Some people think that great cosmic themes demand serious attention and meticulous observance. A Seder, I suppose, should have some element of high dignity running through it. But seated around the table, with family gathered from afar or, if not there, badly missed, with our annual guests and this year's invitees, I cannot help but put before me the Torah's general rule about the pilgrimage day observance: "...you shall rejoice in your festival." That is a command. We shall not have fulfilled our Jewish duty if we do not have a joyous time at the Seder.
How shall we do that? How shall we learn to be joyous while joining our people in their perennial service of God? In part, this Haggadah will help. It speaks of all the old ways in an idiom that preserves their ancient power yet addresses us who know ourselves to be as free a generation of Jews as ever lived. Again and again it suggests ways we might extend the Torah's message for this celebration deeper into our lives or further out into the world. With its many subtle interplays of tradition and modernity it lifts the spirits of all who know they must be Jews in old, familiar ways, yet somehow re-create the past in their personal fashion.
But we Jews do not believe that rites perform themselves, nor that their sacred power is unleashed merely in the doing. And surely this is true of the command to rejoice. Our contribution to this elegant text must be the creation of delight. One cannot give rules for being happy, which may be why the Rabbis limited their instructions about rejoicing. Having given us this incomparable context in which to fulfill our duty, they left the personal side largely to us. For me, elation has to do with smiling, with exchanging glances, with an occasional spontaneous comment about the text or the company, with loving what we are doing this evening and communicating that to everyone.
The real test of the evening's festivity, I suggest, lies less in being able to add to its pleasures than in overcoming its difficulties. What bothers you the most—long Hebrew passages? dry political interpolations about true freedom? relatives who repeat the same tiresome stories? matzah balls that come out too soft or too hard? people who can't stay on tune or don't like your favorite? They too are part of Jewish celebrating. Consider them, if you can, a challenge to your Jewish spirit and see if on this holiday you can find a way to sanctify what annoys you.
My model in all this is the great unwritten but perennially observed folk rite of the Seder: knocking over a glass of wine (perhaps breaking a beautiful crystal goblet in the process). Rarely does a tablecloth go unscathed through a Seder at our house—and we are lucky if our Haggadot and clothing escape the miniature deluge. I have long since given up the possibility that we could make this the Seder's equivalent of breaking a glass at a wedding; could we, then, work out ways of making it unlikely that wine would ever be spilled? Probably we could, but why bother? A little spilling and a stain or two are hardly enough to dampen our joy at not being slaves. And by now, we have gotten so used to them, that we consider them a part of the festivities. This too helps constitute that wonderful web which Judaism teaches us to weave, in order to integrate the ordinary and the metaphysical. Not every spill can become a part of our rejoicing; but knowing which ones are worth our seriousness is part of what each Seder and Judaism as a whole wish to teach us.
May you celebrate in high, human, holy joy.
Eugene B. Borowitz