A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,
from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.
On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,
and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
that same stream that floated as a little cloud over Paris
in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a.m.
There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.
I would have to name you in every tongue
pronouncing all the vowels at once
while also keeping silent–for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed
and doesn’t exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.
Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago and, yesterday.
You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.
You’ve been in christening fonts and courtesan’s baths.
In coffin and kisses.
Gnawing stone, feeding rainbows,
In the sweat and the dew of the pyramids and lilacs.
How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.
Whenever wherever whatever has happened
Is written down on the waters of Babel.
As we sit down to this Seder it's impossible to ignore that this is our *second annual* Zoom Seder. In the time between last Seder and this Seder, our beloved planet has lost more than two and a half million people to a virus which has laid bare so many of the difficulties, discriminatory structures, and pressure points in our world and its economies and varied governments. Even with movements for justice around the world continuing and taking on even more and new missions during this time, our grief cannot be ignored.
It is difficult to embark on an ultimately celebratory holiday ritual without recognizing this. We cannot ever be asked or ask each other to leave our grief at the door. If anything has become clear over the last year it's that our grief accompanies us wherever we go -- and if we've only learned this in the last year let us reflect on how even that is a sign of privilege.
Like anything, grief can be a powerful tool, a (terrible) lesson in empathy, perhaps even a call to action.
And so this year it feels appropriate to set aside some time for our grief. Whether we need to name it and set it aside or use it as a guide through this evening's ritual, or something completely else -- grief is nothing if not individualized and mysterious -- let us give it the respect it deserves.
The Mourners' Kaddish has been said for centuries by the living on behalf of the dead in which the dead and death are not mentioned even once. It is a prayer for divinity and for peace.
While many only say the Mourner's Kaddish when they are ritually and personally in mourning, the ritual has been claimed by many to recognize the ways that grief lives in our everyday lives, so if you are moved to, please feel free. Let's take a moment to collect, quietly and individually, the things that we are mourning. Feel free to type these things into the chat.
יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא. [ קהל: אמן]
בְּעָלְמָא דִּי בְרָא כִרְעוּתֵהּ וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ בְּחַיֵּיכון וּבְיומֵיכון וּבְחַיֵּי דְכָל בֵּית יִשרָאֵל בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב, וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
קהל ואבל: יְהֵא שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא מְבָרַךְ לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא:
אבל: יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִשְׁתַּבַּח וְיִתְפָּאַר וְיִתְרומַם וְיִתְנַשּא וְיִתְהַדָּר וְיִתְעַלֶּה וְיִתְהַלָּל שְׁמֵהּ דְּקֻדְשָׁא. בְּרִיךְ הוּא. [ קהל: בריך הוא:]
לְעֵלָּא מִן כָּל בִּרְכָתָא בעשי”ת: לְעֵלָּא לְעֵלָּא מִכָּל וְשִׁירָתָא תֻּשְׁבְּחָתָא וְנֶחֱמָתָא דַּאֲמִירָן בְּעָלְמָא. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
יְהֵא שְׁלָמָא רַבָּא מִן שְׁמַיָּא וְחַיִּים עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
עושה שָׁלום בעשי”ת: הַשָּׁלום בִּמְרומָיו הוּא יַעֲשה שָׁלום עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
Translation (by Lab/Shul):
May our lives reflect the greatness of divine mystery everywhere, sparks within the process of creation
May the world be ruled by our highest aspirations, soon, in our lifetimes, and so we say: Amen
May the divine be known as a fountain of blessings: praised, honored, beautified, elevated, and exalted beyond any song or description that has ever been honored, and so we say: Amen
May an all-embracing peace shower down from the heavens refreshing the lives of all beings on earth.
May the source of peace inspire us to find and create peace for ourselves and for our community and for all beings on earth, and so we say: Amen
I realize I don’t know very much. None of us knows very much. But we can all learn more. Then we can teach one another. We can stop denying reality or hoping it will go away by magic.
Freedom is dangerous, Cory, but it’s precious, too. You can’t just throw it away or let it slip away. You can’t sell it for bread and pottage.
"Your God doesn’t care about you at all,” Travis said.
“All the more reason to care about myself and others.”
“From what I’ve read,” I said to him, “the world goes crazy every three or four decades. The trick is to survive until it goes sane again.”
All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change.
***
"When I say “God is Change”, I am simultaneously denying the claim that God is unchanging and affirming that this world of contingency is all there is. When I say that God can be shaped by us, I am simultaneously denying the claim that God is transcendent and affirming that we have only ourselves to look to for a better future. “God is change — Shape God” is a challenge to see, to learn, and to work to shape our reality, just as we are shaped by it. "
~ John Halsted
What are we waiting for? What change do we know is coming, and what change has already happened that we might still be acclimating to? What are we doing about it? What are we shaping? What is change to you?
זֵכֶר לְמִקְדָּשׁ כְּהִלֵּל. כֵּן עָשָׂה הִלֵּל בִּזְמַן שבֵּית הַמִּקְדָּשׁ הָיָה קַיָים: הָיָה כּוֹרֵךְ מַצָּה וּמָרוֹר וְאוֹכֵל בְּיַחַד, לְקַיֵים מַה שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: עַל מַצּוֹת וּמְרֹרִים יֹאכְלֻהוּ.
Eating matzah, maror and haroset this way reminds us of how, in the days of the Temple, Hillel would do so, making a sandwich of the Pashal lamb, matzah and maror, in order to observe the law “You shall eat it (the Pesach sacrifice) on matzah and maror.”
We eat this to remember the almost-completely different sandwich that was eaten during the Temple period. It seems strange to eat this paltry sandwich, compared to the (very artisinal sounding) smoked meat and horseradish sandwich that was a product of the sacrificial rites.
And yet, this is an adaptation to a "new" ritual, with a nod to an "old" ritual, which can show us a little bit more how rituals can be created for our contemporary needs, how we can nod to our past in creating those rituals, and how this can still connect us with our ancestors. As we move forward and lay the groundwork for our futures, how are we creating rituals and patterns that pay homage to certain traditions of our past - whether they're culinary or otherwise? Certainly, food is a way to connect us to our ancestors, most of us remember our grandmother's specialties - those memories are the fruits that they planted, which now we enjoy.
As we eat this odd sandwich, which gives way to our proper meal, let's give thanks for the nurturing, sustaining legacies that can become our new rituals.
A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,
from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.
On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,
and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
that same stream that floated as a little cloud over Paris
in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a.m.
There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.
I would have to name you in every tongue
pronouncing all the vowels at once
while also keeping silent–for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed
and doesn’t exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.
Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago and, yesterday.
You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.
You’ve been in christening fonts and courtesan’s baths.
In coffin and kisses.
Gnawing stone, feeding rainbows,
In the sweat and the dew of the pyramids and lilacs.
How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.
Whenever wherever whatever has happened
Is written down on the waters of Babel.
As we sit down to this Seder it's impossible to ignore that this is our *second annual* Zoom Seder. In the time between last Seder and this Seder, our beloved planet has lost more than two and a half million people to a virus which has laid bare so many of the difficulties, discriminatory structures, and pressure points in our world and its economies and varied governments. Even with movements for justice around the world continuing and taking on even more and new missions during this time, our grief cannot be ignored.
It is difficult to embark on an ultimately celebratory holiday ritual without recognizing this. We cannot ever be asked or ask each other to leave our grief at the door. If anything has become clear over the last year it's that our grief accompanies us wherever we go -- and if we've only learned this in the last year let us reflect on how even that is a sign of privilege.
Like anything, grief can be a powerful tool, a (terrible) lesson in empathy, perhaps even a call to action.
And so this year it feels appropriate to set aside some time for our grief. Whether we need to name it and set it aside or use it as a guide through this evening's ritual, or something completely else -- grief is nothing if not individualized and mysterious -- let us give it the respect it deserves.
The Mourners' Kaddish has been said for centuries by the living on behalf of the dead in which the dead and death are not mentioned even once. It is a prayer for divinity and for peace.
While many only say the Mourner's Kaddish when they are ritually and personally in mourning, the ritual has been claimed by many to recognize the ways that grief lives in our everyday lives, so if you are moved to, please feel free. Let's take a moment to collect, quietly and individually, the things that we are mourning. Feel free to type these things into the chat.
יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא. [ קהל: אמן]
בְּעָלְמָא דִּי בְרָא כִרְעוּתֵהּ וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ בְּחַיֵּיכון וּבְיומֵיכון וּבְחַיֵּי דְכָל בֵּית יִשרָאֵל בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב, וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
קהל ואבל: יְהֵא שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא מְבָרַךְ לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא:
אבל: יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִשְׁתַּבַּח וְיִתְפָּאַר וְיִתְרומַם וְיִתְנַשּא וְיִתְהַדָּר וְיִתְעַלֶּה וְיִתְהַלָּל שְׁמֵהּ דְּקֻדְשָׁא. בְּרִיךְ הוּא. [ קהל: בריך הוא:]
לְעֵלָּא מִן כָּל בִּרְכָתָא בעשי”ת: לְעֵלָּא לְעֵלָּא מִכָּל וְשִׁירָתָא תֻּשְׁבְּחָתָא וְנֶחֱמָתָא דַּאֲמִירָן בְּעָלְמָא. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
יְהֵא שְׁלָמָא רַבָּא מִן שְׁמַיָּא וְחַיִּים עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
עושה שָׁלום בעשי”ת: הַשָּׁלום בִּמְרומָיו הוּא יַעֲשה שָׁלום עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
Translation (by Lab/Shul):
May our lives reflect the greatness of divine mystery everywhere, sparks within the process of creation
May the world be ruled by our highest aspirations, soon, in our lifetimes, and so we say: Amen
May the divine be known as a fountain of blessings: praised, honored, beautified, elevated, and exalted beyond any song or description that has ever been honored, and so we say: Amen
May an all-embracing peace shower down from the heavens refreshing the lives of all beings on earth.
May the source of peace inspire us to find and create peace for ourselves and for our community and for all beings on earth, and so we say: Amen
I realize I don’t know very much. None of us knows very much. But we can all learn more. Then we can teach one another. We can stop denying reality or hoping it will go away by magic.
Freedom is dangerous, Cory, but it’s precious, too. You can’t just throw it away or let it slip away. You can’t sell it for bread and pottage.
"Your God doesn’t care about you at all,” Travis said.
“All the more reason to care about myself and others.”
“From what I’ve read,” I said to him, “the world goes crazy every three or four decades. The trick is to survive until it goes sane again.”
All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
Is Change.
God
Is Change.
***
"When I say “God is Change”, I am simultaneously denying the claim that God is unchanging and affirming that this world of contingency is all there is. When I say that God can be shaped by us, I am simultaneously denying the claim that God is transcendent and affirming that we have only ourselves to look to for a better future. “God is change — Shape God” is a challenge to see, to learn, and to work to shape our reality, just as we are shaped by it. "
~ John Halsted
What are we waiting for? What change do we know is coming, and what change has already happened that we might still be acclimating to? What are we doing about it? What are we shaping? What is change to you?
זֵכֶר לְמִקְדָּשׁ כְּהִלֵּל. כֵּן עָשָׂה הִלֵּל בִּזְמַן שבֵּית הַמִּקְדָּשׁ הָיָה קַיָים: הָיָה כּוֹרֵךְ מַצָּה וּמָרוֹר וְאוֹכֵל בְּיַחַד, לְקַיֵים מַה שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: עַל מַצּוֹת וּמְרֹרִים יֹאכְלֻהוּ.
Eating matzah, maror and haroset this way reminds us of how, in the days of the Temple, Hillel would do so, making a sandwich of the Pashal lamb, matzah and maror, in order to observe the law “You shall eat it (the Pesach sacrifice) on matzah and maror.”
We eat this to remember the almost-completely different sandwich that was eaten during the Temple period. It seems strange to eat this paltry sandwich, compared to the (very artisinal sounding) smoked meat and horseradish sandwich that was a product of the sacrificial rites.
And yet, this is an adaptation to a "new" ritual, with a nod to an "old" ritual, which can show us a little bit more how rituals can be created for our contemporary needs, how we can nod to our past in creating those rituals, and how this can still connect us with our ancestors. As we move forward and lay the groundwork for our futures, how are we creating rituals and patterns that pay homage to certain traditions of our past - whether they're culinary or otherwise? Certainly, food is a way to connect us to our ancestors, most of us remember our grandmother's specialties - those memories are the fruits that they planted, which now we enjoy.
As we eat this odd sandwich, which gives way to our proper meal, let's give thanks for the nurturing, sustaining legacies that can become our new rituals.
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