March 6, 2014  / 4 Adar Sheni,  5774

This posting is an expanded version of a teaching delivered from the pulpit of Rodef Shalom last Shabbat.

As preparation for our observance of the Passover holiday this year, I have developed a series of teachings to share on each of the Special Sabbaths on which a special Torah reading is added.  In honor of Shabbat Shekalim, I have turned to the words of Rabban Gamliel that are situated close to the end of the Magid section in the Haggadah

In every generation it is one's duty to regard himself as through he personally had gone   out of Egypt, as it says:  You shall tell your son on that day, “It was because of this that  Adonai did for me when I went out of Egypt.”   (Exodus 13:8)

It was not only our fathers whom the Holy Blessed One redeemed from slavery; we, too were redeemed with them, as it says:  He brought us out from there so that He might take us to the land which he had promised to our fathers.   (Deuteronomy 6:23)

According to the classical commentators, all the mitzvot of the Seder are relatively easy to perform – one can embellish upon the Exodus narrative, eat the required quanitities of matzah and maror, and drink enough wine.  But for a person to be wise enough and sensitive enough to feel as though he himself had been rescued from Egypt – that is exceedingly difficult.  But this is the main purpose of the Seder.  Just as out forefathers came to accept God as their king when they left the sovereignty of Pharoah to enter God's sovereignty, so must we utilize the experiences of the Seder and all it represents to proclaim our own redemption from the yoke of the transitory and accept upon ourselves the ol malcnut shamayim – the yoke of the Heavenly Kingdom.

Cantor Larissa Averbakh lends a modern voice to the reflections by writing:

No doubt, this phrase was a source of consolation, hope and dignity to many generations of Jewish people.  Reliving a highpoint of our collective story, viewing it as a personal experience, helped them to endure hostile environments and safeguard their beliefs and integrity. It made them feel, that the seder's concluding wish, “L’shanah Habaah Birushalayim” (Next year in Jerusalem) was not a utopia dream, but would one day come true.  This anticipation even allowed them to sing about our people’s travails in a humorous metaphoric song Chad Gadya (Just One Kid).

But what implications can these words have for us, we who enjoy the independence and equality that our ancestors (and not so distant) could only dream of?  I believe they teach us not to get so accustomed to the bliss of freedom that we take it for granted and not appreciate it.  Imagining the horrors of slavery and the exultation of liberation as a part of our own story can inspire us to a whole range of great things.  It motivates us to assume responsibilities and seize the opportunities that only a free people can have. Of course, raising our voices in defense of those still oppressed and taking a stand for the cause of social justice comes immediately to mind.

In picking up where the Cantor leaves off, I refer us back to our Torah reading of this morning.  In  the midst of the painstaking detail about the inventory of the Mishkan and the unique apparrel of the High Priest, we find:

The breastplate was held in place by a cord of blue from its rings to the rings of the ephod, so that the breastplate rested on the decorated band and did not come loose from the ephod – as the Lord had commanded Moses.  (Exodus 39:21)

Our Etz Hayim Humash offers a brilliant interpretation of this passage, as follows:

The breastplate was the symbol of justice (thus it is referred to as choshen mishpat - “the breastplate of judgement” back in 28:15), of proper relations between people and their neighbors.  The ephod was the symbol of worship, i.e., of a proper relationship between people and God.  When religion is properly understood, justice and worship can never be separated from each other (N. Bloch, as cited by the Etz Hayim Humash on page 567).

Some of your are aware that I spent three days of this week at a convocation of faith leaders and community organizers in suburban Atlanta, hosted by the PICO (People Improving Communities through Organizing) Network, at which the topic of Race Relations in America was lifted up.  It was both stimulating and eye-opening for me.  I wish to share two memories of the gathering that have stayed with me since my return to Denver.

The first memory is the loving way in which I was welcomed to the gathering, as a Jew and a Rabbi.  Aside from the small delegation that accompanied me from Colorado, I did not know anyone else, and yet in a matter of minutes after the opening prayer, I felt bathed in outreach and the shared values of being both and American and a person of faith.  As the program unfolded, I continued to be thanked and blessed for my presence.  It enabled me to participate in rich dialogue, and to affirm my decision to attend.

The second piece comes from the first session, when we were asked to post on a dedicated "Wall of Truth" our respective obstacles to being involved in a frank conversation about race relations.  What I wrote on my posting was the confession that I have never felt race to be an issue for me personally.  In other words, I have been the beneficiary of living in a time and locales whereby my ethnic and racial background have posed no limitations to opportunity and advancement.  As I began to listen to some of the stories shared by my new friends - Black, Latino and Asian American brothers/sisters under God - I learned about their setbacks, their roadblocks, and the sufferings induced by a social construct that differentiates between its demographic groupings.  I feared that I would not be able to relate, coming from my charmed life.

Suffice it to say, I was successful in tapping into the pulse of the discussion, thanks in large part to the way I was honored and let into the circle.  You see, I was a minority for a few crucial moments at the beginning of the convocation, and that sensitized me to what it feels like to be a minority every day.

This brings me back to my teaching of Rabban Gamiliel about seeing ourselves on Passover as if we personally left the land of Egypt that night.  We who wish to contribute intentionally, as Jews, to the repair of society,  would do well to see ourselves as “freshly freed slaves,” impacted and affected by all of the struggles that it took us to achieve the freedom, and taking nothing for granted about both the fragility and the responsibility that comes with newfound liberation.

I fear that for many of us, our critical role in American society has become distorted in our own eyes as we have become increasingly ingrained in our liberties.  Without proximity to our ordeals of enslavement and persecution, it is too easy to become anesthetized to the social problems of our country.  Surely, most of us have chosen to settle and remain here as American Jews, and do not see ourselves as "squatters" within an alien setting.  Some, I appreciate, see these environs as a way station to returning to the Jewish homeland of Israel, and that is to be respected.  But I, for one, am not in that camp.

So, to those of you who are here with me for the longer ride in America, let us acknowledge our place at the table of our fellow Americans who are seeking our fellowship and our concerns. 

And, if we are fortunate enough to arrive at a common achievement, may we be worthy of equaling the noble assignment of Passover by personally accompanying our neighbors out of the servitude of irrational discrimination.