Pesach begins at sundown today. Pesach is the celebration of that time when the Angel of Death passed by Jewish households when it spread calamity across Egypt. It also marks the joyful but speedy exit of the Jews from their captivity; in too much of a hurry to let bread rise. Ergo matzoh.
Pesach is a time for huge family gatherings around the table,
recounting the whole Exodus story, eating (but nothing leavened) and drinking,
talking and singing. Essentially, giving thanks for release from slavery, for
escape from plagues, for the grace of God. It’s kind of the Ur-Gratitude
celebration, and it lasts for eight days (seven if you’re in some Reform
congregations). The meal follows a script set down centuries ago for both the
menu and the conversation.
(It
has been said that the totality of Jewish holidays is: they tried to kill us;
we won; let’s eat.)
I definitely get behind having a ritual meal with roots more than
2000 years old, where traditions flow seamlessly into the new generation along
with matzoh ball soup, brisket and charoset. There will be many households in
both Israel and Ukraine whose celebrations will be muted: no latkes for
20; no kitchens piled up with the food and wine brought by family and friends.
Elijah will find many empty chairs to choose from. But that will not stop the
remembrance and the gratitude.
So today my entry for National Poetry Month is a poem about this
holiday by one of my all-time favorite writers, Primo Levi. The second line is
highly appropriate.
“Passover”
Tell
me: how is this night different, from all other nights?
How, tell me, is this Passover, different from other Passovers?
Light the lamp, open the door wide, so the pilgrim can come in,
Gentile or Jew; under the rags perhaps the prophet is concealed.
Let him enter and sit down with us; let him listen, drink, sing and celebrate
Passover;
Let him consume the bread of affliction, the Paschal Lamb, sweet mortar and
bitter herbs.
This is the night of differences, in which you lean your elbow on the table,
Since the forbidden becomes prescribed, evil is translated into good.
We will spend the night recounting, far-off events full of wonder,
And because of all the wine, the mountains will skip like rams.
Tonight they exchange questions: the wise, the godless, the simple-minded and
the child.
And time reverses its course, today flowing back into yesterday,
Like a river enclosed at its mouth. Each of us has been a slave in Egypt,
Soaked straw and clay with sweat, and crossed the sea dry-footed.
You too, stranger. this year in fear and shame,
Next year in virtue and in justice.
©2024 Bas Bleu
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