Welcome to the seder. You’re here. You made it.

Passover is a holiday about looking backwards. We tell the story of Exodus, of our people’s deliverance from slavery thousands of years ago. We speak prayers from ancient lips, prepare foods eaten by our grandparents and our grandparents’ grandparents and our grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents. We preserve, and we remember.

Passover is also a holiday about looking forwards. We open the door for Elijah, for a salvation we can never be sure is coming but we continue to hope for anyway. “Next year in Jerusalem!” We envision future Passovers in a world where we are all safe, all together. We wait, and we dream.

We are a people obsessively looking backwards, constantly looking forwards. We, the Jewish people. We, the modern people. We pour over our pasts, fret over our futures. We tell our stories. We look ahead to a better world.

But Passover is also a holiday about being present. “ Seder ” means “order.” We bring our loved ones together to share a ritual, a series of steps, of order. We read passages in turn. We prepare certain foods, cast others out of the house. We pay special attention -- drink now, eat this, dip your vegetables (twice), drink again, sing, read, recline, discuss.

We look backwards, and forwards, so that we might be here. Now. To give thanks and to share. To be. We made it. We’re here.

(We light the candles and recite the prayer)

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה אַדֹנָ-י אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָּנוּ לְהַדְלִיק נֵר שֶׁל יום טוב

Baruch a-ta A-do-nay Elo-hei-nu me-lech ha-o-lam a-sher ki-di-sha-nu bi-mitz-vo-tav vi-tzi-va-noo li-had-leek ner shel Yom Tov.

Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the light of the holiday.

Serena Berman is a writer, performer, and producer. She is a resident artist at Ars Nova and is frequently type-cast as a Jewish teenager.

Last year, freshly unemployed and locked in our apartment, my partner Jake and I put together an “Artist’s Haggadah” with a group of Jewish theatermakers. It was an idea Jake had had the year before, but schedules were busy and Passover was upon us, so we thought, “maybe next year.” Next year came, and suddenly nobody’s schedules were quite as busy. The exercise, I think, proved to be a cathartic release of feelings about our present moment. One we couldn’t have anticipated in 2019. 

2021 is a new moment. It’s not quite what it was last year, but it hasn’t quite returned to what it was the year before that either. We’re in a series of years that have reminded us that even while traditions stay the same, the way we experience them changes in unimaginable ways.

So we’ve put together a second edition of the Artist’s Haggadah.

We gave our writers from last year the option to reprint or update their pieces, and we broke down the sections further to bring in new voices. All in all, this book features the work of 15 brilliant Jewish artists (13 writers and 2 visual artists). I put together brief bios -- mostly culled from their websites -- that you’ll see scattered around the book (I've put our visual artists' bios below). Like last year, the artists were told they could do whatever they wanted with their sections. Some are funny, some serious, some personal, some traditional, some abstract. They vary in length, and as with any seder, you are free to pick and choose when to read aloud and when you might skim (if you’re really hungry, or really drunk). But I think we’ve put together a really beautiful seder for you.

Thank you to all the artist’s who gave their time and hearts to this haggadah. Thank you to all the Jews gathering together to share in it. Thank you to everyone who has offered me love and friendship between the last quarantined seder and this one. I am grateful for you all. 

Chag Pesach sameach!

--

Artist bios:

Rosie Achorn-Rubenstein (cover) is a public defender in Portland, OR. As if that wasn’t enough, she is also a brilliant visual artist.

Sharone Halevy is a New York City commission-based abstract expressionist, as well as a director and teaching artist. She loves being inspired by the music and the people around her. 

Sam Corbin is an acclaimed New York-based writer, comedian, and performer. Someone once called Sam a “force of whimsy,” and that still sounds about right.

In Hebrew school, Jewish children are made to drink grape juice out of Dixie cups in order to prime them for the experience of drinking wine as adults. I am not making this up. I remember the cups. And I also remember the first seder that my father finally poured me a glass of real wine, because of what he said as he poured it: “For purely ceremonial purposes.” 

Over the course of tonight’s Passover seder, we will drink to excess for purely ceremonial purposes: four cups of wine, the first two of which are consumed on an empty stomach. Interesting to consider that we wait nearly a quarter of a lifetime to be deemed “mature” enough to give ourselves over to a ritual. More interesting, still, to consider that this ritual is one of filling. We consume the wine. We make it a part of ourselves. This ceremonial purpose is honored inside of us. 

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן

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

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe, Creator of the fruit of the vine.

(If this is your first seder of the holiday)

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְּמָנוּ וְהִגִּיעָנוּ לַזְּמַן הַזֶּה

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, she-hechiyanu v’key’manu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.

David Rosenberg is an actor and playwright. He is a graduate of the acting program at Juilliard, and one of two writers in this Haggadah with a play set on Passover ("Effect if Not Intent").

Urchatz calls on a fairly obscure Jewish ritual: washing our hands before eating foods dipped in liquid. But not all liquids! According to custom, there are only seven that necessitate washing: wine, honey, olive oil, milk, dew, blood, and water. It is said that these liquids possess the danger to bring about “tumah,” or spiritual uncleanliness, in the eater. Washing our hands ritually protects us from tumah and brings about “taharah,” or purity.

There is no prayer associated with Urchatz. It’s a real “Show Don’t Tell” ritual. But tonight, as we wash our hands, let us reaffirm our commitment to go beyond symbolic cleansing. Let us not rely upon ritualistic gestures to ward off spiritual uncleanliness. Let’s be proactive about pursuing taharah without symbolic reminders. And let’s acknowledge that “purity” is an ideal, not a reality. Let’s acknowledge the practical impossibility of taharah, but keep pushing towards it anyway. 

Tirosch Schneider (he/they) is an NYC-based actor, writer, teacher, and cartographer, except he is not a cartographer. They also lead phone-banks for socialist candidates in NYC, and have organized with Sunrise NYC and Jews for Racial and Economic Justice.

A brief description of the elements of the Seder Plate and their respective symbolisms, which Werner Herzog famously called “too obvious”:

A sprig of parsley, to represent the coming of spring, but also how hard it is to use fresh herbs before they go bad, which is why I’ve stopped buying them and resort to dried oregano for everything. Life is fleeting.

Saltwater - to represent the tears Jews shed when they were slaves in Egypt, and also the saltwater-based home remedies that our parents made us gargle any time we had a canker sore. Dip the parsley into the water and eat it, because every chef knows that parsley is a delicious meal on its own, but is even better dipped in salty water.

A hard boiled egg - to symbolize the festival offerings brought to the holy temple on Passover. If you’d like, you can present it to someone at the table, and they can respond, “I prefer scrambled.” For a vegan Seder plate, can be switched out with a roasted beet, a boiled carrot, a jar of oat milk, or a can of Amy’s low-fat refried beans. 

Maror - the bitter herb, to represent the suffering that the Jews endured, in case we forgot after the salt water. Everyone at the table must eat a spoonful of plain horseradish if they want to win the “horseradish challenge” at the end of the night (no further explanation was provided in the Torah). 

Charoset - a sweet pasty mixture of apple and nuts, representing the bricks and mortar used to build the pyramids (which was rarely made from apples). Can be replaced with a Kind bar or a bowl of Apple Jacks, but those are harder to spread on matzoh. Do not eat real mortar, calk, or wet cement (Book of Preschool 5:21). For a fun treat, make Charoset Spice Lattes and serve them in the highly controversial “Good Pesach” Starbucks cups.

A lamb shank, to symbolize the sacrificial lambs brought to the temple, and the bones used to write “Go Ask My Neighbor” on Jews’ doors when playing “Kitty Wants a Firstborn.” Most people don’t know that all quills were made from lamb bone in those days, so all books were written in 68 size font. For a fun twist, tell all the kids at the table that it’s a dinosaur bone, and replace the second half of the Haggadah with “The Magic Treehouse: Dinosaurs Before Dark.”

A single Lego - to represent a brick, and the time my family went to Legoland and called it “a religious experience”

A DVD of Rugrats in Paris - to represent the importance of Jewish representation, and also to remember the suffering we went though trying to clean a scratched DVD with our shirts. 

A Werther’s Original hard candy - to represent the importance of home / large tote bags (can be replaced with any hard candy, as long as it is slightly old and therefore chewy on the sides)

A bottle of very strong perfume - to represent joy. At the end of the night, the children get to search the house and guess which older relative the scent is coming from. 

Chocolate coins - these are technically for Hanukkah, but Oma found some at CVS and threw them in.

A stationary bicycle - to represent the harvest  

Finally, matzoh - to symbolize the time Harold forgot to bring yeast to the desert gathering, and instead brought more plates, which Muriel had already brought plenty of, and they argued about it for forty years. If you pour apple juice on it, you can call it Mott’s matzoh (will be soggy and inedible), if you pour on green tea on it, you can call it Matcha Matzoh (will be soggy and inedible but caffeinated), and if you’re a fun uncle, you can say “I brought lotsa matzoh!” and hold up 20 boxes of matzoh, which the children will be forced to eat at snack time until at least next Passover.

Natalie Margolin is a playwright, actress, improvisor and graduate of Kenyon College. Her plays include "The Power of Punctuation," "Tutus," "All Nighter," and “The Party Hop” a new play specifically for zoom.

The Shank Bone - it symbolizes sacrifice, and you can't eat it till the meal! 

Egg - the egg, a symbol of birth, of new beginnings, of winter transforming into spring. 

Karpas (leafy greens) - The leafy greens on the plate represents the initial success of the Israelites in Egypt, before they were enslaved.  If your leafy green is parsley, I think you made the right choice. To me, parsley is a successful green. Parsley is pretty, it's green, it often is sold in a large plentiful bunch! Impressive! If you are using a potato or celery, I don't find that as impressive, but I support your choice! Use what you have!

At the reform seder, we may add an orange to our plate. Susannah Heschel, professor of Jewish Studies at Dartmouth, explains:

At the height of the Jewish feminist movement of the 1980s, inspired by the abundant new customs expressing women’s viewpoints and experiences, I started placing an orange on the Seder plate. At an early point in the Seder, when stomachs were starting to growl, I asked each person to take a segment of the orange, make the blessing over fruit and eat the segment in recognition of gay and lesbian Jews and of widows, orphans, Jews who are adopted and all others who sometimes feel marginalized in the Jewish community. When we eat that orange segment, we spit out the seeds to repudiate homophobia and we recognize that in a whole orange, each segment sticks together.

We may also add an olive. Former Executive Director of Jewish Voice for Peace Rebecca Vilkomerson writes:

The olive tree is a universal and ancient symbol of hope and peace. And sadly, the destruction of Palestinian olive trees by Israeli settlers and the Israeli army is just one example of the way that Israeli policies systematically deny Palestinians of even their most basic rights. ... An olive on my Seder plate reminds me to ask myself, as Rabbi Brant Rosen, co-chair of the Jewish Voice for Peace Rabbinical Council, writes: “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?”

My Bubbi was a vivacious woman. She wore enormous, wide-brimmed hats, much to the chagrin of anyone sitting behind her in temple. She wore elegant jewelry and loved getting her nails done, though it was never quite the color she wanted. She once played guitar in Idlewild with Pete Seeger, a fact she related frequently at the seder table, before launching into a spirited rendition of “If I Had a Hammer” (when she wasn’t complaining about how unorthodox my mother’s “Tarot-card-themed Haggadah” was). My Bubbi once saw Eleanor Roosevelt speak at her college in the 1930s, and said Mrs. Roosevelt was one of the most inspiring women she’d ever seen. She also complained about how “squeaky” her voice was - “an inspiring woman, yes, but her voice was so squeaky!” Once, at Hanukkah, she lit a plate of latkes on fire. Once, she bumped her head into a store window, and sued the company for their glass being too clean (she won). Once, my Bubbi took my eight-year-old mother to a protest against the Vietnam War, and yelled in the faces of police officers who were mercilessly beating the protestors.

My Bubbi passed away last week, on my mother’s 65th birthday. They had a complicated relationship, and this was a pretty fitting way to go (“She always had to have the last word!”). As we enter into yet another year of Zoom gatherings - a second Zoom Passover for many of us - it almost felt normal to attend my Bubbi’s funeral over Zoom. Almost.

Instead of a Webinar, it was a regular Zoom meeting. The outdoor funeral service was live-streamed in one box, while in the other boxes were 20 confused Jews trying to figure out how to access “speaker view." What was supposed to be a somber event opened with a cacophony of voices asking what the hell “pinning a video” meant, while many self-appointed experts tried (and failed) to lead them to the three little dots at the top of their screens. Finally, the service commenced, but we were all perplexed when instead of the Rabbi’s voice, we heard very loud Mariachi music blaring from our speakers. I privately chatted Ethel to please mute her microphone, thinking the music was coming from her box, but when she did eventually find the mute button, it turns out she was not the source of the sound (sorry Ethel). It was, in fact, coming from the next funeral over, and there was nothing we could do to quiet it. So as my Bubbi’s friends from her Messianic Jewish temple declared that she was with God now, their words were punctuated by a very loud trumpeter blasting an upbeat tune. “My mom would have loved this Mariachi band,” my mother remarked in her eulogy. “She was born in Cuba, and this was the music of her childhood.” Well, no Mom, Mariachi is not Cuban, and Bubbi would have hated this.

But then something wonderful happened. At both the funeral and the Zoom memorial that followed, people told the most incredible stories of my Bubbi’s life. Stories I’d never heard before, told by family members I’d never met before. Stories of her generosity, her vitality, her style. Stories of pain, of violence, of historical trauma. Stories of resilience, of survival, of rebirth. The story about the first time she met my Dad’s parents, and dropped a full roast chicken in his mother's lap. Stories of her teaching guitar, and singing the songs of Pete Seeger. (“Turn! Turn! Turn!” played over a slideshow of old pictures, and the line “a time to refrain from embracing” hit differently this time around). And then, from our little Zoom boxes, we asked each other questions. “What was she like as an older sister?” “Do you forgive her for the things she did?” “Why the big hats?” Dozens of questions, asked from hundreds of miles away from one another. Yet I’ve never felt closer to my entire family, to my history, and to my Bubbi, in all her complexities.
 

(We dip our leafy greens twice into the saltwater twice and recite the blessing)

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה

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

Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who creates the fruits of the earth.
 

The karpas is a vegetable dipped in saltwater. Usually it’s something green - a sprig of parsley, a stick of celery, a scaffolding of scallions - to represent the coming of Spring. Some families use potatoes, because in Eastern Europe - where my Bubbi’s parents were from - fresh green vegetables were hard to come by, and potatoes were everywhere ! Karpas can also translate to “fine wool or linen,” and some say the karpas represent Joseph’s amazing technicolor dreamcoat, which first led the Israelites into Egypt - the inciting incident of the Passover story, and the cause of so many sleepless nights where your brain can’t stop humming “Go go go Joseph you’ll make it someday!”

The saltwater represents the tears that the Jews wept as slaves in Egypt. It’s a reminder that we cannot welcome spring without first remembering our ancestors’ suffering - and that from our suffering comes the promise of spring. So if the karpas = spring awakening, the saltwater = the bitch of living. Or, to quote the Jewish poet Carol King (originally Brooklyn’s own Carol Klein), “You’ve got to take the bitter with the sweet.” That’s what I took from my Bubbi’s Zoom memorial - destruction and reconstruction, music and mayhem.

There is also the question of why we dip the karpas in the saltwater twice?  Is it to clarify that we cried a lot of tears in Egypt? Is it because Jews are famous for double dipping? Or because we like our food extra salty? My favorite answer to the question is this: It’s simply meant to inspire more questions. To quote my friend Martine, “Maybe the why of the karpas is just that it’s weird. Something we’re not used to that’s going to prompt the kids to be like ‘hey why are you putting that leaf in salt water’ and then you can be like ‘glad you asked here is our national epic,’ you know?” As was true at the memorial, the weirdest questions always lead to the best stories.

Megan Pope is a Brooklyn-based playwright, comedy person, and thirst trap satirist. Despite their last name, they are actually very Jewish.

*Campy Voice* THREE Matzahs stand before us. But only ONE will be cracked in half and hidden for later (the middle one). 

As we break the unleavened bread, we are reminded that it is the bread of poverty which our ancestors made in the land of Egypt. A bread made with haste as they fled oppressive circumstances. This year, like most years, it also holds the weight of those who could not get out or are still running. 

There is no prayer that goes with Yachatz. It is supposed to be a time of silent reflection. We’ve had a shit-load of time for that this year... we’ve broken ourselves off from the world - from friends, family, and loved ones... we’ve sheltered ourselves in small apartments and had plenty of time to make bread that rises all the way... I’ve done so much reflecting on who we are and what we’re doing on this (insane-and-sometimes-amazing-but-currently-facacata) planet that I feel like I’m going to explode. 

In this sense, Passover and Yachatz may feel redundant. BUT! As I previously mentioned in my hopefully recognizable Drag Race/America’s Next Top Model reference at the top, Yachatz is ALSO about hopefulness and re-discovery. It’s about breaking and hiding with the knowledge that we will be returning to the broken piece later on (...even if the person who hides it, let’s say your grandpa, forgets where he hid it and it takes an extra 20 minutes to locate meanwhile your grandma has already jumped to the worst case scenario deciding you’ll never find it and it will rot in the wherever-it-is space causing giant rats and bugs infest the house forever and ever until everyone dies).

Finding a broken piece of matzah is cool (mostly because it’s been stuffed in a bookshelf and covered in dust and one of your cousins is going to dare your other cousin to eat it), but the anticipation? Is thrilling. Which proves that waiting, yearning, hoping, and preparing can be enjoyable. Something that I feel we, as Jews, often forget. Worry is very Jewish. But, as demonstrated by the afikomen, so is a childlike wonder for what’s next. A desire to search and hope and find.

In her recent essay, “No I'm Not Ready,” author Anne Helen Petersen writes about her anxiety surrounding our collective return to post-COVID 'real world': “It’s going to feel periodically awful in new ways… but it’s also going to be amazing… Our post-pandemic selves will contain multitudes.”

We’re at a period of breakage, but there are also big things that have been wrapped up and hidden away for a beautiful and rewarding discovery down the line. As we break the middle matzah, let’s guide healthy Jewish wonder and anticipation out of the shadows. What have you discovered in the breakage that you’re excited to carry forward? What are you excited to discover/re-discover? How will you continue to give yourself breaks even as the world returns? 

Oh, and good luck finding the Afikomen … *Campy Voice* May the best Jew? Win! 

הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא דִי אֲכָלוּ אַבְהָתָנָא בְּאַרְעָא דְמִצְרָיִם. כָּל דִכְפִין יֵיתֵי וְיֵיכֹל, כָּל דִצְרִיךְ יֵיתֵי וְיִפְסַח. הָשַׁתָּא הָכָא, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּאַרְעָא דְיִשְׂרָאֵל. הָשַׁתָּא עַבְדֵי, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין

Ha lachma anya di achalu avahatana b'ara d'Mitzrayim. Kal dichfin yeitei v'yeichul. Kal ditzrich yeitei v'yifsach. Hashata hacha, l'shanah haba'ah b'ara d'Yisrael. Hashata avdei. L'shana haba'ah b'nei chorin.

This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Anyone who is famished should come and eat, anyone who is in need should come and partake of the Pesach sacrifice. Now we are here, next year we will be in the land of Israel; this year we are slaves, next year we will be free people.

Shara Feit is a New York-based writer, performer, and dramaturg. She makes sad/funny work about messy, wild, virtuosic, women+ and queer folx of all ages.

Ha Lachma Anya’s parallelism equates now and here with enslavement, next year with Israel and freedom. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that maybe the thing that this truer about ha lachma anya than how it parallelizes is how it juxtaposes.  Hashata hacha, l’shanah habaah b’ara d’Yisrael. Hashata avdei, l’shanah habaah b’nei chorin.  Now we are here, next year in the land of Israel. This year we are enslaved, next year we will be free. Two sentences, twenty seconds max (if sung slowly), that leap across and back and forth, through space and time, oppression and liberation, with so little distance between them.

7PM applauding, pots and pans. Isolating. Making small, lovely plays on the internet. Not sleeping. Being so fucking scared. Watching so much  West Wing  that Josh Lyman and CJ Cregg appear in my dreams, streaming and streaming and streaming. Walking five miles through Riverdale Forest Park. Screening movies on a projector in my childhood home. Taking good classes. Taking boring classes. Staring at screens. Buying peppermint oil. Buying blue light glasses. Phonebanking. Helping with Shiva for my Saba. Needing grad paper extensions, really needing them. Dancing in the street when the election was called. Feeling so tired. Feeling so scared I’d always be so tired. Lighting candles. Watching a friend save a mouse stuck to a glue board (helping?). Celebrating a Zoom birthday, crying good tears. Redecorating my childhood bedroom. Eating so much sugar my teeth hurt. Screaming bad rock songs a capella with my siblings on a quiet day, including guitar solos. Collecting unemployment. Not writing and not writing and not writing. Writing, a little. Buying plants. Killing plants. Buying other plants. Not texting. Not calling. Taking meds. Gathering on Zoom with artists. Looking for jobs, losing jobs, finding jobs. Filling cavities. Doing dance fitness with my parents. Throwing a Zoom birthday party. Throwing another Zoom birthday party. Freaking out when family and friends get sick. Preparing a multi-course Italian dinner with my siblings for my parents' anniversary. Somehow, making a few new friends. Moving apartments. Mourning. Protesting. Carrying a 10-year old tiny dog in the deep pocket of my denim jacket. Talking with faraway friends. Talking with my aunt on the phone. Missing the people I can’t talk to anymore. Riding the subway, seeing unmasked people (scream). Racing through the Upper West Side at 12:30AM to find an antique fainting couch from Instagram with strangers, friends, a dog. Losing a friend. Getting vaccinated at 1:30AM at Yankee stadium with my brother. Hugging an immunosuppressed friend for the first time in a year.

This Pesach, this Maggid, I am thinking about the human insanity of holding freedom and loss, joy and tragedy all at once, and how last Pesach I was so sure all this would be over and we would have made it to our proverbial Israel, our proverbial freedom, whatever that is, and would find ourselves leaving our homes, blinking because we’re not yet used to the brightness, holding each other. 

Hashata hacha, l’shanah habaah b’ara d’Yisrael. Hashata avdei, l’shanah habaah b’nei chorin.

Being free, or maybe I just mean being okay, is not linear. It is a back and forth toggling between two sentences over the course of days, sometimes hours, sometimes minutes.

But this year, I'm noticing the part that gets left behind on the race to freedom.  Hashata hacha. Now we are here. We are here. We are here. We are here. 

מַה נִּשְׁתַּנָּה הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה מִכָּל הַלֵּילוֹת? שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין חָמֵץ וּמַצָּה, הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה – כֻּלּוֹ מַצָּה. שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין שְׁאָר יְרָקוֹת – הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה (כֻּלּוֹ) מָרוֹר. שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אֵין אָנוּ מַטְבִּילִין אֲפִילוּ פַּעַם אֶחָת – הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה שְׁתֵּי פְעָמִים. שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין בֵּין יוֹשְׁבִין וּבֵין מְסֻבִּין – הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻּלָּנוּ מְסֻבִּין

Ma Neeshtana ha-laila ha-zeh meekol ha-laylot?
Sheh-bichol ha-laylot anoo ochleem chametz oo-matzah. Halailah hazeh chametz oomatz.
Sheh-bi'chol ha-laylot anoo ochleem sheh-ar yerakot. Ha-lailah hazeh maror.
Sheh-bi'chol ha-laylot ayn anoo mat-bee- leen afeeloo pa-am echad. Ha-laila hazeh sh'tay pi-ameem.
Sheh- bi'chol ha-laylot anoo ochleem bayn yoshveen oo-bayn misoobeen. Ha-laila hazeh koolanoo misooveen.

What differentiates this night from all [other] nights? On all [other] nights we eat chamets and matsa; this night, only matsa? On all [other] nights we eat other vegetables; tonight (only) marror. On all [other] nights, we don't dip [our food], even one time; tonight [we dip it] twice. On [all] other nights, we eat either sitting or reclining; tonight we all recline.

Oh.

I love Ma Nishtana. 

I love Ma Nishtana, as recited in Yiddish with a thick, sweet Galicianer accent by my Zaydie. 

I love Ma Nishtana as declaimed by me in Latin with the aid of a printout from my high school Latin teacher (at this point, I remember no Latin). 

I love Ma Nishtana as my now grown up little brother’s indulgence of our family’s mishegas, sung while standing on a chair, even though he is over six feet tall, because he is the youngest and sorry, that’s just how it goes. 

I love Ma Nishtana as sung through a smile by my Mom, who is the youngest of her siblings.  

I love Ma Nishtana as joyfully scream-sung by my baby cousins who prepared so much and then got flustered but then rebounded.

I love Ma Nishtana as an epitomization of maybe the Haggadah as a guide to a pedagogy of freedom or feminism my Mom alludes to in her article, because Ma Nishtana is about inspiring accountable, joyful, empowered participation.

I love Ma Nishtana because it gave me one of my favorite questions in my dramaturgical toolkit. 

I love Ma Nishtana because those four answers are some insufficient, direct, overly-literal nonsense, and therefore Ma Nishtana is actually an epitomization of something I can love without qualification about Judaism: all the damn questions, the sweet questions, the questions with no answers in sight, the questioning for the love of deep inquiry, because those four answers are, by no means, all of it. How could they be?

I love Ma Nishtana for the same reason I love seeing the messy, incomplete studies of great painters and hearing drafts on the way; I love when the mechanisms by which we learn to do the art can be art in and of themselves.

I love Ma Nishtana because most worthwhile things, including asking questions, require practice, and what a gift that we’ve been given a start and a guide, when so often embarrassment, shyness, or shame get in the way of the best questions ever being asked. 

So. 

What are you going to ask? 

Echad chacham
The wise child asks, “What are the testimonies, statutes, and judgments we learn through the Passover story?"

Discuss with that child the order and meaning of the Seder, and teach this child the rules of observing the holiday of Passover.

Ve’echad rasha
The wicked child asks, "What is this service to you?"

By using the word 'you' and not 'me,' or 'us' the child is not including him or herself in the community. Say to this child: “It is because of what God did for  me  in the land of Egypt." 'Me' and not 'you' or 'us,' for if they had been there they would not have been saved.

Echad tam
The simple child asks, "What is this?"

To this child, answer plainly: “This is the story of the ancient Jewish people's journey to freedom.”

Ve’echad she’eino yodea lish’ol
What about the child who does not know how to ask?

Help this child by telling them the story of Exodus.

Jess Honovich is a playwright, screenwriter and educator from Southern New Jersey. When she’s not writing, Jess is a proud public school Pre-K teacher.

Imagine you’re helping your friend move into a new home and they suddenly throw you a very heavy box. You’re probably a bit frustrated with your friend, not to mention the anxiety sweats you’re now fighting off in an attempt to hold that box without dropping it. Now imagine if that same person instead pointed to the box and said “Can you carry this for me?” 1) You have autonomy— you don’t have to say yes! But you volunteered to help your friend move, so you probably will. 2) The strategy you use to pick up and carry the box now will be more comfortable for your body. 3) When it’s your turn to move a few months later, you might adopt this same strategy, asking your friends which of your items they’re most comfortable moving around.

This is the essence of all responsible teaching.

Young people have hundreds of ways of speaking, learning, thinking, doing, posing questions, exploring curiosity, and articulating all of this to you. On this holiday dedicated to storytelling, in this piece where we consider how young people may reach for knowledge, it is our responsibility to provide space for all questions without judgement. We must create an open forum for them to ask absolutely any question they have. There is no wise child, wicked child, or simple child (also—if there is a kiddo at the table who is too young to ask a question…why are they at the table? Should they be? Are their needs being met? Just double checking!)

Let’s “flip the switch,” as they say. There is no wrong way to ask a question. There is a wrong way to invite the questions being asked.

THE FOUR TEACHERS
The wise teacher might ask: “I’m curious to know what you’re thinking about. What would you like to know about what we’re doing here?” This teacher will take a moment to provide an open forum for anyone, kid or not, to ask anything about the seder, the customs, the story we tell, etc. This teacher will also make space for anyone to answer, because no one person has all the knowledge. This teacher will create a dialogue with everyone at the table.

The wicked teacher might ask: “I bet you don’t want to be here right now.” They’ll dismissively pierce the air with judgmental words. They’ll pigeonhole people without thought. This teacher will say something unkind that will, in turn, gaslight the curious minds at the table into believing that they are wicked for sitting a certain way, asking a certain question, not asking a certain question, etc. This teacher is dismissive. This teacher is none of you.

The simple teacher might ask: “So what’s up?” This teacher isn’t too specific, but they’re making space for conversation. We make space for opportunity to arise. We weed a garden for flowers to grow.

The teacher who doesn’t know how to pose a question: can begin by asking a question they have.

So let’s begin! I’m curious to know what you’re thinking about.

Sofya Levitsky-Weitz is a writer based in Brooklyn and originally from Los Angeles. Her play “Cannabis Passover” (the second pesach play referenced) is a finalist for the O’Neill Playwrights’ Conference.

What does it look like to tell a story in which the narrative hinges on violence
without the violence?

How can we demonstrate liberation without breaking something open?

I just got out of a workshop with the Playwrights’ Center in which I started a new project, one where I am trying to recreate a story I wrote when I was a child that hinged upon violence towards women, while also examining my own and society’s fascination with a trope that hinges upon violence towards women.

By the end
with everything happening in the world
still happening
this week
this month
this year
last year
the entirety of my life
and humankind
all of it

We all decided – the actors, director, stage manager, and me – that we didn’t want to tell a story about violence. We were simply tired of it. It bored us.

So what does Exodus look like without violence, I wondered.

Just searching for a refresher of the Exodus Story at Passover, I found a rabbi (Rabbi David Fohrman) who posited that another story from the Torah, when examined, closely resembles the Passover story. This story surrounds Joseph asking Pharaoh to honor the death of his earthly father, Jacob. By the end, the Egyptians and Israelites go further in unity, chariots accompanying the Israelites, not chasing them. This provides another model, and yet every year, the Passover story persists, with its plagues, with its gore, with this action and drama and lamb’s blood and bodies washed up on the shore.

Many – especially those not in the Jewish faith – like to call the Old Testament God a “violent” God, a “punishing” God. I disagree with this assessment, or the binary it suggests, and prefer to think of the stories in the Torah as instructions, as lessons, as metaphor, power imbued to people to consider the consequences of our actions, to continually strive to be better and better and better.

So I take that as a challenge, and this challenge is thus: I will write the Exodus Story with No Violence.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I don’t believe in that either. But I will try to pull apart the pieces, leave blank what must be blank, in effort to learn about what remains. And what constitutes violence? Am I the one to decide that? Is anyone? I will simply remove what makes the pit in my stomach grow a little bit deeper. I will search for lightness, for joy. For liberation.

Because maybe what remains can teach us even more about what we are, who we are, and what will be.

Maybe.

…

A little baby floats on a River in a basket. He feels the wind above him, the floating of a current of water feels not so different from the womb. He watches the clouds above him. He’s calm. He is not aware of the tears behind him, the hope, the longing, the speeding up of the river, its precarity. He bumps calmly into the reeds, they welcome him.

A woman lifts him out, more like a girl. She doesn’t see the girl her own age on the other side of the bank, holding her breath, or a younger girl watching her little brother as he’s scooped up into royal hands and cooed at. They let their breath go when the woman – adorned with necklaces and bracelets and skin that has been pampered her whole life – nuzzles into their boy and brings him inside. He is chosen, saved.

The boy grows up. It isn’t without challenges. He spends his time looking out the window, wandering around. Something doesn’t feel right, even among it all. He knows he is different. It’s written in his bones, in the contours of his mind. He spends his childhood ignoring it, as many of us do. But when he cannot ignore it anymore, when he cannot look away, the sensitivity rippling on the surface of his skin and the skin of others, he knows he must take action.

This results in his departure from the palace he’s known since infancy. The only place he’s known, the only place he remembers in his conscious mind. But his body remembers something else, as bodies do. Wandering in the desert, he speaks to God. A bush on fire, it speaks to him. Or maybe he eats something, a plant that talks to him, or maybe the bush really burns. It doesn’t matter, either way. God, or the plant, or his own mind tells him who he really is. And what he must do.

He must help his people be free.

First, he asks. A boy with a stutter, from a trick played on him as a baby. He is scared, but is driven by something larger than him, something he doesn’t even understand. He reunites with a brother, someone who can help speak with him. Together, they raise each other.

The answer is no. He urges, calmly, but the answer continues to be no.

He needs help.

The help comes in the form of transformations from above. Scary things, one greater than the next. The water turns to blood, for instance. Locusts in the sky. A total blackness. All temporary, the man urges. If the Pharaoh lets them go. All will be maintained. Well, not all. There are some things that need fixing. Pharaoh stays firm. Or, he changes his mind. Again and again. The Israelites prepare to flee, and when it finally happens, it is from a severing. Something so dark it is darker than darkness. In grief, the Pharaoh says: go.

Their bread did not even have time to rise. They carried it on their backs and it burned and hardened. They started their wandering, which started as a hurrying. A flee. A don’t turn back. A keep moving, keep moving, keep moving. The sister of the little boy, now grown, leads the group with her tambourine. She dances, sings, and the singing continues.

For some reason, Pharaoh changes his mind again. We will not know why. He has lost so much, he does not want this final loss. God wants lessons. God wants stories. And so do we. 

So they keep coming, and the Israelites keep moving. They will move past the water, through the water, into the desert, through generations, up a mountain, down again, into the new world, and onwards.

We all came from the sea, and the sea will cover us all one day.

Jake Brasch is a playwright + lyricist + composer + pianist + performer + clown + baker and a Brooklyn-based fancy-free queer sober Jew from Colorado.

Each year we take a moment to acknowledge the plagues that the Holy One brought upon the Egyptians in her quest to free the Jewish slaves. 

We regret that the Egyptians had to suffer so greatly before allowing the Jews to leave. We don’t wish suffering on anyone. We mourn the fact that it took the Egyptians so long to get the message. 

What message is the spirit eternal trying to share with us now? Is she sharing a message? Or perhaps several messages?  Are her messages conflicting? Are we getting the message? Should we be trying to get the message? Should we be sharing what we believe the message is? 

This year, as we consider each of the plagues, we look at them a little differently. We ask ourselves what it would have been like to live through them. We question whether or not we would get the message if we were in the Egyptians’ shoes. 

***

Blood | dam | דָּם

(We dip) 

A mother bathes her daughter. The river turns to blood. She pulls her daughter out of the river. She checks for wounds. The baby cries. She looks for the dead animal that is poisoning the river. She can’t find it. She runs home. 

Frogs | tzfardeiya | צְפַרְדֵּֽעַ

(We dip) 

A cobbler sees a frog making its way into his workshop. He loves frogs. Many others are grossed out by frogs. He’s not. When three more frogs arrive, he smiles. He hears a sea of ribbets. He goes outside. He laughs. The gods sure do have a strange sense of humor. He dances with the frogs. 

Lice | kinim | כִּנִּים

(We dip) 

A small boy is very itchy. He cannot figure out why. He wants to bathe. The river is still blood. Ugh. He tries to figure out what is happening, but he can’t think straight. The frogs are loud. He’s so itchy. He runs. He runs. He runs. 

Beasts | arov | עָרוֹב

(We dip) 

An elder is losing her marbles. She must be. For there is a mirage in the distance. She sees zebras, elephants, wombats, crows, crocodiles, all dancing in the meadow. They are approaching. They are not playing. They are fierce. She tries to pinpoint the moment she lost her mind. The itchiness? The blood in the water? Did something happen before that? Or was this gradual? Did she just never notice? She saw it happen to her own mother. A painful decline. She doesn’t want this for herself. She closes her eyes. 

Cattle disease | dever | דֶּֽבֶר

(We dip) 

A farmer is not happy. He successfully kept his cattle safe from all of those tigers that showed up yesterday and for what? For his cows to just start randomly dropping dead? One at a time, they’ve just been crapping out. He’s fed ‘em. He’s done everything right. He sits down. He throws away his hat. He gives up. 

Boils | sh’chin | שְׁחִין

(We dip) 

A small child stares at her arm. She loves the little red spots. Yes, they hurt, but no more than where she was bit on the thigh by a wombat. No more than her gut hurts from all the blood she drank from the river. The spots are forming little constellations on her arm. She wishes she could be someone else. 

Hail | barad | בָּרָד

(We dip) 

The Pharaoh is, like, super freaked out. The last few days have been weird. He looks for answers in the sky. He begins being pelted by little cold spheres. He laughs. He can’t help himself. This is just so weird! He knows he must take this all seriously. He knows he should feel scared. But he laughs. It’s too ridiculous. He just laughs. 

Locusts | arbeh | אַרְבֶּה

(We dip) 

The starving family holds each other for warmth. They are terrified. They haven’t gone outside for days. A bug flies inside. A child catches it. She eats it. Several more bugs fly in Eureka. It’s a feast. It’s a miracle. 

Darkness | choshech | חֹֽשֶׁךְ

(We dip) 

Convinced that the world is about to end, a young couple decide to venture out to watch one last sunrise. It never comes. 

Death of the Firstborn | makat b’chorot | מַכַּת בְּכוֹרוֹת

(We dip) 

Our mother has kept her daughter inside ever since the bloody river incident. Her lover tells her about everything that’s been going on. It sounds really scary. Really scary. But she feels safe. She kisses her baby goodnight. She falls asleep. She dreams that she’s able to go back outside. That she’s able to smile. That she’s pregnant again. Another child. Another girl. She awakes in the morning to a scream from a nearby house. She gets up. She rushes to the crib. 

***

Only in retrospect do we see G-d's plan. We see the lesson only in the rearview mirror. Curses become blessings and blessings become curses. We are always in process. Our stories never end. 

May we remember all of the uncertainty we have felt as a people. May we remember the pain. May we question our certainty. May we leave open the possibility that anything can happen, that tomorrow zebras may come marching into town or that the ocean will be turned to molasses. Stranger things have happened. And may we remember the deliverance, the pleasure, the warmth, the hugs, the little things that matter as we trudge through the endless unknown, the desert, on our way home. 

As a way into Dayenu, consider this passage from The Seas by Samantha Hunt. 

When I was young I went down to the pier looking for my father, I accidentally got on board the wrong boat. [...] I was scared on board, surrounded by five sailors. I thought that the captain was a pirate because he had a round bite taken out of his ear. To appease him I told him I’d work to pay for my passage. [...] Eventually I told him I would make a good end table or hassock. “Great,” he said. So I curled up on the dirty floor and prepared for work. I waited for some weight on my back but it never came. [...] When I was returned to my family I continued to work as a hassock around our house, and sometimes my father would actually use me, resting his feet while he watched the television. I liked the job because it reminded me of the sailors I had met on board. 

This is the tense incarnate. We waited for the weight and it never came. But even after returning home, even after being free, we find solace in revisiting the shape of submission, if only to recall the passage itself. 

(Now we drink the second cup of wine. Flip to the back of the book for the lyrics to "Dayenu.")

It is customary in Jewish religious practice, as in life, to wash our hands before eating and making bread. In fact, there are a number of instances in which Jewish ritual instructs us to wash ourselves-- when we wake up, after touching an animal, after we have sex. The provenance here seems pretty clear. Like so many Biblical and Talmudic dicta, these rituals are grounded in practical considerations: don’t handle dirty food with your hands, animals carry diseases, sex is messy so clean up after, etc. 

There is, of course, a symbolic resonance here, but a decent (if cynical) argument can be made that these rituals were as much community health advisories as they were symbolic acts. 

So as we wash our hands, at the advice of our forefathers who knew better, let us acknowledge those upon whom we depend for guidance and expertise to safeguard our health. Let us be grateful that we no longer rely on Rabbis for this kind of information, that instead we have access to highly-skilled medical professionals who sacrifice their well-being in the interest of the public health. 

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה' אֱלֹֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶך הָעוֹלָם אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָּנוּ עַל נְטִילַת יָדָיִּם.

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam, asher kidshanu bemitvotav vetzivanu al netilat yadayim.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has sanctified us with Your laws and commanded us to wash our hands.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְ‑יָ אֱ‑לֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם הַמּוֹצִיא לֶחֶם מִן הָאָרֶץ

Baruch Atah Ado-nai Elo-heinu Melech Ha-olam Hamotzi Lechem Min Ha-aretz.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings bread from the earth.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָּנוּ עַל אֲכִילַת מַצָּה

Baruch Atah Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech Ha-olam, Asher Kid’shanu B’mitzvotav V’tzivanu Al Achilat matzah.  

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us with His laws and commanded us to eat matzah.

(Here we break the top and middle matzot into pieces and distribute them everyone at the table)

Matt Minnicino is a playwright [mostly]; an actor [frequently]; a teacher [when he can be]; a storyteller, always.

First, Two Epigraphs:

Dearest Artie:
It’s not true that life is one damn thing after another—it’s one damn thing over & over —there’s the rub—first you get sick—then you get sicker—then you get not quite so sick—then you get hardly sick at all—then you get a little sicker . . .

Edna St. Vincent Millay
Letter to Arthur Davison Ficke
October 24, 1930

Everything happens so much.

@Horse_ebooks
Twitter
June 28, 2012

--

Q: What makes an herb bitter?
A: In Pesachim, the Third Tractate of the Talmud’s Order of Festivals
The learned men have agreed on a few things that make an herb qualify as bitter

FOUR THINGS THAT QUALIFY AN HERB AS BITTER (#3 WILL SHOCK YOU!)
1. A bitter herb should be bitter
2. A bitter herb should be gray-green in appearance
3. A bitter herb should have sap
4. A bitter herb should come from the earth (not a tree)

Some good options are:
Horseradish
Celery
Romaine lettuce (but only the bitter parts)

But you must eat something sweet with it.
To balance it out

Q: Why do we eat something so bitter?
A: To remind us of the many Plights that happened
There have been, the learned men agree, many Plights
(at least three, maybe more)
Years that were all Plight, and nothing else.
Bitter Years.

Q: What makes a year bitter?
A: The learned men haven’t come to an agreement about this.

1. A bitter year should bleed when you cut into it
2. A bitter year should be the color of loss
3. A bitter year should be as long as it is short
4. A bitter year should come from the earth

Q: Why remember the bitterness of the past
When we have so much of our own

A1: Because maybe it is the same bitterness.

Maybe Bitterness observes the scientific rule proposed by Émilie du Châtelet
Maybe there is a Fixed Amount of Bitterness in the universe
And it can’t be created or destroyed
But only transformed
Or displaced from person to person
Place to place
Time to time

Maybe when the cosmos was created
The One Who Made It said
They can have a little Bitterness, as a treat

And we were stuck with it,
And now we eat horseradish because
There’s no way to end the Plight
So we can consume it little by little
Munch munch munch

A2: Or maybe it’s not that
Maybe it’s completely different.

Q: Was anything in 2020 sweet?
Anything?
Anything?
Anything?

A: [your answer]
No is acceptable
And so is Yes

Q: Can you tell me something good that happened?
A: You are alive, barely
And that means

Émilie du Châtelet
Who first proposed the Law of Conservation of Bitterness
Also said:

“It is the privilege of affection
To see a friend in all situations of his soul.”

The sweetness is
To see you in all your situations
And for you to see me
Come share a Plight with me
Come break Sadness with me into small crumbs and stalks
And make it easier to eat

You have some.
I’ll have some.

Q: Will there be more bitter years?
A: Yes

Q: Will there be sweet ones?
A: Yes

Q: Will they be the same years?
A: Yes

הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא דִי אֲכָלוּ אַבְהָתָנָא בְּאַרְעָא דְמִצְרָיִם. כָּל דִכְפִין יֵיתֵי וְיֵיכֹל, כָּל דִצְרִיךְ יֵיתֵי וְיִפְסַח. הָשַׁתָּא הָכָא, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּאַרְעָא דְיִשְׂרָאֵל. הָשַׁתָּא עַבְדֵי, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין

Baruch Atah Ado-nai, Elo-heinu Melech Ha-olam, Asher Kid’shanu B’mitzvotav V’tzivanu Al Achilat Maror. 

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has sancti- fied us with His laws and commanded us to eat bitter herbs.

Jake Beckhard is a stage director and dramaturg of new and existing plays. He was just Jewish enough to make it into Birthright.

It has been put to me to write a passage for the Koreich step. 

We do the Koreich step and eat the Hillel sandwich so we can fulfil our obligation of Matzah and Maror. Hillel invented his eponymous sandwich back when we had the Holy Temple to resolve arguments over the commandments of eating both matzah and maror.

To me, this sounds like a funny argument to have to sit through if you’re hungry.

I am not a writer; I am a director. Directing, especially directing plays, is the fine art of taking very clear instructions (say this here, walk there afterwards) and adding significantly less clear instructions on top. 

The intended effect is to bathe the audience in sublimity, but it doesn’t always work out that way.

In that spirit, here are some additional instructions I have added onto the very simple play of Koreich. Think of it as a solo play each of you is about to perform alongside each other. Because you are busy performing, you are also your only audience. So it is my fervent hope that somewhere in here, as an attentive audience member to yourself, you receive a little blue rush of sublimity.

1.  Break off two pieces of matzah - one from the top piece and one from the bottom piece - to make your sandwich.
When everyone has taken their matzah, trade for a piece you think is better than yours. As you’re trading, send your trading partner a little secret psychic message. Ideally something nice, like an apology, or a compliment. Good. 

2.  Take some charoset and knife it onto your matzah.
Think about how, in Gibraltar, they mix actual brick dust into their charoset to further strengthen the metaphor of the mortar used by Israelite slaves. Check in with your breath. At some point later in the seder, find a time to clear your throat. You only get one, and if someone notices, you’ve failed and must try again. Good.

3.  Spoon some bitter herb onto your charoset.
Take a little taste of your bitter herb, then look around. Without anyone cueing, everyone at the table must now say in unison “Ooh, mama, that’s some bittah herb!” If it goes badly the first time, try again. Good.

4.  The reader will now say the words: “This is what Hillel did, at the time that the Temple stood. He wrapped up some Pesach lamb, some matzah and some bitter herbs and ate them together.”
While saying them, trace the outer edge of your matzah. Imagine a “matzah paper cut.” Good.

5.  Close the sandwich and take a bite.
Close your eyes while you chew. This part is only for you. Remember a place you loved that no longer exists, or at least not in the same way. Somewhere you could have arguments about trivialities with folks you trusted. What a gift, that you are a vessel for that place, carrying it day by day into the future. Take another bite. Good. 

6.  Turn the page.

Hopefully we are all enjoying the beautiful musings of this brilliant collection of Jewish writers. Now though, it's Shulchan Oreich. And everyone just wants to eat.

So no musings here.

Enjoy your food. Give thanks. Talk. Laugh. Drink. Share. And then come back to the haggadah for more prayer, more wine, and more musings.

The tossed salad
at our Soup Kitchen starts
with lettuce from the Community
Garden, planted by a Roma family waiting
to hear their refugee status, tended by 70 year old
David, who grew up on a kibbutz, harvested by the Sixth
Grade class from down the street, washed by Mrs. Singh,
recovering from a brain injury, dressed by Kaliyah,
a Med student who comes when she’s got a free
hour, shared by a family of the working poor
who swallowed their pride to come here
for the first time. They offer thanks
and ask about the garden.
And so it grows.

--Susan Whelehan

We give thanks for the meal we have eaten with a third glass of while. Birkat hamazon.  The blessing of the food.  Chaverai n'vareich.  Let us praise God.

(Pour a third cup of wine and recite the blessing)

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן

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

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe, Creator of the fruit of the vine.

Jacob Marx Rice is a playwright and screenwriter based in Queens, New York. According to his website: "I try to write comedies but everyone always ends up crying."

Passover is a holiday of doors. From the marking of doorways that gives the holiday its name, to the symbolic door God opened through the red sea, to the name of this final cup of wine, Hallel, the Jewish prayer that asks God to open the gates of righteousness so we can pass through.

As part of this final cup, we open our door to invite Elijah into our Seder. We even pour him a glass of wine. Tradition says that when Elijah joins us for Passover, he will bring a message of hope that unites the world in redemption, connection and love.

Perhaps the strangest thing about Elijah is that no one knows what he looks like. Throughout his stories, he dons disguises, often appearing as a mysterious stranger or even a beggar. Once, was so hideous that the Rabi Eliezer even refused to bless him. If Elijah can look like anyone, then the only way to invite him in is to invite everyone: strangers, beggars, anyone who needs a good meal or a bit of joyful company.

Passover teaches us that redemption is not just a gift, it is a call to action. God delivered the Jews from Egypt, but he made them wander a desert until they were ready to embrace the promised land. He will open the door of righteousness for us, but only if we first open our doors, to friends and family of course, but also people who are poor or sick or lost or desperate. 

Passover celebrates our salvation, but this final cup reminds us that the world still needs saving. We must work to make the world a more hopeful place. We must pry open every door and embrace every stranger. If we do that, then next Passover, we might find ourselves with an extra guest and a bit of redemption.

(Now we pour the fourth cup of wine and pray together)

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם בּוֹרֵא פְּרִי הַגָפֶן

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

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe, Creator of the fruit of the vine.

(Pour a fifth cup of wine for Elijah, as we sing together)

אֵלִיָהוּ הַנָבִיא, אֵלִיָהוּ הַתִּשְׁבִּי, אֵלִיָהוּ הַגִלְעָדִי

בִּמְהֵרָה יָבוֹא אֵלֵינוּ עִם מָשִׁיחַ בֶּן דָוִד

Eliyahu haNavi
Eliyahu haTish'bi,
Eliyahu, Eliyahu, Eliyahu haGil'adi

Bim'hera v'yameinu yavoh eleinu,
im mashiach ben David,
im mashiach ben David

Elijah the prophet, Elijah of Tishbi, Elijah of Gilead, may he soon come to us along with the Messiah, son of David.

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
--Adam Zagajewski

--

לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בִּירוּשַָׁלָיִם

L'shana Haba'ah b'Y’rushalayim

Next Year in Jerusalem!

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

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

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

.. (CHORUS)

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

.. (CHORUS)

Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya.

Then came a cat and ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came a dog and bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came a stick and beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came fire and burnt the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came water and quenched the fire, that burnt the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came the ox and drank the water, that quenched the fire, that burnt the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came the butcher and slaughtered the ox, that drank the water, that quenched the fire, that burnt the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came the Angel of Death and killed the butcher, that slaughtered the ox, that drank the water, that quenched the fire, that burnt the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

Then came the Holy One, Blessed be He and slew the the Angel of Death, that killed the butcher, that slaughtered the ox, that drank the water, that quenched the fire, that burnt the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat, That Father bought for two zuzim, Chad gadya. Chad gadya. 

to the tune of "Alexander Hamilton"

How does a Jewish, orphan, placed on the shore in a
basket, tasked with hiding his identity, essentially
in Pharaoh’s family, in secret,
Grow up to lead his people out of Egypt?

The Passover founding father without a father
Got a lot farther by following the God father
By daring to be a martyr
By being an ocean parter
At eighty-one, they made him the Covenant guarder.

And every day while slaves were being slaughtered and carted
Away across the sand, he struggled and kept his guard up
Inside, he was longing for something to be a part of
(This part is just the same, I thought this would be harder)

Then he saw a Jew maimed, and left an Egyptian slain,
Fled into the dessert to escape being detained
Before he saw a burning bush that set a fire in his brain
And so back home he came, to challenge Pharaoh’s reign

Well, the word got around, they said, “This Jew is insane, man”
Overwhelming Egypt, turning bounty to blood-stained sand
“Keep sending Egypt plagues until Pharaoh is in pain, and
The world’s gonna know your name. What’s your name, man?”

Moses of the Israelites
My name is Moses of the Israelites
And soon we’ll find ourselves the Promised Land,
Just you wait, just you wait...

(by Jacob Marx Rice)

to the tune of  “Anything Goes” 

In olden days when Pharaoh thundered, 
The Hebrews in slav’ry wondered, 
Does Heaven know? 
When can we go? 

A man arose, his name was Moses, 
What do you suppose his news was? 
To end our woe, 
It was time to go!

‘Twas under the burning tree 
Moses came to be 
Man of liberty 
Who would help us flee 
‘Cross the ruddy sea 
So miraculously. 
Say goodbye to old Pharaoh! 

What God proposes, man disposes. 
The story of Moses shows us 
That, Heaven knows, 
Anything goes!

©2007 Steve Glickman

to the tune of “Into the Woods” 

Into the sea, where Adonai 
Has promised that the land is dry.
Moses is here and he’s the guy 
To guide us on our journey. 

Into the sea— We can’t deny
The trip we take can terrify. 
Will we be free or will we die 
Before we start our journey?

The way is clear. 
We have our guide. 
So have no fear. 
God will provide. 
The sand is up ahead. 
The soldiers are behind. 
I really hate to ask it, 
But will I need a casket?

Into the sea— We have no bread. 
The time was tight, and so we fled. 
Moses has said we’ll all be fed 
As we head on our journey. 

Into the sea— We don’t know how
But we agree the time is now. 
Later we’ll build a golden cow 
To guide us on our journey. 
Into the sea! And out of the sea!
Into the sea! And out of the sea! 
And home before dark!

©2007 Barbara Sarshik

to the tune of “My Guy” 

Moses says it’s time 
To start on the climb up Sinai. 
When he’s way up high 
He’ll meet with Adonai on Sinai. 

Well, our God is a superstar 
And when it comes to being chosen, we are! 
There’s not a mountain nowhere 
That ever can compare with Sinai.

Far from all the crowds 
He’ll be high up in the clouds on Sinai. 
Look at all we’ll know 
When he comes back down below from Sinai 

We’ll love the Lord and keep Shabbat 
We’ll follow every “Thou shalt not.” 
There’s not a mountain nowhere 
That ever can compare with Sinai. 

©2009 Barbara Sarshik

to the tune of "Juice" by Lizzo

Pharaoh, pharaoh, in the halls
Don’t tell me you won’t free the jews (ooh baby)
My man moses got that beard
Don’t make him call a plague on you (ooh baby)

He was raised in Egypt land
But now he’s back with something new (ooh baby)
Gotta let my people go
Cuz the hebrews gotta fly the coop! (That’s how I roll)

Touch the water and the whole Nile turn to blood (Hebrew goals)
Darkness, boils and hail and even freaky bugs (now you know)
Frogs and lice and flies and Pestilence no good (so you know)
One more Plague from Moses and then, bitch you done!

CHORUS
It ain’t my fault that I’m out here asking Qs
Got my matzoh and grape juice Gotta pass over the Jews (yeah)
It ain’t my fault that god’s death angel is loose
Out here killing first-born dudes
Gotta pass over the Jews. Hineni

Hi-ne-ni
hi-ne-ni
Hi-ne- //-ni
Pass over the jews gotta pass over the jews hi ne ni Hi ne ni

Hi ne ni
Hi ne -
Pass over the jews gotta pass over the jews, yeah!

(by Jake Beckhard)

to the tune of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses”from Gypsy

Bang a drum! Spread the news!
Things are looking real good for the Jews!
We’ve escaped! We’re alive!
And now everything’s coming up Moses!

We were slaves. Now we’re free.
’Cause we made it across The Red Sea.
No more whips! No more bricks!
And now everything’s coming up Moses!

(Bridge)
We’ll eat matzo.
We’ll drink wine ’til we burst!
Pure de-lir-ium,
Led by the singing of Mir-iam.

Play a harp! Ring a bell!
’Cause we’re traveling to Yis-ra-el!
Pack your bags! Grab a map!
‘Cause now everything’s coming up Moses!

(Second bridge)
Frogs, lice, locusts,
Slaying of the first born.
Say a prayer, “Oh,
Thanks, God, for vanquishing Pharaoh!”

Not by luck or the sword.
No, we all owe our lives to the Lord.
Say a prayer! Sing a song!
Make it loud! Make it long!
A-do-noy yeem-loch L’o-lam va-ed!
’Cause now everything’s coming up Moses
Just like God has said!