Dayenu, Indeed

I was hoping for an inspiring, enlightening (maybe even controversial?) second seder. Unlike the first seder which was attended by 44 family members at a rented hall, with 13 kids younger than 12 years old, our second seder was at home, only six of us, and no youngins. In my family the first seder is typically about re-connecting with cousins who we haven't seen in a long time - and this year it was a very long time, five years because of the pandemic - and it's all about the youngest kids. We try to make them the focus, singing the songs and playing up the mystery and magic of the rituals - drops of wine to signify the plagues, opening the door for the prophet Elijah to enter the room, he's here! he's here! - because doing it can make seder memories that last a lifetime. But the second seder, that's the one for adult reflection and discussion. Or so I was hoping.

As I say, it was going to be an unusually small second seder for us: Just my wife and me, my sister-in-law, our eldest daughter (30), our youngest daughter (19) and her boyfriend, and my mother-in-law. An opportunity to do something a little different, I was thinking. I'm a (small d) democrat and this year I'm going to show my democratic bona fides (which feels important to do) by opening the floor to discussion when we get to the four questions. Actually, the seder is not a democratic process at all. Quite the opposite. There's a leader (me) who puts the assembled gathering through their paces as dictated by the agenda set forth in the Haggadah. It's regimented, first you do this, then you do that, then you say that etc. etc. Highly scripted and stage managed. There's actually very little room for sharing thoughts and exploring ideas in any depth - impatience is the real order of the day. But the Haggadah is actually just a guide book. It's not holy scripture (although it includes some). It's an anthology of texts and prayers written in Hebrew and Aramaic, compiled over centuries, designed to aid in telling the biblical story of the Israelite's miraculous deliverance from slavery. There's nothing sacrilegious about deviating and trying to be a little inventive at a seder.  

Context matters. This year has been a particularly difficult year for the Jewish community. The story recounted at Passover challenges us to reflect on the redemption of captives and meaning of freedom, a theme that has added poignancy when an estimated 133 of our brethren remain in captivity in Gaza, Israel is at war, and when the Jewish diaspora is on fire with hateful student protests being leveraged by terrorist sympathizers calling for the destruction of the Jewish state. We live in an unprecedented time (at least in my lifetime) of anxiety and uncertainty. To my mind this means that there's plenty on Jewish minds and in Jewish hearts to talk about at the seder table. So, prior to our guests arriving, I tell my wife that after saying the blessing on the wine and performing the first brief set of rituals, when we get to the four questions and the telling of the story, instead of reading the text, I'm going to open up the table for wide-ranging discussion. I'm going to ask how people are feeling about what's happening on university campuses, or the situation in the Middle East and how they are feeling about the challenge of supporting Israel while navigating morally nuanced and complex historical issues. I have some related thoughts I want to share about what the Haggadah says about the four sons, I tell her. She seems on board with the plan. Even says she will share something she read online written by a local rabbi about a 'fifth son'.  

The four sons referred to in the Haggadah always made me think of my four daughters. Of our four daughters, three live in Montreal, two of them were at our seder. The one who didn't attend could have, but chose not to. I've mentioned before her struggle to reconcile her Jewish identity with her sympathies for people whom she believes are being oppressed. This daughter connects in my mind with the child the Haggadah calls 'wicked'. Of course, I don't for a second believe that my daughter is 'wicked'. In fact she's exactly the opposite, she's deeply sensitive and caring. The Haggadah characterizes the wicked child, not in the sense of 'evil', but more akin to rebellious, saying 'what do these rituals mean to you, and by saying 'you' the wicked son separates himself'. It's a scornful rejection of tradition, a sense that the seder holds no personal meaning to him. He's 'wicked' in the sense of being self-centred, which is actually a description of most typical teenagers, and someone who doesn't have the temperament to open him/herself up to meaning beyond the immediate and individual. The Haggadah tells us that in response to his obstinance and rebellion we must 'blunt his teeth', an opaque metaphor that may be interpreted as finding ways to soften his edge by making him feel more secure and welcome within the fold of family and tradition. Our daughter has always seen herself as the black sheep of the family. She  gets easily triggered when the topic of discussion makes her feel uncomfortable, so we avoid political topics for fear of angering or offending her. It never fails to amaze me how relevant and insightful our traditional texts can be. Unfortunately, our daughter's absence from this year's seder, her choice to separate herself, won't allow us the chance to test the Haggadah's remedy for reaching her. 

But it was how the Haggadah talks about the wise child that I wanted to talk about with our seder guests. The wise child asks details about the specific meaning of the laws of Passover observance: “What are the statutes and laws God has commanded you?” to which we respond with explanation of specific laws and customs of the seder. The wise child takes an active engaged interest in the rituals and story. She does the exact opposite of the wicked child. I was hoping that our seder table would be a gathering of the 'wise' in this sense, after all, we're all adults. So after reciting the blessings, as planned, when we got to the four questions, I broached the topic of the wise child to open the table up for discussion. I joked that now we know why so many Jews become lawyers (like our second daughter incidentally), because wisdom in the Haggadah is defined as a having an interest in law. Silence in response. 

"What I mean is, I find it interesting, this implication that wisdom is the acknowledgement of rules, boundaries of comportment and behaviour. In my mind, given what's happening in the world, it relates to the boundaries of war, and in particular the moral complexity of the conflict Israel is fighting in Gaza." More blank faces, silence. 

"What I mean is, that unless we acknowledge there are limits to the way we engage our enemies in order to defeat them, we run the risk of descending to their level of immorality and lawlessness, and becoming no better than them. The ends cannot be separate from the means." Now I think I'm being provocative. Crickets.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, our eldest daughter pipes up. "What if the laws are unjust. Shouldn't they be broken?"

"Yes, of course. But within boundaries," I answer. "If you are breaking what you perceive to be an unjust law, it should be motivated by the desire to create better, more just laws. Then you are doing it, not for destructive purposes, but for constructive ones, to make the community better and stronger and more united. So although your action might be disruptive, you're not like the wicked child, you're not separating yourself, you're actually trying to bring people together."

Now I'm getting excited. Maybe someone is going to relate this to the student protests taking place at Columbia University. Are they doing it for destructive or constructive purposes? How should we be viewing these protests? Why, I've been asking myself, is it that these pro-Palestine protests are most active at Ivy League schools? Does it have to do with the particular privilege (and feelings of guilt) of those particular student bodies? Maybe the conversation will veer into the important subject of freedom of speech, and when the line is crossed into hate speech?  

But no, there's just silence. Nobody has anything else to contribute to the discussion. Meanwhile, I look at my wife who is slumped impatiently in her chair. Her message is clear, get on with it before the food gets cold. I'm feeling the pressure. 

One last try. "We don't have to talk about this. We can talk about anything, whatever is on your mind lately." Now the simple child crosses my mind: What is this?

More silence.

Message received. People want to eat. They want me to get on with the last couple of blessings. So I do, in record time. I don't want our guests to suffer hunger.

We eat. The meal is spent talking about how cute cats can be (among a host of other inane topics). It feels like a regular weekly family dinner. Except I'm feeling dejected and disappointed. I don't talk. I'm angry that no one had the wherewithal or desire to bring something beyond cat-talk to the seder table. Nothing to make this event feel momentous and significant. They didn't want to think any more about the captives held in Gaza, the soldiers dying and wounded defending Israel, the ruin and death of innocents in Gaza, the student protests taking place across the continent tinged with anti-Semitism. It seems that everyone is just feeling exhausted from all the exhausting news. It seems that all they want to feel is some semblance of routine and ordinariness again. Good food and cat-talk is enough. 

Dayenu, indeed.