In the absence of a stable homeland, Jews have made their home in books – a Jewish home without books is not a Jewish home – and the Haggadah – the core of which is the re-telling of the Exodus from Egypt – has been translated more widely, and revised more often, than any other Jewish book.  Everywhere Jews have wandered, they have produced Haggadot (plural: there are 7,000 known versions, not to mention the countless homemade editions like this one), including the most famous of all – the 14th-century Sarajevo Haggadah, which is said to have survived World War II under the floorboards of a mosque and the siege of Sarajevo in a bank vault (cf: 2008 novel People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks).

 Although it means “the telling,” the Haggadah does not merely tell a story: it is our book of living memory.  Because it is not enough to re-tell the story: we must make the leap of empathy into it. “In every generation a person is obligated to view himself as if she or he were the one who went out of Egypt,” the Haggadah tells us.  And, in the midst of this empathic exercise, it is our role to dissect, extrapolate and discuss its meanings for ourselves – now – in this contemporary world.  Those of us who are Jews, who are the Children of Israel, should know the origin of our name: we are named after Jacob (Ya’akov, variation: Akiva) who became Yisrael (Israel); which translates as: ‘he who wrestles with God.’  And, in keeping with our origins and our tradition, on Pesach the story of the Exodus is not meant to be merely recited, but wrestled with.

{with acknowledgement to Jonathan Foer}

So/Nu/Tak, as we enter the Haggadah and begin to tell the story and engage in the symbolic rituals that are part of this event, I invite you to loosen up, get your hands dirty and join with me in wrestling with the ideas, promises, challenges and contradictions of what lies therein.

Leader:  We gather tonight to commemorate the ancient story of the deliverance of our ancestors from Egyptian bondage by the mighty power of G-d.  This is a time to teach ourselves and our children of the wonderful works of G-d.

Matron:  (Lighting candles):  Blessed are you, O Lord our G-d, King of the Universe.  You have sanctified us by your Commandments and commanded us to kindle the festival lights.  

Blessed are You, O Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, who gave us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season of joy.

May this home be consecreted, O G-d, by the light of Your countenance, shining upon us in blessing and bringing us peace.

All:  Amen.

Blessing Over the Candles

Baruch Atah Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech Ha-olam, Asher Kid’shanu

B’mitzvotav V’tzivanu L’hadlik Ner Shel Yom Tov.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has

sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us that

we kindle the Yom Tov (Holiday) lights.

Blessing Over the Wine

Ba-ruch a-tah A-do-nai, E-lo-hey-nu Me-lech ha-o-lam,
Bo-rey p’-ri ha-ga-fen.

Praised are you, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.

(Let's drink the first cup of wine!)

The four figures epitomize the Jewish cultural and class struggles in interwar Poland. The wise figure is a delicate intelligent yeshiva "bochur" (unmarried student) dressed traditionally yet meticulously. His body language expresses the grace and modesty of the Torah student ideally understood as an intellectual and religious aristocrat. In contrast, the wicked figure is a middle-aged bourgeois Jew dressed to show off his aspirations to Western European modernity. While the wise student has no props, not even a book, the wicked figure sports a riding crop, a cigarette with cigarette holder, and a stylish monocle. He is dressed in a hunting outfit with a jaunty Tyrollian hat with a feather, an ascot around his neck, silk gloves and sharp spurs on his leather boots. His stance is self-confident, self-contained and arrogant in contrast to the simpleton who is fat and smiling, opening himself to the world trustingly with arms and legs spread out.
While the simpleton is still traditionally dressed with a small tallis, the one who does not even know how to ask is a worker dressed poorly, wearing proletarian boots, without any visible link to Jewish tradition. His contemplative expression suggests that his direction in life is not yet determined.