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

וְכָל הַמַּרְבֶּה לְסַפֵּר בִּיצִיאַת מִצְרַיִם הֲרֵי זֶה מְשֻׁבָּח

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some RADIANCE for Dark Times - New Book!

Dear Friends,

I hope you and your family are safe and sound during these trying times. I hope that with this note I can share a little bit of light.

I’m pleased to announce that the book I edited—after more than 3 years of work—is now available:  RADIANCE: Creative Mitzvah Living—The Selected Prose and Poetry of Danny Siegel, just published from the Jewish Publication Society. It’s available now from jps.org, and—even though the sites say May 1—I understand it is now available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere. Perhaps someday soon you’ll see it in your local bookstore (here’s a prayer that bookstores will still exist when this is all over).

 It’s an anthology of the most important writings by Danny Siegel, the noted Jewish educator, essayist, Torah teacher, and poet. Rabbi David Ellenson, President Emeritus of HUC-JIR, calls Radiance “A spiritual masterpiece!” and Professor Deborah Lipstadt calls it “a welcome volume that continues to challenge and teach us today.”

Danny Siegel’s teachings have shaped modern Jewish education with his urgency about how to do acts of Tzedakah, Tikkun Olam, and deeds of compassion and generosity. My experiences with Danny have very much shaped the person, professionally and personally, that I’m trying to become, and that’s a big reason why I wanted to create this book.

His prose essays are filled with translations and interpretations of texts from Jewish tradition—including many off-the-beaten track and unusual selections. Ideas for personal Mitzvah Projects fly off the page, and inspire readers to think creatively about how each of us is poised to personally make a difference in the world. And it’s not meant to be a period piece; there are five new essays where Danny takes his insights into the 2020s.

The poetry is saturated with Jewish spirituality—its history, pain, exhilaration, and hope. Many of these poems have been incorporated into Jewish liturgies over the years.  Some are ripe for rediscovery; I think he should be recognized as one of the most sublime Jewish poets of our generation.

I realize that there are other, greater concerns at this time. But it also strikes me that much of this book is about how to hold together as a community (especially at a time like this), and how to carry compassionate responsibility for the most vulnerable among us (now more than ever)—and in that way, it may be especially poignant today. 

For Jewish community leaders:  I’d like to suggest that this book may be especially useful to you as a gift for faculty and staff, for executive boards and volunteers, and for anyone involved in the work of building communities based upon Jewish values.

I hope you’ll check it out. Danny and I are available to speak to you or your community about  the ideas both in and beyond the pages of this new anthology.

With Gratitude,

Neal

Esther: A Brilliant Satire of Jewish-Diaspora Relations

In the Hasidic tale “The Humble King,” Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav wrote, “If you want to understand the nature of a community, understand its humor.” 

The Scroll of Esther—which is, among other things, a brilliant satire of Jewish life in the Persian Empire from about 2,300 years ago—offers a similar challenge: If you want to understand the Jews of Shushan, understand the Megillah’s humor. But who, exactly, is the object of the book’s satire?

In the second chapter of the book, we meet Mordecai, who is introduced to readers with a brief genealogy. We are told that Mordecai’s great-grandfather had been “carried into exile along with King Jeconiah of Judah, who had been driven into exile by King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon” (Esther 2:5-6). This verse may seem innocuous at first glance, but the satirical aim of the entire book emerges right here.

A little biblical history is called for in order to understand this. Jeconiah was the 18 year-old king of Judah who reigned for a mere three months in 597 BCE before he and his courtiers were conquered and deported eastward to Babylonia. They were the first of the Jewish exiles in Babylonia, and soon many more would follow them, in the wake of the destruction of the Temple in 586 BCE. The exile would remain a deep and traumatic memory for the Bible.

But just a few decades later—in 539 BCE—King Cyrus of Persia conquered Babylonia. Cyrus’s policy towards vanquished peoples was surprisingly liberal; he permitted the Jews to return home and rebuild their destroyed Temple. This, too, is an enormous event in the Bible’s mindset. Psalm 126, for instance, gushes: When G-d brought back the returnees to Zion, we were like dreamers!

This is the historical background of Esther and Mordecai. Their saga takes place in Susa (Shushan), the capital of Persia, a century and a half after Cyrus’s edict that permitted the exiles to return home. 

All of which points us towards an uncomfortable question. Mordecai and Esther belong to a generation when Judea was reborn, and the Second Temple was standing. So what were Jews living doing living in the Persian diaspora—after they miraculously had been permitted to return to their homeland?

The answer is: In fact, only a small minority of Jews returned home. Susa/Shushan was the cosmopolitan capital of the world’s most vast empire; Yehud/Judea was, by contrast, a small backwater, and the rebuilding effort was not easy. The returnees were not immediately successful in rebuilding the Temple; their economy was weak, their will was depleted, and (wait for it…) there was ugly infighting about which Jews were the most “authentic”! (That’s right—the painful history of “Who is the real Jew?” begins here. We can read about the Jewish infighting in the biblical book of Ezra.)

This was the situation of the Jews of the Megillah. They were the ones who, when offered the opportunity to go, said… “Thanks, but we’re good.” Instead, they embraced the relative prosperity and comfort of the world’s most cosmopolitan society of the day. They were the ones who opted to stay right where they were.

All this should give us some perspective. Esther is a satire about Jewish lives and mores in a diaspora. Now, that satire can be viewed from two perspectives.

On one hand, it can be read as a celebration of the diaspora’s triumphs. After all, the Jews of Shushan have risen to the very halls of power. And when they are threatened by an antisemitic monster, they take action. From this point of view, the Megillah is a story of empowerment and heroism. As Bible scholar Adele Berlin has written, Queen Esther’s courage “strengthens the ethnic pride of Jews under foreign domination.”[1] For many of us, that’s the way Esther was learned.

But on the other had, from a satirical point of view, the author pokes great fun at these Diaspora Jews. Sure, they’re successful and proud; but still, the reader might wonder, what kinds of Jews are these? After all, they’re not very pious; G-d’s name is never invoked in the entire book, even with impending disaster. They don’t seem to keep kosher. (What, pray tell, did Esther eat in the king’s harem—tuna salad?). They take on fashionable local names. (Esther has a perfectly beautiful Hebrew name—“Hadassah”—but travels in Persian circles by her more familiar moniker, evoking the Babylonian deity Ishtar.) Yet they certainly can shrey gevalt: when calamity arrives, they fast for three days! (Nowhere in Jewish literature are we ever instructed to fast for three days, no matter how severe the crisis.)

None of this should be offensive or insulting; there is a difference between laughing at and laughing with. Part of the book’s brilliance is to make us grin at these recognizable stereotypes, and to see a bit of ourselves in its caricatures. The humor of Esther is broad, but it isn’t cruel. Instead, like Purim itself, it takes aim at established pieties and deflates them. We can imagine an ancient reader smiling, thinking, “Of course—these are the Jews who had the opportunity to go home, but didn’t!” We know these people. 

And perhaps we can recognize a bit of ourselves in this story as well. 

This is all a very good and spiritually healthy thing. Purim reminds us that there is a big difference between righteousness and self-righteousness.

When we consider our own self-image, as well as the relationships between the Jews of today’s Diasporas and the State of Israel, more righteousness and less self-righteousness is extremely valuable. To rediscover how to speak, to learn, and most especially to laugh with one another would be the greatest Purim gift we could give one another.

[1] Adele Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary: Esther (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2001), p.xxxv.