Some old and new thoughts on the season—revised and added to from my old blog…
Here it is, Passover. As usual, I get irritated by the literalists—the historical literalists who insist that the Exodus must have happened as written for it to have any meaning, and the ritual literalists, who insist on leading the Seder as though every page of the Haggadah must be read out loud, in order, as is, for the evening to have any meaning. I reject both points of view.
And I’m not fond of the atheist literalists either, who insist that if the story of the Exodus is not factually true, it is without meaning or use.
To me, the story might actually have more meaning if it's not historically true. Why would our ancestors have chosen to make this story of enslavement and redemption their founding myth? Who does that? Every other ancient culture saw itself as descended from gods or heroes. The Jews saw themselves as descended from slaves. What does that say about us, as a people?
As a writer and a former English major and English teacher, the fact that something may be poetry does not mean that it isn't true. There is truth in poetry—sometimes greater truth than we find in history.
What does the poetry of Exodus tell us?
Does it matter whether the Red Sea was really parted and crossed? Not to me. What matters to me is the imagery of something enormous being crossed by the Israelites, and then being closed behind them. It means that true freedom requires a boundary-crossing in a way that does not allow for backsliding and return. We see the Israelites bicker and complain constantly that they are terrified of the wide, empty road ahead of them. With every challenge, they beg to return to Egypt. It's important, both poetically and psychologically, that the door behind them closes, and that the only way forward for them is forward. If all of the oppressed peoples in history had been able to close the door on their past so definitively, they might have been able to move more confidently forward into freedom.
How about the 40 years in the desert? What does it mean that the slave generation had to live out in the wilderness and die there, and that only their children, the ones born in the open spaces of freedom, were the ones able to understand the commandments given to them and use them to build a new nation for themselves? How many peoples throughout history have had the benefit of "40 years in the desert" to learn how to be free? How many have had the luxury of not having a new tyrant breathing down their necks and waiting for them to fail? We, in America, had that luxury because most of the rest of the world was separated from us by two oceans that took a long time to cross. Who else has been so lucky?
What about the building of the calf and the giving of the law? Huge. Someone once made what he thought was a nasty joke to me, saying, "Only the Jews would come up with the idea that laws equal freedom." But I didn't find it nasty or funny. I said, "You're damned right. Because laws do equal freedom.” Without law, all you have is chaos, and chaos leads straight to tyranny. If you don't have some laws or principles that allow you to self-govern, it won't take long for you to turn to some strong man and say, “if you feed us and keep us safe, we’ll let you rule us.”
In our tradition, the Torah is not a book that you’re simply supposed to swallow whole without reflection. That’s why we read it every year and start it again as soon as we finish it. My heritage and culture teach me to wrestle with the book, to argue with it, and to learn from it constantly. And the only way to do that is to let the words and images resonate with me—to let them bounce around and reflect off things and work on me in different ways.
Like a poem.
So here we are again. Another Passover. Is the story ancient and dusty? Or does it still speak to us? Do we have strongmen in our midst who want power without consequence and loyalty without question? Do we have people living in places where their rights are being whittled away, but it’s scary and difficult to pick up and leave?
It's hard to stand up against Pharaoh and demand your freedom. It's hard to remember that you are valuable and important, when all your life you've been told you're not. But we tell the story every year, because it can be done and it must be done.
It's hard to cross that sea and leave the past behind, knowing that when the waters close behind you, you can never go back. It's hard to embrace real freedom, when all your life you've been dependent on authority figures telling you what to do and what to believe. It's hard to take full ownership of your life, your beliefs, and your decisions, and know that, whatever comes, it's all on you. But we tell the story every year, because it can be done and it must be done.
May we all be brave enough in the coming year to tell off our personal Pharaohs, get out of whatever situations or mindsets we have become enslaved to, and wander through whatever wilderness is required to get us to our promised lands.
Pass through it, pass under it, or pass over it. Just keep moving.
Thank you for such an insightful examination of your history. You give me much to think about. Brilliant!
Perfect