At the Pesach Table

It has always seemed remarkable to me that widely different viewpoints can be correct at the same time.  Human nature does not easily accept this truth, though.  We are quick to register that only one opinion can be correct.  So, once we have decided which direction represents the right course, everything else must therefore be wrong.  Yet, experience proves this to be incorrect.

Pesach is a case in point.

On this date we celebrate our freedom from the ruthless tyranny of the taskmasters.  Yet burning questions remain.  Did all the Egyptians really need to suffer in order to free the Jews?  Did so many have to die in the thick waters of the Reed Sea?   Why did our enemies have to die?  Or, why didn’t they have to suffer as greatly as the Jews for their crimes?

And exactly how are we supposed to feel “as if we were personally liberated” (as the Hagggada indicates) when we have never suffered that kind of pain?  That is why the Pesach seder assists with the difficulty by telling the story of Liberation in four different renditions.  One narrative is about numbers.  One is about history.  Another is about empathy through stories and one is through the descriptions of the Pesach plate and foods.

The complex variety of perspectives reminds me of a story I once heard about a father and his son driving to an engagement party.  The father, impatient, asks, “How far have we gone already?”  The son, looking forward to his bride says, “How much more do we have to go?”

Because of their inner world the father and son perceive the outer world entirely differently.  They are both correct.

Families are often difficult to keep together because each member possesses their own reality which at times may not only be different, but conflicting.  The same is true for larger groups.  Communities are hard to form and contain because every person has their own reality.  Is it any surprise that some of the Israelites were rebellious?  Or that some wanted to return back to Egypt? That should be no more shocking than people harboring disparate views on Israel.  Or the fact that someone’s seat at our seder table may be unoccupied.

Not so long ago before the Russian revolution, an advisor to the Czar and his general were assassinated.  The assassination was a bomb, which tore through the carriage, slew the horses, and killed the prince.  Some reactions at the time: The Imperial Guard mourned their general.  A coachbuilder bemoaned the destruction of his artistry. The prince’s horses, the finest in Europe, horrified a horseman.  A New York Times reporter wrote, “The old regime is dead; a new order is born.”

Of course, they were all correct.  Yet, I suspect, if they were in the same room after the event discussing what had happened they might have had vigorous, loud, and perhaps painful disagreements.  Our faith insists that we overcome our personal objections to differences by getting along.  That is why the term “k’llal Yisrael” (the corpus of Israel) figures so prominently in nearly every Jewish text.  We do not have to agree – in fact, arguing is a measure of testing truth – but we do have to take care of one another.  How we accept or reject divergent opinions is a measure of our faith and this sacred principle.

A colleague was constantly asked by his children whether he liked certain congregants.  When they asked him, “Daddy, here comes so-and-so, do like him?” he would answer, “I like the whole world.”

After a while they learned to ask, “Daddy do you like this one or do you like the whole world?”

At Pesah we are reminded of the incalculable value of accepting differences.  When we do, we become better people and more responsible stewards of our fellow Jews.

“What a caterpillar calls the end of life the Master calls a butterfly.”  –Richard Bach

The Secret to God

He came to me with a complaint.  His face was open and needy.  “I want to be spiritual but do not know how.  I really want to learn.  Teach me!  I watch you daven and I know you are talking to God.  I see it in your face.  I want that too.  How do I get there?"

Rebbe Nachman knew.  Long ago he said, “When I speak with someone I want to hear the highest words from his mouth.”

When someone would speak to him Rebbe Nachman would intensely listen to each uttered word.  They were intentional.  Nachman knew that in each dialogue there were hidden gems that had the potential of changing his life.  Imagine such a thought! 

It was not what the person said but what Rebbe Nachman heard that made the ultimate difference.  Every word contained the kernels of personal revelation.  His sole task was to listen.

“This,” I said to my complainant, “is the principle of true davenning.  It is all about listening, being awake and aware and, of course, truthful with our words.”

The words we hear and the ones we speak can have a dramatic effect on us spiritually.  If we are looking for voices of growth and learning they will appear almost everywhere.

This is the primary principle of davenning: Listen.  Take the words to hear.  Utter each word with intentionality (kavannah).  This is the whole secret to becoming a spiritual being.

Brotherly Hate

As brothers and sisters we are related.  From the same stock, same gene pool.  Seems like forever since we last lived peaceably under the same roof.  God, so much wasted time!

  Long ago, there was the proverbial parting of the ways.  You went in pursuit of your mission; I went on with mine.  Like all siblings there was rivalry, competition.  We fought for parental favor. We sought to impress them with our savvy, our looks, and our prosperity.  

Hurt and pain sprang from unhealed wounds.  Some of those wounds, untended, festered and became dangerous.  We fought like all relatives and, just like them, soon forgot what we were feuding about.  Seems that often the fight itself became the reason for continuance of the rivalry.

There are those who say the familial “parting of the ways” is as old as Cain and Abel.  Certainly the root of brothers vying for the love of their parents is as ancient as Eden.  We are no different.

It has been my hope that time would bring maturity to us and the realization that siblings can not just love one another (we already do) but allow for legitimacy of the other.  I can validate your goodness, brilliance and gifts while losing none of my own stature.  You can return that appreciation.  It is odd that we “love our neighbor” more when they don’t live in our neighborhood.  But we have lived long together.  And hated every minute of it.  There is no escaping that.

“Ah,” you say, “those days are long gone.”  Yes, you are right, brother.  They seem all but a dim memory now.  We have found each other’s arms after a long estrangement.  There has not just been rapprochement but something far deeper, more meaningful.  We are in process of re-discovering the family love so long absent.  Mom and dad would be proud.  Perhaps they smile down on us from above as their children have found one another.

Still, every now and again it is good to remember the old rivalry.  This allows us to bask in the realization that those days are gone.  We can dialogue, break bread with one another, find words of shared worship, and even gently chide each other.  We have grown.  We have fully matured and now enjoy a rich relationship bearing more gifts than we could ever imagine.

I am sorry that every now and again someone forgets the great progress we have made.  I guess they feel more comfortable in a contest of words and legitimacy (‘I’m better than you are’ kind of stuff) than a road to greater love.  I will not let those family members stand in our way, though.  And neither will you.  After all, what we have discovered is the most valuable gift of all.