Questions are not only welcome during the course of the evening but are vital to tonight’s journey. Our obligation at this Seder involves thinking about the transition from slavery to freedom, prodding ourselves from apathy to action, encouraging the transformation of silence into speech, and providing a space where all different levels of belief and tradition can co-exist safely. Because leaving Mitzrayim -- the Hebrew word for Egypt which also translates as “narrow places” or “the places that oppress us” -- is a personal as well as a communal passage, your participation and thoughts are welcome and encouraged.

We remember that questioning itself is a sign of freedom.

Please feel free to ask questions during the seder!

Q: What do you call someone who derives pleasure from the bread of affliction?
A: A matzochist.

In lighting the candles at dusk we symbolize the end of an ordinary day and the beginning of a sacred day. Candles also symbolize an end of Winter, a beginning of Spring, and also a long history of struggle against oppression. We must join with all oppressed peoples, honoring both our differences and our need to work together for the future of ourselves and our children.

Hannah Szenes was a young Nazi resistance fighter. The Nazis captured her and brought Hannah’s mother to her. They said that if Hannah didn’t reveal the names of the resistance movement, her mother would be killed. Hannah told her mother that she could not betray the resistance. Her mother replied that by not giving in to the oppressor, Hannah had proved her love. Hannah Szenes was captured, tortured, and put to death at the age of 20. She wrote this poem in prison in Budapest before her execution:

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart.

Blessed is the heart with the strength to stop its beating for honor’s sake.

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

May the light of the candles we kindle together tonight bring radiance to all who still live in darkness. May this season, marking the deliverance of our people from Pharaoh, rouse us against anyone who keeps others in servitude. In gratitude for the freedom we enjoy, may we strive to bring about our own liberation and the liberation of all people everywhere.

Lighting these candles, we create the sacred space of the Festival of Freedom; we sanctify the coming together of our community.

,בָּרוךּ†ְאַתָּה†ייְ¨ָ†אֱלֹהֵינו†ּרוחַּ†הַעוֹלָם

.אָשֶר†קִדשָנו†ּבְּמִצְוֹתָיו†וצְִונָו†ּלְהָדלִיק†נרֵ†שֶל†יוֹם†טוֹב

Baruch atah, Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Yom Tov.

Blessed is the spirit of freedom in whose honour we kindle the lights of this holiday Passover, the season of freedom.

Maror: bitter herb or horseradish, which represents the bitterness of slavery.

Charoset: a mixture of apples and nuts and wine, which represents the bricks and mortar we made in ancient times, and the new structures we are beginning to build in our lives today.

Zeroa (Lamb Shank or: beet): which represents the sacrifices we have made to survive Before the tenth plague, our people slaughtered lambs and marked our doors with blood: because of this marking, the Angel of Death passed over our homes and our firstborn were spared.

Beytzah (Egg): which symbolizes creative power, our rebirth.

Karpas (Parsley): which represents the new growth of spring, for we are earthy, rooted beings, connected to the Earth and nourished by our connection. Salt water of our tears, both then and now. Spring!

Matzot of our unleavened hearts: may this Seder enable our spirits to rise. The matzo is known as the bread of affliction .It is the bread our ancestors ate as they fled their captivity, and did not dare wait until their bread could rise.

Orange: representing the inclusion of all genders and sexualities at the table;

Olive: representing hopes for peace in the Middle East and everywhere.

Why An Orange on the Seder Plate?

By Susanna Heschel, April 5, 2001

"In the early 1980s, the Hillel Foundation invited me to speak on a panel at Oberlin College. While on campus, I came across a Haggadah that had been written by some Oberlin students to express feminist concerns. One ritual they devised was placing a crust of bread on the Seder plate, as a sign of solidarity with Jewish lesbians (there’s as much room for a lesbian in Judaism as there is for a crust of bread on the Seder plate)

At the next Passover, I placed an orange on our family’s seder plate. During the first part of the Seder, I asked everyone to take a segment of the orange, make the blessing over fruit, and eat it as a gesture of solidarity with Jewish lesbians and gay men, and others who are marginalized within the Jewish community (I mentioned widows in particular).

Bread on the Seder plate brings an end to Pesach – it renders everything hametz. And it suggests that being lesbian is being transgressive, violating Judaism. I felt that an orange was suggestive of something else: the fruitfulness for all Jews when lesbians and gay men are contributing and active members of Jewish life. In addition, each orange segment had a few seeds that had to be spit out – a gesture of spitting out, repudiating the homophobia of Judaism.

When lecturing, I often mentioned my custom as one of the many new feminist rituals that have been developed in the last twenty years. Somehow, though, the typical patriarchal maneuver occurred: My idea of an orange and my intention of affirming lesbians and gay men were transformed. Now the story circulates that a man said to me that a woman belongs on the bimah as an orange on the seder plate. A woman’s words are attributed to a man, and the affirmation of lesbians and gay men is simply erased. Isn’t that precisely what’s happened over the centuries to women’s ideas?"

Pass around the orange from the seder plate. As we hold the fruit in our hands, think about marginalized and invisibilized folks in our lives and communities that we want to recognize.

We also place an olive on the Seder plate. Why an olive?

Because, for slavery to be truly over, for a people to be truly free, we must know that we can feed ourselves and our children, today, tomorrow, and into the following generations.

In the lands of Israel and Palestine, olive groves provide this security. When olive groves are destroyed, the past and future is destroyed. Without economic security, a people can much more easily be conquered, or enslaved.

And so this year, we eat an olive, to make real our understanding of what it means each time a bulldozer plows up a grove. Without the taste of olives, there will be no taste of freedom.

“ISRAEL”

Passover celebrates freedom, exemplified in the story of our Exodus from Egypt. That story also describes the entry of Jews into Israel—not a simple redemption tale. As we think about exodus and entry, let us remember that the modern creation of Israel as a nation involved the mass expulsion of Palestinians, who now live in exile, as refugees in Gaza and the West Bank. Even as we read this story of Exodus tonight, Israelis and Palestinians continue to fight over the land of Israel, a land they each claim as home. 

In light of that situation, some of us may have complicated feelings about identifying with Israel. But we may also remember that “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 “God-wrestling people”—“people who take on the holy obligation of engaging with the divine.”

THE STORY ITSELF

The tale of the Jews quest from slavery to freedom was written very long ago. Some parts are based in facts and some are fiction. But like all good stories, the lessons it teaches – or rather the meaning we extract from it – are valid and important. We tell this story and other stories of suffering, not to dwell on the past or create an identity of victimhood but to become more sensitive and responsive to the needs of others and to our own needs.

MITZRAYIM

In Hebrew, Egypt is called Mitzrayim , and the definition allows us to separate the idea of this ancient Egypt filled with Pharaohs and taskmasters from contemporary Egypt. According to the Zohar, an ancient text on Jewish mysticism, the name is derived from m'tzarim, meaning "narrow straits" ( mi, "from," tzar, "narrow" or "tight"). When the slaves left Mitzrayim , we left a place of constricted opportunities, tight control, and narrow-mindedness, where movement was severely limited.

Another take: The root word of Mitzrayim , according to Brown, Driver and Briggs, is mem/tzadi/resh, metzeir, meaning to border, to shut or to limit. Other sources claim the etymology of the word Mitzrayim lies in tzar, which as a verb, means to bind, tie up, be restricted, while as a noun, means straits, or distress, and as an adjective means narrow, scant, cramped or tight.

Where fear neither speak in stories or poems, nor gives shape to terrors or triumphs.

My name, my pronoun -- a grey void.

I'm familiar with the full range of fear. I know what it's like to start singing and to set off slowly through the narrow mountain pass that leads back to the foreigner in me, to my own expatriate.

I write to ward off fear and the clawing wind that lodges in my throat.

And in the morning, when you are afraid of finding yourself dead (of there being no more images): the silence of compression, the silence of existence itself. This is how the years fly by. This is how we lost that beautiful animal happiness.

Bol, ke lab azaad hai tere:
Bol, zabaan ab tak teri hai,
Tera sutwan jism hai tera –
Bol, ke jaan ab tak teri hai.

Translation-

Speak, for your lips are free

Speak, for your tongue is still your own

This body is still yours-

Speak, for your life is still your own.

Elijah’s Cup

This is the cup of Elijah. According to Jewish tradition, the Prophet Elijah was a brave man who denounced the slavery of his day. Legend teaches that he will return one day to lead everyone to peace and freedom. It is customary during the Passover Seder to open the door of the house for Elijah, in the hope that the age of universal peace may soon be at hand. We, too, open the door to peace, knowing that Elijah’s task is really our own. Only when we have made a world where nation shall not lift sword against nation, where justice is universal, and where each person is free, will the age-old dream of peace be real.

Miriam’s Cup

The story has always been told of a miraculous well of living water which has accompanied the Jewish people since the world was spoken into being. The well comes and goes, as it is needed, and as we remember, forget, and remember again how to call it to us. In the time of the exodus from Mitzrayim, the well came to Miriam, in honor of her courage and action, and stayed with the Jews as they wandered the desert. Upon Miriam’s death, the well again disappeared.

With this ritual of Miriam’s cup, we honor all Jewish women, transgender, intersex people whose histories have been erased. We commit ourselves to transforming all of our cultures into loving welcoming spaces for people of all genders and sexes. Smash the binary gender system! A million genders for a million people!

1. Kadesh: First Cup of Wine      

2. Urchatz: Washing Up   

3. Karpas: Greens          

4. Yachatz: Dividing the Matzah        

5. Maggid: Telling the story of Passover   

6. Rachtzah: Wash Again     

7. Motzi/Matzah: First Bites of Matzah

8. Maror: Bitter Herbs      

9. Korech: “Hillel Sandwich”        

10. Shulchan Orech: Dinner!

OPTIONAL:

11. Tzfun: Hide and Seek           

12. Barech: Closing Blessings    

13. Hallel: Drinking Songs  

14. Nirtzah: Acceptance/Fin 

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. Some say they represent the four exiles Jews faced - Egyptian, Babylonian, Greek and current exile. 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 first cup of wine is to our ancestors, our history, the revolutionaries who allowed us to be here in the capacity that we are. As we raise our glasses, let’s share who we are drinking to. Also, some people recline to the left when they drink their wine, because apparently people who are free recline when they get drunk.

אֱלֹהֵינו†ּמֶלֶך†ְהָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא†פְּרִי†הַגָפֶּן. †¨ְָ בָּרוך†ְּאַתָּה†יי

KADESH

Baruch atah, Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei p’ri hagafen.

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.

[After the blessing, drink a sip or the whole glass, however you prefer, and then refill.]

This symbolic washing of the hands recalls the story of Miriam's Well. Legend tells us that this well followed Miriam, sister of Moses, through the desert, sustaining the Jews in their wanderings. Filled with mayimei chayyim, waters of life, the well was a source of strength and renewal to all who drew from it. One drink from its waters was said to alert the heart, mind and soul, and make the meaning of Torah become more clear.

In Hebrew, urchatz means “washing” or “cleansing.” In Aramaic, sister language to Hebrew, urchatz means “trusting.” As we wash each others’ hands, let us rejoice in this act of trust. As we wash our hands, let’s wash away something we want to rid ourselves of this year.

And, as we wash our hands, let's remember that, while we drink copious amounts of wine tonight, many in the United States and around the world do not even have access to clean water. Clean water is not a privilege; it is a basic human right. One in ten people currently lack access to clean water. That’s nearly 1 billion people in the world without clean, safe drinking water. Almost 3.5 million people die every year because of inadequate water supply. Sanitation, hygiene, and handwashing alone can reduce this number by 35%. From Flint, Michigan to California, from Israel to Haiti, communities are suffering without equal access. This need not be the case.

As the (symbolic) water washes over our hands, we call to mind the promise we made when drinking our first cup of wine. Let us now focus on our individual water usage, and how we can make our water consumption more sustainable. Let us call to mind the importance of water to all life and be more aware of the amount of water we use daily.

"The next world war will be over water." - Ismail Serageldin, former World Bank vice president

My hand is dirty.
I must cut it off.
To wash it is pointless.
The water is putrid.
The soap is bad.
It won’t lather.
The hand is dirty.
It’s been dirty for years.

I used to keep it
out of sight,
in my pants pocket.
No one suspected a thing.
People came up to me,
Wanting to shake hands.
I would refuse
and the hidden hand,
like a dark slug,
would leave its imprint
on my thigh.
And then I realized
it was the same
if I used it or not.
Disgust was the same.

Ah! How many nights
in the depths of the house
I washed that hand,
scrubbed it, polished it,
dreamed it would turn
to diamond or crystal
or even, at last,
into a plain white hand,
the clean hand of a man,
that you could shake,
or kiss, or hold
in one of those moments
when two people confess
without saying a word…
Only to have
the incurable hand,
lethargic and crablike,
open its dirty fingers.

And the dirt was vile.
It was not mud or soot
or the caked filth
of an old scab
or the sweat
of a laborer’s shirt.
It was a sad dirt
made of sickness
and human anguish.
It was not black;
black is pure.
It was dull,
a dull grayish dirt.

It is impossible
to live with this
gross hand that lies
on the table.
Quick! Cut it off!
Chop it to pieces
and throw it
into the ocean.
With time, with hope
and its machinations,
another hand will come,
pure, transparent as glass,
and fasten itself to my arm.

At this point in the Seder, it is traditional to eat a green vegetable dipped in salt water. The green vegetable represents rebirth, renewal and growth; the salt water represents the tears of enslavement.

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.

Why do we dip karpas into salt water?

At the beginning of this season of rebirth and growth, we recall the tears of our ancestors in bondage.

And why should salt water be touched by karpas?

To remind us that tears stop. Even after pain. Spring comes.

We look forward to spring and the reawakening of greenery and flowers. They haven’t been lost, they’re just buried under the frozen ground and packed in snow. We all have aspects of our lives that get buried under stress.

What elements of our own lives do we hope to revive this spring?

Take some greens and dip them into salt water.

,בָּרוךּ†ְאַתָּה†ייְ¨ָ†אֱלֹהֵינו†ּרוחַּ†הָעוֹלָם

:בּוֹרֵא†פְּרִי†הָאֲדָמָה

Baruch atah, Adonai, eloheinu ruach ha’olam, borei p’ri ha’adamah.

Blessed are you, Adonai, Breath of Life, creator of the fruit of the earth.

Lift up matzah for all to see.

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 needy come and celebrate the Passover with us. Now we are here; next year may we be in the Land of Israel. Now we are slaves; next year may we be free.

Directions: Break a middle matzah and wrap the larger half in a cloth or napkin. This piece of matzah is now called the “afikoman,” and must be eaten before the seder concludes. Often it is hidden away by adults, for the children to find; the children may request a ransom before giving it back.

We break the matzah as we broke the chains of slavery, and as we break chains, which bind us today. We will no more be fooled by movements, which free only some of us, in which our so-called “freedom” rests upon the enslavement or embitterment of others.

Ha lachma anya —this is the bread of affliction. At the seder we begin as slaves. We eat matzah, the bread of affliction, which leaves us hungry and longing for redemption. It reminds us of a time when we couldn’t control what food was available to us, but ate what we could out of necessity. The matzah enables us to taste slavery— to imagine what it means to be denied our right to live free and healthy lives.

But, while we will soon enjoy a large meal and end the seder night as free people, millions of people around the world can not leave the affliction of hunger behind. Let us awaken to their cries and declare:

Kol dichfin yeitei v’yeichol —let all who are hungry, come and eat. As we sit at our seder and contemplate our people’s transition from slavery to freedom, let us hope for a time when all who are hungry will eat as free people. Let us hope:

Let all people gain autonomy over their sources of sustenance.

Let local farms flourish and local economies strengthen.

Let exploitation of natural resources cease so that the land may nourish its inhabitants.

Let communities bolster themselves against the destruction wrought by flood and drought.

Let our world leaders recognize food as a basic human right and implement policies and programs that put an end to world hunger.

Hashata avdei - this year we are still slaves. Leshanah haba'ah b'nei chorin - next year we will be free people.

"The key to the nexus between grains and states lies, I believe, in the fact that only cereal grains can serve as a basis for taxation: visible, divisible, assessable, storable, transportable, and "rationale."...The fact that cereal grains grow above ground and ripen at roughly the same time makes the job of any would-be-tax-man that much easier. If the army or the tax officials arrive at the right time, they can cut, thresh, and confiscate the entire harvest in one operation...The "above-ground" simultaneous ripening of cereal grains has the inestimable advantage of being legible and assessable by the state tax collectors. These characteristics are what make wheat, barley, rice, millet, and maize the premier political crops."

Memory is not a static deposit; it is neither rules nor happenings that confront us unchanging. Jews continually re-remember; we retell and recast our past in light of changing communal experience and changing communal values.

Magid, the Hebrew word for “story,” is at the root of the word haggadah. We are commanded to tell the story of the Exodus as though each of us were personally liberated from Egypt. Hasidic tradition holds that not only did God speak the universe into being in the time before time, but God continues to speak us into existence even now. In re-telling the story of the Exodus, we speak ourselves into our communal past.

The magid is started with the four questions. This song is in Hebrew and is traditionally sung by the youngest at the table. This is done to encourage the asking of questions, an integral component to a Passover seder. Traditionally, the youngest asks the questions - since Zora is the youngest (and also likely the wisest), could Starsha and Andrei read the four questions? 

We know the question, and we know the answers, but we ask anyway because there is always something to learn. No matter how “wise” we become, we must remember to question.

The four questions are centered around one general idea: Why is this night different from all other nights?

Song - Ma Nishtanah

Mah nishtanah ha-lai-lah ha-zeh mi-kol ha-layloht, mi-kol ha-layloht?

(Why is this night different from all other nights?)

1. Sheh-b'khol ha-layloht anu okhlin chameytz u-matzah, chameytz u-matzah.

Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, kooloh matzah? (x2)

(Why is it that on all other nights during the year we eat either bread or matzah, but on this night we eat only matzah?)

2. Sheh-b'khol ha-layloht anu okhlin sh'ar y'rakot, sh'ar y'rakot.

Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, maror? (x2)

(Why is it that on all other nights we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night we eat only bitter herbs?)

3. Sheh-b'khol ha-layloht ayn anu mat'bilin afilu pa'am echat, afilu pa'am echat.

Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, sh'tay p'amim? (x2)

(Why is it that on all other nights we do not dip our herbs even once, but on this night we dip them twice?)

4. Sheh-b'khol ha-layloht anu okhlin bayn yosh'bin u'vayn m'soobin, bayn yosh'bin u'vayn m'soobin.

Halahylah hazeh, halahylah ha-zeh, koolanu m'soobin? (x2)

(Why is it that on all other nights we eat either sitting or reclining, but on this night we eat in a reclining position?)

Why is tonight different from all other nights?

Youngest/S&A: On all other nights we eat leavened bread and matzah. Why on this night only matzah?

All: We were slaves. We were slaves in Mitzrayim. Our mothers in their flight from bondage in Mitzrayim did not have time to let the dough rise. With not a moment to spare they snatched up the dough they had prepared and fled. But the hot sun beat as they carried the dough along with them and baked it into the flat unleavened bread we call matzah. In memory of this, we eat only matzah, no bread, during Passover. This matzah represents our rush to freedom.

Youngest/S&A: On all other nights we eat all kinds of vegetables. Why on this night do we make certain to eat bitter herbs?

All: We were slaves. We eat maror to remind us how bitter our ancestors’ lives were made by their enslavement in Mitzrayim.

Youngest/S&A: On all other nights we do not usually dip food once. Why on this night do we dip twice?

All: We were slaves. The first time we dip our greens to taste the brine of enslavement. We also dip to remind ourselves of all life and growth, of earth and sea, which gives us sustenance and comes to life again in the springtime. The second time we dip the maror into the charoset. The charoset reminds us of the mortar that our ancestors mixed as slaves in Mitzrayim. But our charoset is made of fruit and nuts, to show us that our ancestors were able to withstand the bitterness of slavery because it was sweetened by the hope of freedom.

Youngest/S&A: On all other nights we sit on straight chairs. Why on this night do we relax and recline on pillows during the seder?

All: Avadot hayinu. We were slaves. Long ago, the wealthy Romans rested on couches during their feasts. Slaves were not allowed to rest, not even while they ate. Since our ancestors were freed from slavery, we recline to remind ourselves that we, like our ancestors, can overcome bondage in our own time.

We also recline to remind ourselves that rest and rejuvenation are vital to continuing our struggles. We should take pleasure in reclining, even as we share our difficult stories.

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways, a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shithole, chirps on about good bones: This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.

In recounting our story, let us consider that we are traditionally instructed to tell it to four children, one wise, one simple, one wicked and one innocent.

The wise child asks: How can I learn more about our people? To that child you shall direct our wealth of

literature so that they may seek out this knowledge for themself.

The simple child asks: What is this all about? To that child you shall say simply , because we had faith we

were redeemed from slavery.

The wicked child asks: What good is this to you? To that child you shall say, do not exclude yourself by

saying "to you" but say instead "to us", for only together can we succeed.

The innocent child does not know how to ask. For this child you shall tell them that we were taken out of

Egypt so that we could be free.

Say to all of the children, that you may know who you are, get wisdom, get understanding and it shall

preserve you, love it and it shall keep you.

1.Once upon a time our people went into galut, exile, in the land of Egypt. During a famine our ancestor Jacob and his family fled to Egypt where food was plentiful. His son Joseph had risen to high position in Pharaoh’s court, and our people were well respected and well-regarded, secure in the power structure of the time.

2. Generations passed and our people remained in Egypt. In time, a new Pharaoh ascended to the throne. He found our difference threatening, and ordered our people enslaved. In fear of rebellion, Pharaoh decreed that all Hebrew boy-children be killed. Two midwives named Shifrah and Puah defied his orders, claiming that “the Hebrew women are so hardy, they give birth before we arrive!” Through their courage, a boy survived; midrash tells us he was radiant with light. Fearing for his safety, his family placed him in a basket and he floated down the Nile. He was found, and adopted, by Pharaoh’s daughter, who named him Moshe because min ha-mayim m’shitihu, from the water she drew him forth. She hired his mother Yocheved as his wet-nurse. Thus he survived to adulthood, and was raised as Prince of Egypt.

3. Although a child of privilege, as he grew he became aware of the slaves who worked in the brickyards of his father. When he saw an overseer mistreat a slave, he struck the overseer and killed him. Fearing retribution, he set out across the Sinai alone. God spoke to him from a burning bush, which though it flamed was not consumed. The Voice called him to lead the Hebrew people to freedom. Moses argued with God, pleading inadequacy, but God disagreed. Sometimes our responsibilities choose us.

4. Moses returned to Egypt and went to Pharaoh to argue the injustice of slavery. He gave Pharaoh a mandate which resounds through history: Let my people go. Pharaoh refused, and Moses warned him that Mighty God would strike the Egyptian people. These threats were not idle: ten terrible plagues were unleashed upon the Egyptians. Only when his nation lay in ruins did Pharaoh agree to our liberation.

5. Fearful that Pharaoh would change his mind, our people fled, not waiting for their bread dough to rise. (For this reason we eat unleavened bread as we take part in their journey.) Our people did not leave Egypt alone; a “mixed multitude” went with them. From this we learn that liberation is not for us alone, but for all the nations of the earth. Even Pharaoh’s daughter came with us, and traded her old title (bat-Pharaoh, daughter of Pharaoh) for the name Batya, “daughter of God.”

6. Pharaoh’s army followed us to the Sea of Reeds. We plunged into the waters. Only when we had gone as far as we could did the waters part for us. We mourn, even now, that Pharaoh’s army drowned: our liberation is bittersweet because people died in our pursuit.

7. To this day we relive our liberation, that we may not become complacent, that we may always rejoice in our freedom.

Midrash teaches that, while watching the Egyptians succumb to the ten plagues, the angels broke into songs of jubilation. God rebuked them, saying “My creatures are perishing, and you sing praises?”

As we recite each plague, we spill a drop of wine—symbol of joy—from our cups. Our joy in our liberation will always be tarnished by the pain visited upon the Egyptians.

We are about to recite the ten plagues. As we call out the words, we remove ten drops from our overflowing cups, not by tilting the cup and spilling some out, but with our fingers. This dipping is not food into food. It is personal and intimate, a momentary submersion like the first step into the Red Sea.

dam – blood

tzfardeyah – frogs

kinim – lice

arov – wild beasts

dever – cattle disease

sh’chin – boils

barad – hail

arbeh – locusts

choshech – darkness

makat b’chorot – slaying of the first-born

The Pharaoh of the Passover story is not just a cruel king who happened to live in a certain country. The Pharaoh that our ancestors pictured, each and every year, for century after century was for them every tyrant, every cruel and heartless ruler who ever enslaved the people of his or another country. And this is why Passover means the emancipation of all people in the world from the tyranny of kings, oppressors and tyrants. The first emancipation was only a foreshadowing of all the emancipations to follow, and a reminder that the time will come when right will conquer might, and all people will live in trust and peace.

What does this mean, "It would have been enough"? Surely no one of these would indeed have been enough for us. Dayenu means to celebrate each step toward freedom as if it were enough, then to start out on the next step. It means that if we reject each step because it is not the whole liberation, we will never be able to achieve the whole liberation. It means to sing each verse as if it were the whole song—and then sing the next verse.

Dayeinu is a song of gratitude.

A Jewish philosopher was once asked, “What is the opposite of hopelessness?” And he said, “ Dayeinu,” the ability to be thankful for what we have and what we are.

Had God:

Brought us out of Egypt and not divided the sea for us—Dayenu

Divided the sea and not permitted us to cross on dry land—Dayenu

Permitted us to cross on dry land and not sustained us for forty years in the desert—Dayenu

Sustained us for forty years in the desert and not fed us with manna—Dayenu

Fed us with manna and not given us the Sabbath—Dayenu

Given us the Sabbath and not brought us to Mount Sinai—Dayenu

Brought us to Mount Sinai and not given us the Torah—Dayenu

Given us the Torah and not led us into the land of Israel—Dayenu

Led us into the land of Israel and not built for us the Temple—Dayenu

Built for us the Temple and not sent us prophets of truth—Dayenu

Sent us prophets of truth and not made us a holy people—Dayenu

For all these, alone and together, we say—Dayenu

A cup to our teachers: To those we have known and those whose work has inspired us, and made space for our lives. We are grateful to you who did and said tings for the first, who claimed and reclaimed our traditions, who forged new tools. Thank you to the teachers around us of all ages - the people we encounter everyday - who live out their values in small and simple ways, and who are our most regular and loving reminders of the world we are creating together.

אֱלֹהֵינו†ּמֶלֶך†ְהָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא†פְּרִי†הַגָפֶּן. †¨ְָ בָּרוך†ְּאַתָּה†יי

Baruch atah, Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei p’ri hagafen.

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.

[After the blessing, drink a sip or the whole glass, however you prefer, and then refill.

Let's remember not only the teachers that have touched us each individually but the collective position of teachers today. Public school teachers in West Virginia, Oklahoma, and other states go on or continue to strike for much needed increases in class room support and wages. Right now, we acknowledge and support the value of publicly accessible education and the difficult position of those forced to choose between demanding structural improvements and providing the much needed daily labor of teaching.

Why do we eat matzah? Because during the Exodus, our ancestors had no time to wait for dough to rise.

So they improvised flat cakes without yeast, which could be baked and consumed in haste. The matzah reminds us that when the chance for liberation comes, we must seize it even if we do not feel ready—indeed, if we wait until we feel fully ready, we may never act at all.

אֱלֹהֵינו†ּרוח†הָעוֹלָם, הַמּוֹצִיא†לֶחֶם†מִן†הָאָרֶץ: †¨ְָ בְָּרוך†ְּאַתָּה†יי

Baruch atah, Adonai eloheinu,melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.

Blessed are you, Adonai, Breath of Life, who brings forth bread from the earth.

אֱלֹהֵינו†ּרוח†הָעוֹלָם, אֲשֶׁר†קִדְשָּׁנו†ּבְּמִצְוֹתַָיו†וצְִונוָּ†ּעַל†אֲכִילַת†מַצָהּ: †¨ְָ בָּרוך†ְּאַתָּה†יי

Baruch atah, Adonai eloheinu, melech ha’olam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu al achilat matzah.

Blessed are you, Adonai, Breath of Life, who sanctifies us with the commandment to eat matzah.

Everyone eats a piece of matzah

TIME TO EAT!

This is a cup to ourselves, to all of us at this seder tonight, to the present moment. We got to love ourselves. We can take a moment and honour our lives, our communities, and our bodies. The things that make us who we are. Our uniqueness, our sameness. Our commitments. Note the parts of ourselves that have come from our ancestors/past/families, the parts we have been taught to hate, the parts we’ve been taught to love. Think about something you love about yourself.

.נבְָרֵך†אֵת†עֵין†הָחַיִים, מָצְמִיחַת†פְרִי†הַגָפֶן

N’varekh et ayn ha-chayyim, matzmichat pri hagafen.

Let us bless the source of life that ripens fruit on the vine.

:בָּרוךּ†ְאַתָּה†ייְ¨ָ†אֱלֹהֵינו†ּמֶלֶך†ְהָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא†פְּרִי†הַגָפֶּן

Baruch atah, Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei pri hagafen.

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.

Remember Elijah’s and Miriam's Cups?

Here, we welcome Elijah and Miriam in, asking for their help in ushering in the dawn of a new day, a day of freedom and liberation.

We can now open the door and sing the following:

Eliyahu ha-navi

Eliyahu ha-tishbi

Eliyahu, Eliyahu

Eliyahu ha-giladi

Bimhera b’yameinu

Yahvoh eleinu

Im mashiach ben David

Im mashiach bat Sarah

Miriam ha-Neviya

Oz v’zimra v’yada

Miriam tirkod itanu l’hagdil zimrat olam

Miriam tirkod itabu l’taken et ha’olam

Bimhera b’yameinu

Hi t’vi’einu elmei ha-yishua

This is a cup to the future, a cup for perseverance. To uprooting oppression and transforming all of our living cultures. 

We refuse to leave behind any of our people who do not look or desire or move or speak or believe the way we do. We refuse to be left behind ourselves. We are powerful agents of change, and we are transforming our cultures to be so just, so free, so beautiful, that we cannot even fully imagine them right now. Let us savour this taste of the freedom that is to come. Let us never lose our conviction that the world we dream of, the ‘world to come’, is coming, right now, through each of us.

:בָּרוךּ†ְאַתָּה†ייְ¨ָ†אֱלֹהֵינו†ּמֶלֶך†ְהָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא†פְּרִי†הַגָפֶּן

Baruch atah, Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, borei pri hagafen.

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.