Chol HaMoed Pesach 5772

The Torah is a sacred story that flows like a river through the year.  Week by week, the narrative is unbroken.  At key moments, however, it is put on pause.  Holy days, such as Passover, have a special reading associated with them in place of the weekly portion.  Instead of continuing with the master story, we pause and remind ourselves of the rules of observance of the festival at hand.  And so it is this week.

Human beings tell stories about ourselves, too.  Stories help us understand ourselves, and explain ourselves to others.  Many of us have a master narrative, a story that describes how we came to be and why we are the ways we are.  (“Well, you see, I grew up poor…”  “My father was a very demanding, and I’ve been rebelling ever since…”  “No matter how hard I try, I’m never lucky in love.”)  Personal master narratives help us understand ourselves in the world.

But a personal master narrative can also be confining.  It can stop us from seeing other options, experiencing other ways of being.  So it’s also important to be able to tell a different story about ourselves, too, at least from time to time.  (“I’m always very responsible, but every once in a while I throw caution to the wind…”  “I’m a vegetarian, but tonight I’m going to eat a steak.”  “I’m never lucky in love, but this time is going to be different.”)  It’s unburdening to have an alternative story to tell about yourself, to know that we are allowed more than one story.

The Torah is a story that lives within us and through us.  Ancient though it is, it is also surprising, because sometimes it has a new tale to tell.

Passover 5772

Horseradish is intense, bold, biting.  It shocks the mouth, overpowers the mind, and clears the sinuses.  It’s also the most important Jewish moment of the year.

Horseradish is maror, the bitter herb.  It takes its place on the seder plate along with the other foods, but it acts differently from them.  They remind us of our ancestors’ plight-and-flight; maror lets us experience it.

Maror allows us to experience suffering, dis-ease, and misery.  When we eat maror, we get direct, physical knowledge of discomfort--even those of us who like it!  We go one better than “walking a mile in the shoes” of those who suffer—we taste a bit of their pain.  We identify with the sufferer.

The challenge is to taste the bitterness all year long.  Why do this?  So that when, in the coming year, we cross paths with a homeless person, we will taste helplessness.  So that when we hear of disaster, we will taste despair.  When we learn of oppression, we will taste brutality.  When we taste these things, we identify with the victims.  We cannot look away.  Indeed, we are required to act on their behalf.

Maror is an exercise in radical empathy.  Take a big bite.

I wish you a sweet—and bitter—Passover.