Thoughts on Passover, and preserving rituals even as practice changes

This week, Jews around the world are celebrating the holiday of Pesach and almost all have sat around the table for at least one Seder. Pesach (Passover) is all about seeing ourselves in our history. The Haggadah (literally, the telling) adjures each of us to tell the story of Y’tziyat Mitzrayim (the Exodus from Egypt) as though we ourselves were there and were personally redeemed.

The text demands that we see the retelling of the Exodus from Egypt not as a distant past, but as something happening to us right now, to each of us individually, that takes a lot of work. We are called each Pesach to find the strength to overcome our personal limitations and liberate ourselves — and others — from the bondage that oppresses us, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual. Our Mitzraim (Egypt — “narrow place” in Hebrew) is one where we are not allowed to be ourselves.

The Talmud, a central text of Rabbinic Judaism and the primary source of Jewish religious law (halakha) and Jewish theology, relates; When Rav Huna would eat bread, he would open the doors to his house, saying: Whoever needs, let him come in and eat. Rava responded: I can fulfill all these customs of Rav Huna, except for this one, which I cannot do, due to the fact that there are many soldiers in the city of Meḥoza, and if I let them all eat, they will take all the food I own.

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While it is worth noting that Rav Huna was not talking about doing this at Pesach as he specifically mentions that he does it when he eats bread, the most taboo food during this holiday (see Exodus 12:14-15), at our Pesach Seders, we quote this line and say, “Let all who are hungry come and eat.”

Rav Matityahu Gaon, a leading 9th century rabbinic authority, said the meaning of this line had changed from its literal interpretation. He wrote that we should not wait until Seder night to open the door and feed people in need. His recommendation? Feed the poor in advance, so they won’t have to beg on Passover itself. So why do we still say the line if we don’t literally mean to invite people right now? Because it is traditional to say this line, and we need to preserve the ritual traditions of our ancestors, even as the practice has changed. For Rav Gaon, we should already be reaching out to those in need all year round, not just on Pesach, and we retain the line in our retelling because of the importance of tradition.

Rashi, a medieval French rabbi said that Rava’s reasoning was that there were too many poor people in his city to make opening his home and inviting others in feasible. In other words, Rava could not act in the same way as Rav Huna because there was too great a need to be able to feed everyone.R. Isaiah diTrani, 13th century Italy, said that it is the obligation of every person to eat the first night of Passover, so we invite anyone who doesn’t have means. For Rav diTrani, the recitation of this line was a literal invitation to our neighbors.

And the scholar, Zedekiah ben Avraham, 13th century Italy asks: "Do people really open their door on Passover night and say: whoever is hungry come and eat with me?!" He thought that Rava’s statement must refer to the practice of not eating food leading into Passover, so that one will enter the meal with a lot of hunger and desire, especially for matzah. In other words, the invitation for those who are hungry to come and eat is directed at oneself and one’s family. While there is a custom of not eating on the day of the Seder until it begins, his statement makes it clear that by his time, reciting this line was a tradition that was preserved as his questioning the act itself implies that actually opening the door was passé.

A contemporary colleague of mine, Rabbi Avi Killip, compares this line in the Haggadah to the opening of the door to Elijah, toward the end of the Seder. She shares:

"Our fear of opening our homes to the hungry is not new. The impulse to keep the door closed is ancient, and it comes even from a great sage like Rava. Today there are many reasons we might share Rava’s feeling that we cannot open our doors to welcome anyone who wishes to join our tables. The number of hungry people is overwhelming. Like Rava in Mahoza, I cannot invite them all to dinner."

At today’s Seder, we customarily don’t open our doors while reciting the invitation to the hungry, but we do open the door at a different point in the evening: near the end when we pour a cup for Elijah. Why open the door to welcome the prophet Elijah so long after the plates have been cleared? A commentary from the Ma’aseh Rokei’ah (18th century, Chief Rabbi Amsterdam) offers a different reason to keep an open door: “This is our custom: that the doors of the house should remain open, so that when Elijah comes, we will speedily go out to meet him without any delay, for on Pesah Israel will be redeemed in the future.”

The Ma’aseh Rokei’ah is preparing for another moment of redemption, one that has yet to come. We know from the biblical book of Malachi—the passage from the prophets we read just last week (3:4-24)—that Elijah is the prophet who will come to announce the final redemption. The Ma’aseh Rokei’ah keeps the door open on Seder night, not to let others in, but to ensure that the people inside can get out. His custom imagines that when Elijah comes to announce the redemption, there will be no time to waste. The open doors remind us—and the prophet—that we are ready and eager to be redeemed.

Taken together, she says, these two customs have an important lesson to teach: the closed door that keeps out the hungry may also be holding us back from redemption. The Seder traditions teach us that Pesah is a time for open doors. Only when we are ready to open our doors to the hungry — when we have addressed the systemic hunger outside to a point where all who are hungry really do have a seat at the table — will we really be open to redemption.

Redemption feels so necessary in this moment.

But I want to suggest that maybe there is a middle ground that connects all of these ideas. Perhaps the first line in the Talmud is about an ideal and the second line is about a reality. In an ideal world, we would be able to host and provide for all of those in need. Maybe in a truly ideal world, there would not be anyone who was hungry and the act of our opening our door would be equated with the welcoming in of Elijah-who we hope to find there and yet don’t expect to be there. And yet, the reality is that there are those in need and an overwhelming number too- in our homes, in our community, and in our world. And yet, Rava is not saying that he cannot partake in the Mitzvah at all, he is just saying he cannot complete it.

It makes me think of the line from Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of our Sages (2.16): He (Rabbi Tarfon) used to say: "It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it."

The need is too great and we should not refrain from trying to participate in addressing it and yet, if we didn't engage in the act until we were sure we could do all of it, if we don't even open our doors, we are not helping to usher in Elijah either. In preparation for the holiday, we “sell” the leavened items left in our homes. The money from the sale goes to help those in need in our community in line with our obligation to help others but those are not the only way that we are called to open our doors and by extension ourselves.

The call to open our doors is even more pronounced when it feels difficult. During this Festival of Freedom (another name for the Pesach holiday) are not all free, we are not all home, and we are not all safe and able to recline at tables surrounded by family and friends and recline, sing, and dine together. Our houses of worship are guarded with our doors not only closed but often also locked during prayer times for our safety.

This year being Jewish and celebrating a holiday that focusses on redemption and freedom feels extra hard and Pesach in particular feels more fraught, complicated, and challenging than usual. The thought of shunning the holiday entirely this year has been a consideration, and I am sure that I am not alone and yet, I encourage us to do our best and what we can, even when it might not feel significant. And maybe, just maybe, this year, one time when we open our doors, Elijah will be waiting.

Rabbi Aviva Fellman is the spiritual leader of Congregation Beth Israel in Worcester. She is also an active member of Worcester Interfaith, teaches in W.I.S.E., and is a married mother of four.

This article originally appeared on Telegram & Gazette: Keep the Faith: On Passover, and 'seeing ourselves in our history'