As we sit down to this Seder it's impossible to ignore that this is our *second annual* Zoom Seder. In the time between last Seder and this Seder, our beloved planet has lost more than two and a half million people to a virus which has laid bare so many of the difficulties, discriminatory structures, and pressure points in our world and its economies and varied governments. Even with movements for justice around the world continuing and taking on even more and new missions during this time, our grief cannot be ignored. 

It is difficult to embark on an ultimately celebratory holiday ritual without recognizing this. We cannot ever be asked or ask each other to leave our grief at the door. If anything has become clear over the last year it's that our grief accompanies us wherever we go -- and if we've only learned this in the last year let us reflect on how even that is a sign of privilege. 

Like anything, grief can be a powerful tool, a (terrible) lesson in empathy, perhaps even a call to action. 

And so this year it feels appropriate to set aside some time for our grief. Whether we need to name it and set it aside or use it as a guide through this evening's ritual, or something completely else -- grief is nothing if not individualized and mysterious --  let us give it the respect it deserves. 

The Mourners' Kaddish has been said for centuries by the living on behalf of the dead in which the dead and death are not mentioned even once. It is a prayer for divinity and for peace. 

While many only say the Mourner's Kaddish when they are ritually and personally in mourning, the ritual has been claimed by many to recognize the ways that grief lives in our everyday lives, so if you are moved to, please feel free. Let's take a moment to collect, quietly and individually, the things that we are mourning. Feel free to type these things into the chat. 

יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא. [ קהל:  אמן]
בְּעָלְמָא דִּי בְרָא כִרְעוּתֵהּ וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ בְּחַיֵּיכון וּבְיומֵיכון וּבְחַיֵּי דְכָל בֵּית יִשרָאֵל בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב, וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל:  אמן]
קהל ואבל:  יְהֵא שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא מְבָרַךְ לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא:
אבל:  יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִשְׁתַּבַּח וְיִתְפָּאַר וְיִתְרומַם וְיִתְנַשּא וְיִתְהַדָּר וְיִתְעַלֶּה וְיִתְהַלָּל שְׁמֵהּ דְּקֻדְשָׁא. בְּרִיךְ הוּא. [ קהל:  בריך הוא:]
לְעֵלָּא מִן כָּל בִּרְכָתָא  בעשי”ת: לְעֵלָּא לְעֵלָּא מִכָּל  וְשִׁירָתָא תֻּשְׁבְּחָתָא וְנֶחֱמָתָא דַּאֲמִירָן בְּעָלְמָא. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל:  אמן]
יְהֵא שְׁלָמָא רַבָּא מִן שְׁמַיָּא וְחַיִּים עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
עושה שָׁלום  בעשי”ת: הַשָּׁלום  בִּמְרומָיו הוּא יַעֲשה שָׁלום עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל:  אמן]

Translation (by Lab/Shul): 

May our lives reflect the greatness of divine mystery everywhere, sparks within the process of creation 

May the world be ruled by our highest aspirations, soon, in our lifetimes, and so we say: Amen 

May the divine be known as a fountain of blessings: praised, honored, beautified, elevated, and exalted beyond any song or description that has ever been honored, and so we say: Amen 

May an all-embracing peace shower down from the heavens refreshing the lives of all beings on earth. 

May the source of peace inspire us to find and create peace for ourselves and for our community and for all beings on earth, and so we say: Amen

We pause to take a deep breath in acknowledgement of the circumstances that brought us together, welcoming all who join this ritual, honoring all who are remembered, and celebrating the privilege of being alive.

-

If you brought a candle, please place it in front of (or near) you now.

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. To create from fire, not the heat of destruction, but the light of instruction; indeed to see more clearly the wisdom, strength and caring that glows from within each of us.

May these candles, lit on the Festival of Freedom, bring light into our hearts and minds. May they renew our courage to act for justice and freedom here and now. May they illuminate the path to truth, justice and peace. And so we repeat the ancient blessing:

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָּנוּ לְהַדְלִיק נֵר שֶׁל יוֹם טוֹב

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

A blessing: in the Presence of the Infinite, we treasure our sacred tradition as we ignite the healing light of this sacred night.

Shehechianu is a tool for marking time and achievement, lifecycles, other annual cycles, and moments of gratitude. It's been used this way for thousands of years. Tonight, we mark an annual cycle that somehow gives us the opportunity to begin something anew. To mark gratitude - amidst, even despite - and celebrate that we made it here, to this moment. 

There are seemingly infinite blessings that Jewish liturgy offers us to mark the variety of experiences of being a human on this planet - from this rather vague and all-purpose blessing to the specific blessings for seeing the ocean or a rainbow. Then on top of that are the countless "tkhines," or individual prayers, that have been written by average folks for hundreds of years - from blessings for the safety to a blessing @decolonizingjewishness wrote last year for burning a flag on July 4th. What blessings will you write this year? 
 

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, shehecheyanu, v'kiy'manu, v'higianu laz'man hazeh.

It is such a blessing that we live and are uplifted, that we are sustained by this world, and that we found our way here, for this moment.

Amen

In anticipation of Passover’s ritual cleansing and rebirth, (some) Jews scour their homes to remove every last crumb of chametz (leavened bread). Spiritually, chametz is associated with inflated ego or pride (just as the leavened bread itself is inflated). We are invited to free ourselves of our own psychological chametz, some elements of our own “puffed up” nature. This is similar to the process of Cheshbon HaNefesh (“accounting of the soul”) that we do before Yom Kippur. What patterns or beliefs would you like to free yourself of?

We’ll go around and ask everyone to introduce themselves and then say at least one other thing - either something you thought of that you’d like to leave behind, or if you don’t feel comfortable sharing that, feel free to say whatever is on your mind. Does someone want to start? And then we can popcorn after that (they will pass it to someone, who will speak and then pass it on to someone else, and so on).

We are still in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic. This means we’ve had to get a little creative with how we celebrate this traditionally in-person holiday.
 

Those who have experienced a seder before may remember that the question "Why is this night different from all other nights?" is a key part of Passover. This year, we also pose the question “'How does the choice to gather virtually for this year's seder provide us with new insights into the essence of the Passover story?'"

We’re not necessarily looking to re-understand the Passover story in a historical sense, but to explore how the story lives in ourselves. We’re not asking for you to come up with answers (Judaism is all about wrestling with questions) - we’re just inviting you to be here with as much of an open mind and an open heart as you are able, knowing that this year’s seder will inevitably be different than any other.

Rabbi Charlie Schwartz points out, “The Seder was developed over 2,000 years ago following the destruction of the Temple as a home-based replacement for the Paschal sacrifice. At its core, the Seder is trying to give access to an experience that is impossible to fully recreate. The Seder as we know it is the result of a world of rapidly changing needs, and the product of incredible innovation and imagination to address those needs. This was as true 2,000 years ago as it is today.” Zoom is just the newest example of an innovation that allows us to continue to celebrate the holiday today, in fact allowing us to gather with people we wouldn't normally have around our family seder tables, and for that we are grateful.

Rabbi Rachel Grant Meyer says, "The whole idea of matzah is that we make something out of nothing – if our dough doesn’t have time to rise, we strap it to our back and eat it unleavened. Similarly, I see the presence of a computer screen as making abundance out of what could have seemed like nothing."

Adapted from: https://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2020/04/03/coronavirus-passover-virtual-seders-zoom-column/5106887002/ https://mashable.com/article/zoom-passover-seder-how-to/

Tonight

Passover is Judaism’s most widely celebrated holiday and it's most dramatic blockbuster. Infanticide! Blood rivers! An 11th hour parting of a sea! And the Passover seder is Judaism’s ultimate experience of radical storytelling, playing wildly with form and encouraging us to lose ourselves in the story as we pour wine with a joyfully heavy hand.

By reenacting the Israelites’ dramatic escape to freedom in an elaborate dinner ritual, Passover makes sure we engage all five of our senses. Why? Because on Passover, we’re meant to remember that we left Egypt personally.

We will use this Haggadah (“telling”), to not just retell an ancient story. We are commanded to tell the story as if we ourselves had experienced the transformation from slavery to freedom. We are asked to viscerally engage and acknowledge the bitterness of oppression and the sweetness of freedom so we may better understand the hope and courage of all people, of all generations, in their quest for liberty, security, and human rights. 

How do we do this?

One way is to look to the past and imagine ourselves as participants in the story of the Exodus: by tasting the bitter herbs, we taste the bitterness of hard labor and servitude. By eating the matzah, we eat the bread of affliction and poverty, which also was the bread of the Israelites' flight to freedom. By reciting Dayenu (“enough”), we sing of our joy at the many gifts the universe provided along the way.

Another way to experience the transformation from slavery to freedom, is to look to the present : in what ways are we enslaved today? How can we create freedom and justice in the present? We can think of too many situations that call for more freedom and justice in today's world.

In addition, what if we used the seder not only to feel as if we personally were present in the Exodus from Egypt, but also to experience ourselves in the future our grandchildren will live in, with all of the issues we are neglecting to work on now? Right now, in this generation, let us look upon ourselves as sitting side-by-side with those who’ll gather around our families’ seder tables in two or three generations.

“This year we are slaves”

“This year we are slaves” is a common phrase seen in many Haggadahs, speaking to the commandment to tell the story of Passover as if we ourselves were freed from slavery in Egypt.

What do these words mean? We are slaves because yesterday our people were in slavery and memory makes yesterday real for us. But we are also slaves because today there are still people in chains around the world and no one can be truly free while others are in chains. And we are slaves because freedom means more than broken chains. Where there is white supremacy, racism, and xenophobia, there is no freedom. Where there is homophobia and transphobia, there is no freedom. Where there is poverty and hunger and homelessness, there is no freedom; where there is violence and trauma and war, there is no freedom. And where each of us is less than who we might be, we are not free, not yet. 

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

As you may notice, many of the blessings that we’ve put in here are more abstract + “God-optional”. But the word “God” will still appear in passages I’ve clipped (borrowed) from other Haggadahs.   

When the word “God” comes up, please think of something that gives you a sense of awe in your life, whether it be nature, a belief in a complexity that you don't understand, the universe, oneness, a belief in humanity, your definition of God, or something else. Use whatever word or phrase feels best for you. This night is for everyone. 

“ If the concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving. " - James Baldwin

Start at 1:10

End at 5:01

Traditional items:

Matzah: The bread of haste as the slaves did not have time to let their bread rise before escaping mitzrayim (Hebrew for Egypt, or narrow place). Also, a reminder of the people currently fleeing their homes throughout the world due to war and violence, taking only what they can carry.

Karpas: Represents the struggle for all of us to get out of our mitzrayim/narrow-mindedness. Traditionally, it's used to remember the initial flourishing of the Hebrews in mitzrayim. In the course of the seder, we dip the karpas in salt water in order to taste both the hope of new birth and the tears that the Hebrew slaves shed over their condition.

Charoset: A mixture of chopped nuts, apples, agave, and spices. Charoset is used to symbolize the mortar used to layer bricks which was done by the Hebrew slaves.

Maror: This bitter herb (cilantro) allows us to taste the bitterness of slavery. Like life in mitzrayim, these lettuces and roots taste sweet when one first bites into them, but then become bitter as one eats more. We dip maror into haroset in order to associate the bitterness of slavery with the work that caused so much of this bitterness.

Z'roa: The blood-red color of a roasted beet is certainly symbolic of the blood shed as well as the blood smeared over the doors of the people the Angel of Death was to pass over.

Beitzah: An avocado pit that symbolizes the second sacrifice, which would be offered on every holiday (including Passover) when the Temple stood. The roundness of the avocado pit also represents the cycle of life--even in the most painful of times, there is always hope for a new beginning.

New additions:

Orange: The orange reminds of the importance of inclusion of LGBTQIA+ folks in our community.

It all started with a story from Oberlin College in the early 1980's. Dr. Susannah Heschel was speaking at the Hillel, and while there, she came across a haggadah written by some Oberlin students to bring a feminist voice into the holiday. In it, a story is told about a young girl who asks a Rebbe what room there is in Judaism for a lesbian. The Rebbe rises in anger and shouts, "There's as much room for a lesbian in Judaism as there is for a crust of bread on the seder plate." 

Though Heschel was inspired by the idea behind the story, she couldn't follow it literally. Besides the fact that it would make everything-the dish, the table, the meal, the house-unkosher for Passover, it carried a message that lesbians were a violation of Judaism itself, that these women were infecting the community with something impure.

So, the next year, Heschel put an orange on the family seder plate, "I chose an orange because it suggests the fruitfulness for all Jews when [LGBTQIA+ individuals] 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.

Tomato: The tomato is a symbol of modern-day slavery, representing the migrant workers who suffer abuse at the hands of a consumer market that demands fruits and vegetables without regard for how the pickers are treated.

Olive: An olive represents the oppression of Palestinians at the hands of the Israeli Government. It reminds us to ask: “How will we, as Jews, bear witness to the unjust actions committed in our name? Will these olives inspire us to be bearers of peace and hope for Palestinians — and for all who are oppressed?” ( The Forward, Put an Olive on the Seder Plate )fcf

Lock and Key: We place the lock and key on our seder plate tonight to ally ourselves with those who are behind bars, with those who are labelled as felons in the community, and with the parents, children, and other family members of those who are locked up and locked out. The key represents our commitment, as Jews who know a history of oppression, to join the movement to end mass incarceration in the United States. The key reminds us of our potential to unlock a more promising, dignified future for us all. ( RitualWell )

Sources:
- A Seder For and By Us: Kavod Jews of Color, Indigenous Jews, Mizrahim, & Sephardim 2019/5579 (https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Md2LqouIjcsf1iKjqu0UhRl02DMz4gxh/view)
- http://thevword.net/2014/03/how-to-make-a-vegan-seder-plate-plus-a-recipe-for-charoset.html
- https://www.juf.org/news/world.aspx?id=414773

The Space Between Us

Yes, the space between us is scary.

It is odd and at odds, 

an area unoccupied where all things exist. 

But the space between us is also liminal, 

a threshold between old and new.

And so, in this space anything is possible: 

to grow without gathering, 

to connect without congregating, 

to create without convening. 

Which means the space between is sacred.

Yes, the space between us is scary.

But scared and sacred are so close —

and we need to make space for both. 

–Rabbi Jessica Minnen

Fill the first glass of wine/grape juice/drink of choice

The text of the Kiddush reminds us that the choice to uphold the sacred is in our hands. We do not directly bless wine, or praise its sweetness. Rather, we thank God for the fruit of the vine. That fruit can also be used to make vinegar, which is sharp and bitter. Our actions determine whether this sacred moment in time inspires bitterness or sweetness, complacency or action.

Adapted from T’ruah, The Rabbincal Call for Human Rights

There are four cups of wine that we drink at our Pesach Seder that can represent a journey through the four worlds of Kabbalistic mysticism (Assiah, Yetzirah, B’riah, and Atziluth). This is a progressive movement from a state of contraction to a state of expansion - mirroring both the experience of transitioning from Winter to Spring, the process of Liberation from Bondage AND the experience of opening after the constraints of quarantine/ social distancing. 

First Cup of Wine - Assiah (Physical)

To be a physical entity, to be in a body, is to be in the experience of the infinite surrendered to finite in order to allow for our form.  As we speak the blessing on this first cup and drink, we fully arrive in our bodies, in order to begin this journey. We notice the tangible experience: The weight of the cup in the hand, the vibrations in the throat as we sing the blessing, the flavor of the drink

Lift up your glass.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָּפֶן

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

A toast: in the Presence of the Infinite, we savor the blessing of transformation: vine to wine.

If anyone would like to share their own toast, please unmute and do so. Otherwise, go ahead and drink the first glass of wine/grape juice/etc.!

The beginning of the seder seems strange. We started with Kiddush as we normally would when we begin any festive meal. But now we are going to wash our hands without a blessing, dip vegetables in salt water, and break matzah 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 karpas (vegetables), yachatz (breaking matzah), and maggid (storytelling). Only once we have told the story do we make Kiddush again, wash our hands again (this time with a blessing) and break matzah and eat it. The meaning is clear: In order to savor this meal, in order to appreciate the sweet taste of Passover, we must first understand it.

— Adapted from Rabbi Rona Shapiro

Everyone who would like to may get up and wash their hands.

We will now go through the seder plate, exploring and blessing each item. In Judaism we offer blessings of gratitude to elevate and to sanctify. It is through this expression of gratitude, for having access to each item and acknowledging the divinity of it, that it becomes holy. May these next several blessings not only sanctify what’s before us, but also remind us of our power to elevate our lives by feeling and expressing our gratitude.

We dip a vegetable in salt water to remember the tears of oppression. That we dip these first sprigs of spring - reminds us that ritual, lifecycles, and growth all happen in and with our tears. They're tears of empathy for our ancestors and for the plight of those who are enslaved, who are strangers, who are wanderers, who are laboring in narrow places. Parts of all these live in us, reminding us that we're never alone.

Remember that we weren’t the first generation to face challenges. Pause to appreciate the privilege of food on our plate.

Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu ruach ha’olam bore p’ri ha’adamah

In the Presence of the Infinite, we savor the flavor of the fruits of our earth.

Take the middle matzah and break it into two, one piece larger than the other.

The larger piece is set aside to serve as Afikoman - which is Greek for "dessert." This is traditionally hidden, sought, found, and held for ransom at the end of the Seder - ransom because the Afikomen is the dessert which must be eaten last, in order to officially end the holiday meal.

The smaller piece is put back, between the two matzot. This smaller piece, along with the top matzah is what will be used for the “Motzi-Matzah” and “Korech”

We haven't even started telling our Passover story yet but at this moment we are creating our dessert, holding up the last thing that we'll eat tonight, and hiding it away from ourselves. There's a lot here - and in this life right now generally - about delayed gratification. Not that matzah is the sexiest dessert, and not that we don't have what to do before we get there. But, here we see that the night will end. We can't rush the process of what's going on around us, but knowing that it will end with this final mouthful is a comfort in its own way. 

Yachatz also brings up the age-old and sacred concept of brokenness. We enact a breaking that is mandated. We create unevenness, something that wasn't there before - our dessert - and a promise of a process we begin to experience now through questioning and storytelling. 

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.

Written by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat

The Torah’s account of the Israelites’ escape from Egypt is considered the founding story of the Jewish people. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks points out, the Book of Exodus is the first time the Torah refers to the Israelities as an “Am”, meaning “a people,” or “a nation.” Passover, the holiday dedicated to retelling this Exodus story, is “the festival of Jewish identity,” Sacks writes. “It is the night on which we tell our children who they are.” We tell them the following: you were a stranger and a slave in Egypt, and you must always retain that sensibility, you must always identify with the outsider, the other, the abused and oppressed.

While the word “Haggadah” means “to tell,” and “seder” means “order,” the Haggadah is by no means an orderly retelling of the Exodus story. Instead, it is a mishmash of Torah verses, Talmud passages, medieval poetry, and even children’s songs. One commentator, comparing the Haggadah to “a cubist composition,” writes, “Rejecting standard narrative, it presents us with an ensemble of interlocking facet-like passages and ritual acts. Each one refers to an important aspect of the story but relates to adjacent sections in a seemingly disjointed fashion.” If you didn’t already know the plot of the Exodus story, I’m not sure you would be able to piece it together by reading through a traditional Haggadah. I think this is what the seder is supposed to do to us. It’s not so much about ensuring that we know the story, but that we feel it- that we’re left with a visceral, lingering sense of how it feels to be on the wrong end of oppressive power. So while the Haggadah is a helpful jumping-off point, we’re responsible for retelling this story in our own words, in a way that inscribes its trauma on our souls.

Hold matzah.

We are raising this bread of affliction, eaten by our ancestors when they were enslaved in the narrow place, the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are in need, come and passover with us. This year, we are here. This year, we are still enslaved. Next year, we yearn to be free.

Pour the second glass of wine/grape juice/drink of choice.

The Haggadah focuses on the all-powerful, supernatural God who hears the Israelites’ cries, sends the plagues, and splits the sea. But that is not an accurate reflection of the biblical narrative, which also features a number of human characters who choose, at great risk, to protect the values of Egypt and identify with the stranger:

- the midwives [Shifra and Puah], who refuse to follow Pharoah’s order to drown all newborn Israelite boys in the Nile

- Moses’ mother, Yokheved, who follows the letter of Pharaoh’s order but subeverts its purpose by placing Moses in a protective basket that keeps him from drowning

- Pharaoh’s daughter, Batya, who knows full well that Moses is an Israelite and has the audacity to rescue him and raise him in her father’s household, defying his law right under his nose.

- Miriam, who has the gumption to approach this Egyptian princess and convince her to hire Moses’ own mother as a wet nurse

- Moses, who was raised in Egyptian royalty, yet risks his position of privilege to defend an Israelite slave 

It wasn’t just God’s actions that led to the Israelites’ liberation, but the courageous acts of these human characters as well. The Torah repeatedly instructs us to tell our children about the Exodus, to embed this story firmly at the core of their Jewish identity, teaching them that our ancient plight as strangers and slaves must still form the basis of our moral orientation today. But I think we also need to remind our children that even in conditions of crushing oppression, some of the Israelites resisted, and there were righteous people who helped them. That too is our story. That too is part of who we are and who we must aspire to be.

It has been said that the ultimate testament to freedom is the ability to ask questions. A person with all the answers has no need to ask questions, and is therefore not free to think for themselves, to wonder, and to open their mind to the possibility of learning something new. It is a blessing to us to be free enough to question the world around us, to learn more for ourselves, and to seek the answers to things that perplex us. 

The formal telling of the story of Passover is framed as a discussion with lots of questions and answers. The tradition that the youngest person asks the questions reflects the centrality of involving everyone in the seder. The rabbis who created the set format for the seder gave us the Four Questions to help break the ice in case no one had their own questions. Asking questions is a core tradition in Jewish life. If everyone at your seder is around the same age, perhaps the person with the least seder experience can ask them – or everyone can sing them all together.

מַה נִּשְׁתַּנָּה הַלַּֽיְלָה הַזֶּה מִכָּל הַלֵּילות

Ma nishtana halaila hazeh mikol haleilot?

Why is this night different from all other nights?

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָֽנוּ אוֹכלין חָמֵץ וּמַצָּה  הַלַּֽיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻּלּוֹ מצה  

Shebichol haleilot anu ochlin chameitz u-matzah. Halaila hazeh kulo matzah.

On all other nights we eat both leavened bread and matzah.
Tonight we only eat matzah.

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָֽנוּ אוֹכְלִין שְׁאָר יְרָקוֹת הַלַּֽיְלָה הַזֶּה מָרוֹר

Shebichol haleilot anu ochlin shi’ar yirakot haleila hazeh maror.

On all other nights we eat all kinds of vegetables,
but tonight we eat bitter herbs.

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אֵין אָֽנוּ מַטְבִּילִין אֲפִילוּ פַּֽעַם אחָת  הַלַּֽיְלָה הַזֶּה שְׁתֵּי פְעמים

Shebichol haleilot ain anu matbilin afilu pa-am echat. Halaila hazeh shtei fi-amim.

On all other nights we aren’t expected to dip our vegetables one time.
Tonight we do it twice.

שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָֽנוּ אוֹכְלִין בֵּין יוֹשְׁבִין וּבֵין מְסֻבִּין.  :הַלַּֽיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻּלָּֽנוּ מְסֻבין

Shebichol haleilot anu ochlin bein yoshvin uvein m’subin. Halaila hazeh kulanu m’subin.

On all other nights we eat either sitting normally or reclining.
Tonight we recline.

As we tell the story, we think about it from all angles. Our tradition speaks of four different types of children who might react differently to the Passover seder. It is our job to make our story accessible to all the members of our community, so we think about how we might best reach each type of child:

What does the wise child say?

The wise child asks, What are the testimonies and laws which God commanded you?

You must teach this child the rules of observing the holiday of Passover.

What does the wicked child say?

The wicked child asks, What does this service mean to you?

To you and not to himself! Because he takes himself out of the community and misses the point, set this child’s teeth on edge and say to him: “It is because of what God did for me in taking me out of Egypt.” Me, not him. Had that child been there, he would have been left behind.

What does the simple child say?

The simple child asks, What is this?

To this child, answer plainly: “With a strong hand God took us out of Egypt, where we were slaves.”

What about the child who doesn’t know how to ask a question?

Help this child ask.

Start telling the story:

“It is because of what God did for me in taking me out of Egypt.”

-

Do you see yourself in any of these children? At times we all approach different situations like each of these children. How do we relate to each of them?

Do either resonate with you or offer different insights?

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 baby boys be killed. Two midwives named Shifrah and Puah defied his orders.  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 Moses because she drew him forth from the water.  Thanks to Moses' sister Miriam, Pharaoh's daughter hired their mother, Yocheved, as his wet-nurse. Thus he survived to adulthood, and was raised as Prince of Egypt.

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, Moses 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.

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.

Fearful that Pharaoh would change his mind, our people fled, not waiting for their bread dough to rise.  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.

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

By the Machar Congregation

Tonight we drink four cups of the fruit of the vine. There are many explanations for this custom. They may be seen as symbols of various things: the four corners of the earth, for freedom must live everywhere; the four seasons of the year, for freedom's cycle must last through all the seasons; the four elements: fire, water earth and air; or the four matriarchs: Sarah, Rebecca, Leah, and Rachel.

A full cup of wine symbolizes complete happiness. The triumph of Passover is diminished by the sacrifice of many human lives when ten plagues were visited upon the people of Egypt. In the story, the plagues that befell the Egyptians resulted from the decisions of tyrants, but the greatest suffering occurred among those who had no choice but to follow.

It is fitting that we mourn their loss of life, and express our sorrow over their suffering. For as Jews we cannot take joy in the suffering of others. Therefore, let us diminish the wine in our cups as we recall the ten plagues that befell the Egyptian people.

As we recite the name of each plague, in English and then in Hebrew, please dip a finger in your wine and then touch your plate to remove the drop.

Blood | dam | דּםָ
Frogs | tzfardeiya | עֽ ְַצ ַפְרֵדּ
Lִice | kinim | כּנִּים| 
Beasts | arov | ערוֹבָ
Cattle disease | dever | ברֶֶדּ
Boils | sh’chin | חיןִשְׁ
Hail | barad | ָבָּרד|
Locusts | arbeh | ְאַרֶבּה
Darkness | choshech |ְ שׁךֽ ֶחֹ
Death of the Firstborn | makat b’chorot | בּכוֹרוֹת ְכּתַמ

In previous seders and progressive traditions, we often now discuss "contemporary plagues" that confront us, naming racism, capitalism, misogyny, etc. But when we do that, we are identifying with Pharoah and viewing God, who brought the plagues to free the Israelites, as the enemy; as if God has brought forth racism, capitalism, misogyny, etc. to awaken and free us. Yet these systems and ideologies that plagues us today are man made. 

In the Passover story, we are *on the side of the plagues* which are necessary to break the stubborn will of evil tyrants and their defenders. The plagues are a reminder that liberation does not come bloodlessly. We are not smug or flip about the plagues - they are horrific and ugly - and we reduce our celebration and empty our cups in recognition of that. But if we're looking to understand today's struggles in light of the Passover story, we should not see racism, capitalism, misogyny, etc. as contemporary manifestations of the plagues brought by God, but as contemporary manifestations of Pharoah. And while a further parallel here might be to wish for divine intervention and new plagues that will break the regimes of our modern tyrants and systems of oppression, we must consider how we can step into our power ourselves.

Second Cup of Wine - Yetzirah (Formation Consciousness)

The Kabbalistic World of Formation is a space where all of our emotions are deities with consciousness all their own. Each emotion that is experienced in the physical world is an entity with its own nature. We experience our feelings as visitors.

As we speak the blessing on this second cup and drink, we are invited to get present with our emotional experience. We notice: What are the feelings here, as we join our voices in blessing? What are the sensations in my own heart? What tone do we sense in the room?  How is it to inhabit the shared emotional body that we’ve cultivated together in this ritual space?

Lift up your glass.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָּפֶן

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

A toast: in the Presence of the Infinite, we savor the blessing of transformation: vine to wine.

If anyone would like to share their own toast, please unmute and do so. Otherwise, go ahead and drink the second glass of wine/grape juice/etc.!

As we now transition from the formal telling of the Passover story to the celebratory meal, we once again wash our hands to prepare ourselves. A good meal together with friends and family is itself a sacred act, so we prepare for it just as we prepared for our holiday ritual, recalling the way ancient priests once prepared for service in the Temple.

Anyone who wishes to is welcome to wash their hands.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָֽׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו, וְצִוָּנוּ  עַל נְטִילַת יָדָֽיִם:

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al n’tilat yadayim.

Blessed are you, spirit of the world, who made us holy through simple deeds like the washing of our hands.

The Matza is our bread of paradox: It’s a poverty staple and our first taste of freedom, our worst memories and wildest hopes—all in one bite. As we raise this Matza, let’s consider: Where do we feel the paradox of constriction and liberation in our realities right now? How are we making due with what we can manage, even if it isn't perfect? And, what does it mean to have a ritual which elevates that? 

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.

A blessing: We celebrate the Source of all life, for bringing fourth bread from the earth.

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.

A taste: in the Presence of the Infinite, we partake in our sacred tradition by eating this Matza—the bread of paradox.

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

Scholars inform us that bitter herbs were eaten at the Spring festival in ancient times. The sharpness of the taste awakened the senses and made the people feel at one with nature's revival. Thus, maror is the stimulus of life, reminding us that struggle is better than the complacent acceptance of injustice.

Four Questions for Marror:
1. What are we most bitter about in our lives? 
2. How do we address and touch the bitterness we have as we go about our daily lives, where we aren't asked to think about bitterness?
3. What kind of bitterness do we put out into the world or impose onto others? 
4. As we prepare to dip the maror into the sweet charoset, what does it look like for us to temper our bitterness with sweetness? 

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.

A spoonful: in the Presence of the Infinite, we treasure our sacred tradition to eat this bitter root of hardship.

We now take some maror and charoset and put them between two pieces of matzah and give the sandwich to the person on our left. In doing this, we recall the sage Hillel who, in remembrance of the loss of the Temple, created the Korech sandwich. He said that by eating the Korech, we would taste the bitterness of slavery mixed with the sweetness of freedom. This practice suggests that part of the challenge of living is to taste freedom even in the midst of oppression, and to be ever conscious of the oppression of others even when we feel that we are free.

"On all other nights, we don't even dip once, but on this night we dip twice." Over the centuries, we have added the charoset - the sweet apple mixture - to our Seder elements to symbolize the mortar with which the Israelites toiled to build Pharaoh 's treasure cities. Let us again put some horseradish on a piece of matzah, but this time, let us dip a second time into the sweet charoset, and remember that even bitter circumstances are sweetened by hope. Let's all eat together.

Eating the meal! | shulchan oreich | שֻׁלְחָן עוֹרֵךְ

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

Finding and eating the Afikomen |  tzafoon  | צָפוּן

The afikomen is a piece of broken-off matzah that is put aside to be eaten at the end of the meal. It is traditionally hidden during the Seder to be searched for by the children present. The Seder does not conclude until the afikoman is found and eaten.

We can also understand the afikoman as a symbol for that which is lost by one generation, in suffering or oppression, that can be found again by the generations to come. Some of what we inherit is actually from unresolved pain and confusion from generations above us. Part of what’s the afikomen does is remind us that any problems our ancestors didn’t solve are now ours to work on. And any problems we don’t fix or finish, our next generations must work on themselves.

"That Which Comes After"

The thing is, the Passover Seder is Hellenist,

Modeled after the Greek symposium.

Synagogue, afikomen: Greek words.

We are indebted!

Yet we talk about tradition as if it is singular,

Judaism as if it is One Thing.

In reality, it is Many.

And so tonight, a symposium of One

Among the Many.

I cannot hide the afikomen from myself.

Instead, I will seek to remember

How much is borrowed, how much shared.

Afikomen is a loan word,

Greek for that which comes after.

We inherit more than we know.

–Rabbi Jessica Minnen

It’s a remarkable thing that Jewish tradition seeks to inspire us to be present before we eat, and all the more so that we are then directed to acknowledge our gratitude after we eat —gratitude not for the food itself, but for the incredible feeling of being full.

What does it mean to truly be fulfilled?

In Hebrew, the root of the word for fulfillment — to be whole, to be complete — is shalom, the same as the word for peace. May we find peace, a whole and complete peace. May we be fulfilled, not only by our food, but by our actions and our words.

Third Cup of Wine - B'riah (Creation Consciousness)

The World of Creation, B’riah, is a field accessed through the mindspace of inspiration. This is the consciousness of imagination, intellect, intuition, the idea sphere: the airy third-eye space from which we download collective knowing, and through which we glimpse the truth of our being.

As we speak the blessing on this third cup and drink, we presence ourselves to our imagination. We notice: What new ways of knowing are forming through this collective work? Are there new possibilities of thinking and seeing, emerging through the portal of this ritual? How has your intuition been enlivened through our shared magic?

Lift up your glass.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָּפֶן

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

A toast: in the Presence of the Infinite, we savor the blessing of transformation: vine to wine.

If anyone would like to share their own toast, please unmute and do so. Otherwise, go ahead and drink the third glass of wine/grape juice/etc.!

As is tradition, we fill a cup of wine for Elijah, the prophet who symbolizes when all people will live in freedom. Along with a more recent feminist tradition, we also add a cup of water for the prophet Miriam, who sustained the Jews during their years in the desert by calling forth a flowing well to quench their thirst. As we work to perfect our world in pursuit of the freedom promised by Elijah, we turn to Miriam's well for the sustenance to do this work.

Third Cup of Wine - Atziluth (Spirit/Emanation Consciousness)

The highest field, the dimension beyond spacetime, where beingness is completely unified, where there is no illusion of separateness. Kabbalists refer to Atziluth as the "Godhead." This is the Complete Divine Unity which contains the potential for our entire universe. This is what existed before the cosmological Big Bang, prior to the shattering shards of the Divine Source that became materiality, prior to subatomic vibration that creates the illusion of matter and separateness.

As we drink the fourth cup of wine and join our voices in song, we are manifesting the capacity for peace, unity, and collective liberation. Through unconditional self-acceptance, we are able to experience ourselves and each other as Emanations of the Divine. As the illusion of separation melts away, we presence ourselves with the truth of our Wholeness. In our reaching and seeking, we are also yielding to the inevitable Cosmic flow towards Liberation.

Lift up your glass.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָּפֶן

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

A toast: in the Presence of the Infinite, we savor the blessing of transformation: vine to wine.

If anyone would like to share their own toast, please unmute and do so. Otherwise, go ahead and drink the third glass of wine/grape juice/etc.!

When we gathered over zoom in 5780/ 2020 with our families and communities, most people thought that by this year Passover could be "normal" once again. While vaccinations are rolling out, we are still likely to be holding modified seders and celebrations in 5781/2021 and, of course, there may be all kinds of responses and reactions to this reality.

The pandemic reminds me of the Exodus narrative itself. The telling of the story at our seder usually ends as the Israelites cross the sea and begin wandering in the desert. To me, however, the wandering is everything. While the early taste of freedom is met with sweetness and song, the feeling didn't last. Some Israelites long to return to Egypt because even to live enslaved seems preferable sometimes than to live with uncertainty. The people often forget to be grateful for their freedom and kvetch (complain) about their conditions and situation. Moses, their leader, quickly learns he needs help to lead. He builds a team and with that team,   the   people figure out how to be   a   people. It can't happen overnight. It takes many many years of wandering.

Here we are together -- online. We are not newly in this landscape, we have been wandering in it for a while. Like all who wander, we are not sure exactly where we're going or how we will get there. We feel uncertain. Like the Israelites, we may long to "go back" to how things used to be, even though, when we really think about it, things weren't all that great for many of us. It is hard to live with uncertainty. It can be hard to remember to stay grateful for the things that can bring us together -- digital technologies, creative programming, and more. Leaders are emerging during this time but the best among them are realizing that to lead is to make sure no one is left behind. We need a team. We need each other. 

I, for one, do not wish to "go back." Of course I wish for a return to being able to gather, to hug, to do some of the activities I miss. But there is no "going back," there is only forging ahead. Out of this desert wandering I long for a brighter future in which no one is left behind. I long for a future built on meaningful commitments to diversity and equity. I long for a future in which we work  for  a future by resolving to protect our planet. Finally, I wish for us that however we make our way through this desert, we rememeber that we need each other and we act accordingly long into the future. 

This has been a hard time but I remain hopeful and grateful. May we celebrate the freedoms we enjoy and may we resolve to keep fighting for greater freedom for all. 

How do you see yourself forging ahead after all of this wandering?

GARLIC ON THE SEDER PLATE 
Dori Midnight

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

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

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

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

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

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