THOUGHTS ON PARASHAT BEHAR

          

         This week’s Torah portion is entitled Behar, meaning “on the mountain”. The parasha gets its name from the first phrase which indicates that the laws mentioned were given on Mt. Sinai. The laws deal with diverse issues, most of them agriculturally based. 

         Whenever the reading of Behar rolls around, I find it difficult to get past that first phrase because of my love of mountains and all the memories that mountains bring.

         One of my favorite sermons, and one which I included in my recent book, was dedicated to the memory of the “Old Man of the Mountain”, the symbol of the state of New Hampshire, a rock formation in the face of an old man. The collapse of the rock formation was a shocking and sad event for so many in New England and it brought to mind many thoughts concerning loss and mourning.          

         But, all of the other connections I have with mountains are happy ones, many of them quite spiritually moving. 

         I have recently been organizing and cataloguing many of my sermons and writings in preparation for having them archived in a library in Ann Arbor. This has been quite an interesting experience as I have been able to see how my thoughts on many subjects have changed over the years. But, one concept in my writing which has not changed is a focus on the inspiration I find in the natural world: the meteor showers, rainbows, sunsets and, of course, mountains. Ever since my days in rabbinical school, I have found that connecting Torah to natural phenomena has been a passion.

         One of the pieces that I “re-discovered” after many years was an article I wrote for a short-lived student publication at JTS which was entitled “Ikka D’amrei”, an Aramaic Talmudic term meaning; “There are Those Who Say…” During my senior year, I was asked to submit a piece based upon my work at Camp Ramah in New England and I focused on mountains, including those I had visited during my school year in Israel in 1979-1980.

         Here is the beginning to that article from 1982: 

         
         Among all the natural wonders of the world, the mountain has always held a special place in the Jewish tradition. So many of the great events in our people’s history have taken place on or near mountains. Mt. Sinai, Grizim and Ebal, he Temple Mount- all of these were places where man (sic) elevated himself while God reached down to provide man with inspiring, spiritual experiences. The mountain has thus been a symbol of man reaching for the heavens and all they symbolize. 

         I have had the privilege of visiting each of the mountains which I mentioned above and sharing in some way in the inspiration they provide. Mount Sinai (or at least Jebl Musa) was an unforgettable sight, framed by the stars of the Big Dipper at 3 a.m. The fog rolling into the valley between Grizim and Ebal lent an eerie quality to the Samaritan Pesach sacrifice. The view of the Temple Mount from the Mount of Olives speaks for itself.  

         But, this article is about another mountain; not as tall as Jebel Musa, not the site of a religious ceremony like Grizim, not as remarkably beautiful as the Temple Mount. Yet for me the site of this mountain is every bit as inspiring as the others. The mountain is called Mt. Holyoke and is located in South Hadley, Massachusetts. 

         I’ve climbed Mt. Holyoke twice- each time with over 100 eleven and twelve year-old campers from Camp Ramah in New England. Both times we sat and stared at the placid Connecticut River, said the bracha “oseh ma’aseh bereshit” (Blessed be God who does the acts of creation), sang “esah aynay el heharim” (I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; quietly said birkat hamazon after our picnic and then sat for thirty seconds in total silence. 

         If you’ve never heard the silence of eleven year-olds, you’ve missed a great spiritual experience. I have a picture taken on that day- a photograph of a camper wearing a kippah staring silently into the expanse. To me, that picture symbolizes the potential of Judaism to shape our children’s spiritual lives…

         I went on in that article to write about the meaning that Camp Ramah had for me, a connection I was able to continue for several years after I became a rabbi. I believe I would not have finished rabbinical school had it not been for the meaningful experiences I had at Ramah and I will be forever grateful for those years. 

         But, for the purpose of this piece, I want to move away from Ramah for a moment and just think about the meaning that mountains can bring to our lives.

         As I wrote, so many of the spiritual experiences of our people happened on or near mountains and this concept that the mountain is a connecting point between our earthly lives and something on a higher plane is one that continues to move me.

         I miss the mountains. I do love Ann Arbor and Michigan has its beautiful spots but traveling to any place with mountains is almost a must for me whenever I have the opportunity. There is no experience that matches the meaningful journey up to the top of a mountain and I am glad that I have been able to take such trips often with my family. Ellen and I climbed Mt. Willard on a trip to New Hampshire and we took the tram up Sandia Peak in New Mexico while on our honeymoon. We have stood with our kids on the top of Mt. Mansfield in Vermont, the mountain high above Jackson Hole, Wyoming and in Israel, Avi and I climbed Masada together. We all stood far below Denali in Alaska hoping for a break in the clouds and had a great trip up Haleakala in Hawaii before fog forced us back down. 

         These not only bring back great travel memories. They also were symbolic opportunities to reach for something a bit higher, to stand in silence looking out on the valley below and quietly saying a bracha which reminds us of the glory of God’s creation. These trips and all of the thoughts of mountains remind us of our obligation to rise above the valleys we find ourselves in at times to reach for something higher and greater. 

         So, this week as we read Behar, take a moment to focus on that first line and then go find a mountain to climb, drive or ride up. 

         The experience has never changed for me after all these years. I’m sure that many others feel the same. If you’d like, I invite you to share your own “mountain memories” by replying to this post. I’d love to hear your stories.

       

Thank you for the invitation to speak at this wonderful event. Mazal Tov to the graduates and to all who are part of the JCLP program.

         Mazal Tov to spouses and partners, parents, grandparents, siblings, good friends. 

         I want to begin by thanking all of you for not saying what my father used to say, in jest. But, he said it nonetheless. He used to say about my decision to become a rabbi: “What kind of job is that for a Jewish boy?” He was kidding but there are many who say it seriously when they hear that a daughter or son, husband or wife, partner or friend plans to serve in the Jewish community in whatever capacity. Thank you for not saying it (or thank you, graduates, for not listening if they did say it.) Seriously, thank you for encouraging in whatever way you did the graduates to see the meaning in sharing their talents within our community. And, thank you to the graduates for investing your time, efforts and expertise in the future of the American Jewish community. Speaking as part of the generation which is starting to step aside in deference to a new generation of leaders, we are counting on you to shape our future. 

         I have never delivered a commencement address before but I’ve heard my share of them. Most of them were very nice but somewhat unremarkable in the long run. However, one was absolutely unforgettable for me because of one sentence which has echoed in my mind since I heard it at a graduation several years ago. 

I won’t tell you who said it as perhaps he regrets it, perhaps not, but trust me it was a well known individual. At a university graduation which I had quite a personal stake in, the commencement speaker urged the graduates to be the generation which took a different path than its predecessors.

         In and of itself, as you’ll hear from me later, that’s not bad, of course. But it was the focus of the divergence that he proposed that was stunning. 

He said: “It’s shocking how many Americans swallow that old story. Maybe you’ll be the generation that moves past the ancient fiction.”

         The fiction he was referring to was belief in God.  

         We happened to be sitting near those receiving graduate degrees in theology. There were a couple of gasps and one graduate actually fell off his chair.  

         I was astounded and furious. 

         Now, let me be clear. I have no interest in turning this into a speech urging faith in the divine. Faith is an intensely personal issue and as we all know belief in God doesn’t necessarily correlate with a life of ethics and certainly should never affect one’s status in the Jewish community. But, while it really doesn’t concern me whether one does or doesn’t believe in God. I do care deeply that the lessons that belief and our other ancient foundational principles have taught us survive for untold numbers of generations to come. 

         So today, I want to talk about foundational principles that I hope you will continue to perpetuate and those that I hope you will in fact move past in the work you do.  

         So, let me offer three foundational principles that I hope you never abandon. 

We have chosen to believe as Jews that human beings are inherently equal as we have each been created with the spark of something greater. 

         So, graduates. endeavor to treat every individual you come into contact within your work as your equal. Learn from them as you teach them. Let them inspire you as you seek to inspire them. Stand with them, not above them. Recognize in each of them the spark of humanity and the spark of holiness and, if you will, the divine spark.

         And, that leads to a second principle. From the Torah’s description of Moses’ relationship with God and the rabbinic tradition of Aaron as peacemaker between individuals, we have chosen to believe as Jews that panim el panim, face to face, is the best way to interact with others. Stand up for that principle. I’m not going to ask you to lead a revolution against technology because it can be such a great help in reaching people and in uniting people. But, it can’t be the whole story. Take the time to look people in the eye face to face and recognize that a handshake or, in the proper circumstances of course, a hug, can do much more than a text message ever could. 

         Finally, and most importantly, we live in an era in which the increase of forces of hatred and division have torn our hearts and put Jews in danger and have endangered the lives of so many of our brothers and sisters of so many different communities whom we must stand with and stand up for. Given this reality, it is even more critical that we remember always that we have chosen to believe as Jews that the redemption of our world is in our hands and that it can and will happen. 

“If you will it, it is not a dream” could be said about every aspect of our world. No matter how bad things seem, and we have every reason to be apprehensive and fearful, never give up on this world. Never stop being an idealist, rooted in pragmatism and reality, yes, but believing in the greatest dreams that you or anyone could imagine. 

         These basic foundational principles, of equality, of humanness, of faith and hope in the future are in fact what I believe our tradition meant when it talked about belief in God. But, with or without the theological element, they are what should motivate every individual who works within the Jewish community or who takes the principles learned in a Jewish environment into the world at large. 

         Never give up on them. 

         But, as much as it is your role to embrace foundational principles of mythic proportions, it is your role as well to be descendants of Abraham who break the idols of the past. 

         One of my favorite sermons that I ever delivered was about recognizing that our parents were wrong about some things and to accept that. If that weren’t the case, if we didn’t admit the wrong in what we have been taught, there would be no progress in the world.

         So, let me tell you about some of the idols I hope you break, whether you choose to use a sledgehammer or a chisel, knowing full well that my generation has been responsible for spreading some of these givens and hoping you will not be reticent to change them. 

Some of these are already on the way to being broken but each generation of leaders needs to commit itself to pushing the boundaries further and opening our community beyond the ideas of the past.

         Break the myth that still exists out there that no Jews face mental health issues, that no Jews are financially unstable, that no Jews are in prison, that abuse couldn’t exist in a Jewish home. 

         Very few actually believe this fallacy but too many of us act like we do, closing our eyes to the problems that exist within the Jewish community. You know they are there. And, they must be addressed. Take pride in the work you do with people who are in need and make sure that the leaders you work with confront the issues that face our people, acknowledging them when considering budgetary priorities and acknowledging them with the very language that they use each day.

         Secondly, break the fiction that we need to have firm red lines, firm uncrossable boundaries whether political or otherwise in order to keep our values strong. 

         We have, as an American Jewish community, been too eager at times to close people out who express opinions we don’t want to hear or who from whatever perspective we feel should be outside the fold. 

         You need to break this fiction. Yes, there are ideas which are counterproductive to our future but we have drawn our red lines much too firmly and not wisely enough. We can address difficult questions and differences of opinion without exclusion. Break the fiction that we need to build firm unbreachable walls around us.

         And, finally, break the fiction that says about our Jewish community and of Judaism itself that, in the words of one my favorite songwriters, Jim Steinman (and I’ll give extra credit to anyone who knows which song this comes from): “It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today”. 

         Too many people look at the Jewish community and lament the lack of this or the lack of that, whether learning, dedication, seriousness, whatever. 

         This fiction certainly needs to be broken. 

         There are so many positive signs that people are finding meaning in Judaism, in Jewish values, in belonging. They are seeing new opportunities and new reasons to embrace rituals, study, social action in a Jewish context. Don’t let anyone tell you our best days are behind us. The days ahead might be vastly different but they can be every bit as great or greater. 

         You have too much to do than to listen to long speeches so I’ll end by saying help us to widen and strengthen our tents. 

Thanks for listening and thank you for all that you have done and will do. Hizku v’Imtsu, be strong and courageous and do good work every day. 

                  

Just before the end of the Maggid, the storytelling section of the Seder, we read a famous statement of Rabban Gamliel which has its source in the Mishna. 

         Rabban Gamliel hayah omer: Rabban Gamliel used to say that anyone who does not mention these three things on Pesach has not fulfilled the obligation. Which are these? Pesach (the symbol of the Pesach sacrifice), Matzaand Maror(Bitter Herbs). 

         I have always wondered why Rabban Gamliel would have been so insistent on saying it so often (the language: hayah omer, rather than the simple past tense amars eems to imply that he said it quite often). How could he think that we would have reached that point in the Seder and not have thought to refer to these three basic Pesach symbols? 

         I believe that the statement fulfills a very important function, especially in our world today. 

         When we sit down at the Seder, we are asked to remember a story which, despite our attempts to personalize the experience of slavery and redemption, is still ancient history. We only need to go as far as the front page of today’s newspaper or the lead story on a news website to know that the issues of hatred and suspicion, persecution, slavery, welcoming strangers or failing to do so, seeking hope among the darkness of oppression and so many of the other themes of the holiday are still at issue today. 

         It is impossible to consider sitting at the Seder table in 2019 without confronting some of these issues. How we can gather without reading our issues into the rituals of the Seder and, in fact, without adding our own rituals to reflect today’s vital questions? 

         And, we should do this. If we didn’t, we would be missing a great opportunity to have the wisdom of the past shed light on our lives today. 

         So, I am all in favor of talking about contemporary issues at the Seder. 

         But, I want to offer a caveat. 

         While we can and do discuss the burning of issues today each and every day, how often do we have the opportunity to talk about the Exodus itself and its role in our history and theology? Our rabbis tell us we should remember the Exodus from Egypt every day and every night. But, how many of us really do that? 

         My point here is that we should be very careful not to focus our Seders only on today’s issues. We should discuss them and commit ourselves to the values of our tradition which teach us to care for the stranger, to fight oppression wherever it is found and to never lose hope in a better world. 

         But, if these Seder evenings are our best opportunity each year to celebrate tradition, find meaning in ancient texts and rituals and truly appreciate the taste of the matza and maror, we must make the most of the opportunity. 

         Like everything else in life, the Seder takes balance. If you are leading a Seder, be stubborn in bringing the discussion back to Egypt as often as you can. If you are participating, try to find a way to appreciate the traditions for what they tell us about our eternal past. 

         Rabban Gamliel shared his teaching about the Seder often (“he used to say”). I wonder if he said it not only year after year but more than once during the course of each Seder evening when participants were focusing too deeply on the issues of the day. So, perhaps we should say a few times at each of our Seders, reminding ourselves the essential reason we are together on that special night: to remember the foundational story in the history of our people. 

Dear Mr. President:

         I write to respond to your recent comments to the Republican Jewish Coalition identifying Prime Minister Netanyahu as “your Prime Minister”. 

         These words might have been said purposefully or they might have been an unintended slip of the tongue. Whichever they were, they demand a response. 

         Let me tell you something about myself to provide context. 

         I am an observant Jew, a rabbi, who was born and raised in this country. I am a proud American and cherish the freedoms that this nation has offered me. While I am deeply concerned about the proliferation of anti-Semitic actions and rhetoric in the United States, I continue to feel safe here to express my Jewish identity through my actions and words.

         I love and support the State of Israel. I have visited Israel 13 times, the majority of those visits came while leading groups on trips. I have brought dozens of people to Israel to explore the land and develop a connection with its people. 

         While I identify myself firmly on the left side of the political spectrum regarding Israel and while I do express criticism concerning the actions and policies of the Israeli government, I love the State and believe it is essential to the future of our people and to the world. I am frustrated and angry at policies that I believe run counter to the values of Jewish ethics but I recognize that since I neither live in Israel nor vote in its elections, I must defer to those who do to make decisions for its future. 

         I tear up a bit when I hear Hatikvah, Israel’s national anthem. I am filled with pride when I see the flag of the state and consider how far Israel has come in 70 years of existence. 

         But, let there be no mistake. My flag has stars and stripes and the Star Spangled Banner touches the deepest place in my heart.  

         The Prime Minister of the State of Israel, no matter who he or she may be, whether I agree or disagree with his or her policies, whether I respect him or her as an individual is NOT my Prime Minister. I owe that person no allegiance. 

         On the contrary, the President of the United States, whether I agree or disagree with his or her policies and whether I respect him or her as an individual is my President. It is to this nation that I owe my principal loyalty. I do care deeply about Israel but I am an American. 

         You have clearly been appealing to American Jews to recognize in your policies and actions relating to Israel, a reason to support your re-election in 2020. 

         While I can argue that your policies may not be in Israel’s best interest in the long run, that is not the issue I choose to address here. 

         Rather, here is the important point. 

         I will definitely consider a candidate’s position on Israel when I decide whom to support in 2020. 

         But, there are other issues that will affect my vote. 

         My vote will also be based on a candidate’s and party’s positions on health care, immigration policy, gun violence, tax policies, environmental concerns and civil rights for minorities of all types, to name a few. I will also consider whom I feel represents the United States best in the world community. These domestic issues are what motivate me as an American as I consider the future of my country. 

         Your statement about “your Prime Minister” angered me and I fear its ramifications. I am an American, a Jewish American whose loyalty to and status in this country should never be questioned or doubted.

         HA LACHMA ANYA: WELCOME TO THE SEDER

         One of the first pieces of liturgy in the Seder is the paragraph entitled Ha Lachma Anya. It is traditional to hold up a piece of matza and say: “Ha Lachma Anya”, This is the bread of affliction or of poverty. 

         The paragraph serves as a reminder of why we gather at the Seder. The Seder is supposed to begin with the sad part of our history in Egypt and proceed to the redemptive episode of the Exodus. By holding up the Matza and saying these words, we are reminded that Matza, unleavened bread, served both as the bread eaten in Egypt and the bread eaten on the night of the Exodus. It is both the bread of affliction and the bread of freedom and here it is referred to as the former, a proper way to begin the telling of the story. 

         The fact that the same “bread” was eaten both before and after redemption teaches us that freedom is not necessarily reflected in a change in our physical lives but rather on spiritual, emotional terms. Our people might have eaten the same bread after the Exodus as during slavery but the bread tasted different. It tasted of freedom. 

         We are also reminded by the instruction to hold up the Matza that the Seder was designed to be a learning experience. It is an educational exercise first and foremost, to be aimed at the youngest child who can understand what is happening. While serious text study, discussion, debate is certainly appropriate for the Seder, the main objective of the evening is to explain the significance of the Exodus to the youngest children present and thus, the “show and tell” aspect of Ha Lachma Anya becomes particularly important.  

         It is interesting to note a variant reading of this paragraph noted by the Dubner Maggid. He pointed out that during times of freedom and security, the opening phrase would be Ki-ha Lachma Anya: “Similar to this was the bread of affliction”. 

         This seems to reflect the fact that while we can imagine ourselves as having been slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, it is impossible for anyone who has not had this experience to imagine what it really was like. Thus, the commentary seems to suggest that we should take a step back from feeling like we can truly identify with the experience of affliction and oppression. This is an interesting thought to consider throughout the Seder. Can we really say: “we look at ourselves as if we were redeemed from slavery”? Could we really imagine what that would feel like?

The paragraph Ha Lachma also serves to welcome all to the Seder. Let all who are hungry come and eat! Let all who in need of companionship celebrate the Pesach Seder!

         These words reflect an important aspect of this section of text. Ha Lachma Anya is written in Aramaic, not in Hebrew. It is assumed that this is because Aramaic was the vernacular of the time and if the invitation of welcome is to be sincere, it needs to be understood by the person who hears it in order to be an effective and sincere invitation. 

         So, when we say these words, we should be sure to say them in English. In fact, a nice thing to do at the Seder is to have everyone gathered express that invitation in any language they can speak. 

         The invitation brings up an obvious question. What could it possible mean to say these words at the Seder when the only people who could hear it are those gathered around the table already?

In this context, it is appropriate to consider this statement from the Talmudic tractate of Ta’anit. There, we read that Rav Huna would open up his door before he sat down to eat and say (these very words): “Let all who are hungry come and eat”.

         The tradition of saying them at the Seder comes back from the time when, presumably, people would actually open the door at this point in the Seder and welcome anyone in. We can assume that over the centuries, it became unwise under many circumstances to open the door in this way so we say it with the door closed. 

         However, knowing that we will say these words at the Seder inspires us to be proactive in insuring before the holiday that whoever desires to be at a Seder will be invited to one or given the necessary resources to have one in their home. It is difficult to imagine saying these words with sincerity if we have not taken the steps to insure that all who wish to be are sitting at a Seder on Pesach night. 

         Finally, since the Seder should also be an opportunity for a bit of levity, I want to share with you my favorite commentary on this section.  

         The commentator Abarbanel explained that the Ha Lachma was said in Aramaic for the reason that I presented above. But, before he expresses this idea, he mentions that there were some who believed that it was said in Aramaic so that evil spirits wouldn’t pay attention to the invitation since they don’t understand Aramaic.

         Abarbanel’s answer to this is classic. He says that for this to be true, you would first have to assume there are such things as evil spirits. Then you have to accept the fact that they don’t understand Aramaic. Finally, you have to assume they are so polite that they would not invade our Pesach Seder without an invitation. 

         I love his refutation of this tradition regarding evil spirits. . Among other things, it reminds us that sometimes the simplest explanations are the most accurate. 

         Hag Sameach! 

Three years ago, I delivered a sermon on Kol Nidre night on the subject of compassion. 

         I was in favor of it. 

         In the course of that sermon, I referred to a perspective on human evolution presented by the author Karen Armstrong in her book Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life. Before I shared the theory, I issued a disclaimer. I said that it didn’t matter to me whether the theory was universally accepted as plausible. I stressed that even as a myth it was valuable. 

         The theory was that “in the deepest recess of their minds, men and women are indeed ruthlessly selfish. The egotism is rooted in the “old brain” which was bequeathed to us by the reptiles that struggled out of the primal slime some 500 million years ago, creatures which were motivated by feeding, fighting, fleeing and reproduction.” Armstrong claimed that “over the millennia, human beings also evolved a new brain, the neocortex, home of the reasoning powers that enable us to reflect on the world and on ourselves and to stand back from instinctive, primitive, passions.”

I embrace that theory, scientifically defensible or not, because it speaks to me of the development of the human being. I love the idea that over time, perhaps we might say, inspired by the giving of the Torah, we learned how critical it is for us to reach out to our fellow human being with compassion and kindness. I love the theory because it teaches us that despite what we see around us in terribly troubled times, there is part of the human brain, which if allowed to be in control, can help us all survive together.  

This morning, I want to share with you another theory which I will be careful to frame in the same way. Even if it is viewed only a myth, it is so valuable in helping us understand something critical about ourselves as human beings, and specifically as Jews.

         For many years, I participated in a dialogue group of faith leaders and life scientists at the University of Michigan. During the last year, the group focused largely on issues of genetics. Of the many issues that were raised, the one that was most fascinating to me was the area entitled epigenetics. 

Epigenetics is the study of changes in organisms caused by modification of gene expression rather than alteration of the genetic code itself. This process allows for inherited characteristics which are not reflected in the human genome itself but rather in the processes surrounding the genes that can “turn on or turn off” a gene. 

This is very intriguing and the aspect of this field of study that fascinates me and is in fact the subject of debate is the question of whether certain emotional aspects of our lives can be passed down in this way. Specifically of interest to me is the question of whether forms of trauma can be passed down from one generation to the next. Independent of education, environment or any other identifiable factors, can a person’s emotional or psychological makeup be affected internally by traumatic experiences of ancestors? Is a person, in a way, programmed to respond to certain situations by the experiences of ancestors?

         I find this theory completely plausible but do not have the expertise to claim it is absolutely true from a scientific standpoint. But, I would argue that if only as myth, it is absolutely true for us as Jews.

         There is a Talmudic expression Ma’aseh Avot Siman L’banim,“the actions of our ancestors are a sign for the descendants”. This can be understood in so many ways but certainly one way is the idea that we are imprinted with the experiences of our ancestors. 

While we teach our children about the traumas of the past, perhaps as Jews, we would feel them internally without the teaching. Metaphorically, they are part of our DNA.

         There can be no question that we are feeling the trauma of the past more directly with the increase of anti-Semitism in recent months and years. There can be no question that reading and hearing about hatred directed at Jews is awakening or re-awakening in all of us fear and dread that comes from a place deep within us. Even those of us who have never experienced anti-Semitism directly instinctively feel as if we have been here before as we have internalized the stories we have heard from slavery in Egypt to the inquisition to pogroms and to the Shoah. But, we don’t have to have heard those stories to feel this. There is something in our kishkes as Jews which relate to this reality as it is so much a part of who we have been and who we are. It is that deeply ingrained within us.

         This morning, as we prepare for the holiday of Pesach, I want to share one thought with you. In the Torah we read that a person was obligated to say to his child: “I am observing these rituals because of what God did for me when I left Egypt”. Whether these words were intended to be said by every later generation of Jews or not, we do say them at the Seder as the rebuttal to the rebellious child. We claim that we were personally freed from Egypt.

         And, the Haggadah teaches that b’chal dor vador hayav adam lirot et atzmo ke-ilu hu yatza mimitzraim: in every generation a person must look at him or herself as if he or she personally left Egypt. 

         While we do also say avadim hayyinu, we were slaves; the most dramatic sentences in the Seder to connect us with the past do not connect us with the experience of having been slaves but rather with the experience of redemption. This is what we are to remember. We left Egypt. We were redeemed.

         And so, I would argue that if there is something in our gut which tells us that Jews have always been persecuted and hated, the Haggadah commands us to remember that we have also been imprinted with the hope for redemption. 

         While it may be in our genes as Jews to know that we will suffer from persecution, it is also in our DNA to believe in compassion, to hope for redemption and not to give in to the desperation and certainty that it will always be like this. 

         There will no doubt be much talk at Seder tables around the world this year about the dangers that confront us as Jews. This is an undeniable reflection of our history and where we see ourselves today. 

But, we must remember that the purpose of the Seder and our ultimate purpose as Jews is to remember that redemption, salvation, is part of our history as well and when we seek to respond from our hearts and souls as Jews, we must always believe that the future will be better.

We can’t ignore what is happening around us.

But, our tradition has obligated us also to commit ourselves to looking beyond those troubles and recognizing in our past history the reality of redemption.          

For eternal hope, tikva, is part of our DNA as well. 

         Now that Purim has passed, it is time to turn our attention to Pesach and to consider once again the most important and fascinating of our Jewish rituals: the Pesach Seder. 

         In the next few weeks, I want to share some thoughts on different aspects of the Seder. I hope that you will take the time to consider these ideas and how they can impact your holiday observance. 

        One of the highlights of the Seder for many is the recitation of the four questions. The source for the asking of questions at the Seder is found in the Mishna, in which we read that after the second cup of wine has been poured, the child “asks his father”. The Mishna then proceeds to say that if the child does not have the ability to ask, the parent teaches the questions: Mah Nishtana Halayla Hazeh Meekol Halaylot… Shebechal Halaylot…

         It is not clear whether these specific questions must be asked at each Seder or if these are the specific questions the parent teaches a child who can’t ask on his or her own. But, one way or the other, the Mishna gives a set of four questions to be asked. 

         It is important to note that the four questions of the Mishna are actually different from our four questions. One difference is minor: the fourth question in the Mishna which corresponds with our third question mentions that on all other nights “we only dip once” while at the Seder we dip twice. Our text reads:  “we don’t dip even once”. This apparently reflects the fact that one dipping as a first course was more common at the time of the Mishna than in subsequent eras.

But, the more significant difference is found in the third question in the Mishna. This question states that on all other nights we prepare meat in many different ways but  “tonight we eat only roasted meat”. This refers to the Pesach sacrifice which, according to the Torah, must be roasted. After the destruction of the Temple and the cessation of sacrifices, this question became irrelevant, as there was no longer a requirement to eat only roasted meat. So, the question was dropped from the ritual.

         However, perhaps in an effort to insure that four questions be asked (to fit in with four cups of wine and the four children of the Seder) a fourth question was added in later years referring to the fact that we recline during the Seder: “On all other nights we eat either sitting or reclining, tonight we recline.”

         The idea of reclining at the Seder presumably has its origins in the tradition of reclining during banquets in the Greek and Roman world. Assuming some aspects of the Seder are related to the philosophical symposia of the Greek world, it is not surprising that our ancestors reclined during the ritual. In later generations, this tradition remained a part of the Seder even after it was no longer familiar in other settings. Therefore, it became a reasonable subject for a child to ask in the context of “how this night is different from all other nights”.

         The word for reclining is misubin and it is generally taught that reclining is an expression of freedom and of the comfort that the redemption from slavery allowed our ancestors. Today, the leader and many participants symbolically recline by leaning on a pillow during the Seder.

         Clearly, this is what the word misubinmeans in the context of the four questions. But, there is a beautiful commentary on the word which I believe can make a significant difference in how we conduct our Seder while we recline.

         There are some who relate the word “misubin” to the Hebrew word “misaviv” which means “around” or “in a circle”. These commentators proceed to teach that at the Seder table, we should sit in a circle. 

         Think about how important this is. 

A circle is defined as the set of points which are equidistant from a specific point. At the Seder, the central point should be where the leader sits and the Seder plate is placed. Thus, if the Seder plate is placed in the middle of the table, sitting in a circle insures that each individual at the Seder is equidistant from this central point so that all feel equally a part of the ritual.

         In our day, many are accustomed to setting up long Seder tables (often with a “kids table” off to the side). In this configuration, the leader usually sits at the head of the table and some sit further away from the leader than others. 

         This is absolutely contrary to the spirit of the Seder. The Seder should be a shared experience. Each and every individual, including those who might be relegated to the periphery for whatever reason, must be part of the conversation and must be recognized as an equal. 

         Not everyone can have a circular table but I offer two suggestions to those who would like to follow this advice. 

         First, especially if you have young children at your Seder, you might try getting up from the table and sitting around in  a circle (maybe even on the floor as if around a campfire) for Maggid: the storytelling part of the Seder. This may be unusual but it might make for an unforgettable evening for the youngest in the family. 

         But, if you prefer to sit at the table for the entire Seder, at the very least be sure that the leader of the table is not at one end or the other. Place the leader closer to the middle of the table where the Seder plate is so that no one feels superfluous. Everyone then becomes part of the action and attention and no one feels too distant. This is a night to be shared equally among all Seder participants and no one should feel less a part of the discussion and ritual. 

         Kulanu Misubin.

         We all recline.

         But, it’s particularly important at the Seder that we recline in a circle. 

                

This morning, the New York Times ran an obituary for Jacqueline Steiner who, along with Bess Lomax Hawes wrote an unforgettable song in 1949. The song has become so popular throughout the US and throughout the world that it is hard to believe that it actually had its beginning as a campaign song for a political candidate.

         According to the Times story, the candidate was named Walter A. O’Brien who ran on a platform which included opposing a fare increase on the Boston transit system. That proposal included a small fare which one would pay to get off the subway or trolley car. So, in order to dramatize the burdensome nature- and stupidity- of this system, Steiner and Hawes wrote a song for his campaign about a poor guy named Charlie who paid to get on but didn’t have the extra nickel to get off the train. 

         And so, the legend of Charlie of the M.T.A. was born. 

         The candidate lost and the song disappeared until the Kingston Trio revitalized it in 1959. They decided to change the name of the candidate to “George O’Brien” especially since Walter O’Brien was, according to the Times article, deemed to be a communist and was blacklisted. But, the other lyrics remained the same and the legend grew as the song hit Number 1.

         As the article points out, it is so much ingrained in Boston culture that the “T”, as the Boston transit system is now called, chose “CharlieCard” as the name for the automated fare card needed to ride the subway. Today, if you go to Boston and travel on the “T”, you have to buy a CharlieCard. Brilliant. 

         The song is so much fun and you can hear it here if you don’t know it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7Jw_v3F_Q0

         Whenver I hear the song, I think of so many hours I spent on the M.T.A. and later the “T” going to Boston Latin School each school day and on trips to Brookline or downtown. I’m not going to claim that it was perfect then or that it is now. Those who have the ride the T today, I’m sure, can tell horror stories as can be told about any transit system. But, for now, I’m filled with nostalgia as I think of the “streetcars” on the Boston College line which I rode so often as they dipped into the subway at Kenmore Square right near Fenway Park and continued into the center of downtown. 

         And, we did have to pay to get off the train. 

         The system eventually changed but, when I was kid, you had to pay a higher fare- on the honor system, I guess- if you entered the train above ground and intended to get off in the subway than the fare you would pay if you planned to get off before the subway. 

         And, on the way “outbound” from the subway, you would pay a quarter to get on and then had to pay a dime to get off above ground. 

         It was a crazy system and it made no sense and that’s exactly what the song is about. 

         Of course, the Times raised the obvious question that arises when someone hears the song for the first (or hundredth) time. If, as the song goes, Charlie’s wife could hand him a sandwich each day through the open window as the train rumbles through the station, why didn’t she hand him a nickel to get off the train? It is one of the eternal questions which continues to defy an answer. 

         I love subways and make it a point when visiting a new city which has a subway to ride even if just for the experience. I spent many hours in New York riding the subways especially with friends who shared my interest when they visited from out of town. I love looking at subway maps and am fascinated with a website called nycsubway.org which has pictures and descriptions of subways throughout the world. 

         But, beyond my love of other subways is the nostalgia I feel as I remember the sharp turn as the green line rumbles out of Boylston Street station, the great view of the Charles River as the car approaches Science Park and the memory of standing outside waiting for the streetcar to come to take me to school on cold winter mornings (when we couldn’t convince my mother to drive us). 

         As I wrote, I’m sure that if you have to ride it every day, the T can be horribly frustrating, expensive and not very worthy of nostalgic reveries. But, for this born and bred Bostonian, it is the stuff of fond, warm memories.

         Good luck Charlie! Meanwhile, enjoy the ride!

TEST