The haggadah reminds us that Jewish history is an ongoing cycle of oppression and freedom. “B’khol dor vador—in every generation one must see oneself as having personally left Egypt.”
Indeed, Passover this year comes amidst great challenge—Israelis facing further attacks and resurgent antisemitism in North America and around the world. It also comes in the wake of the terrible attack against Temple Israel synagogue in West Bloomfield, Michigan.
Following that event, I heard from an acquaintance in that community whose children asked their parents to remove the mezuzah from their door, “To keep us safe.” What a painful choice for those parents—and for so many Jewish individuals and families. In a society that believes in religious freedom, we are not free if we need to second-guess our ability to fulfill the mitzvah of the mezuzah—to keep an outward sign of our Jewishness on our doors. Or to wear a kippah, or tzitzit, or a Star of David.
It reminds me of the courage of our ancestors who followed God’s instructions on the night of the Exodus to slaughter a lamb and to “take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses” in which they would consume the first Passover sacrifice (Exodus 12:7).
We often understand this placing of the blood on the door frame as an act of self-preservation—to ensure that the angel of death would spare the Israelite firstborn from the tenth plague. But would an all-knowing God not be able to identify the Israelite homes? We should also consider that it was a public sign to the Egyptians as well: “An Israelite lives in this home, and we no longer fear you. Our God will set us free.”
Given the doubts the Israelites had shown when Moses first returned to Egypt, promising redemption, it was a sign that they had seen the other nine previous miracles and had grown in their faith and confidence. They were now a people, ready for freedom.
Similarly today, it’s not enough to simply know we are Jewish. Our masoret—our tradition—is a gift! We need to seek out opportunities to grow in our own understanding of our faith and traditions. Of course, we need to take measures to preserve our safety, but the challenges of these times should also push us to ask more questions and seek out deeper experiences—study, prayer, and acts of kindness—that help us grow in our own knowledge and commitment to Judaism and the Jewish people.
Finally, the commentator Hizkuni (13th-century France) notes that painting blood on the two doorposts and the lintel above the door creates the Hebrew letter “ח”—ḥet—which stands for ḥayyim—life. Indeed, it was a sign to God’s angel of death to preserve those in the home on that fateful night.
But as we recall the memory of that evening at our own seders, let us consider it a prayer for this year’s Passover celebration. May we persevere and overcome our enemies, grow in our own faith and commitment, and be a source of life and hope for one another and for the world.
L’ḥayyim—to life! And ḥag Pesaḥ kasher v’same’aḥ—amidst so much challenge, may we find joy and meaning anew in our celebration this year.
