During the Passover seder, we name the ten plagues listed in Torah, and remove a droplet of wine or juice from our glasses as we recite each one. The tenth one is “death of the firstborn,” and Torah tells us that before that happened, our ancestors were instructed to kill a lamb and paint the doorposts with blood so that the angel of death would “pass over” our houses, leading to the name of the festival Passover. (The wordplay works in Hebrew too.)
I had already written a d’varling for tonight, about Aaron’s response to the death of his son and how the silence of those who suffer invites us to respond with care. And then a congregant reached out to me this morning and asked if I could speak tonight about a breaking news story, the FBI’s arrest of Judge Hannah Dugan in Wisconsin, and what our response to this as Jews ought to be.
Yom HaShoah arrives every year, and yet for many of us this year feels different than any other.
The familiar words of the haggadah landed differently with me this year. We speak every year of freedom from Mitzrayim – meaning not only מִצְרַיִם / مصر / literal Egypt, but also more broadly all of life’s narrow places and times of constriction. But this year I’m keenly aware of constriction and lack of liberty in ways that go beyond the metaphorical.
During the Passover seder, we name the ten plagues listed in Torah, and remove a droplet of wine or juice from our glasses as we recite each one. The tenth one is “death of the firstborn,” and Torah tells us that before that happened, our ancestors were instructed to kill a lamb and paint the doorposts with blood so that the angel of death would “pass over” our houses, leading to the name of the festival Passover. (The wordplay works in Hebrew too.)
“This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you.” (Ex. 12:2)
As we begin the month of March, we’re reading from a Torah portion that describes the vestments made for Aaron, the first High Priest, woven from blue, purple, and crimson yarns. One particular facet of his outfit is standing out to me this year: the breastplate that he wore over his heart, holding twelve cut gemstones to represent the twelve tribes of Israel.
“When we create sanctuary, God dwells within us. I think the inverse is also true: if we take sanctuary away – if we make someone unsafe; if we refuse them shelter and care – we are pushing God away. It is a fundamental tenet of Judaism that we are all made in the divine image and likeness. When we create a space where it’s safe to be who we are, we are making space for God. When it is unsafe to be our whole selves, God’s presence is diminished. ..”
“…All of us can be be anshe-hayil, people of valor, people whose word is worth something. All of us can be anshe emet, people who stand up for what’s true, people who call things what they are. All of us can live in a way that supports liberation: not just freedom from, from oppression and want and fear, but freedom to. Freedom to speak, to pray, to dream, to be. …”
“…I know this may sound pollyanna. It is a drop in the bucket compared with everything that needs repair. But I believe it is how repair happens: each of us doing what we can to help others. Tikkun olam – “repairing the world” – is a Jewish imperative. It is our obligation as Jews…”
