All Who Are Hungry
Moving is never easy. Starting over is somewhere new takes time and patience. And I say this because I've been through it. I went to nine different schools from kindergarten through my senior year of high school. I made a career out of being the "new kid." No, I didn't get kicked out of any of them…we simply moved. Often. As Jews have been known to do - that is until we finally migrate to the beaches of South Florida. But the move that sticks out the most was halfway through my fifth-grade year - from Washington state to Richmond, Virginia. Now keep in mind, that we lived in the Evergreen State during its heyday for sports. Shawn Kemp and Gary Payton of the SuperSonics. Ken Griffy Jr. and Alex Rodriguez of the Mariners. Seattle sports was an all-encompassing lifestyle. Paired, of course, with the burgeoning grunge rock world. My wardrobe consisted of ripped jeans, JCC basketball jerseys, camp friendship bracelets, and Mariner’s hats.
On my first day of school, I showed up in all my gear. And as we strolled through this proper-looking Virginia elementary school, I knew we weren't in Kansas anymore. Before stepping into class, my teacher pulls me aside. Kneels down. And says, "Sweetheart. I'm not sure what it's like where you come from. But here, we do not wear hats inside. Please take that off right now. Also, please know that ripped clothing of any kind simply will not do. Let's change that." And when I walked in, I swear these children looked like they were dressed for the Kentucky derby. I saw more pastel in one room than I had seen in my entire life. They looked at me like I had crawled out of a dumpster. And bless their heart, but I'm not sure a single one of them could point to WA on a map…
The school day was rough. But it wasn't over. There was still religious school. I again was greeted by a teacher. I said, "Excuse me, would it be okay if I left my hat on for today." She replied, "Well, it's not a kippah, but it covers your head. It'll work for today." But when I walked into that classroom, instead of judgment, I saw faces of welcome - I felt seen. Not as an outsider, but as simply a newcomer.
I like to tell these stories about my life because I believe that my stories are probably your stories. Being new. Being the new kid. Being the new Jewish kid - or the only Jewish kid. Feeling out of place. But finding a community. And making a new home. This is very much the Jewish journey. Because on every seaboard and on every shore, there are Jews there waiting to receive you. That is the unique experience of Judaism. But this social design wasn’t an accident - it's a value. One that we regularly teach throughout the year. During Passover, we make known the experience of being a wanderer. Of being a foreigner. “My father was a fugitive Aramean…(Deut. 26:5)” This is why before we even get to the Exodus story, we recite the following after uncovering the matzah:
“This is the poor man’s bread that our fathers ate in the land of Egypt. All who are hungry, come and eat; all who are in need, come and share Passover with us. This year we are here, next year in the land of Israel... ”
See, this is what I mean about moving thing…The first thing we announce on Passover is our plans to back our bags and get out of dodge. This year we're here. Next year we're there. Maybe it's Israel. Maybe Boca Raton. Same thing. But this statement is profound. Because it uses the word "All." All who are hungry. All are who are in need. Everyone is welcome at the Passover table. It reminds me of this comic I saw of Santa Claus walking into a Jewish home on Hanukkah. Santa says, "Oops...wrong home." And the dad sitting at the table says, "Forget 'wrong home!' Get in here before you freeze your tuchis off. Sit..sit! I'll put on some coffee."
But that's precisely how Jews are. We welcome you into our homes without pause. It's not just a cultural thing. It's our theology. It's who we are. It's our identity. Concerning this piece of the Haggadah, the late Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks says this:
"This is a strange invitation…What hospitality is it to offer the hungry the taste of suffering? In fact, though, this is a profound insight into the nature of slavery and freedom. As noted, matza represents two things: it is the food of slaves, and also the bread eaten by the Israelites as they left Egypt in liberty. What transforms the bread of oppression into the bread of freedom is the willingness to share it with others....
Sharing food is the first act through which slaves become free human beings. One who fears tomorrow does not offer his bread to others. But one who is willing to divide his food with a stranger has already shown himself to be capable of fellowship and faith, the two things from which hope is born. That is why we begin the seder by inviting others to join us. Bread shared is no longer the bread of oppression. Reaching out to others, giving help to the needy and companionship to those who are along, we bring freedom into the world, and with freedom, God.." [1]
I can only speak for myself. But Passover has looked a little different every single year. Same seder. Same order But different Haggadot. Different Passover traditions. Different matzah balls. The hockey pucks or the fluff balls. Everyone has their opinion. But the most important variable. The one that makes the most difference is the people. Because I've never once celebrated Passover with the exact same people two years in a row - not even two nights in a row! Ever! Every year is a new group. A new dynamic. Welcoming new people. Some their first seder, and others oldtimers. But that's the beauty of the seder.
But there's also one more thing we can't forget. Because not only do we fill everyone's cup up four times. We even fill one up for someone who hasn't once shown up to a seder in two thousand years. Elijah. The symbolic fifth cup we fill as an expression of redemption and freedom. But there's another tradition surrounding Elijah that you may recall. As kids, we would run to the door and open it to welcome Elijah. And every my dad would make the same joke. You see, we had this little miniature schnauzer we named Elijah (you can probably see where this is going). And my dad would say, "Oh, look! Elijah came to our seder table!"
And so, on this new member Shabbat, we quite literally and metaphorically opened the door to welcome you here this evening. Tonight is the first night during COVID we've officially welcome people back into our house of prayer. And we are thrilled to welcome you to our tables. Welcome you to our synagogue. All who are hungry for community. Hungry for Judaism. Hungry for whatever it is that brought you here. So please come. Also, come back - that part is also important. Partake and share Judaism with us. And if you are scared, you might not know anyone here around you, don’t worry. I've been here an entire year, and I still don't know anyone. Because I, like you, am also new. I wasn't kidding when I said I made a career out of being the "new kid." But at least I've leveled up to being the "new rabbi." It’s progress.
Just like our Seder tables, there's always going to be a place for you. Just like there is for me. Our home is your home. Adjusting can be tricky. But I promise there's more than just a classroom of Jews waiting to welcome you. There’s an entire community.
[1] Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Pesach Haggadah, pp. 22-25