Despite Passover being over, my reflections are not. Today, I reflect on the second key Seder component: matzah.
Let’s be real--finding a Jew who enjoys matzah--I mean really truly enjoys it--is no easy feat. To most Jews, just hearing the word matzah will provoke a grimace or at least a slight frown. But despite matzah’s low ranking in flavor, its high marks in versatility can’t be denied. It’s as if its flavorless-ness lends itself to any and all combinations. After all, what besides matzah is able to be an eggy breakfast with jam, a chocolatey dessert, a saucy pizza, a base for cakes and brownies, a mid-day chip-like snack, and even, a big floating ball? I remember once I had a non-Jewish friend over during Passover, and we offered her some matzah ball soup. She kind of poked at it with her spoon, not quite sure what to make of it. “What is this exactly?" she asked. “It’s made from that cracker-like thing called matzah that we eat during Passover.” “Wait,” she said, “How do you turn a cracker into a ball?” Indeed, what kind of shape shifting is that? As I’ve thought about matzah this year, I’ve realized that this ‘cracker-to-ball’ nonsense, this ‘shape-shifting,’ is actually the essence of matzah. We talk at the Seder about how matzah is the bread of affliction but then becomes the bread of freedom. It represents slavery and then it represents emancipation. It transforms. Indeed, Rabbi Sachs describes how the Israelites themselves transform when they leave Egypt and receive the Torah. He writes that the desert "became the birthplace of a wholly new relationship between G-d and humankind ...The Israelites, alone with G-d and with one another, could cast off one identity and assume another. There they could be reborn, no longer slaves to Pharaoh, instead servants of G-d..." (219). This year, more than ever, I have come to see matzah less as the bread of affliction or the bread of freedom and more as the bread of transformation. I’m of the belief that transformation occurs most often and most drastically when our boundaries are pushed, when we’re bathed in uncertainty, when we’re in uncharted territory, when we’re floating in space, wading in the ocean, crossing the desert. Transformation occurs when we are literally and figuratively ‘in the wilderness’. The wilderness that we inhabit today is dire. It’s tragic and overwhelming. And out of necessity, the world has transformed very quickly and very completely. Part of this transformation meant that many could not be with family and friends during Passover. Many could not set a Seder plate. Many could not even get matzah. And yet, thousands individuals all over the world found a way to keep the tradition and celebrate Passover. Out of choice, individuals saw this dark moment as an opportunity to transform their relationship with G-d and with Judaism. They wrote poetry, they wrote literature, they made Haggadot supplements, they painted Seder plates, they held Zoom seders and Zeders, they made puppets, they sang songs, they reflected. And in doing so, the Passover experience became that much richer. The realization that if I didn’t buy matzah, that if I didn’t make a Seder plate, that if I didn’t learn to cook potato kugel, that if I didn’t really and truly make the Seder happen it wouldn’t happen was big. That may sound obvious, but it really hit me. Setting up my own Seder l felt like a real right of passage. I was taking a step into the world of Jewish adulthood like I never had before. I came to see this as a second Bat Mitzvah of sorts. Once again, I was considering what it means to be a Jewish adult. How will I practice Judaism on my own? How will I carve my own Jewish path? So, the Israelites transformed from slaves to Jews. I transformed from someone who couldn’t make potato kugel to someone who owned her Jewish experience. And (even though Passover is over), I leave you with the question: how will you choose to transform in this wilderness?
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Tonight was the second Seder, and I chose to do it myself. I could have joined numerous Zoom Seders that friends and family members were kind enough to invite me too, but instead, I felt like I needed a real pause--a personal moment of reflection.
Perhaps not so ironically, although I’ve been in my apartment alone for the past two weekends, I’ve hardly had a minute with myself. I’m constantly jumping from call to call, from one email to the next, from one screen to another. When there’s stillness, I create motion. When there’s silence, I create noise. Perhaps this is my way of coping, my evasion of true aloneness. And so tonight, I felt like I was really craving something meaningful, something intentional, something slow. I found an online Haggadah and a short packet of supplemental readings, set out my makeshift Seder plate, Elijah’s cup, and, in all the glory of my sweatpants and ridiculously comfy ‘I’m with Steve’ shirt, took a seat at my table. Actually, it was quite nice--not groundbreaking by any means, but nice, and best of all, I got to go at my pace. On all other years, I feel rushed singing the Ma Nishtanah (the Four Questions) as the room gets antsy to keep moving. But this year, I sang the four questions out to my empty apartment, unselfconsciously singing the repetitive ‘halaila hazeh’ as slowly and deliberately as I wanted to. On all other years, I can hardly keep up with the leader calling out the 10 plagues for us to pour out a little wine from our cups. But this year, I meditated on the plagues and considered the horrors that the Egyptians faced as I dipped my finger into my grape juice. Going through the Seder, I read and re-read. I pondered some poetry. I looked at photographs. I watched a shiur by Rabbi Jonathon Sachs, rewinding and listening to parts over again as I tried to absorb all that he was saying. He talked about how sharing affliction is the start of the journey to redemption. He shared an incredibly powerful story that Holocaust survivor Primo Levi writes about in his book. In a pivotal moment right after the Germans fled the concentration camp, the Jewish prisoners decided to share their bread with one another rather than abide by the camp rule of eating only his/her own piece. Through deciding to share their literal bread of affliction, they broke with the camp rules and essentially brought about their own freedom. When it was time for Shulchan Aruch (the Festive Meal), I FaceTimed my family, and we shared our food through the phone. I had made sure to cook some of the same dishes so I would feel like I was eating alongside them. When it came time for dessert, I bragged that my fruit compote was surely better than my mom’s. We laughed about nothing, and I showed them the mezuzah that my roommate and I hung up. We quoted movie lines and talked about how the world has been turned upside down. After the meal, I returned to my Seder. I had no trouble finding the Afikomen, and when I did, I broke off a small piece to chew. I can’t explain it, but every year, the afikomen never tastes like regular matzah. It’s different. It’s an experience, a feeling. It’s the end of a fulfilling meal, a tradition of thousands of years, a gathering of stories, questions, usually some somewhat humorous family dynamics playing out, and laughter. The evening darkness has set in and the artificial lights create a warm yellowy hue. The plates are cleared, tablecloth covered in matzah crumbs, and reclining in full effect. Teacups are empty or near empty, and yawns are playing throw and catch around the room. The afikomen--it’s a sad taste but also sweet. It’s tired and tasteless but also flavorful, as it contains the memories of yet another Pesach evening. As I reached for my own Afikomen tonight, I wondered (with some concern) if this year’s afikomen would truly taste like an afikomen or if it would just be another crumbly piece of matzah. To my delight, it lived up to its name. I invited Elijah to join me and thought back to the days when my parents used to wait until I went to open the door to sip some wine from the cup. “Look! Elijah was here!” they used to exclaim. When I opened the door tonight, I sang quietly so as not to disturb my neighbors, and I didn’t even think to check the wine glass when I sat back down. When Hallel came, the singing after the meal, I sang myself through at least a dozen Passover parodies. I stumbled over the notes I didn’t know but enjoyed all the same. Sitting at my long empty table in my dimly lit apartment, singing and chuckling at the lyrics, delighted by the creativity of the authors and the humor of the lyrics, I felt my inner voice was released. I wasn’t thinking about being alone or being a chorus of one. No. Rather, I was living out a personal moment of joy. I’m reminded of a different snippet of Rabbi Sachs wisdom that he shared when he came to my college campus a few years ago. He said that Judaism is not about happiness but rather about joy. In life, he said, we have to create moments of joy. Hallel was mine. “And the supplies outside the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you: when I see the three rolls of toilet paper, two packages of gloves, and one large bottle of Purell, I will pass over you, so that COVID-19 will not strike you. Ok so I’m not really sure what the modern-day equivalent of the Passover sacrifice would be, but it’s interesting to imagine what this situation must have been like. I truly can’t imagine...If someone had told me that eating a sacrificial lamb and putting its blood on my doorposts would protect me from a plague of death, I would of course comply. I would also probably sleep with a knife under my pillow and at least a few heavy furniture items blocking the door. But what did the Israelites do? Did they panic? Did they ask questions? Did they try to run away? No. The Torah simply says, “And the Israelites went and did so; just as the LORD had commanded Moses and Aaron, so they did” [Exodus 12:28]. In other words, they were told to coat their doorposts with the blood of the lamb, and so they did. End of story. The commentator Or HaChaim writes that “they did so” is repeated to emphasize that the Israelites did not obey the command because it made perfect sense to them. No. “They did so” in spite of the fact that “they did not understand the meaning of all these regulations.” “They did so” because that’s what they had been commanded to do and they believed that G-d would spare them. Indeed, He did. Because of this, for many, the Passover sacrifice has come to symbolize faith. At this point, it would be easy to say that just as the Israelites had faith in G-d that night of the tenth plague, so too should we have faith that things will turn out ok. Many might draw parallels between the Israelites on that first Passover night and our situation today. Like them, we wait and watch as the world outside endures tragedy after tragedy while we stay protected in the safety of our homes. However, (at least) one key aspect causes me to reassess this parallel and complicate the lessons we can learn from the Pesach offering. That is the presence of information. Way back when, the Israelites were given clear information according to the Torah. They were told in advance what to do with the lamb, when to do it, and at what point they would be safe to leave their homes once again. In our world today, we don’t have the benefit of information. We didn’t know this virus was coming, we are learning every day new information about what to do and not to do, and we have no idea when we will be able to re-emerge. Considering this seemingly small but essential situational difference, I would venture that our current situation is actually much more like that of the Israelites wandering in the desert. After dancing and celebrating the crossing of the Red Sea with Miriam’s timbrels, I imagine the Israelites turning around from the crashing waters and being confronted all at once with the reality of the unknown: the interminable desert horizon. Despite having just witnessed the great miracle of G-d splitting the sea, their rejoicing quickly fades into concern and “grumbling” over the uncertainty and direness of their situation. Without much information, they’re left with many questions. After days without water, they ask Moses “What shall we drink?” [Exodus 15:24]. And later, “Why did you bring us up from Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?” [Exodus 17:3]. They even express a longing for the days of slavery in Egypt, when they “sat by the fleshpots” and could eat their “fill of bread.” “If only we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt,” they say [Exodus 16:3]. Shockingly, they’d rather die as slaves in Egypt than die free. While most of us thankfully don’t want for water or food (we have roofs over our heads, pantries stocked with pasta and beans, toilet paper, and Netflix), we too are in a world-wide moment of uncertainty. We too have many questions that remain unanswered. We too look out onto an interminable horizon. In this desert of sorts, we ask daily: How long will this last? How many more people will fall victim to this virus? When will normal life commence--if ever? When we look more closely at these questions, we can see that, much like the questions of the Israelites in the desert, they are motivated not so much by a lack of faith as by an existence of fear (Read more on this by Lilly Kaufmann). And with the absence of information, fear is understandable, possibly unavoidable. Our fear is, after all, what makes us human. But it is our faith that makes us Jews. At times like these, when information is scarce and the weight of uncertainty is heavy, faith is often challenging. And yet, it could be argued that it’s times like these that it’s also most necessary. So while we may empathize more with the wandering Israelites of the desert who know not what the future will hold, let’s take a lesson from the Israelites of that first Passover night. Together we can metaphorically mark our doorposts with metaphorical lamb’s blood and in doing so--perhaps not dissolve completely, but at least begin to--stave off our fear and make room for faith. Faith that our sea will part, our water will sweeten, and our manna will rain from the sky.
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AboutAs I gear up to spend my first Passover alone, I'm temporarily repurposing my study abroad blog (Elana, But Abroad) to feature a series of reflections on Passover 2020 (Elana, But Alone). Chag Sameach to all who celebrate! Archives |