Greens in Salt Water: Our Second Covid Passover

הָשַּׁתָּא עַבְדֵי, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין
This year we are slaves. Next year we will be free people.  —Passover Haggadah

 
Last year at this time, we were all adapting to what it meant to conduct a seder via Zoom, physically distant from our loved ones. And, to some degree or another, we made the adjustments. Even if those seders weren’t the greatest of our entire lives, most people agreed that technology made it 70%, or 43%, or 29% successful. 

At that time, we figured that this was a temporary gesture. Within a few weeks (remember?), we said to ourselves, this will all be over, and we’ll remember how strange and different the Seder of 2020 was. Surely we’ll be “free” by summer.

Now we’re preparing for our second Pandemic Seder. Almost 540,000 Americans have died from Covid, let alone the victims all over the world. We’ve learned how to adjust our behaviors, adapt our daily rituals, and act responsibly for our own sake and the sake of others. (Well, most of us—except for the most obtuse and irresponsible among us—have learned how to do so.)

This year’s Pandemic Seder will feel different. The availability of vaccines has made it possible for some people to be with each other; we don’t live in mortal terror for our parents, grandparents, and the elders of our community quite so much. There is a feeling that even if we are having socially-distanced seders now, there is hope on the horizon that we’ll be liberated from these narrow, confining spaces very soon.  And that hope, it seems to me, is very “Kosher for Passover.”

Early in the seder, we observe a ritual involving two symbols. We take up a green vegetable—“Karpas”— a symbol of springtime’s renewal. A Hasidic commentary reminds us that Pesach is also Chag Ha-Aviv, the Festival of Springtime, and after a long, cold winter, the world is slowly renewing its warmth and vitality. Even though we have just passed through winter, this holiday endows us with renewed energy for Life.[1]

We take the Karpas and dip it into a dish of salt water, which symbolizes the tears of suffering.

Each symbol thus has a distinct meaning—but what does it mean to dip one of these symbols into the other?

It means that our lives are almost never entirely joy or entirely sorrow. Real life is a mixture of those two elements, one dipped in the other. Our celebrations include a reflection of those who are no longer with us. By contrast, our bereavements are tempered by sweet memories and love that endures.

Dipping the Karpas into the salt water is a timely and powerful ritual. Because this year, as much as ever, we know the symbolism of hope mixed with tears. As our world opens up, it is crucial that we do not lose sight of the fact that there has been so much death and sorrow all around us for these many months; social distancing hasn’t just been about inconveniencing ourselves, it’s been about minimizing the danger to ourselves and others. So much loss is contained in the seder’s salty waters.

But in that loss there is hope. The green vegetable promises us that we’ll emerge and from this and new life will blossom—soon. The winter has passed. The vaccines are here; they’ll be available to everyone in the near future. Soon we’ll be out of this, if we can just hold on a bit longer. And when we emerge, our freedoms should be to us sweeter than ever; our relationships should be even more precious; and our empathy to those who hurt should be so much deeper.

From our pains, we learn the preciousness of life. Passover promises liberation from all forms of enslavement. Its hope, as ever, is born from salty tears.

[1] In The Chassidic Haggadah, Rabbi Eliyahu Touger, 1988.

Where is the Pandemic in the Seder? Lots of Places—But Please, Not in the 10 Plagues

וְכָל הַמַּרְבֶּה לְסַפֵּר בִּיצִיאַת מִצְרַיִם הֲרֵי זֶה מְשֻׁבָּח

The more you embellish the Passover story,
the more commendable you are. (Passover Haggadah)

Where are the connections and lessons about Coronavirus in the Passover Haggadah? Lots of places, naturally. But please—not in the “Ten Plagues!”

This year’s Seder will be unlike any that we have experienced in our lifetimes. Seders will be small and isolated; some people with whom we share every Pesach will only be able to participate through videoconferencing; and many of us will find it a challenge to do the typical food shopping and preparation that we’re accustomed to at this season.

But there are certain truths with which we’ve already become acquainted during this strange time of physical distancing, and many of them are germane to Seder Night:

1.     Pikuach nefesh / preserving life takes precedence to virtually every Mitzvah;

2.     We must learn resilience and adaptability from our accepted routines;

3.     We have to build bonds of community and love in creative ways when we can’t be physically close to one another;

4.     It is imperative to care for the most vulnerable among us;

5.     Things we’ve long taken for granted can be amazingly fragile.

Where might we encounter these ideas in the Seder? Lots of places. Here are some preliminary thoughts:

·      URHATZ/RACHTZA: WASHING YOUR HANDS! – There have already been lots of internet memes about this in a humorous vein. But it is notable that at a time of crisis, one of the first lines of defense is to wash our hands constantly, many times throughout the day. In my Seder, the handwashing has always been a section we passed over quickly, to get to more substantial sections. But perhaps this year we should do it more methodically, and ask: Why this ritual? What does it have to do with the preparations of freedom?

And we note that in the 19th century, Dr. Ignaz Semmelweis (1818-1865) noticed that doctors were going directly from working with cadavers to treating their patients; he urged them to wash their hands. Dramatically, the number of deaths—especially among women giving birth—plummeted. And now? Can you imagine medical professionals scoffing at washing their hands? Can you imagine anyone (cough, cough) mocking the consensus of the medical community about the precautions we need to observe to stay safe?

·      YAHATZ – As we break the middle matzah in half, we should pause and reflect on the fragility of things we’ve taken for granted for so long; and how easily shattered our daily routines can be by an unexpected crisis.

·      KOL DIKHFIN / “LET ALL WHO ARE HUNGRY COME AND EAT, LET ALL WHO ARE IN NEED COME AND SHARE THE PESACH MEAL” – Will this line just be bitterly ironic this year? I hope not. Perhaps our observance—and our inconvenience—can remind us of those who are perpetually hungry (and not just for food). Perhaps our Seder at this point should pause while we make a group commitment to Tzedakah that supports the most vulnerable people in our midst.

And this is one of many points in the Seder when we can appreciate how we’ve learned to use contemporary tools, such as Zoom technology, to bring together virtual communities during this crisis.

·      MAH NISHTANA / “WHY IS THIS NIGHT DIFFERENT FROM ALL OTHER NIGHTS?” – All of our days and nights are so different now than they were just a few weeks ago! And yet, there is a spiritual truth uncovered by being disrupted from work and school: Take nothing for granted, so much of life can change in a heartbeat. This is a good time to ask: How have we learned resilience and adaptability from our routines?

·      RABBI ELAZAR: “Here I am, like a man of 70…” A lot of people who thought of themselves as fit and healthy have suddenly discovered that they are considered “at-risk.” Who at the Seder has taken extra-special precautions? What have we learned?

·      THE FOUR CHILDREN:  Let’s note that the chacham, the wise one, asks specific questions and receives specific answers—as all wise citizens will do to make reasonable, sober decisions during the pandemic. But it’s the rasha, the wicked one, who says, “What is this to you?” and writes himself out of the story, as if there are no interconnections between us, as if his behavior couldn’t possibly affect another person, and vice-versa. We know that Covid-19 has been spread by fools who don’t consider the possibility that their behavior could carry the virus to others. It seems to me that a whole lot of evil comes into the world because of this attitude.

·      MIRIAM’S CUP:  Miriam teaches us a profound lesson about caring for the sick. When she was stricken with tzara’at, a terrifying biblical disease, she was quarantined outside the camp of the Israelites. But the text (Numbers 12:15) is careful to note that the camp doesn’t move on until Miriam is readmitted. Can we say the same – that our society will not neglect or abandon those who are most stricken? (Not sacrificing MY elders to the economy!!)

·      PESACH AL SHUM MAH? / WHAT DOES THE SHANKBONE REPRESENT? When we consider the story of the Destroyer passing over the Jewish homes, we recall how the Torah demanded of the Israelites, “…None of you shall go outside the door of his house until morning” (Exodus 12:22). The first example of physical distancing at a time of pandemic!

·      ELIJAH: Why is Elijah at our door at this time of distancing? Because he’s a symbol of hope, that things will get better. And because someday in the near future we’ll show we learned our lesson by flinging our doors wide open to anyone in need.

Or is it because Elijah, in the rabbinic imagination, tends to the sick and hurting? He’s the first responder and the frontline health care professional. And this is a moment in the Seder to remember those who put themselves at risk to make sure that all the rest of us are as safe and secure as possible.

In other words, ANYWHERE IN THE SEDER—BUT PLEASE, NOT THE 10 PLAGUES!

It’s not that coronavirus isn’t a plague—it certainly is. But linking it to the so-called 10 Plagues is a superficial, failed analogy. Here’s why.

The so-called 10 Plagues are called in Hebrew ‘eser makkot, “10 strikes.” The word “plague” is only used by the Torah in regard to the 10th (Exod. 11:1), the slaying of the Egyptian first-born, and it’s the exception that proves the rule.

These were the tools of divine deliverance that brought us from slavery to freedom. They are the “signs and wonders” to which the final words of the Torah (Deuteronomy 34:11) allude when eulogizing Moses. They were the tools of battle in G-d’s war with Pharaoh, who would not let the people go. They were miracles from G-d that were the tools of redemption.

Coronovirus isn’t that. It’s indeed a real plague, and a challenge to each of us individually and as a collective society. Pesach is a reminder of all the ways in which we are gloriously free, and the manner in which all of us are hopelessly (or hopefully) interconnected, and that we’re only as free as the most vulnerable among us.

The pandemic has amplified those messages—and the Seder can and should be a spiritually uplifting reflection on how we’re different this year, and how we will be liberated from these narrow straits as we have in the past.

We're Doing the 10 Plagues All Wrong—Part Two

The Maggid section of the Haggadah—the lengthiest part of the seder, the section which retells the story of the Exodus—culminates with the description of the so-called “Ten Plagues.” As I wrote earlier, the idea of the “plagues” is misunderstood, and that has led to a lot of misguided creativity around this part of the seder.

None of that is to say that there aren’t powerful and important lessons regarding the ritual here. In some ways, this is one of the most provocative sections of the entire seder.

When we reach this passage, every community that I’ve encountered has a similar sort of ritual. Upon reciting the name of each  “plague,” a drop of wine is removed from each of our cups. (Many also remove drops of wine before the 10 Plagues: 3 drops at the verse from Joel 3:3  “...Blood [דָם] and fire [אֵשׁ] and pillars of smoke [וְתִימֲרוֹת עָשַׁן]”; and 3 times at the acronym for the Plagues [דצ"ך עד"ש באח"ב], for a total of 16 drops.)

There are variations about how this removal takes place. Many people use their fingers, taking out wine from their glass drop by drop. Perhaps this custom alludes to the יד חזקה / yad chazakah / the “mighty hand” with which G-d redeemed the Israelites (see Exodus 6:1, 13:9; and especially Deuteronomy 26:8, which the Haggadah is citing, as well as Deut. 34:12, the last verse of the Torah).  Other people tip their glasses, spilling drops one at a time. Some use a utensil to remove the drops.

But the most important thing is to be clear about what this ritual means.

A kiddush cup full of wine is a symbol of joy and celebration. To reduce the wine in our glass symbolizes reducing our joy.

Why do we do this? The 15th Century commentator Don Yitzhak Abarbanel said that our joy is not complete as we recall the suffering of the Egyptians as we made our way to freedom. He quotes Proverbs 24:17:  “When your enemy falls, do not rejoice...”

That is a breathtaking statement.  Recall that when we read “Egyptians” in the text, what we’re saying is:  Nazis. Inquisitors. Hamas. Baby-killers, as the midrash makes clear. The most bloodthirsty oppressors that have slimed their way onto the stage of human history. 

And yet, when we consider the victories that gave us our freedom, we recognize that our enemies suffered, too.

It recalls as astounding passage from the Talmud that tells how the angels wished to rejoice at the moment of the Splitting of the Sea, but G-d silenced them:

שאין הקדוש ברוך הוא שמח במפלתן של רשעים. דאמר ר' שמואל בר נחמן אמר ר' יונתן... באותה שעה בקשו מלאכי השרת לומר שירה לפני הקב"ה אמר להן הקב"ה מעשה ידי טובעין בים ואתם אומרים שירה לפני.

The Holy and Blessed One does not rejoice at the fall of the wicked.
Thus Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan:... At that  moment [when the Egyptians were drowning in the Sea,] the ministering angels intended to sing before the Holy and Blessed One.
The Holy One said, “The work of My hands is drowning in the sea, and you would sing before me?!”

This is an astonishing idea. Our tradition is demanding that, at the moment of deliverance from suffering, we set aside any sort of triumphalism. Instead, we are called upon to recognize the very human-ness of our enemy.

To be sure, these passages do not apologize for our victory. We don’t regret that we were brought out of Egypt, just as we don’t regret the integrity and passion and ferociousness with which we’ve fought any just war in history. Evil must be vanquished, sometimes only through greater force.  

What the tradition does assert is that we can’t allow ourselves to dehumanize our enemies. They, too, are fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. They suffered when their water turned to blood, their fields were devoured by locusts, and their firstborn lay dead in their beds. They suffered when we fought back in the ghettos and the trenches, and when they and their children died on the battlefields. 

Enemies are real, but perhaps recognizing each other’s inherent humanity is a cautious step towards a world with... well, a bit fewer enemies. 

Can we live up to this standard that our tradition sets? I’m not saying I can, not yet. The desire for justice... which sometimes is indistinguishable from the desire for vengeance against those who have hurt us... is just too strong. But that’s what makes this spiritual challenge so compelling—our highest values are what we should reach for, not what we already comfortably accept.  

This is the ritual of the drops at the Ten Plagues.  It’s radical and challenging, and it deserves a moment of meditation and reflection before we tip our cups.  

We're Doing the Ten Plagues All Wrong—Part One

I collect Haggadahs. I love them; I think the Haggadah is the quintessential Jewish religious text. Not only because it tells the story of how we became a people, but also because there are Haggadot customized for every Jewish family and community. That’s why there are so many hundreds of them out there.

Pride of place in my Haggadah collection goes not to rare volumes or collector’s editions. Instead, I prefer photocopied and homemade texts that families have shared with me over the years, taking the traditional order, texts, and rituals and making the story their own. After all, personalizing the story is the key injunction of this festival: “In every generation, we must view ourselves as if we, personally, came out of Egypt” (Mishnah, Pesachim 10:5). We write ourselves into the continually unfolding story, respectfully inscribing the latest chapter that builds on what came before.

At the culmination of the Maggid section of the Haggadah—the part that tells the story of the Exodus—is a description of the עשר מכות/Esser Makkot, known colloquially as the Ten Plagues. And judging by the Haggadot in my collection, as well as all the creative seder material that fills my inbox at this time of the year, we’ve been doing it all wrong.

Racism. Climate change. Islamophobia… Countless Haggadot and seder-leaders over the years have invited guests to list “10 modern plagues” that afflict our world.

Homophobia. Rape culture. Surging antisemitism… there is no shortage of plagues in our world, and we’re often called by well-meaning people today to elaborate on them at the seder.

Family-separation policies for immigrants. The ubiquity of screens. Allowing rich people to set our communal agenda. Suburban complacency… I can do it, too. I’m sure you have your own list.

But if we think about it, these lists really don’t work at this part of the seder. It’s not that these things aren’t important—they are, and each contributes to a form of “enslavement” that we all yearn to be free from.

The problem is, that’s not what the מכות עשר / Esser Makkot / “Ten Plagues” are all about. 

Makkot are not “plagues.” They are “strikes”, as in military strikes against an aggressive enemy. That is precisely the image that the Torah presents in the Exodus story: G-d is waging a battle against Pharaoh in order to achieve the liberation of the Israelite slaves. At the burning bush, G-d tells Moses:

וְשָׁלַחְתִּ֤י אֶת־יָדִי֙ וְהִכֵּיתִ֣י אֶת־מִצְרַ֔יִם בְּכֹל֙ נִפְלְאֹתַ֔י אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֶֽעֱשֶׂ֖ה בְּקִרְבּ֑וֹ
וְאַחֲרֵי־כֵ֖ן יְשַׁלַּ֥ח אֶתְכֶֽם׃
I will stretch out My hand and strike [v’hikeiti – the same root as makkot]  Egypt with
various wonders which I will work upon them; after that he shall let you go.
(Exodus 3:20)

This process unfolds over a series of 10 strikes against Egypt, each one a tool towards bringing about freedom: blood, frogs, lice, etc…

When the Torah recalls the Exodus, it refers to these events as “signs” and “wonders”. In Deuteronomy 34:11, they are called אותות (“signs”) and מופתים (“portents”); these words are used again in Psalms 78 and 105. They are divinely attributed miracles that directly brought about the release of the people from bondage.

The “Ten Plagues” are the tools of liberation. They are not lingering calamities from which the world suffers, like racism, environmental cataclysm, or ignorance. They are not called “plagues.”

The Torah has words for “plague”: נגע / nega’ and מגפה / magefah. Nega’ usually appears in the context of leprosy, the scale-disease that was a particularly horrible trauma in the Bible. (Later, a whole tractate of the Mishna on this theme would be called Nega’im.) Magefah is used usually in the context of massive deaths after the Israelites sin as a community (see, for example, Numbers 14:7, 25:8-9, 26:1; and 1 Samuel 4:17). But neither term, nega’ nor magefah, conjures up God’s battle with Pharaoh.

There is one exception (because there’s always an exception). In Exodus 11:1, just prior to the מכת הבכורות / the strike against the first-born of Egypt, G-d tells Moses:

…ע֣וֹד נֶ֤גַע אֶחָד֙ אָבִ֤יא עַל־פַּרְעֹה֙ וְעַל־מִצְרַ֔יִם…
“I will bring but one more plague [nega’] upon Pharaoh and upon Egypt…” 

Here is the one appearance of the word “plague” in the entire saga. Why does this word appear here, and only here?

Perhaps that Tenth Strike is different. After all, scholars have pointed out that the Esser Makkot occurred in three triads; there is a literary symmetry in the clusters of three, and the Tenth stands outside of the pattern. Perhaps the severity of the 10th Strike is so intense that even G-d realizes that this is the “nuclear option.” Maybe it’s simply the exception that proves the rule, since nowhere else in biblical or rabbinical literature these events are called “plagues.”

So it’s just a little too lazy to score political points by asking, “What are 10 modern plagues…?” We have more than our share of them, it is true. But there is a cognitive dissonance in linking the today’s blights with wondrous moments in the past that directly led to our freedom.

The seder saga inspires other, more appropriate and difficult questions: What “miraculous” things have contributed to our freedom – individually, as a family, and as a people? What wondrous events in our past directly made it possible for us to be here today? And how do we appropriately express our wonder, awe, and gratitude?

Good Enough

Had G-d brought us out of Egypt
But not parted the Sea for us – Dayenu!
Had G-d parted the Sea for us
But not brought us through on dry land – Dayenu!
Had G-d brought us near to Mount Sinai
But not given us the Torah – Dayenu!

 Here’s a conversation starter for a dry seder:  Does anyone really believe the words to this song?

            I mean, we’ve been singing Dayenu a long time – probably since the era of the Geonim (650-1075 CE). Even families that have abridged the seder to a significant degree still consider this song essential. But consider the words as they appear on the page, and the message is less than obvious. Do we really believe that “It Would Be Good Enough for Us” (for that is the meaning of Dayenu) if G-d had redeemed us from slavery and then left us to starve in the desert? If the Sea had parted and the story ended there? If we had not been allowed to coalesce into a people, and had ultimately gone the way of the Amorites, Hittites, Canaanites, Babylonians, and others who long ago folded into history’s abyss?

            Of course it wouldn’t have been “good enough.”  Any break in any link of the chain of those miraculous events would have signified the end of the Jewish people, and there wouldn’t be anyone around to sing Dayenu to G-d. How could that possibly be “good enough”? So maybe this passage has more to it than meets the eye?

            Dayenu is placed nearly halfway through the seder, after most of the storytelling has taken place and just after the recitation of the Ten Plagues. We have already recounted the brutality of slavery. We have begun to comprehend all the many miracles – and the miracles upon miracles, according to Rabbis Yossi Ha-G’lili, Eliezer, and Akiva in the Haggadah – that have brought us here today, to this moment. Soon we’ll be feasting. But first we sing this song.

            The themes of what it means to be a slave and what it means to be free are placed before us.  And there’s a trap. We might reach this point in the seder, say to ourselves that slavery is a thing of the past, and we’re done with it. Let’s eat.

            But slavery is not a thing of the past.  Those who delude themselves into thinking they’re the most free just might find themselves in chains more restrictive than ever.  Just consider:

·      One in three Americans are chronically overworked;

·      54% of Americans have felt “overwhelmed” at work in the past month;

·      21% of overworked Americans exhibit symptoms of clinical depression.[1]

Do you see? A girl who starves herself “just to lose a few more pounds” is still enslaved. A family that feels compelled to make a Bar Mitzvah party that much bigger or more lavish because that’s the style is enslaved. A teenager who accommodates sleep deprivation just to get fifty more points on the cursed SATs is still enslaved. Uniquely, Americanly enslaved.

            What’s the way out of this trap?  Only this: the person who knows how to say Dayenu—what I have is, indeed, truly enough for me—is the person who is really free. I can stop the endless pursuit of acquiring, competing, accumulating more. In fact, I can do a better job at giving some of it away.

            Of course, there are plenty around us who are truly, desperately in need. This lesson can’t be applied outwards toward our neighbors, telling them they should be satisfied with whatever they have (as in the words of the miser in a classic Chasidic story, “If I can subsist on bread, they can surely subsist on stones!”) It only works when directed within.

            That’s why we sing Dayenu in our seder. Only the person who can look at his life and say, “What I have is truly what I need,” knows the taste of liberation; everything else is delusion.

[1] Overwork in America: When the Way We Work Becomes Too Much, Families and Work Institute, 2005, http://familiesandwork.org/press/overworkinamericarelease.html#overwork