‘Near Year [Pause] In Jerusalem’

Getting ready for Pesah usually has a certain rhythm to it, even for me, who has had the great privilege of traveling with my family for several years for the duration of the holiday. Last year, we were in Jerusalem. This year, like others, at Camp Ramah for a Passover retreat. With less work to do at home, there’s a way that preparation sort of unfolds. Planning some cleaning, what the Seder will feel like, thinking about who will be around the table, and how each person might contribute with their voice. For me, the quiet assumption built into all of that is that my parents will be there.

This year, that assumption was challenged with the beginning of the war with Iran. For the past several days, everything has felt uncertain. Flights home have either been changed or canceled. What should have been a simple trip home for my parents turned into something far more complicated. My parents, who arrived in Israel over one month ago for a monthlong visit, left Jerusalem in the very early morning hours to travel to Eilat and then Aqaba, following a somewhat impromptu path chartered by others before them. Even writing that feels surreal. Especially because when I began writing this post, my parents were in line waiting to board a plane. Since that time, they have safely landed and completed their lengthy and exhausting journey home.

There is a strange opposite that people have been naming as we approach Passover – a kind of “reverse exodus.” The Passover story is one of our people leaving Egypt for Israel. This year, people (my parents included) left Israel, and some (not them) exited via Egypt. I get this is a story some will and should tell. This is the story that strikes at the intellectual or emotional chord for some.

Stranger to me is that every year we say, “Next year in Jerusalem.” It is automatic; almost reflexive. It doesn’t typically ring like a statement of logistics, but rather a declaration of longing, of direction, and of where we imagine ourselves moving toward. Two years ago, when my family completed our seder outside of Israel, we felt this way as we knew the following year (last Pesah) would be in Israel immediately following our son’s 8th-grade trip. It’s worth noting the extraordinary way that those responsible at The Leffell School (and I am certain other schools as well) for the education and planning of the 8th-grade trip do so with profound care and pedagogy to deliver a memorable experience. We too delighted in the educational and logistical planning for Pesah in Israel.

This year, the direction feels inverted and less certain.

My parents – as they planned, re-planned, and at one time submitted to forces beyond their control – literally found a new way to return home. Something is jarring about that. We spend the Seder retelling a story of leaving Egypt on the way to something better, more secure, more whole. And now, in real time, people are moving in the opposite direction, just trying to get somewhere else, somewhere safe. It makes me wonder, more than I ever have before, about the words we say at the conclusion of the Seder.  לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בִּירוּשָׁלַיִם L’Shana Haba’ah B’Yerushalayim

We’ve always said “Next year in Jerusalem” with a ring of confidence, maybe even a kind of simplicity. But this year, what do we really mean when we say it? Is it a hope? A prayer? A statement of certainty? And are we prepared for what it actually asks of us or what it assumes about the world we’re living in? And, what about those who did go to Israel, or the population that resides in Israel? And finally, if I have these questions, what does that say about my relationship with Israel?

I don’t have clean answers to any of these, but I know that I will likely pause and take a deep breath before I say it. And, when I do, it will mean something different. So, I continue to get ready, and here’s what that looks like.

On paper, I’m ready. I can lead the Seder if I need to. I know how it goes. But that’s not really the point. The Seder has never been about getting through the Haggadah. It is about presence. It is about who’s at the table and what they bring with them. And it is hard to imagine that table without certain people there, filling roles I (or you) assumed they would fill.

I think about the line in Parashat Tzav that the fire on the altar must be kept burning constantly; it can’t go out. It is a steady, almost quiet command. Not dramatic, just consistent. Keep it going. I think that is what this moment is asking of us. Not to have everything feel resolved or settled. Not to pretend this is a normal year. But to keep showing up to the rituals anyway. To build the Seder, to tell the story, to hold onto something continuous even when everything around it feels unsettled. From my pastoral perspective, it means living in tension of the moment/s.

Shabbat HaGadol is always about standing before something big, trying to get ourselves ready. Usually, this is more conceptual. This year, it feels immediate. And with my parents safely at home, I am realizing how much I have taken for granted. Their presence, the way our Seder just unfolds, and the roles that never needed to be questioned.

Maybe this year, keeping the fire going looks a little different. Maybe it is less about everything being exactly in place and more about holding onto what matters, even when it does not feel as secure as it has in the past.