As we sit down to this Seder it's impossible to ignore that this is our *second annual* Zoom Seder. In the time between last Seder and this Seder, our beloved planet has lost more than two and a half million people to a virus which has laid bare so many of the difficulties, discriminatory structures, and pressure points in our world and its economies and varied governments. Even with movements for justice around the world continuing and taking on even more and new missions during this time, our grief cannot be ignored. 

It is difficult to embark on an ultimately celebratory holiday ritual without recognizing this. We cannot ever be asked or ask each other to leave our grief at the door. If anything has become clear over the last year it's that our grief accompanies us wherever we go -- and if we've only learned this in the last year let us reflect on how even that is a sign of privilege. 

Like anything, grief can be a powerful tool, a (terrible) lesson in empathy, perhaps even a call to action. 

And so this year it feels appropriate to set aside some time for our grief. Whether we need to name it and set it aside or use it as a guide through this evening's ritual, or something completely else -- grief is nothing if not individualized and mysterious --  let us give it the respect it deserves. 

The Mourners' Kaddish has been said for centuries by the living on behalf of the dead in which the dead and death are not mentioned even once. It is a prayer for divinity and for peace. 

While many only say the Mourner's Kaddish when they are ritually and personally in mourning, the ritual has been claimed by many to recognize the ways that grief lives in our everyday lives, so if you are moved to, please feel free. Let's take a moment to collect, quietly and individually, the things that we are mourning. Feel free to type these things into the chat. 

יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא. [ קהל:  אמן]
בְּעָלְמָא דִּי בְרָא כִרְעוּתֵהּ וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ בְּחַיֵּיכון וּבְיומֵיכון וּבְחַיֵּי דְכָל בֵּית יִשרָאֵל בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב, וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל:  אמן]
קהל ואבל:  יְהֵא שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא מְבָרַךְ לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא:
אבל:  יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִשְׁתַּבַּח וְיִתְפָּאַר וְיִתְרומַם וְיִתְנַשּא וְיִתְהַדָּר וְיִתְעַלֶּה וְיִתְהַלָּל שְׁמֵהּ דְּקֻדְשָׁא. בְּרִיךְ הוּא. [ קהל:  בריך הוא:]
לְעֵלָּא מִן כָּל בִּרְכָתָא  בעשי”ת: לְעֵלָּא לְעֵלָּא מִכָּל  וְשִׁירָתָא תֻּשְׁבְּחָתָא וְנֶחֱמָתָא דַּאֲמִירָן בְּעָלְמָא. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל:  אמן]
יְהֵא שְׁלָמָא רַבָּא מִן שְׁמַיָּא וְחַיִּים עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל: אמן]
עושה שָׁלום  בעשי”ת: הַשָּׁלום  בִּמְרומָיו הוּא יַעֲשה שָׁלום עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשרָאֵל וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן: [ קהל:  אמן]

Translation (by Lab/Shul): 

May our lives reflect the greatness of divine mystery everywhere, sparks within the process of creation 

May the world be ruled by our highest aspirations, soon, in our lifetimes, and so we say: Amen 

May the divine be known as a fountain of blessings: praised, honored, beautified, elevated, and exalted beyond any song or description that has ever been honored, and so we say: Amen 

May an all-embracing peace shower down from the heavens refreshing the lives of all beings on earth. 

May the source of peace inspire us to find and create peace for ourselves and for our community and for all beings on earth, and so we say: Amen

Karpas is a little bit of food with a lot of metaphors.  We take a newly-grown thing and dip it into saltwater, which is said to represent tears. Water is central to the Exodus story: not just the tears but the river, the sea which parts. It represents phase changes -- in this case from lost to found, as with Moshe who Yocheved set off on the river. Moshe's river journey parallels the Pharoh's mandate that all Hebrew children should be drowned in that same river.

Who was tasked with this awful mandate? Shifra and Puah, non-Hebrew midwives. According to the story, they simply refused to comply. And when they were confronted about how they didn't do it, they lied. As non-enslaved people, these midwives took huge risks to thwart a law that didn't even apply to them, and so their names will always be remembered for bringing new growth forth from the tears.

A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,

from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.

On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,

and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
that same stream that floated as a little cloud over Paris

in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a.m.

There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.

I would have to name you in every tongue
pronouncing all the vowels at once

while also keeping silent–for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed

and doesn’t exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.

Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago and, yesterday.

You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.

You’ve been in christening fonts and courtesan’s baths.
In coffin and kisses.

Gnawing stone, feeding rainbows,
In the sweat and the dew of the pyramids and lilacs.

How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.

Whenever wherever whatever has happened
Is written down on the waters of Babel.

So, first of all, the four children appear in the Jerusalem Talmud, where Rabbi Hyyia, a student of Rabbi Judah the Prince, is quoted as bringing this parable. Hyyia's text varies quite a bit from the text we know today: for one, the simple child is not "simple" but stupid. But it is Rabbis at the time of the collection of the Mishnah and Talmud who are creating this rubric. And so we proceed:

The "Wise" Child asks about the rules and commandments that govern the Seder, and receives a full explanation of the details. This child looks to the future with the rules in mind, seeking to understand how to navigate the structures that life necessitates, without wondering where the structures came from. Looking toward the future, this child is perhaps considered savvy especially given the response, which is ... simple, impersonal. What can rules give us and what can they take away? How are details and structures comforting? What did the Rabbis mean to call this child wise?  

The "Wicked" Child asks their interlocutor what Passover means to them. The implied separation of "you" from "I" in this question seems to be what incurs wrath and the declaration that this child would not have been among those saved because of their lack of collective self-identity. Do we get to be arbiters of who would have been saved and who would not? Isn't it true that we each experience Passover differently? Is gleaning information from someone in a position of authority not a way to determine what one's opinions are? Isn't it a night of questions and individual experiences? This child looks to the future, perhaps, with good boundaries and an understanding of self as unique. What do we gain by othering this child in our midst? 

The "Simple" Child looks to the future, totally baffled. What does it all mean?! What the fuck is going on? This child has an open demeanor. What's being asked isn't actually that different from the "wicked" child: the only difference is the absence of "to you." But it's clearly enough to not ping that reminder of individuality that made the Rabbis so mad with the wicked child. Instead, a question asked with less perceived ego is met with a more tolerant answer. By implying that this ritual is simply confounding - something we can probably all agree on - this child is given help and offered understanding. This child is looking for the bigger picture, unlike the "wise" child who's looking for the minutiae; and assuming they're sharing experiences with those around them, unlike the "wicked" child who's exercising boundaries.

The Child "Who Does Not Know How to Ask" is present but silent - looking to the future in a way that's totally mysterious. We might try to assume from silence: carelessness, paralysis, contempt, daydreaming, genius even. The rabbis use "this is because of what god did for me" here - it's the same othering and dividing language as we saw with the "wicked" child, who doesn't get to be included in our collective. Not super merciful? What would have happened if the Rabbis had asked this child a question? Have there been times when we've assumed something that can't be proven when we encounter someone's silence?

Some things to think about re: the children and Shmita: at a time when people are released from their debts, how can we think about releasing the stories that we tell about the people we know – including ourselves. How do we tell other people about who they are instead of approaching them with curiosity, as evolving creatures? How are the stories we tell children about themselves – or the stories others told us when we were children about who we are – limiting, or entrenched to the point where we can’t remember why we hold on to them? How can we take this opportunity of renewal to re-define our rubrics of understanding others and ourselves?