On April 8 I woke up in a bad mood. Nothing to do with the global economy crisis, nothing to do with work, not even to do with the work that’s been done in the backyard all that week, or the huge container of flying garbage that’s been parked in my parking spot outside. It had nothing to do with the stupid cats who chose to leave their brown memoirs in the bushes. It had everything to do with the holiday. The Holiday. Passover. The celebration of freedom. The commemoration of the glorious Exodus, when my people left Egypt for a questionable future in Canaan, now known as Israel. I spoke to my sister early in the morning (one of about a dozen phone calls of coordination – chairs, tables, gifts, food delivery, arrival time, seating arrangements, etc.), and I was entertaining the idea of going back to Egypt just to avoid the holiday. What was so bad in Egypt anyway? The bricks? The Pyramids? The Pharaoh? Nothing compared to the Matzo, the gefilte fish, the Kneidlach, the Seder. I went further and stated that the Jews are split between two kinds of lunacy during this holiday. The cooking kind and the cleaning kind…
Anyway, the hours went by, and we showed up, first of course, at my sister’s in Tel Aviv, in the early evening. The table was ready. It was beautiful. It was set for thirty guests, it had white tablecloths, flowers, it had a big promise of a wonderful festival meal. A promise, which, by the way, was kept beyond expectations. Well, that’s not exactly true, I expect nothing short of perfect from my sister…
My parents showed up a little later. I must write a few words about my father. My father is young, seventy four years of age. In the last few years following his retirement from civil service, he took a turn for the worse. He is the same, with the obvious exceptions, he is as clear as a whistle, talks to the point, makes interesting observations. But slowly. He speaks softly, and slowly. It was clear to all, that I, his oldest son, would have to run the Seder. It was a responsibility I didn’t want to take, nor did I want to consider the repercussions of taking over my father’s role in running the Passover Seders. We came to an excellent arrangement. My father sat at the head of the table, and I sat by his side. He was running the Seder, and I served as his mouth. It worked out pretty well.
The children participated. Let me precede and state: I am not religious (in Facebook, my religious orientation is “fanatic atheist”), I am not a strong believer in God. In fact I am not a believer at all. I usually don’t buy into traditions. I find no comfort in doing something that’s been done before. I would much rather do new things. I am a cynic to a certain degree (my friends would make a very sarcastic comment on the “certain degree” part, I’m sure). When asked if I eat kosher food, I usually answer that I do indeed eat kosher food, but not exclusively. But I am, however a proud Jew. And for some reason, sitting at the table with the descendants of those who supposedly left Egypt four thousand years ago, did something for me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t actually believe that the Hebrew slaves built anything in Egypt, I don’t really buy into the ten plagues or the ten commandments.
However, to my great amazement, and possible amusement, I did actually connect with the four thousand year old tradition of celebrating Passover. It is well documented that Jews around the world celebrated Passover, wherever they were (and they were pretty much everywhere) every single year for at least four thousand years. I doubt that there’s any tradition in the world that’s older than that. I also realized, that you don’t have to actually believe, to be part of something. Seeing three of my four children, my sister’s two sons, and my brother’s four daughters singing, reading the Haggadah, each in his or her turn, made me feel that I, after all, was a link. A strong link in the oldest tradition on the planet. Not a bad feeling at all.
I am not sure whether the following had to do with anything, but it’s a possibility. Once every twenty eight years, the sun aligns with the full moon precisely the same way they were at the time of their creation. According to the tradition of course. It was the beginning of the 207th cycle since the creation of the world 5769 years ago. Jews around the world gathered throughout the day and said a blessing that’s only recited once every twenty eight years. Birkat Hachama – The Blessing of the Sun: “Blessed are You, LORD, our God, King of the Universe who makes the works of Creation.” Is that exciting or what?
And no. don’t get the wrong idea. I love being part of something that old. I love the fact that I have received it from my ancestors, and that I am giving it to my children. I love being a link. The distance between this and actually practicing a religion is the distance between heaven and earth. Literally. And to conclude: faith has many faces. Nobody owns Judaism. Nobody owns any religion. Passover is the celebration of freedom. Freedom of religion. Freedom from a Master. God included.
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