The wonder of the possible
Last night was the first night of Passover. I've always loved Passover, the ritual, the storytelling, the communal experience. I've talked here before about the nature of my faith, that it's a continuumI will often go from being an atheist to an agnostic to a believer and back in a very short amount of time. I am, I think, more often than not an agnostic (which, in its way, is a very authentic way to be Jewish). My dialog with God is regularly pretty stormy (and has been so especially lately). On Passover, though, it seems I'm pretty consistently a believer.
dochyel used to say that Passover was a guided meditation on the journey to freedom, the idea being that it could be a much more mystical experience than simply a storytelling exercise. I've always loved that idea, especially as it relates to what I want to discuss here now. A couple of years back, I griped about the story of the four sons that is told on these nights, and I took it apart a bit. This year, rather than griping, I want to talk about one of my favorite parts of the Seder.
After the meal is over, the second part of the Seder includes a moment when we open the door to allow the spirit of the prophet Elijah to come into the home.* Elijah's return, it is believed, will herald the return of the Messiah. As part of the Seder, this act of opening the door is intended to remind us that there is always hope for peace, freedom, and goodness in humanity. We hope that the spirit of Elijah will enter us all with the goal of helping to heal the world. We are reminded that we should welcome those less fortunate than ourselves to the table, and we should offer them whatever we may have.
For me, this is always a moment of magic, specifically the moment before we open the door. I've done it; I've been the one to stand by the door, hand hovering above the door knob, wondering if someone will literally be there when I open it. In that one moment, it's possible: maybe, just maybe, Elijah will be there. In that moment, anything is possible. The anticipation is thrilling. And if you're of a spiritual bent, the opening of the door does create a change in the atmosphere of the room (more than just the chilly breeze that invariably blows in during April). Opening the door reminds us that there's a world beyond our own walls of which we're a part, regardless of whatever our struggles or troubles may be. There's the possibility that God is really out there, that God's sent Elijah at last. In that moment, right before the door opens, a leap of faith is possible. I always feel like Indiana Jones standing at the edge of the abyss, hand on his chest, suddenly believing that, despite the evidence of his eyes, he can walk across the void to find the Holy Grail.
And that, my friends, is pretty cool.
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* Historically, this door-opening ritual has a much darker origin. Some say it originated during the Middle Ages to assuage Christian fears that Jews weren't doing anything unseemly behind closed doors, like sacrificing Christian children. Others say it was a way to ensure Christian neighbors weren't eavesdropping on the Seder. One way or another, it was a ritual about safety and protection. I prefer our more modern interpretation. It is still, after all, a sort of protection ritual, a ritual aimed toward protecting the world.
dochyel used to say that Passover was a guided meditation on the journey to freedom, the idea being that it could be a much more mystical experience than simply a storytelling exercise. I've always loved that idea, especially as it relates to what I want to discuss here now. A couple of years back, I griped about the story of the four sons that is told on these nights, and I took it apart a bit. This year, rather than griping, I want to talk about one of my favorite parts of the Seder.
After the meal is over, the second part of the Seder includes a moment when we open the door to allow the spirit of the prophet Elijah to come into the home.* Elijah's return, it is believed, will herald the return of the Messiah. As part of the Seder, this act of opening the door is intended to remind us that there is always hope for peace, freedom, and goodness in humanity. We hope that the spirit of Elijah will enter us all with the goal of helping to heal the world. We are reminded that we should welcome those less fortunate than ourselves to the table, and we should offer them whatever we may have.
For me, this is always a moment of magic, specifically the moment before we open the door. I've done it; I've been the one to stand by the door, hand hovering above the door knob, wondering if someone will literally be there when I open it. In that one moment, it's possible: maybe, just maybe, Elijah will be there. In that moment, anything is possible. The anticipation is thrilling. And if you're of a spiritual bent, the opening of the door does create a change in the atmosphere of the room (more than just the chilly breeze that invariably blows in during April). Opening the door reminds us that there's a world beyond our own walls of which we're a part, regardless of whatever our struggles or troubles may be. There's the possibility that God is really out there, that God's sent Elijah at last. In that moment, right before the door opens, a leap of faith is possible. I always feel like Indiana Jones standing at the edge of the abyss, hand on his chest, suddenly believing that, despite the evidence of his eyes, he can walk across the void to find the Holy Grail.
And that, my friends, is pretty cool.
----------------------------------------
* Historically, this door-opening ritual has a much darker origin. Some say it originated during the Middle Ages to assuage Christian fears that Jews weren't doing anything unseemly behind closed doors, like sacrificing Christian children. Others say it was a way to ensure Christian neighbors weren't eavesdropping on the Seder. One way or another, it was a ritual about safety and protection. I prefer our more modern interpretation. It is still, after all, a sort of protection ritual, a ritual aimed toward protecting the world.