Passover 5784 – Two Open Doors

Usually, around this time, I am pretty focused on Passover cleaning, kashering, and shopping. I am sure that next week is going to be full of that.  This year, though, the question that is filling my thoughts is about how to mark this difficult time in which we find ourselves during the Passover Seder. 

How will this seder be different from all other seders?

I imagine we are all wondering the same thing.

Let’s keep in mind that Jews have been observing Passover for thousands of years, often in times of suffering and distress. Our ancestors found way to hold Seders in concentration camps, as crypto-Jews, and under the threat of blood libels.

The Seder is well-designed to respond to the moment in which we find ourselves. By its nature, it invites us to relate the ancient story of Exodus, of moving from slavery to freedom, in the context of our own lives and experiences. 

B’khol dor vador. In each and every generation, we are obligated to see ourselves as if we personally went out of Egypt.

The Seder is not just a bunch of ancient texts.  It involves actions, movement, performance, song, taste, and observation. Each of the traditional elements holds the promise of evoking something deeply personal and relevant in us.

That is what the questions are all about, after all. Something is happening tonight that is not usual. We notice and ask why.

I would invite those of us who are leading a seder this year to invite our guests to respond authentically and honestly to what strikes them. For those who are guests, bring it with you to the seder you are attending, even if the host does not explicitly invite it.

There are many resources available. The Hartman Institute published a Seder supplement called In Every Generation which you might find helpful. It offers a number of suggestions that could be meaningful to incorporate.  I’ll just share a couple.

When setting the table, set an extra seat dedicated to those who are still held hostage, unable to celebrate Pesach with their lived ones. They are, quite literally, in degradation.

The four cups of wine symbolize four acts of redemption performed by God on behalf of the Israelites. Dedicate the fourth cup in memory of those who were killed and kidnapped on October 7.

Kibbutzim have a long history of writing their own haggadot, which often reflect the backgrounds and experiences of the members themselves. The supplement includes writings out of Haggadot published by kibbutzim that were attacked.

Or, find something in the Seder that speaks to you, and introduce your own ritual or discussion. 

I am thinking about the two times during the Seder in which we open the door.  Once is early, and once is late. These two moments feel especially poignant this year. 

The first door opening comes at the beginning of maggid, before we have even begun to tell the story of the Exodus. We open the door and recite a poem in (mostly) Aramaic.

Ha lachma anya
This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.
Let all who are hungry come and eat.
Let all who are in need come and celebrate Pesach.
This year, here, next year in the land of Israel.
This year, slaves, next year, free people.

Ha Lachma anya – is an invokation of peoplehood – we open the door to let anyone in who needs it. Nobody is allowed to go hungry. Nobody can be left out of celebrating Pesach.

The earliest record we have of this tradition is from the ninth century in Babylonia. But we can imagine an earlier scene. In Temple times and before, households gathered to slaughter a lamb, roast it, and eat it at night, hurriedly. One of the Torah’s requirements is that it must be entirely consumed by morning. Households that were too small to eat an entire lamb would have to join forces. That is to say, invite guests to join them.

Anachronistically, we picture people living in tents, roasting their meat, and actively welcoming their neighbors to join them.

When we open our doors now, who is it, exactly, that we are inviting? The invitations need to have already been offered. So this is more of a symbolic invitation.

I would suggest that it is a powerful statement of unity. We start by connecting our actions with those of our ancestors in Egypt. We eat the same bread of affliction that they ate. We invite anyone who needs it to join us. We proclaim that we will not leave anyone out. We declare that we are, this year, all of us, enslaved.  We share the hope, all of us, that next year we will become free.

What an incredibly powerful expression of unity!

And we need it. In many ways, Jews have become more united over these past six months.Yet our differences have also become grossly apparent. Ha lachma anya, and so many other sections of the Seder, emphasize our need to include everyone. Our table is incomplete if we do not have all four children sitting around it, after all.

A question that may challenge us is the extent to which we allow our empathy to spread. Is “let all who are hungry come and eat” limited to the Jewish people, or is it a universal invitation? As Leah Solomon writes, 

In years past, this was easier. Before October 7, although we knew that Jewish history has seen many tragedies, few of us alive today had experienced such a cataclysm. Never, until now, were we confronted with the excruciating task of holding another people’s suffering even as our own is so vast and raw, let alone doing so when the perpetrators of the atrocities against us are members of that very people, and when the suffering of that people is being inflicted in large part by our own.

In other words, can our empathy for human suffering extend to Palestinians in Gaza?

The second time we open the door at the Seder, of course, is near the end, after we have already completed three of the four cups of wine. We open the door, pour a cup for Elijah, and recite four biblical verses.

Shfokh Ḥamatkha. Pour out your fury on the nations that do not know you
upon the kingdoms that do not invoke Your name.
For they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home.

Pour out your wrath on them;
may your blazing anger overtake them.

Pursue them in wrath and destroy them
from under the heavens of Adonai.

This part of the Seder is actually two separate traditions that merged. Elijah had long been known as the herald of the Messiah. He is the prophet who did not die, destined to wander the earth in disguise, standing vigil for the time when the Messiah will come. Pesach, which is described as leil shimurim, the night of vigil, became a natural place to welcome Elijah’s presence, alongside the brit milah ceremony and the end of Shabbat. It is a night of transition from slavery to freedom, from suffering to redemption. Welcoming Elijah with a cup of wine is an expression of Messianic hope.

The first records of reciting shfokh ḥamat’kha appear in the eleventh century. In response to massacres of Jewish community in the lower Rhineland during the first crusades, these verses were introduced as a call to bring down vengeance. One of several medieval commentaries explains that the four verses represent four “cups of punishment” that God will one day give to the nations that once persecuted the Jewish people.

By the fifteenth century, the traditions of welcoming Elijah and reciting “Pour out your wrath” had merged, which makes sense, as both are messianic traditions, acknowledging that the world we live in now is filled with persecution and suffering. It is part of the narrative of “from slavery to freedom,” and “from degradation to praise.”

But it is dark, is it not? To me, Shfokh ḥamat’kha evokes feelings in opposition to Ha laḥma anya. The open door of welcome, unity, and compassion gives way to anger, rage, and vengeance. In the modern era, there are those of us who are uncomfortable calling down divine retribution on our enemies. 

In 1943, the Israeli poet Avraham Shlonsky composed a poem for Passover. He had recently read early reports about what the atrocities that the Nazis were commiting against the Jews of Europe. The poem was called Neder, meaning “Vow.” It is the same word as Kol Nidrei, that we recite at the beginnnig of Yom Kippur. In Kol Nidrei is an anullment of vows. We are proclaiming that if we make any vows in the coming year that we are unable to fulfill, we hereby declare them null and void. Shlonsky says the opposite. His poem is a neder which he refuses to ever abandon.

By my eyes that witnessed the slaughter
By my heart that was weighed down by cries for justice
By my compassion that taught me to pardon
Until the days came that were too terrible to forgive,
I have sworn: To remember it all,
To remember—to forget nothing!
Forget not one thing to the last generation
Until my indignation shall be extinguished
When the staff of my moral rebuke has struck until exhausted
A vow: Lest for nothing shall the night of terror have passed.
A vow: Lest for nothing shall I return to my wont
Without having learned anything, even this time.

This poem was printed in the 1956 Haggadah of Kibbutz Nahal Oz next to the text of “Pour out your wrath.” It was accompanied by a drawing of an olive branch and a sword. On October 7, more than sixty soldiers stationed at a base in Nahal Oz and more than a dozen members of the kibbutz were murdered, and many taken hostage.

“Pour out your wrath,” perhaps accompanied by Shlonsky’s poem, Neder, may have special resonance at the Seder this year.

These two open doors reflect the conflicting feelings and experiences that I am carrying in to Passover this year. I invite you to join me in finding traditions, both ancient and new, to fulfill our central task of rising from degradation into freedom.

And may all those who currently find themselves in actual places of narrowness find comfort and peace soon.

Abortion – It’s Personal

Almost fifteen years ago, shortly after we arrived in San Jose with our two children, Dana became pregnant.  We were overjoyed, and excited to expand our family in our new home.

At the 12 week ultrasound, we learned that we were going to have a boy.  But there were indications that something might be wrong.  We were told to return for a follow-up ultrasound two weeks later. Perhaps the issue would resolve itself.

Sadly, the abnormalities were even more pronounced. Without going into details, our baby, if it survived the pregnancy, would have numerous physical defects requiring multiple surgeries to survive. It would likely never leave the hospital.

Furthermore, the placenta was growing through the wall of Dana’s uterus and into her bladder in a way that put her at increasing risk for permanent physical disability or even death.

As a husband and father, I was there to love and support my wife. Whatever she wanted to do in this situation, I would be by her side. Dana could not imagine risking our two beautiful, healthy children growing up without their mother. With dread, we started exploring options for termination of the pregnancy.

Who did Dana turn to for support in making her decision? To me, of course. To her parents and sisters. To her doctors.

The procedure that she needed was highly specialized, one that most OB-GYN’s did not have the experience or knowledge to perform.

Fortunately, Dana was able to be seen by an experienced team at UCSF Medical Center who were kind, compassionate, and understanding.

At sixteen weeks, the initial goal was for Dana to undergo an abortion and keep her uterus. The abortion took place on a Wednesday. For the next two days, she remained in critical care with internal bleeding that would not stop. She received multiple blood transfusions.

By Friday, it was clear that Dana needed surgery to save her life, and so she underwent a complicated, high risk hysterectomy. Thank God it was successful. She remained in the hospital for another week until she was finally strong enough to come home.

Dana is still in touch with the doctor who saved her life. That doctor and her team were only able to gain those specialized skills because abortion was legal. Due to the passage of Roe v. Wade in 1973, they were able to receive training, publish and share journal articles, learn from one another, and develop expertise in performing routine medical and surgical abortions, as well as complicated cases like Dana’s. None of this could happen when abortion was illegal.

Abortion bans that only provide exceptions to save the life of the mother do not produce doctors with the skills required for Dana’s surgery. If abortion had been illegal, there would have been no medical team with the necessary skill, and my children might have grown up without their mother.

I know this from my late father in law, Dr. Gary Romalis, z”l, who did his medical internship at Cook County Hospital in Chicago in 1962. In those days, there was no training in providing abortions. Instead, he learned the hard way. In his own words:

The first month of my internship was spent on Ward 41, the septic obstetrics ward. Yes, it’s hard to believe now, but in those days, they had one ward dedicated exclusively to septic complications of pregnancy.

About 90% of the patients were there with complications of septic abortion. The ward had about 40 beds, in addition to extra beds which lined the halls. Each day we admitted between 10-30 septic abortion patients. We had about one death a month, usually from septic shock associated with hemorrhage.

I will never forget the 17-year-old girl lying on a stretcher with 6 feet of small bowel protruding from her vagina. She survived. 

When he opened his Vancouver practice in 1972, in addition to caring for pregnant women and delivering babies, Gary and his partners also dedicated themselves to make sure that “a woman should be able to decide for herself if and when to have a baby.” He was a pioneer in developing safe abortion techniques and training future generations of physicians. There is a direct line connecting Gary’s life’s work and his daughter’s life-saving surgery.

We received a lot of support from the community, both in terms of the space we requested, as well as the physical and emotional support that we needed. One of the surprises were the many women who would come up to Dana, often in tears, to share their own stories of a devastating pregnancy loss, or of a life-saving abortion.

I suspect that many people in this room, probably most, have their own stories. Abortion is a deeply personal issue.

Roe argued that a right to privacy, while not explicitly contained within the Constitution, can be derived from the first, fourth, ninth, and fourteenth Amendments. In his decision, Justice Blackmun ruled that the Constitution protected “zones of privacy” which encompassed areas like contraception, marriage, child rearing, and abortion.

That rationale is what has now been struck down by the decision written by Justice Alito. The conclusion of the new decision states:

Abortion presents a profound moral question. The Constitution does not prohibit the citizens of each State from regulating or prohibiting abortion. Roe and Casey arrogated that authority. We now overrule those decisions and return that authority to the people and their elected representatives,

In other words, states are free to restrict abortion without any interference from the federal government.

With the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey, millions of women living in dozens of states will lose the ability to make this personal choice, including 13 states with “trigger laws” that have already gone into effect.

I am not a constitutional scholar, so I am not really qualified to speak to the legal arguments. But I do know, from experience, that this decision will restrict the choices of millions of people in the most personal way imaginable, and will result in women dying.

The question of whether to terminate a pregnancy involves issues of belief, culture, religion, family circumstances, finances, and so much more. During the time in which Dana and I were dealing with our situation, we talked about how much risk to her life we were prepared to accept to go ahead with the pregnancy. We considered our ability to care for our children if Dana became disabled. We talked about whether it was right to bring a child into the world who would suffer for its entire short life, whether we would be able to care for him, and how it would impact our other children. We talked about Jewish law and values. 

I am so grateful that we had the freedom to make our decision.

Coming out of the Jewish tradition, the idea of the government, at any level, getting so intimately involved in individuals’ personal lives is deeply troubling.

Abortion is a topic which Jewish law has dealt with for thousands of years. Unfortunately, we do not have the women’s voices. But we do have the legal and religious writings of men on the topic. Like so much in Judaism, abortion is a nuanced issue.

First of all, we must state unequivocally that Judaism is a pro-natalist religion. P’ru ur’vu – “be fruitful and multiply,” is a mitzvah. Judaism is unabashedly pro-child. In the Talmud, the Sage Reish Lakish declares, “The world exists only because of the breath of children.”

As an exemplification of this, the State of Israel is the “world capital” of in vitro fertilization. The state fully funds IVF treatments for up to two “take home babies” for every woman up to the age of 45. Four percent of Israeli children today are born by IVF, compared to one percent in the US. This right extends to all citizens: Jew and Arab, straight and gay, secular and religious, married and single.

Without a doubt, Judaism has a strong bias towards having children. But it also recognizes that having children can be difficult and dangerous. The Mishnah, nearly two thousand years ago, codified the law on abortion:

If a woman is having difficulty giving birth, the child must be cut in her womb and brought out limb by limb, for her life takes precedence over its life. If the greater part of the child has already come forth, he must not be touched, because one life must not be taken to save another.

Mishnah Ohalot 7:6

The Mishnah is dealing with a situation in which there are complications during a delivery, which occurred frequently until modern times. It states that an abortion is not just optional, but mandatory in order to save the mother’s life. This is true up until the majority of the child has exited the womb.

The medieval commentator Rashi explains why the mother’s life takes precedence over the fetus. This is what he says:

Until the child has emerged into the world, it is not considered a person (lav nefesh hu), and it is permitted to destroy it to save the mother’s life. However, once the head has emerged, it is considered as born, and one may not harm it, for one life may not be taken to save another.

The question “When does life begin?” is not the correct question. The correct question is “When does personhood begin?” Rashi’s answer is unambiguous. It begins when the head has emerged from the mother. Up until that point, lav nefesh hu – “it is not a person.”

Over the years, Rabbis faced cases in which a woman inquired as to the permissibility of abortion in her particular situation. As we would expect, there have been a range of approaches on the topic. Some Rabbis restricted abortion to only the clearest cases of explicit physical danger. Others had a broader interpretation of what constitutes a threat to a mother’s life.

The former Chief Sephardi Rabbi of Israel Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai ben Uziel, had a particularly expansive understanding of what would be permitted.

It is clear that abortion is not permitted without reason. That would be destructive and frustrative of the possibility of life. But for a reason, even if it is a slim reason, such as to prevent her embarrassment, then we have precedent and authority to permit it.

Mishpetei Uziel vol. Ill, H.M. no. 47; See Feldman, pp. 289-291

Rabbi Uziel does not differentiate between life-threatening situations and those that are detrimental to health. He allows for mental anguish, a sense of shame, fear of disgrace, or even a reason such as fear of disfigurement to be valid reasons for an abortion under Jewish law, if that is how the woman feels.

To summarize the Jewish position: Judaism is pro child. It discourages abortion except in cases in which there is a threat to the mother. There are a range of approaches taken by religious authorities over the centuries, some more expansive and others more narrow. A fetus does not become a person until its head emerges from the womb.

The Committee on Jewish Laws and Standards, which determines halakhah for the Conservative movement, in 1983 affirmed the right to an abortion in cases in which the ‘continuation of a pregnancy might cause severe physical or psychological harm, or where the fetus is judged by competent medical opinion as severely defective.’

In light of this, the Rabbinical Assembly of the Conservative Movement has strongly supported the halakhic necessity of access to abortion, based on biblical and rabbinical sources, as well as legal decisions. It has opposed efforts to limit access to abortion or stifle reproductive freedom.

In a statement yesterday, the Rabbinical Assembly declared:

Denying individuals access to the complete spectrum of reproductive healthcare, including contraception, abortion-inducing devices and medications, and abortions, among others, on religious grounds, deprives those who need medical care of their Constitutional right to religious freedom. 

Of course, other religious traditions see it differently. The Catholic Church, and some Protestant Churches, hold that personhood begins at conception, and therefore oppose abortion. Other Christian denominations support abortion rights. Islam, as far as I understand it, takes an approach similar to Judaism. It considers ensoulment to take place at 120 days, and has different rules for abortion at different stages of fetal development.

The point is that there is not and has never been a consensus on the question of when personhood begins and whether and in what circumstances, an abortion should be permitted. This is not a question that science can answer. It is and will always be a matter of belief, which is why it should be considered an issue of religious freedom.

The overturning of Roe v. Wade allows states to establish the law based upon a particular religion’s interpretation of when personhood begins. How does this not run afoul of the anti-establishment clause of the First Amendment?

A state can now prevent a pregnant woman from following the dictates of her own religion and seeking counsel from her chosen spiritual advisor in a matter that pertains to her own body. How does this not violate the free exercise clause of the First Amendment? What is religion for if not to guide a person through the most fundamental questions of life?

The R.A. concluded its statement yesterday with the following call to action;

There will continue to be legislative battles in the United States on both the federal and state levels that pose existential threats to reproductive freedom, especially so-called ‘heartbeat’ bills, which violate the foundational principle of separation of church and state. The Rabbinical Assembly emphatically opposes all such laws and Legislative or Executive moves and instead calls on members of Congress to decisively codify Roe v. Wade into law to enshrine the right to health, freedom, and dignity for all Americans.

Which brings me back to the point with which I started. This is personal. While facing a devastating decision to terminate a wanted pregnancy, Dana and I at least knew that there would not be legal barriers and that Dana could access the best care available.

I am terrified that someone else’s wife, mother, or daughter, will die because they do not have access to the same safe, legal abortion services that were available to us.