PASSOVER EDITION 5782 SECTION C PAGE 23
As I sit here today on Friday, April 8, the eve of Shabbat ha-Gadol, to pen my Passover column, what can I possibly share as Passover inspiration?
Beersheba. Hadera. Bnei Brak. And now, Tel Aviv. Four terror attacks in Israel, one after the other, and my hands tremble as I write and pray that by the time you read this, it will still be “only” four in the span of two weeks. Seder night is still one week away.
On such a difficult day, when three Jewish young men were just murdered in cold blood for nothing more than being Jewish, as they decided to go grab a beer. All three so young, their deaths feel like it’s “before their time”; on such a dreadful day defined by three fresh funerals and bodies that lie in shrouds, what can I possibly express about the upcoming holiday of Passover?
For, on this year’s Passover eve, it will coincide with the same day that three families will rise from shiva of their loved ones. Emanating from this year’s collective seders will be a rising, strange staccato, a clashing melody laced by the broken, raw, primal pain of freshly orphaned children’s kaddishes, mixed in with the sweet melodious sounds of innocent children’s joyous and proud “Ma Nishtanas.”
For, as we will assemble to celebrate our Jewish people’s storied exodus from Egypt, a people in Ukraine is being exiled and ravaged before our very eyes, mothers inking their tiny children’s names and birthdates on their bare backs, in case these mothers die and their children will be left alone in the world, found by strangers, too little to say their names.
And our own people, at these very moments, will endure the phrase from the Haggadah, “Vehi She’amdah,” how in every generation they rise up to destroy us. This time, in our homeland, our collective psyche is under assault.
What kind of inspiration can be shared when the land of Israel is gripped by grief, drenched in tears, and paralyzed by the fear of merely walking her streets?
The town of Bnei Brak, features prominently in the Haggadah. It’s where five wise sages were reclining at their seder, so transported throughout the long night and so engrossed in re-telling the story of the Exodus, that dawn broke as they were still reclining in their storytelling, whereupon their disciples arrived with the news: “Our masters, the time of the morning Shma has arrived!” The sacred night of “Leil Shimurim, the Guarded Night,” had passed.
Today, the discussion centering around Bnei Brak is about the heroic Arab Israeli, Amir Khoury, the policeman who sacrificed his life last week, in order to halt the terror attack, as he arrived at the scene in record speed. With overwhelming support from the town of Bnei Brak, its municipality and residents alike, the mayor just announced that the street on which Amir Khoury sacrificed his life to save civilians under attack, will henceforth be named for him, a memorial to his heroism.
Leil Shimurim. That’s how the Torah refers to the seder night. A night of sacred protection. Of guarding. Of watchfulness.
Yet, in my mind’s eye, all I can summon is the spooky vision of two enormous eyes, floating, dropping tears. Weeping.
Eventually, over the long night of the seder, the dawn breaks for the sages who are utterly engrossed in re-telling the story of the redemption, of the chaotic, swift Exodus from Egypt.
However, when it comes to a future redemption for the Jewish people, the Talmudic narrative paints a different picture from the rapid Exodus from Egypt. One night, R’ Hiyya and R’ Shimon, were strolling through the Arbel Valley when the new day’s incoming rays were, bit by bit, kima kima, just barely blushing, beginning to wink and peak through the horizon. Slowly but surely the gradual sunbeams of light broke through the horizon, incrementally, then grew and swelled, painting the sky in its full blazing burst of another dawn.
R’ Hiyya turned to R’ Shimon and said, “this [sunrise over the valley] is a metaphor for the future redemption of the People of Israel. Initially, it will come incrementally, bit by bit, kima kima.
In these golden hours of liminality, when the light is just barely cracking through, there is still darkness. Just like in the evening of dusky twilight, within the inception of a new day is a transition, a mixture of both light and darkness.
We are so grateful for the abundant light our generation is blessed to have been given.
And yet.
We are reminded all too often of the unredeemed world in which we still live.
The text of the Haggadah begins in genai, reproach, shame and dishonor, but it concludes in shevach, on a note of praise and hope.
It’s in the space betwixt and between that the story and the transition from genai to shevach unfolds, creating the arc of Jewish history.
It is at difficult moments such as the national and human difficulties in which we find ourselves, approaching the Passover seder, that we think of redemption, geulah, more than ever. In its absence, our aching yearning only grows deeper.
Kima kima, bit by bit, we hope the dawn of better days is slowly breaking through.
Let this “Leil Shimurim,” “Night of watching, guarding and protectiveness,” spread over all of Israel and the entire world.
Within these tense times, I wish you dear readers, a joyous Passover holiday and the light of new breaking dawns to come. Chag Sameach!
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