Dear TBZ Community:
In a few days, children and adults will be singing and asking the Four Questions in our Passover Seder:
מַה נִּשְׁתַּנָּה הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה מִכָּל הַלֵּילוֹת
How is this night different from all other nights?
We will also recite the words:
בְּכָל־דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם
In each and every generation, a person is obligated to see oneself as if they left Egypt.
In the aftermath of October 7th, these and many other lines from our liturgy feel relevant, powerful, and in some way, more real than ever. How is this year different? What is the story of redemption and resilience that we are experiencing as Jews in our generation?
What I have always found to be most powerful in the Haggadah liturgy and the arc of our celebration is that in the midst of telling our own story of suffering, oppression, escape, redemption, and resilience, we make the statement:
כָּל דִכְפִין יֵיתֵי וְיֵיכֹל
“Let all who are hungry come and eat”
As we engage in the exercise of remembering our people’s suffering, past and present, our tradition boldly says: our response to suffering is not to close our doors but to open them: for those most vulnerable, the ones that need it the most, those most marginalized in our communities, those who are hungry.
In the Hartman Institute’s Haggadah supplement for this year, scholars Leah Solomon and Yehudah Kurtzer offer two frameworks for the words of the הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא (“This is the bread of affliction” ): To hold empathy and to find a place at our tables for a true sense of collective peoplehood, even when it is difficult.
Leah Solomon writes: “At precisely the moment that we start narrating our people’s archetypal experience of oppression and suffering, suffering so severe that we had to eat the “bread of affliction” to survive, our tradition calls to invite in all who are hungry and in need. Just when we might be most inclined to focus inward, the Haggadah reminds us of the link between remembering our own suffering and our obligation to care about all who are suffering.”
We hold our own suffering with our capacity to bring healing in the same breath, in the same sentence. Solomon reminds us that when our instinct is to close our doors, to stay focused on our own story and suffering we ought to tap into our compassion for others and open our doors and hearts.
She adds: “The horrors of this year have shown us that our suffering, too, is inextricably linked to the suffering of our neighbors: neither Jews nor Palestinians anywhere in the world will live in safety until we all do; and none of us will be truly free until all of us are free. Expanding our hearts’ capacity to hold the suffering of Gazans who are desperately hungry and in need it’s the first step in charting a path towards a better future, so that all Jews and Palestinians in Israel, Gaza and throughout the world, might live in security and freedom”
Yehudah Kurtzer, makes another invitation relevant in regards to what it means to open our doors this Pesach, at a time when we encounter division within our own Jewish community, as war polarizes and pushes us to separate tents, making it harder to imagine that we belong to the same people. Kurtzer writes: “Passover should be one of those moments where we seal the cracks of exclusion in our communities, we recognize that none of us will complete the obligation of peoplehood without all of us having tables at which to sit”
The invitations of Yehudah Kurzter and Leah Solomon are not easy ones but perhaps are the most important at this time. We can’t celebrate our own redemption without truly opening our doors of compassion in our hearts and lives.
This past week, I am sure many of you felt like I did, a roller coaster of feelings between despair and hope. On Saturday night, as we learned about the Iranian missile and drone attack on Israel, I know I felt a great sense of fear and despair. In contrast, on Monday, as we cheered the runners of the marathon, one of my favorite days of the year in Boston, and saw the sea of people running, I felt an immense sense of joy and pride in humanity. I was especially moved this year seeing the visually-impaired runners, accompanied by their guides, taking such a difficult challenge, with the support they needed and being cheered by humanity. I felt hopeful as I spent my hours on Beacon Street and was reminded that there is beauty and goodness in our world. There is compassion, there is humanity, there is joy… even in the midst of fear and darkness.
As we enter Shabbat Ha-Gadol, the Great Shabbat that leads us to Pesach, I hope that we can take to heart the invitation and the teaching of opening our doors. Opening our doors and hearts to compassion, to the suffering of others, to those who are different from us, and most importantly, opening our doors to the light and the hope that comes through it, even amidst darkness and despair. Perhaps the path to redemption begins when we are truly able to open our doors.
May this Shabbat bring blessings and consolation to all of you and your loved ones. May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity. May all those who are ill find healing.
And may the hostages soon be returned to their families and friends; may the Israeli and Palestinian peace workers in the land continue their sacred work and not be deterred or turn away from the vision of peace and dignity for all.
Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach, Happy Holiday.
Rav Claudia