Committing To A Covenant of Love: Passover 2021
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 19, 2021
My original intent for this sermon was to write something about the phases of the moon. As you might know, the Jewish calendar is mostly lunar (with some solar elements thrown in). The months on the Hebrew calendar are marked by the phases of the moon, with several of our holidays occurring on the full moon. I was going to write about the fear and trepidation that two of these lunar phases bring to my heart: the last full moon before Rosh Ha-Shana and the new moon two weeks before the start of Passover. These celestial happenings never fail to remind me how much work is left to be done, and how little time left to get it done!
But as important as the calendar is in bringing order into our lives, some incidents take place without announcement or preparation, managing to throw chaos and disorder into the otherwise steady rhythm established by the rise and setting of the sun and the waxing and waning of the moon. And one of these took place just a few days ago: The horrific killing of eight people in Atlanta, Georgia.
This latest shooting has left us all—yet again—in shock and disbelief. But this was no random act of terror. Six of the eight were Asian-American women, part of a rising wave of violence directed at this segment of the population.
So instead of talking about me and my nervousness as I look ahead to the holiday of Passover, I want to speak about what Passover actually means to me—to us actually, as Jews and Americans.
When God redeemed us from Egypt, we weren’t simply let loose into the wilderness. Along with the gift of freedom came a whole slew of new and different obligations. For all eternity, at the time of the Exodus the entire Jewish People were called upon to enter into a covenant with God. And even before we knew what this Covenant required of us, we agreed to live by it. It was a display of faith and trust that pleased God, who immediately proceeded to spell out the terms, first with the Ten Commandments, and then with the rest of the 613.
First, of course, we had to build the Tabernacle, the Temple that would symbolize God’s presence among us.
But then, even more importantly, we learned that being in a relationship with God meant that we ourselves had to be holy. This in itself was a revolutionary way of thinking. In all other religions, only the priests were holy. What Moses with all his heart and soul wants of us is for all of us to be holy. And then he spells it out for us. Holiness isn’t just about bringing sacrifices. It’s about how we conduct our daily lives—at home, on the street, among ourselves.
Deep inside the heart of Leviticus—the book we start reading this week at synagogues all over the world—lies the spark of what it means to be in a relationship with God. It’s a text known as The Holiness Code, and it’s such an important section of the Torah that we read it not only on the appointed Shabbat on our calendar, but also on the holiest of our High Holy Days, Yom Kippur. “Love your neighbor as yourself,” these verses say. Feed the hungry; support the weak and needy. And most poignantly, remember what it means to be a stranger in a strange land: “You shall not oppress the stranger… who resides with you. For you were strangers in the land of Egypt… I am Adonai your God!” To be in a relationship with God means to be holy, to act justly, with compassion, with understanding in our hearts. Especially for those we tend to overlook or look at with disdain.
And above all, God warns us: “Do not stand idly or profit by the blood of your neighbor.”
I don’t know why in recent years we have been witnessing so many terrible tragedies. Maybe it’s nothing new; maybe human beings have always resented the other and tried to eliminate from society those we saw as alien to our culture and civilization. A quick perusal of Jewish history is enough to give proof of this bloody and all-too-human tendency.
Of course we could blame political and cultural leaders who stir the masses and spew words of hate and violence. As I understand it, however, the Atlanta shooter claimed other motives, blaming temptation and inclinations that he should have known are embedded deep within himself, not in someone else. But I wonder, where in God’s name did he find the permission to commit such horrific acts of violence and bloodshed. Where do killers like him find approval and sanction for their evil deeds?
If the Bible is the ethical foundation of our civilization, who are the preachers who so misunderstand its sacred rules that they call for slaughter and mayhem? What is—or isn’t—being taught at homes or at schools about law, civics and mutual respect?
Perhaps what our country needs now is a thorough re-reading of the Holiness Code. What lessons have we learned over the centuries and millennia? What do parents, teachers and preachers teach their children? As the powerful song from the musical South Pacific reminds us, we have to be carefully taught how to hate. How much more so, to act violently; to take a gun or high-powered rifle into our own hands and take the lives of innocent people. Just because they look different from me and you, or hold a different faith, or are of different skin color or gender; or whose features—the slant of the eyes, the shape of the mouth or nose—make them stand out as “alien.”
The human race has always craved a relationship with God. We all profess the Golden Rule. Yet some of us see ourselves as somehow empowered to break this very rule. Perhaps all of us need to remind ourselves of what being in a relationship with God means. Maybe the daily toil of our lives has embittered us; maybe the harsh challenges of survival have blinded us to the most important laws of all: that we are all equal in God’s eyes. That we must not murder. That each human being carries the Image of God within us, and that no one—not a one of us—has the right to take that away from anyone else.
This is what I believe we need to hear now, at our homes, schools and—possibly more than anywhere else—in our houses of worship. The law of kindness is what we must now impress upon ourselves and our children.
Ultimately, preparing for Passover isn’t only about emptying our houses of leavened bread. It’s about emptying our hearts of hate and filling them instead with love, with the desire for justice and compassion. That’s how I understand the Exodus from Egypt, and that is what Passover means to me.
May our holiday preparations this year be framed in this context. Yes, we have only a week now before our Passover Seders, and yes, there is so much left to do. But we’ll get it done as we always have in the past. What we must commit to now—for this week and for the rest of our lives—is the sacred teaching of the Torah: Do not oppress the stranger; love your neighbor as yourself. Do not stand idly by your neighbor’s blood and suffering.
Tonight we grieve with our whole nation, but we send special support to the Asian-American community. We send condolences and love to those who lost relatives or friends in the Atlanta shootings. We pray for all who live with fear or sorrow in their heart.
May sanity and sanctity find their place in our land once again.
© 2021 by Boaz D. Heilman
