Night of Broken Matzahs: Passover 2024
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Approximately 3,250 years ago a new people was born. They emerged from physical and spiritual bondage and set out toward a future they knew nothing about. They called themselves Israel, after one of their ancestors, holding deep in their hearts faith in a power stronger than any human being, king or emperor, and the belief that this power would lead them to a better place, a promised land.
It would prove a long and difficult journey. With little more to unite them other than their identity, they agreed to follow an aged leader who would often disappear for days at a time, yet who constantly pointed up and forward, towards God and the rising sun.
Ever since then, we’ve celebrated Passover to remind us of that moment in our history and of the journey we undertook and are still on. But unlike our ancient ancestors, today we have a roadmap. Today we know where that promised land lies, and we know how to get there. And, once a year—twice for those of us who follow the tradition of repeating the Seder on the second night of the holiday—we review the map. We call it the Haggadah.
The Haggadah was created by the early Rabbis who had seen the destruction of the Second Temple and the subsequent dispersal of the Jewish People to all corners of the earth. Containing 15 steps, the Haggadah—our narration—begins with the earliest days of our past, long before we became slaves, when our third Patriarch, Jacob, who later became Israel, was fleeing from Laban. (How often in our history it seems that we have been fleeing from oppressors!). We read passages from the Torah that relate the miracle of our escape from Pharaoh—the hard labor, the drowning of male newborns, the ten plagues, the parting of the Red Sea. And we discuss, along with the Rabbis of old, the timing and manner in which our Redemption took place—in the midst of the terrible darkness that seemed to swallow the entire world.
And then, of course, we eat. We eat symbolic foods—items that remind us of the tears of bitterness, of the mortar we used in building those vast storehouses for Pharaoh, and of course matzah, the bread of poverty, that recalls the hurry with which we left Egypt.
Over time, our foods became part of this roadmap. Every region of the world where our path took us is represented in the menu. There’s the Iraqi version of charoset, made with date honey and walnuts; and Ashkenazi charoset—apples, walnuts, cinnamon and sweet wine. There’s Persian charoset, and Indian; Moroccan, Italian and Mexican. Matzah balls and gefilte fish represent eastern Europe—the recipe changing just slightly from one region to another. Today of course, we have fusion cuisine, but there are also families that hold on with almost fanatic tenacity to the traditions they have always followed, from generation to generation.
The Passover Haggadah comes in more editions and translations than any other book in the world, yet all follow the same order, the same 15 steps. Seder, after all, means order, and by following it we express our deep-seated belief that in our sometimes-chaotic world, order still exists. There is a beginning and a goal, and a road that leads us there. In some households, the Seder can last for hours, though most rabbis recommend that it not go past midnight. Children are encouraged to stay awake for the entire thing. There are songs, games and puzzles that help.
Why the children? Partially to observe the commandment, “And when your children ask you, ‘what do you mean by this service?’ you shall say, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to Adonai, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when smiting the Egyptians, but saved our houses” (Ex. 12:26-27).
But why only the children? Isn’t the Seder there to remind all of us of that miracle of our existence and survival?
One answer of course is that they may yet not know or understand our history and its implications for their lives. But there is another answer too. Our journey does not stop with the past; it runs through our own lives and then, into the unforeseeable future.
So what exactly do we teach our children? Certainly not just another miracle story, just another example of “they tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat!”
If there is a common theme that runs through all our Passover traditions, it is hope. Our history is often bright and fun, filled with delicious foods and meaningful customs. But it is also marked by dark nights, by times when we had every reason to give up—but didn’t.
One of the songs we sing during the Seder is Dayeinu, “It would have been enough.” Though today at most tables, only four or five of its stanzas are sung, the song actually consists of 15 sections, just like our Haggadah. This piyyut, or religious poem, goes back some two thousand years, listing a series of blessings that begin with our Redemption from Egypt and end with the building of the Temple in Jerusalem. Each stanza, each blessing, reminds us of a need we experienced, and the gift we received from God. Each step leads us forward, to a higher spiritual level than ever before. What Dayeinu is really about, is never losing hope, even—and especially—when all hope seems lost.
A story is told about an incident that took place in a concentration camp during the Shoah—the Holocaust—the darkest time in recent Jewish history. A rabbi bribed a guard into allowing a certain amount of flour to be smuggled in. “We’re not asking for extra food,” he explained. “We just want to be able to fulfill our Passover duties.” Amazingly, the guard permitted it, and a small amount of flour was procured and handed over to the rabbi. Not to lose a moment, the internees hurried to build a makeshift oven—for no one knew when their endeavor might be discovered and foiled! They followed the traditions: the whole process of mixing the flour with water and then baking it into matzahs had to take no more than 18 minutes. The result however was disappointing—just a few meager matzahs for the hundreds of hungry, despairing Jews. For some time they discussed who should get the matzahs, but finally it was decided: the children. So that they should know not only the taste of the bread of poverty and misery, but also of hope and redemption.
So too today, when we break the middle matzah during the Seder, we hide the larger part of it—the afikomen—and let the children find it towards the end of the evening. There is a lesson in this that they will need to understand and then teach to their children in their own time. Hope is never lost, as long as we keep our memories of the past alive, as long as we hold on to our faith, and, like Moses and our ancestors of long ago, look up to heaven and forward towards the rising sun.
This year, even as we remember those whose lives were so horribly taken from them on October 7; even as we think of the war still going on between Israel and its enemies, and the terrible toll it continues to exact; even as we pray for the safety and health—and, God willing, the safe return to their families—of the men, women and children who are still held hostage by terrorists in Gaza; we must keep in mind that brighter days are yet ahead, days when we will yet dance again, praise God again, and sing Dayeinu in joyous harmony. Like our ancient ancestors, we hold on to our faith and hope. Like them we know that the most important thing is not to be afraid, not to despair, but to stay on the path, step by step, until we get there.
© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman
No comments:
Post a Comment