Taking the Journey

The other night I was invited to take a journey.

In the light of a flickering candle, I sat and listened to the song of prayers sung in Hebrew. We had a plate of ceremonial foods, wine, a bowl of salt water, and the good company of each other.

I had never attended Passover Seder before. Of course, not being Jewish, this is hardly surprising, although I had attended a Purim celebration before, and I felt very enriched by the experience.

Many things were moving about the experience the other night, not the least of which was the singing of the prayers, some sung in different tunes than others, the mixture of voices overlapping in a tapestry of various traditions—all unified in praise and thankfulness.

Passover is the celebration of Israel’s exodus from Egypt. As many people know, Moses went before Pharaoh many times and asked for the release of the Israelites. Pharaoh’s heart had been hardened by God. This resulted in the ten plagues of Egypt—the most severe of which was the death of the firstborn son. I’m sure many people have seen the version with a noble Charlton Heston as Moses, his voice deep and masculine, confident, robust. In the movie, he stands before a bare-chested Yul Brynner and commands, “Let my people go.”

Of course, this is not the version the Bible speaks of, nor is it what I learned in Sunday School. From some accounts, Moses was a stutterer, who was too timid to speak before Pharaoh, so he bargained with God to let his brother Aaron do the talking. But, I guess that isn’t sexy enough for Hollywood.

There is a part of the Passover Seder celebration that I found especially touching. Everybody dips their finger into their wine and allows ten drops to fall. This signifies the blood that was shed for the salvation of their people. This commemorates the deaths that resulted from the ten plagues of Egypt. This is in remembrance of all of the firstborn sons who died.

In the Bible, we learn that the Israelites had to sacrifice a lamb and smear its blood over their door frames, as a signal to the Angel of Death. When the Angel saw the blood, it would “pass over” that house and spare the family the deepest grief: the loss of a child.

Even as I write this, I am still touched by it. I cannot help but think about all of those firstborn sons and what their lives had been up until that moment. I wonder why God saw fit to release his most menacing Angel and claim those souls for no other purpose than to show his glory.

People look at our world today—the disease, the famine, the senseless killings, and we wonder—why would God allow it to happen?

How many times have you asked, “Why would a God who created and love us allow such things to happen?”

My last post was about prayer. All of this reminds me of a story. My mother is a very spiritual woman—for good and for bad. My brother suffered for many years, a bipolar disorder, a deeply unhappy person, who could seemingly never find any calm within himself.

It was a morning in 1994, St. Patrick’s Day to be exact. She was in her office as the school secretary at an elementary school, and for some reason, she felt the need to pray for my brother. She prayed that he would find peace and the comfort of which he was so desperately in need. More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones. She would later learn that she had prayed this prayer for my brother four hours after he had already taken his own life. An answered prayer? Certainly, the loss of a firstborn son.

As I watched the wine drip from my friend’s finger, I thought it so humbling to take a moment and remember the lives we each touch. Our actions affect other people. We are, often, truly like pebbles pitched into a pond. There are ripples.

The Israelites were free, able to escape into the desert, through the Red Sea, on their way to an even harder journey than the years they had been enslaved in Egypt. But, they were free.

I think, sometimes, we misunderstand the word “perfect.” We think flawless. We think beautiful and unblemished. I do not think this is God’s idea of perfect. In our human minds, we get it so wrong. The crooked path, the lowly servant sacrificing himself—unrecognized as a king, the sins of prophets, all of our missteps, are entirely perfect.

During Passover Seder, it is customary to contemplate what your particular bondage is, to take a spiritual journey through the celebration, and come to a realization on the other side.

We were told that it was also the night of questions. In my questioning, I decided that perfection is in our flaws—perhaps this is why we are not supposed to judge one another.

At end of my journey the other night, I realized that there is no end and that questioning brings us closer to each other, not to conclusive answers, but maybe to the ability to ask better questions.

This is why I write this blog, often—to raise questions, contemplate things, revel in the gray shadows between the black and the white, and to in each entry, try to take a journey.

Why else are we here, if not to open ourselves up and ask each other questions?