A Prayer for Passover, 2014

A Prayer for Passover, 2014

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Mah nishtanah halayla hazeh…   “Why is this night different from all other nights?”

With these words we open each Seder, our annual recitation of the Haggadah, the story of our redemption from Egyptian bondage.  Yet, these ancient words contain an eternal puzzle.  They may be thousands of years old; but, traditionally recited by the youngest member of the household, they also represent the newest, the freshest and the most innocent.

Since the day this formula was set, its words have never changed.  The story is pretty much the same it has been for over three thousand years.  Yet each Seder brings something new to us.  It isn’t only about ancient times; it’s also about today.

Much changes over time.  Generations come and go; cities are built, destroyed and are rebuilt again.  Yet our story doesn’t change.  It’s always about how we were slaves in Egypt and about how God redeemed us with marvels and miracles.  We count off the plagues; we sing of our gratitude—Dayenu!—for being spared, for being given the Torah, for being brought to the Promised Land.

Miraculously, the Red Sea always parts at the appointed time.

Sadly, some other things don’t change either.  How many times did we have to leave our homes and possessions behind?  How many times did we endure degradation and insult, exile, dispersal and expulsion?  How many pogroms?  How many men, women and children have chosen to die by the flame or the sword rather than submit to forced belief in gods they could not accept or believe in?

In the past few weeks, we have witnessed an almost weekly barrage of tragic shootings and killings.  We have seen a rise in violence such as hasn’t been seen in decades.  Only yesterday we marked the first anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing, in turn crying for the victims and cheering the progress of the survivors.

And only yesterday we witnessed yet another act of violence, as a hate-filled gunman killed three innocent people in Overland Park, Kansas.

Perhaps all these other shootings mark something new in our culture, a rise in frustration, overbearing anger that results in senseless violence and mass killings.

But the shooting in Kansas yesterday is really nothing new.  It represents the oldest hatred on this planet:  Anti-Semitism.  Hatred of the Jew.

That two of the victims, a grandfather and his grandson who had come to the Jewish Community Center for a talent audition, weren’t even Jewish doesn’t matter.  The shooter had thought them to be Jewish.  That they were there shows how intricately interwoven general life and Jewish life have become in America.  We’ve seen that kind of interweaving throughout our history.  It isn’t new.  And the hatred isn’t new either.

It seems that nothing has changed, nothing at all.

So how is this night different from all other nights?

Even as we sit at our Seder dinners tonight, even as we recite the ancient prayers, blessings and stories, something new always shines forth. 

It’s the hope, ever regenerated.

As the youngest child, he or she of the brightest eyes, dimpliest smile and sweetest voice, intones the ancient words, our hope rises yet again, new, renewed, restored.

We believe—despite it all.  We believe in Redemption.  We believe in a time-to-come when violence will disappear; when hatred will cease; when all humanity will be freed from the bondage of ignorance and prejudice.  We believe that a bright day will come when the sun’s rays will shine into the darkest corners of the human soul and bring love to the forlorn, joy to the dejected, acceptance to the forsaken.

As we look into the youngest child’s eyes, we see there a gateway to tomorrow, a day that has never yet been.  We see new possibilities where none existed before.  And that is the difference.  That is what marks this night from all other nights.  It really is the dawning of a new day.

Will the wine in Elijah’s cup tremble tonight?  Will it be missing a drop or two before the night is over?  Without a doubt, yes.

For that is our hope:  that one day there will be an end to the shootings, the knifings, the bombings.  That one day the hatred will disappear forever.

This night, let our hope dispel the darkness.  Let the newness of this moment last not only through this night, nor only for the next week, but for all future days.  Let its blessing be not only for us, but for all humanity.  Not only for our children, but for their children and their children after them.

May this be God’s will.

Chag sameach—a happy, joyous and sweet Passover to all!

(c) 2014 by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman