My family celebrated Passover last weekend. We were a week late, I know, but is it ever the wrong time to celebrate the hard-fought battles against oppression (with a couple of glasses of wine)? For those who don’t know, that’s what Passover is: the ritualistic storytelling of the Jewish people’s original deliverance from slavery.
The ceremony is called the seder, which means order, and it weaves a story through deliberate and symbolic gestures that involve prayer, wine and food — really good food.
My dad used to lead the Passover seder when I was growing up. He actually started 39 years ago when my parents moved west in their mid-20s and made a chosen family, since their biological ones were hundreds of miles away. Gentiles, it turns out, make remarkably good partiers, so we’ve had big and vibrant celebrations for as long as I can remember.
In fact, our dining room has often been filled to the brim with Christians, atheists, people of color, young and old, and LGBTQ folks. We put an orange on the seder plate in defiance of the apocryphal male rabbi who once said that a woman belongs on the bimah (pulpit) like an orange on a seder plate, and we’ve joined the ranks of those who also interpret it to symbolize the inclusion of LGBTQ people. We sing African-American slave songs and read poetry from the likes of Maya Angelou.
Our seder, like many others, I assume, is about redemption of all kinds. About resilience. About gratitude and perseverance. And the importance of sharing in our collective suffering so that we, too, can share in the collective freedom.
For the third year now, my sister has led the family seder, and this year’s got me to my feet.
As we all found our seats, donned our yarmulkes and settled in, my sister got our attention with fork and glass and said this:
Passover is a time to remember — to remember the story of the Jews being freed from slavery. A time to remember the great suffering of our fellow humans. For when one of us in bondage, none of us are free.
The world is a hard place right now for Syrians, the Rohingya people, North Koreans, and many others in our own country and in our own neighborhoods. We see example after example of marginalization and oppression.
Sometimes the suffering in the world can be overwhelming, a shroud of despair that makes action feel futile. And yet, amidst the injustices and suffering, we see a new energy emerging. Just as the crocuses and daffodils push through the chilly late-winter soil up through the previous autumn’s fallen leaves and pine needles, a new generation is answering the call to address injustice.
While Passover reminds us that a single person suffering is everyone’s suffering, Passover is also a celebration of birth, rebirth and springtime.
Black Lives Matter, March for Our Lives, Me Too and other movements are engaging our children and young adults. These vibrant young activists are continuing the grand tradition of their grandparents taking to the streets in the name of justice — justice for people of color, justice for immigrants, justice for women, for the environment, for our schoolteachers.
Like the crocuses and daffodils draw nutrients from the decomposing debris blanketing the ground above their long-dormant bulbs, our children will find purpose and strength as they challenge the corruption, incivility and cruelty of those who favor oppression.
Like those brave harbingers of spring, we shall rise.
And rise I did. Literally. So emphatically that it startled my little one, Harvey. But it was that good.
Today, the rot and wreckage are abundant, making the soil rich and fertile with opportunity for new growth. Because when oppression is bountiful, so then is the inspiration for change. It’s time to rise!
Marina Gomberg’s lifestyle columns appear on sltrib.com. She is a communications professional and lives in Salt Lake City with her wife, Elenor Gomberg, and their son, Harvey. You can reach Marina at mgomberg@sltrib.com.
( Francisco Kjolseth | The Salt Lake Tribune ) Salt Lake Tribune lifestyle columnist Marina Gomberg
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