"Look at yourself as a piece of the puzzle
Look at yourself as one link in the chain
Look at yourself as one page of the story
Look at yourself as one moment in time

I am the link, I hold the piece
I am the page, it is my history" ^I

This morning the sun was shining, the sky was clear and deep blue in colour and though it was still cold there was a warm edge to the breeze; if you sniffed deeply there was a smell of slightly damp earth, freshly cut grass and fresh air! Sighing with deep satisfaction as I flung open the nearest window my heart danced for joy as I realised what this means ... Spring is nearly here and, with it, Pesach!

Pesach. It rolls nicely off the tongue leaving a slightly tickly feeling in your throat. Pesach. I wonder what you remember most clearly? Those long boring seders, maybe Mamma's roast chicken, listening to Uncle Yossie's interminable Yiddish jokes half of which you can't understand, or the year Grandpa fell asleep during the cup of plagues and each plague was punctuated by a deep snore?

Pesach is a time of memory (national and personal), a time when the family gets together, a time when your house is overflowing with guests, most of whom you don't know ... and a time when it seems that everyone but me gets a deep spiritual "high"! If you're like me Pesach is a little mixed; sure, it means so much to you ... but it's a little, well, boring at times. As my mouth burns from the horseradish my Dad is talking about how this is a reminder of the bitterness of the slavery which G-d redeemed our ancestors from and I find myself thinking "Couldn't G-d have redeemed us from horseradish too?!" or "At least they didn't have to do this!" Then, normally when I'm faced with parsley and salt water for the fifth time this Pesach (because we often host seders for local fellowships during the chol hamoed), I get panicked and start thinking "Oh no! Maybe I'm not appreciating my heritage!" But then I wonder, what is appreciating my heritage?

For many thousands of years our ancestors have celebrated Pesach ... every spring all around the world each seder commemorates and remembers our exodus from Egypt and our release from slavery. But I often wonder how much we are missing. With the full, rich tapestry of memories and traditions that is our heritage from our ancestors, isn't there so much more we should be remembering? Is just doing the seder, saying the words by rote, without really thinking about what you're doing - is that remembering?

Probably my absolute favourite part of the seder is opening the door to Elijah. I find myself excited and scared and ridiculously jumpy as I approach the front hall, fearful of who or what I might find. I can feel my heart thumping wildly round my ribs as I pull open the door ... the first wave of relief hits me when I don't find anyone standing on the doorstep! Then I look around, just to make sure. It is dark and the large courtyard our front door opens into is full of cars. The sky is pitch black and liberally sprinkled with stars - why is it always clear on the first two nights of Pesach?! - and as I stand on the doorstep there is a gentle breeze playing round me which is deliciously cool after the stuffiness of the overcrowded room inside ... I catch a sudden soft whiff of dry heat, dust, and damp soil after a heavy rain fall: Pesach ... There is still no one in sight and I thankfully push the door shut and return to the seder.

But something is different. I find myself tiptoeing through the deserted kitchen and breathing very softly, as if in the presence of something very special, something holy ... As I enter the overcrowded dining room, I think of why we first started opening the door to Elijah. You might think it was because we are remembering the long wait we had for Elijah, who was to come as a herald of Messiah, as we know Yochanan the Immerser (John the Baptist) did ... but no ... that was merely the religious reason.

It is England, in the late 1100's, and Rachel, a young Jewish girl in York, has the honour of opening the door to Elijah. As she walks through the still, quiet house her thoughts, full of the latest blood libel rumours, are framed against the gentle murmur of her fathers voice as the seder continues. Her heart is filled with dread, a fear of who she might find waiting outside their door; drawing back the bolts her fingers fumble nervously and she pulls open the heavy front door, almost fainting from her absolute terror. Relief floods her as she beholds the empty street. Counting quickly to one-hundred she then shuts and rebolts the door; her legs are weak as she makes her way through the dark house to rejoin the seder ...

Thank G-d that in this country we no longer have to open our doors to show people that we do not have anything to do with blood libels! But what is it that makes us fearful of opening the door? Is it merely a childish fear of the dark (definitely me), or a fear of finding a stranger standing on your doorstep? (also me!) I believe that G-d is able to reach down from heaven and give us, in the present, a taste of the past; I believe that when I go to open the door to Elijah, Heaven and Earth touch, allowing me to connect with G-d and my people in a way that doesn't happen every day ...

Now it is Spain, in the middle of the 1400's, and, knowing that it is forbidden to be a practicing Jew, a small community of Marranos (hidden Jews) is meeting together to celebrate Pesach. The curtains are drawn so as to allow none of the light from the candles to escape and voices are hushed as the haggadah is whispered. As he sits at the table watching the faces of his elders in the dim light of this basement room, Dovid wonders who will be lying in wait to report them to the Authorities if they see the sacred ceremony that is happening inside. The flickering light plays across the faces of the elderly men as they hold their haggadahs close to their faces, struggling to see in the limited light, but able to repeat the whole by memory ... as they talk of the story of our exodus from Eygpt, Dovid wonders how they can be so amazed at this miracle when here are they, in fear of their lives, in Spain. As Dovid's father prays that they too many celebrate their seder next year in Jerusalem, Dovid's heart agrees and he wonders how many years it will be before he makes it to Isra'el ... if he does.

To me, this is the essence of Pesach; remembering all that came before, and all that will come after. When we hold the matzah up to the light and talk about how the stripes and the piercing are a picture of Yeshua, I also see a picture of my ancestors ... I see their pain, the wounds they received because of our faith, I feel their fear and revel in the awesomeness of our G-d, who has brought us safely through so much. But I also feel their fear that they would not be remembered, that their pain would be for nothing, that the rich heritage they toiled to build would be lost and forgotten.

How much of out heritage are we missing, how much are we not remembering? And then again ... how much are we leaving behind? What colours, what designs and of what quality, texture and strength are we contributing to the endless weave of Jewish history and heritage? I know that I want my contribution to be rich and meaningful. I want to leave my future children and grandchildren a heritage worth having! I want to leave them memories and stories - not just the serious, but the amusing as well. I want them to remember that the stains on the "We Dip Twice" page in my haggadah are because I was no good at making matzah, horseradish and charoseth "sandwiches"! And I want them to experience that crisp, dusty, sweet and slightly tangy taste you get when you eat my Mum's charoseth, because no one else makes it quite like her. But most of all, I want to hand over to them as a strong thread the duty of remembering our people in the past, redefining for our people in the present and rebuilding for our people in the future ...

"What is the memory that's valued so highly, that we keep it alive in that flame? What's the commitment to those who have died, that we cry out they've not died in vain? We have come this far always believing, that justice would somehow prevail. This is the burden, this is the promise, this is why we will not fail! Don't let the light go out! It's lasted for so many years! Don't let the light go out! Let it shine through our love and our tears." ^II

^I"Piece of the Puzzle" Copyright Craig Taubman
^II"Light One Candle" Copyright Peter Yarrow

Copyright N. Allen - MET