My parents still live in the house I grew up in. Since leaving it, I have moved 14 times. Each time I move, I have to get rid of the clutter that has accumulated -sometimes more, sometimes less – usually books, but since my child was born, also toys, clothes outgrown, keepsakes from each stage of his life…
I know that I should acquire less. Even though we buy little, it creeps up on me, until I feel weighed down by it all, and yet, many of those things feel precious and irreplaceable. And some of them are.
Each year at Passover, I wonder at all the stuff that seems to be required to leave Egypt -and I think of the Israelites, who left too fast even for bread to rise, but managed to remember their tambourines. No wonder it was so hard for them, no wonder they complained so much: I can imagine them saying to themselves, I can’t leave behind little Dvorah’s first clay bird sculpture, Aharon’s project, that straw-woven hat… even though the straw and the clay were both reminders of the slavery they were escaping.
Sometimes I wish for the purity of having nothing. Sometimes, I long to hold my history in my hands and I am ready for Passover to end, not so I can eat bread, but so I can, for a little while, pretend that the things around me will last into the future.
“It’s not that I have an issue with her having sex, per se, it’s just that it should mean something. You know?”
That’s what a parent I met years ago said about his suspicion that his teenage daughter was having casual sex in his home while he and his wife were away on a brief trip. That sentiment, that ‘it should mean something’, is what I’m thinking about as Pesach is coming to a close. It’s not that I’ll miss Passover exactly, it’s that its message is so important that I don’t want to forget about it for an entire year. “It should mean something. You know?”
We are suppose to feel as if we ourselves have been taken out of a dangerous and narrow place, Egypt, and have been liberated. To make this come alive, at our seder tables we recounted the 10 plagues. For each plague we took out a drop of wine, reminding ourselves that while each plague was indeed a miracle for the Hebrews, the opposite was simultaneously true for the Egyptians. We cannot enjoy a full cup of joy while others suffer, even when it was due and coming to them. So what are plagues that exist today that inspire in me an sense of freedom should I be able to imagine a life without them?
What are the Plagues of the 21st Century that upon the close of this festival of freedom we will still need to contend with?
- Blood. It is preposterous to me that in a time and age when we know what is happening in almost every inch of our globe that we have grow so numb as to allow so much war and bloodshed throughout world, but especially the African continent. “In a free society, some are guilty, all are responsible.”
- Frogs. The incessant croaking of the frogs made it nearly impossible for the Egyptians to even think a clear thought. Such are many of the TV pundits, who, in the guise of informative journalist, are mere partisan bloviators who confuse partial truths with good policy positions.
- Lice. Lice, like the spots in Cat in the Hat, lice are little things that once you turn your attention to them, they seem to multiply. It’s as if they were specially designed to piss you off. What are the little things in your life that are multiplying and seem to be taking over?
- Wild Beasts. “Who do those animals think they are?” In the realm of animals, we often think of humans as the pinnacle power and control. During the plague of the wild beast, that was turned upside down. Hate crimes, such as the one perpetrated in Overland Park, Kansas remind us that it’s not all peace and manna here in the monkey house. When there is a lack of order, when our protections fail, we are fearful, and we know the topsy turvy plague of the wild beasts.
- Cattle Disease. Cattle stock was a measure of value and of security in the ancient world. Some people put their stock in the stock market, but so many others, the overwhelming majority of humanity on this planet, have no savings, or are half a paycheck away, or one hospitalization away from being wiped out.
- Boils. Private indiscretions, no matter how well concealed, find a way to come to the surface. If they’ve been hidden from view, if we’ve tried to hide Truth, perhaps especially from ourselves, the Truth tends to boil over. This is true for the NSA, for the CIA wiretapping Guantanamo Bay hearings. When a Truth once hidden comes to the surface, it’s ugly and it disfigures precisely those who tried to hide the truth for personal gain. It’s true for those who post maliciousness on the internet and its true for cheating Congressmen who run on a platform of “religious values”.
- Hail. In each ball of ice was a tar ball, all aflame. We can no longer ignore our environment. When it’s cold, it’s colder. When it’s hot, it’s hotter. And, it’s not even hot or cold in the right season any more. Nature in no longer playing by her usual rules. It’s disorienting. The environmental impact of global warming are multi-factorial and so monumental as to seems beyond human ability to correct.
- Locust. Like lice, locust swarm. There are too many things that need our attention. The digital age isn’t helping much with this. There is so much that we can pay partial focus to. Have you ever missed your stop on the subway? Or your exit on the freeway? Have you ever read a page of a book, blinked, and than wondered if you had really read that page? Now, add in Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and some Candy Crush (of Flappy Bird if you still have that app.). It’s not all bad, in fact, much of it is good, but our digital life can turn into such a time-suck. Our bifurcated lives have the potential, much more than any age before ours, to make us less attentive when we should be more mindful. I see people quickly feeling swamped, overwhelmed, so much so they see only two choices, caring less (F’ it) or pushing on and living with greater and greater anxiety (this really leads back to some level of F’ it, so just one choice).
- Darkness: The darkness of the 9th plague was palpable. Egyptians were physically stuck in the think slosh of the darkness. This is not the “good darkness” of Barbara Brown Taylor, this is depression. Depression is a thick tar that coats everything with darkness. There in no joy, there is no motivation, there is just stuck-ness, meaninglessness, and for some, deep pain.
- Death. The final plague is a culmination of the previous nine as well as a return to the first, bloodshed. When we ignore bloodshed, when we’ve let our trouble rise and rise such that the world feels upside-down, and all that we can see is darkness, we will have suffocated hope. Without hope, there is only death. There is no opportunity to change, no ideal with which to steer a new generation toward. In the face of any and every obstacle, the greatest plague is the death of hope. Without hope we sink into absurdity. Without hope, there is no love, no beauty, and no meaning. Without hope there is only death.
Passover is supposed to teach our children about how we can create a world filled with more justice, kindness and compassion, so where I struggle is with the idea of calling a child inherently “wise, wicked, simply or unable to ask.” I had always been taught that to raise moral children, we should praise behavior (“that was very kind of you to share your toys!”) and not identity (“you’re such a nice person!”).
So when it came to the four children, I believed that by calling them “wise” or “wicked,” “simple” or “unable to ask,” I would be pigeonholing them into an identity, and one that they could never grow out of. But it looks like I might have been wrong — at least when it comes to encouraging good behavior and creating good people.
On Sunday, Adam Grant (author of the book Give and Take: Why Helping Others Drives Our Success), wrote an Op-Ed piece in the New York Times and shared some fascinating research on what we can do to raise ethical children. One of his main points is that at the age when children begin to create their sense of identity (about 7 or 8 years old), we should praise “who they are” in order to help them start to see themselves as good people.
In one experiment, children won some marbles, and then donated them. They were all told, “Gee, you shared quite a bit.” But for some of the children, the action was praised (“that was a nice and helpful thing to do”), while for others, the character was praised (“you are a nice and helpful person”).
The question was, what would happen down the road, when the children were given a new chance to be nice and helpful? As it turned out,
…[t]he children were much more generous after their character had been praised than after their actions had been.
Praising their character helped them internalize it as part of their identities. The children learned who they were from observing their own actions: I am a helpful person.
This dovetails with new research led by the psychologist Christopher J. Bryan, who finds that for moral behaviors, nouns work better than verbs. To get 3- to 6-year-olds to help with a task, rather than inviting them “to help,” it was 22 to 29 percent more effective to encourage them to “be a helper.” Cheating was cut in half when instead of, “Please don’t cheat,” participants were told, “Please don’t be a cheater.”
When our actions become a reflection of our character, we lean more heavily toward the moral and generous choices. Over time it can become part of us.
While we may still grapple with the Haggadah “labeling” children, the truth is, our behaviors create our identity, and our identity informs our behavior. After all, some of us relish being “the curious one” or “the provocative one,” some of us are always just happy to be together with friends and family, and some of us need to be shown what we are missing.
In the end, Passover reminds us that we are free, which means that we have the freedom to choose how we act. Yet those actions will ultimately define who we are.
So with all the questions this holiday encourages, perhaps the most important one is, “What kind of person do you want to be?”
As a child, the great Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas noticed that dogs appear in Torah at a crucial moment. On the night of the tenth plague, Torah says, “not a dog was barking” (Ex. 11:7). Young Manny wondered at this. Why do dogs deserve to be mentioned? How could they have known what a momentous night it was for both Israelites and Egyptians? Are dogs really “man’s best friend”? What does the Torah know about this?
Levinas found his answers during World War II. He, a French citizen, was drafted into the French army in 1939. Early in the war, German soldiers captured Levinas along with his regiment, and placed him in a POW camp in a special block for Jewish prisoners. Guards treated the Jews as non-persons, interacting as little as possible, never calling them by name.
One day, as the prisoners were returning from work, a dog came by. They called him “Bobby.” Bobby made friends with the Jewish prisoners. Each time they returned from work, Bobby greeted them with joyous canine passion. Eventually, Bobby moved on in his travels, but he remained a treasure in the hearts of the prisoners. Bobby the dog was the only one who recognized them as human beings.
Sometimes, Levinas concludes, dogs can be more humane than human beings. In the Exodus story, their humanity contrasts with Pharaoh’s hardened, de-humanized heart. Unlike Pharaoh, the dogs responded to human feeling, and sensed the presence of the Infinite God. Unlike the German soldiers who murdered Levinas’ parents and brothers, or the French officials who sought his wife and daughter hiding in a monastery, Bobby saw past ethnicity into a living heart.
Bobby’s visit echoes through Levinas’ mature philosophy. To be alone, writes Levinas, can be terrible. Sometimes it seems that even God has abandoned the world. The way out of this loneliness is to respond to others. Traces of God are found in this response-ability. Some people feel God’s infinity through their infinite sense of social or interpersonal responsibility. They know that responsibility must be taught and modeled at every level of relationship—first at home and then on the world stage—in order to make a lasting difference.
As Bobby’s friendship with the prisoners shows, we do not have to know other people well in order to respond to them. Sometimes, says Levinas, we don’t even know the inner lives of our own family members, yet we reach out to them in love. Good spouses understand they cannot fully know one another, and embrace this interpersonal mystery. Good parents recognize they cannot control or predict their children’s future, and cherish the surprises children bring.
Yes, Passover with all its surprises is upon us this very Monday night. But it is still possible to bring Bobby’s spirit to your Seder, in some small, but emotionally huge, last-minute ways.“Let all who are hungry come in and eat,” says the haggadah. Can you set aside some very real everyday differences to reach out to a last-minute guest? “Originally, our ancestors were idol worshippers,” adds the Haggadah, reminding us that nobody has a perfect history. Can you get beyond habitual negative judgments of the spiritual levels of your least favorite relatives, to greet them with joy?
This Monday night Jews around the world will sit down at their tables and embark on recreating the narrative of the Exodus through the rituals of the seder. We will immerse ourselves in the story from some 3,000 years ago that forged the Jewish people. We will eat matzah and bitter herbs to taste as our ancestors tasted. We will drink four cups of wine to symbolize the four stages of redemption that transpired during the Egyptian experience. However, this night does not belong to the Exodus alone.
If we do not allow the seder to inspire and move us to greater action we will have missed a key component on what the whole evening is all about. The Exodus becomes a central relational context for our connection to God: “I am the Lord, your God, who took you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage (Exodus 20:2).” It is used four separate times to introduce major components of Biblical legislation (Exodus 23:20, 23:9, Leviticus 19:34 and Deuteronomy 10:19). It is the framing by which future generations come to know their history and their people: “You shall say to your child, ‘We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt…’ (Deuteronomy 6:21).” Simply, the Exodus is the hinge by which the entire covenantal experience rests.
The Exodus is not just a story to be told. It is an imperative to be acted upon.
What is that imperative? At it’s most basic level the Exodus compels us to liberate, to free and to make better the lives of those most impacted by persecution and oppression. To “know the spirit of the stranger” as the Bible reminds us multiple times is to empathize directly with the marginalized, the outliers and the ones on the margins. In that spirit the organization I work for, The Jewish Council on Urban Affairs, has recently published an insert for your Haggadah that makes relevant the work of Passover into a concrete issue people living in Illinois face today. This is precisely the type of work Passover and the Exodus story calls us to. I encourage you to download the insert and even if the issue is not applicable for you, make it an impetus for the type of investigative work necessary that transforms the Exodus from simply a story into an imperative.
Earlier this week, my excellent colleague, Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz asked the important question of whether, “there can be a new type of “masculinism” that is not about stereotypical manliness, but about confidently embracing what it means to be a man today while also honoring the narrative, journeys, and rights associated with feminism?”
Rabbi Yanklowitz didn’t initially frame the question in terms of Jewish practice, although he did post it on ejewishphilanthropy, and very properly pointed out his perspective as an Orthodox rabbi certainly must color his views in terms of the spiritual meaning of gender.
In those terms, it is interesting that many traditional Jewish cultures valued masculinity in quite different ways than modern western culture does (Daniel Boyarin writes extensively about this in many of his books, most notably, Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man, and of course, others have as well).
In the rabbinic imagination, as well as some Ashkenazic cultures that sprang from them, the feminine is judgement to the masculine mercy (for example in kabalistic imagery); women are suited to labor, while men study; and women are physically tough while men are valued for their delicacy and yeshiva pallor. Of course, we all know that the expression of these values most likely differed more by individual case than by actual gender – as is true regardless of what society one lives in- but the fact that these ideas about how gender is performed varies so dramatically from that of our current western society, demonstrates how entirely socially constructed those values are, and how little they have to do with the people inhabiting them. In fact, these values were so different from the cultures surrounding them, that the non-Jews made note of them, often stereotyping Jews negatively based on them, viewing male Jews as effeminate and weak and female Jews as lusty and strong – stereotypes that we have sadly spent a great deal of effort on disproving by assimilating the contrary gender attitudes of the culture around us.
The irony doesn’t quite end there: even though Rabbi Yanklowitz has essentially brought us full circle, by wondering how we could re-imagine gender roles (to which one might at first consider answering by saying, “bring back the traditional values!”), to solve the problem, it is the question itself which must be examined. As long as society defines each gender in opposition to the other, the problems of sexism cannot be avoided. As soon as you ask, “how can I be not like a woman,” the implication must be that being like a woman is bad (“you throw like a girl,” or the like) and in a society where women are still significantly less powerful than men, it is impossible to avoid this.
Is there a genuinely good reason to differentiate genders in this way, by defining some behaviors as female-appropriate, and some as male- appropriate? My mother-in-law, bless her, likes to say that there are only two jobs that require a person to be sexed a particular way: sperm donor and surrogate mother.
There is no way to equitably explore separate gender roles until equality has been fully achieved. Even then. On the other hand, there is no downside to trying to achieve full gender equality. It will not in any way rob either men or women of being male and female (anything which is biologically determined won’t change, presumably, so what are you afraid of? And if it isn’t biologically determined, then reinforcing it benefits whom, may I ask?) – but it will benefit people by encouraging them to pursue spirituality that fits them, rather than insisting that they should fit themselves to someone else’s notion of what their spirituality ought to be.
Of course, Judaism does require us to undertake obligations, sometimes even responsibilities that we have no desire for, but nevertheless, we are called upon to fulfill them. But is performing gender roles, and separating what women and men do religiously, part of this set of obligations? Or would it be more appropriate to be strict, and say that all are obligated, unless their specific case renders that obligation impossible, or temporarily difficult. For example, perhaps the exemption from positive time-bound mitzvot should be based on who is taking care of the children, rather than assuming that it is the female person that is doing so. Sometimes it will be, but sometimes it won’t – requiring the exemption along gender lines prevents people from choosing which role suits them – and of course some people might never have children- why should they be exempt?
It’s not the way our sages would have thought about it. Perhaps, though, we can draw wisdom from how we today think about the four sons of the haggadah. Most of us are disinclined to assume that our children are permanently the wicked child, or the simple one (and certainly those of us with children know that they aren’t always the wise child): rather, we understand that all four of those children is within each of us, and at different times, we will ask (or not ask) those questions based on where we are then, at that moment.
And finally, we should remember that while the four children are examples of different kinds of people looking for answers, and provides a script for each of those defined roles, the haggadah also requires us to each ask our own question: that is why one can fulfill the obligation of the four questions by asking any question at all.
Perhaps that is a better example for us today: instead of insisting that we must stick to a preordained script, let us encourage everyone to remember that we are not the same people at all times, and that we will play different roles throughout our lives – thus, we must ask different questions for each of them. Instead of asking, how can men can express their supposed differences from women, maybe the right question is, “How can each person be themself?”
While we certainly were not the first to realize how much fun it would be to re-write the words to the hit song from Frozen in honor of the upcoming holiday of Passover, our congregation, Congregation B’nai Shalom in Westborough, is very proud of what a team of volunteers put together in approximately two weeks. Aside from having a great deal of fun making this video, we learned a lot in the process. It is a concrete and immediately gratifying example of what can happen when a community find more ways to say “yes” and asks, “how can we help you with that?” A new congregant conceived of the project, recruited 2 talented friends to sing, and then turned to her congregation for assistance. Once we identified a professional videographer and a theater director within the congregation who were willing to volunteer their time and talents, the plan started to fall into place. We recruited 23 congregants in the space of 5 days who gave us from 1 hour – 6 hours of their time last Sunday afternoon to help us film the scenes. We thank our congregant, Elyse Heise (nee Rothman), for giving us the opportunity. Our congregants love it, and we hope you will too: Congregation B’nai Shalom presents “Let us Go”
The brides were sequestered in a tiny room at the banquet hall less than an hour before their wedding, fixing their hair and makeup. They greeted me anxiously. “Just a minute,” one told me, “We’re not ready yet.” A moment later they opened the door to welcome me inside. Standing there in gorgeous cream-colored gowns, similar but not identical in design, they both looked stunning. The decades of their adult lives, successful careers and raising a wonderful son to adulthood melted away in their beauty at that moment. One of them expressed a wordless sigh, emotion written all over her face, her body momentarily tensing. With worry, I asked, “What is it?” As the tears welled up she said, “I’ve been to a lot of weddings, and dreamed of being a bride, but I never thought it would really happen. It’s so amazing!” We were ready to weep with joy.
When the happy couple walked down the aisle to the huppah, or wedding canopy, under which they would sanctify and legalize their long-term relationship, the guests jumped to their feet bursting with applause. Amid cheers, tears and immense joy and love, the brides and their son came to the huppah. The ceremony transported everyone to another dimension; when the breaking of the glass broke the spell, the guests once again rose up to cheer. It was a release of joy after years of being on the outside of society’s formula of acceptable marriages by laws that did not recognize the families created by same-sex couples.
I will carry these images to my seder next week along with many joyous celebrations with couples in the past year since same-sex marriage became legal here. I will think of this as I assemble my Seder plate, for the first time with an orange.
“An orange?” you may ask. Perhaps, like many in the progressive Jewish community, you heard the 1990’s myth that feminist leaders began to put oranges on seder plates to symbolize the need for women’s equality in Judaism. One version told that the orange symbolized the need to accept women rabbis. While both are nice stories, the actual events that led to the placement of an orange on a seder plate arose from a conversation about the exclusion of lesbians (and gays) from Jewish life and ritual. (See this great resource for the narratives.)
Years ago, after I heard the mythic meaning ascribed to the symbolic orange, I lost enthusiasm for the new ritual. Yet, every Passover I was sure to talk about it, along with the call for justice that defined it.
This year I am rethinking the orange; this year I am celebrating justice. And I am mindful to remember that LGBTQ justice is incomplete, in this country, and in the world. I invite you to join me.
“Be kind to fans of “The Good Wife” today,” CNN extolled, “They’re seriously struggling.” The New York Times weighed in. So did National Public Radio. The unexpected death of Will Gardner was news. The fact that he was a fictional character and that the actor who played him, Josh Charles, was alive and well was irrelevant. For avid fans, the shock and dismay were real. As a close friend told me, a week later, “Don’t talk to me about it. I’m still in mourning.”
When it is well done, a good story can touch us as though we ourselves are part of the drama. We walk out the theater with tears in our eyes. We don’t put down the book for hours because the joys and challenges of the characters have become our own.
That is exactly what we are meant to do at the Passover Seder. We read in the Hagaddah that “in each generation, each person is obligated to see himself or herself [lirot et atzmo] as though he or she personally came forth from Egypt.” But as we rush through the text and the rituals we don’t always feel the dramatic flow with the intensity of the fans of The Good Wife.
Here are three suggestions for helping you create a Seder that helps you put yourself into the story:
Act it out: Instead of retelling the story of the Exodus turn your Seder into a dramatic retelling. Middle Eastern Jews have been doing this for generations, dressing the part and packing sacks that they carry over their shoulders or playfully beating each other with scallions a reminder of the whippings the Israelites received at the hand of their Egyptian overlords. You can make it as elaborate as you like, giving out parts and creating a script with costume changes as the night goes on and liberation occurs. Or you can have people ad lib and be in the moment. Literally getting into the story does help you feel like it is your own.
The Modern Miracles: The miracle of the Exodus can feel abstract. But there are many modern versions of the Exodus that bring the story home in very real terms. Share Rabbi Gershom Sizomu’s recollection of the liberation of the Jews of Uganda or watch the retelling of Natan Sharansky’s liberation from Soviet Russia or liberation of Ethiopian Jews. These three modern powerful Jewish stories demonstrate that the Exodus narrative continues to resonate even today. Let these compelling broad narratives open a conversation about how each person at the Seder has experienced liberation. The examples might be dramatic, such as an emigration or kicking a drug habit, or they might be lesser in scale such as getting out of homework or moving to a new division with a new boss. Whatever the examples, we can all find ways to relate from our own lives.
The Contemporary Challenges: Sadly, slavery is not a thing of the past. There are many people for whom freedom and fair work conditions are not a reality. The Seder is a perfect opportunity to make these stories our own by sharing them and discussing the changes that we can be part of to liberate those who are not free. T’ruah, the rabbinic call for human rights, suggests putting a tomato on the Seder plate to call attention to the plight of field workers whose conditions are often inhumane. Not For Sale provides information and action items about the estimated 30 million people worldwide who are currently enslaved. For those who want to mix traditional text and contemporary discussions American Jewish World Service (AJWS) has thoughtful resources about the challenges faced by some of the most disadvantaged workers.
This week, my partner and I sat down to plan our seder. For us, this involves much more than deciding on the menu. While we use a haggadah that we compiled as a guide to take us through the 15 steps that make up the seder (which means “order”), what we do with those steps varies from year to year.
This year, I was inspired by two wonderful suggestions from our cousin, Ilana Stein Ben-Ze’ev. The first is a beautiful and moving new ritual, shared out of the experience of the death of her father, Professor Jerome Stein. She writes:
We have Eliyahu’s Cup, and Miriam’s Cup, and now, at my home: The Memory Cup. Kos Zikaron. Even though Pesach is ‘Zman Simchatenu’ (A time of our happiness), I knew I would miss my father- his seders were a big part of our family life. I had a friend coming who had also recently lost her father. So, I took one of the many goblets I’ve made over the years, and declared it to be Kos Zikaron. Before we started the seder, we filled it and passed it around the table. Whoever wanted to, announced whose cup it was for them, and why. For me: “This is my father’s cup. I have so many seder memories and he is in them all. I’d like his presence at our seder.” And so it went- I was surprised that everyone found someone to bring in (and glad I didn’t have to feed them all!).
Ilana’s second sharing in inspired by the line with which we begin the Maggid (story-telling) part of the Seder. She writes: Kol dichfin (the line in the Maggid that pronounces – let all who are hungry come and eat!) - let’s put our money where our mouths are: Donate the cost of feeding 1 Seder guest to a food bank.
There are also those who make a habit of donating all of their unopened hametz to a local food bank in advance of Passover. In our congregation, we have reinterpreted the period that begins on the 2nd night of Seder – the counting of the Omer – as a time to donate grain-based foods to the local food bank. Historically, this was when our ancestors gave thanks as the different kinds of grain (barley first, wheat later) became ready for harvesting, and the first sheaves were brought to the temple as an offering to give thanks. During Passover we begin with rice, but once Passover has ended, cereal boxes, cookies, and other non-perishable grain-based foods are donated and publicly displayed as the collection grows, culminating at Shavuot.
The haggadah does not begin with a retelling of the Exodus narrative. In fact, you’ll be hard-pressed to find that narrative laid out in the haggadah. The entire Maggid section is more of a teacher’s guide to the spiritual and practical lessons we can learn from engaging with the story not as re-telling of an historical account, but as a guide to the spiritual landscapes of our own lives and the society and world that we live in today. That is why we are commanded to experience the Exodus ”as if we, ourselves” were freed from slavery. That’s not necessarily an instruction to imagine yourself back in time as a character in the story (although that can be fun and insightful too). It is an instruction to look at how those themes of enslavement, constriction, limitation, and of freedom to become, fully, are played out today. One way to more deeply share the meaning of these narratives with the guests at your Seder is by examining these themes through poetry, images, news stories, and personal sharing.
If Pharaoh is the one that limits and controls us, making us a slave to needs that line the pockets of another and constrains us from living expansively, guided by our inner truth and our relationship to the Divine (which, for many, is experienced through our relationship with others), then we can ask what manifests as Pharaoh in our life today?
This year – especially this year – when the weather patterns have left us longing for spring to finally be upon us, we can ask what new seeds are we nurturing, and what might we be hoping to see blossom in our lives in the coming year.
These are just a few ideas to enrich your seder ritual this year. Share your creative rituals with us here, so that we can inspire each other this Passover.