wrong in thinking: only them

God breathes through many begotten sons and daughters. God wrestles through his glorious perverts and professors

and as there is only one contestant for better or for worse in shit and in shine this wrestling is an embrace of recognition and delight

do you seek God? God seeks you. Who will you allow to be victorious?

-Jay Michaelson

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

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

Karpas (parsley that is dipped in salt water during the seder) kavannah (spiritual focus)--time for spring awakening, new directions--renewal and bursting forth of new ideas.

We take this time to honor others who travel with us from other faiths and cultural traditions. We acknowledge the fact that they bring a new perspective to our lives and a legacy of their own that enriches ours. We are grateful for the growth that we have experienced because they are in our lives.

As a plant bursts forth with new energy to bloom, so too we recognize that at this time of Jewish history we are blossoming in different ways. As the garden needs tending, so, too, do our relationships with spouses, in-laws and families of other traditions. Weeding out all that is not necessary and loving, we make room for fresh insight and respect. Welcome those who sit around this table for the first time or the twentieth, bringing new understanding to our discussion.

"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

This is the Bread of Our Affliction, HaLachma Anya,

This is the symbol of our shared story of suffering and freedom.

As we hold the matzah this year, whether with our families or completely alone,

may we experience more deeply our connection to the story of the Jewish people,

to our shared values and to our shared future.

Let all who are in need at this moment, know that we are with them.

As we taste this bread of affliction, let’s prepare ourselves to respond

to those who are suffering around the globe.

May all who are suffering whether from illness, hunger, domestic violence or any other plague,

know that we see you, we hear you, and we will work together to respond to you.

May all who are in need, know that the Jewish people will respond with the best of ourselves.

May we find new ways to learn about each other and to learn together, even virtually.

Let us assure each other that we, the Jewish People, share a common destiny

and we will create it together. May we look into the eyes of those around us and those who we see from afar,

and assure each other that we are mutually responsible for one another, for the health and safety and spiritual well-being of ourselves for our communities,

and for all of humanity. May we rise to this moment with the best

This year, we are here. We are broken apart, but next year may we find new beginnings,

a new commitment to each other, a new wholeness, and a new common destiny.

Created by Rabbi Rachel Sabath Beit-Halachmi, PhD for Our Common Destiny: www.OurCommonDestiny.org

So, first of all, the four children appear in the Jerusalem Talmud, where Rabbi Hyyia, a student of Rabbi Judah the Prince, is quoted as bringing this parable.  Hyyia’s text varies quite a bit from the text we know today: for one, the simple child is not "simple" but stupid. But it is Rabbis at the time of the collection of the Mishnah and Talmud who are creating this rubric. And so we proceed: 

The "Wise" Child asks about the rules and commandments that govern the Seder, and receives a full explanation of the details. This child looks to the future with the rules in mind, seeking structures and understanding that life necessitates systems. Looking toward the future, this child is savvy: what can I do within the structures I'm given, they might ask. In what ways do we search our surroundings for external rules that help us to structure our lives? How does this help, and how does this hurt? Do you look for structures, for open spaces? Sometimes one or the other? 

The "Wicked" Child asks their interlocutor what Passover means to them. This is a separation that incurs wrath, and the statement that this child would not have been among those saved, because of a lack of collective self-identity. But, are they looking for a more personal explanation of how to connect individually with what's going on, and how to proceed? Taking in information from others' experiences in order to shape their own? This child might have done some self-education to ask a more targetted question, which might not have produced the same kind of wrath; perhaps we can ask each other "what does it mean to you to experience the Seder as though you were personally liberated from Egypt?" This child looks to the future, perhaps, with good boundaries and a different understanding of self - and what do we gain by othering this person who is a child in our midst? Do we really get to be arbiters of who would have been saved and who would not? 

The "Simple" Child looks to the future, totally baffled. What does this all mean? What the heck is going on? This child has an open demeanor - there's not a lot of ego here, and it's clear from what's being asked, which isn't actually that different from the "wicked" child (the only difference is the absence of "to you"), but it's met with a much more tolerant kind of inclusion. By implying that we're all in this together, this child is given help understanding what's going on, approaching their communities with humility. Still, like the "wicked" child, their question doesn't show the deeper knowledge that would indicate self-education. This child is looking to the bigger picture, unlike the "wise" child who's looking for the micro-level of life.

The Child "Who Does Not Know How to Ask" is present but silent - looking to the future with a kind of carelessness, perhaps, or alternately with paralysis. The thing about silence is that you can't always tell which is which. The rabbis use "this is because of what god did for me" here - it's the same othering and dividing language as we saw with the "wicked" child, who doesn't get to be included in our collective. Not super merciful? What would have happened if the Rabbis had asked this child a question? How do we embrace our ignorance with humility when we don't know how to ask? That's a lesson from the "simple" child, perhaps. Have there been times when we've assumed ignorance from someone's silence? 

Avadim hayinu l’pharoh b’mitzrayim. Vayotzieinu Adonai Eloheinu misham, b’yad chazakah uvizroa netuyah
We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, and Adonai, our God, brought us out from there with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.

Jews are a people of memory and action. On Passover, we use stories and rituals to remember and retell the narrative of our collective liberation. We share the ancient Exodus story, year after year, so that it resonates through the generations as a narrative of deliverance from slavery to freedom. In Hebrew, Egypt is called Mitzrayim, which means “a narrow place.” Every year, the Haggadah asks us not only to share the story of the Exodus, but challenges us to actively engage in the process of combating oppression. We are encouraged to connect the biblical story of Exodus to communal and individual struggles for liberation, and are reminded that the fight for freedom is ongoing.

Let’s discuss the process of Exodus, moving from “a narrow place” to a place of freedom. Every day, people fight for freedom on interpersonal, systemic, global and local levels. What are modern struggles for liberation? Discuss the following questions either in pairs or as a group to inspire thought, conversation and action:

Why do you think the text starts with “We were slaves” instead of “Our ancestors were slaves?” How does this quote from Martin Luther King, Jr. "no one is free until we are all free," connect to Avadim Hayinu? How are we free today? How are we still struggling? Share something that you are doing or can commit to doing to help move yourself or others from “a narrow place” to a place of shared freedom.

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. 

- 

Ha lachma anya d’achaloo avhatana b’ara d’meetzrayeem. Kol dichfeen yay-tay vi’yachool, kol deetzreech yay-tay viyeesfsach. Hashata hach. Li’shana ha-ba-aa bi’arah di’yeesrael. Hashata av’day, li’shana ha-ba a bi’nay choreen.

This is the bread of affliction, which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are in need, come and celebrate Passover. Today, we are here. Next year, in the land of Israel. Today, we are slaves. Next year, we will be free.

Written in Aramaic, this statement 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. 

Ruth’s Cup: A New Passover Ritual Honoring Jewish Diversity

by Rabbi Heidi Hoover 

Mitzrayim, the Hebrew word for Egypt, is also interpreted to mean “narrow places.” At Passover, we celebrate being released from the restrictions that limit us and make our lives smaller. We are not fully free as long as we are kept down by attitudes and conditions that are unjust.

Many Jews assume that “real Jews” look a certain way and have one path to Judaism — being born Jewish. When confronted with Jews who don’t fit these stereotypes, even well-meaning Jews may treat them as less Jewish. Jews of color and/or those who have converted to Judaism find that other Jews can act insensitively out of ignorance.

In the biblical book that bears her name, Ruth is a Moabite who marries an Israelite living in Moab. After her husband’s death, Ruth insists on accompanying her Israelite mother-in-law, Naomi, when she returns to Israel. There she cares for Naomi and ends up marrying one of her relatives. Because of Ruth’s declaration to Naomi: “Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16), she is considered the prototypical convert to Judaism. Ruth becomes the great-grandmother of King David, from whom our tradition says the Messiah will descend.

The following ritual—Ruth’s Cup—may be added after Elijah’s Cup or anywhere in the seder. It honors not only those who have converted to Judaism, but the overall diversity of the Jewish people:

Leader

At Passover we fill a cup with wine for Elijah and open the door to welcome him to our seder. Elijah symbolizes our hope for the Messianic age, when the world will be perfected, and all people will live in harmony and peace.

We also fill a cup of wine for Ruth, the first Jew by choice and great-grandmother of King David. We open the door to signify our welcome of Ruth and all who follow in her footsteps—those who become part of our people, part of our diversity.

All rise, face the open door, and read together:

We declare that we do not have to wait for the Messianic age to make sure that every Jew feels fully comfortable and integrated into our people, no matter what their skin, hair or eye color is; no matter what their name sounds like; no matter how they became Jewish—through birth or through conversion, as a child or as an adult.

Close the door and be seated.

May your Passover be liberating and enlightening!

Optional discussion question –  Share a time when you felt like an outsider but were actively welcomed into a new community or space. How did that happen? How did it make you feel?

download here:https://globaljews.org/resources/publications/ruths-cup/

 Dayenu: A Jewish Template for Gratitude: 

We don’t realize how lucky we are until we speak our blessings in detail. Dayenu is not merely a reflection on Passover, but a template for true thanks.

Imagine for a moment a thank-you note where instead of the usual clichés you had a note in the form of Dayenu, outlining several details of appreciation. Had the person done only one it would have been enough.

Now imagine receiving such a note — highly personal, thoughtful and unique. It might the thank-you note you actually save.

Dayenu suggests this very formula when thanking God. It is our detailed thank-you note to God — not only for saving us from the terrors of Egypt, but for giving us the instruments and experiences to form a life of Jewish meaning. It’s a wonder that we don’t recite it every day. But at our seder tables, we might take a moment after this jubilant song to turn to those at the table and, in detail, describe how blessed we are in their presence.

Dr. Erica Brown 

 Excerpted from: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/dayenu-a-jewish-template-for-gratitude/

In Hopes of Freedom From Abuse For All

Author unknown. Adapted by Hannah Litman and Rachel Novick.

Sometimes, we cannot say Dayenu. Wehave the right to say, “No, this is not enough, I will not settle for this.”

Sometimes, we wish we could say Dayenu. What would be enough?

Together: When we can make choices about our own bodies, our own identities, and our own lives, Dayenu

When courts, law enforcement and mental health professionals stop blaming the victim, Dayenu

When the Jewish community protects abuse survivors,

Dayenu

When our voices are listened to and believed without judgment or question,

Dayenu

When money and power can no longer protect abusers,

Dayenu

When the community focuses on stopping the abusers instead of blaming us for staying,

Dayenu

When Jewish law and secular law can guarantee our right to safety,

Dayenu

When every person can find true shalom bayit,

Dayenu

When anyone who is in danger can also be in safety,

Dayenu