The heart of the traditional Seder rests on a bunch of puns – which seems particularly appropriate for this year, as our Passover begins on April Fools’ Day.
“They tried to kill us. They failed. Let’s eat!”
If that’s not what all Jewish holidays are about, certainly the two major spring celebrations, Purim and Passover, fit the bill. And yet, we don’t tend to think of them as similar. Purim is supposed to be a rowdy public party, while Passover is a leisurely evening of food and conversation at home. The stories they each tell are also deeply different, but in ways that might not be obvious, and which I would like to suggest shed light on each other.
The book of Exodus presents two models of fund-raising for the building of the Mishkan. In the first, people are called upon to donate what their heart is moved to give. In the other, each person makes the same minimal donation. What can we learn from these two models, as we work to raise funds for our own sanctuary?
“If you’re having trouble installing your rabbi, try rebooting the congregation!”
My brother-in-law thinks he’s very clever.
But I have to admit I like his joke better than the more common ones about installing air conditioners and ceiling fans. It’s not a terrible analogy to say that a rabbi works in the operating environment of a congregation and its board, as we work together to address the needs of the community.
I’ve often wondered why Jewish homes are rarely among the most brightly lit this time of year, given that Hanukkah is the “festival of lights.” When I was growing up in Israel, we celebrated with pyrotechnics that could be seen from miles away! Public menorah lightings aside, here in the US, Hanukkah is more commonly observed with warm, private festivity.
The day the hostages returned, I experienced a sense of joyful relief — like I could release a breath I didn’t know I had been holding for the past two years. And yet, my joy could not be complete. Too much has been lost since October 7, 2023. Our tradition is practiced in mixing sorrow with joy. On Simchat Torah, we said kaddish before our dancing.
We’ve been singing the verse, Achat sha’alti from psalm 27 since the beginning of Elul, a full month before Rosh Hashanah, and it will remain with us through Simchat Torah at the end of Sukkot. But what does it really mean?
Can we, Congregation Agudath Achim—this Family of Friends (or the people of Israel as a whole, for that matter), function and flourish together as a single community, not despite our differences, but precisely because of them?
Our Jewish tradition invites us to linger over the transition of the New Year. We blow the shofar for an entire month before Rosh Hashanah, as we are encouraged to engage in “cheshbon hanefesh” – literally, a “spiritual accounting.” When the shofar of the month of Elul calls to us “ayeka”? where are you? we are bidden to answer simply “hineni,” here I am.
Engaging in acts of kindness and mutual aid can be its own path to strengthening the bonds of community, whether we are benefactors or recipients. When one member of the community makes a meal for another or calls someone who might be lonely, both come away with the kind of connection and well-being that only comes from living in community.
