(HOST) Jews celebrate Passover by observing old traditions and creating new ones. Commentator Deborah Luskin attends a Seder heavily influenced by community life in Vermont.
(LUSKIN) On the night of the first full-moon after the vernal equinox, Jews all over the world celebrate Passover, the holiday marking their escape from slavery in Egypt.
The Jews left in such a hurry, the story goes, they didn’t have time to let their bread rise, so they baked it unleavened, inventing matzo.
The festival is observed with a Seder (the word means "order") and it refers to a meal – okay, a feast – during which the story of the Exodus is retold. Over the millennia, different rituals have developed around the Seder. The traditions of serving a hard-boiled egg and of leaning on cushions at the dinner table probably date to Roman times; the tradition of hiding the Afikomen (a piece of matzo reserved for the end of the meal) probably came later, when children needed to be entertained and – yes, bribed – to stay interested in a celebration that can last hours.
The service part of the Seder is filled with story telling, song, and symbolic foods. We dip parsley in salt water to taste the bitter tears of slavery; we eat matzo to remind us of the Jews’ haste leaving Egypt. And we bless and drink four cups of wine.
Hands down, Passover is my favorite holiday. And celebrating with friends makes it even better. One year, Passover fell on the same weekend as a nearby whitewater release, so my kayaker-husband brought home some paddlers. Of the twenty-one people at the table, eleven had never attended a Seder before. But they all remembered the story of the Exodus, so we took turns telling it, and had a wonderful celebration of freedom and spring.
In the last ten years, a new tradition has developed in the small village where I live. A handful of neighbors decided to hold a Seder in our lovely community hall, a former grange. The event was strictly potluck, and about thirty people showed up that first year, about half of them Jewish. Word spread, and families from surrounding towns started attending. Last year, the meal was moved from the dining room off the hall’s kitchen to the great room upstairs in order to accommodate the 95 people who came, one from California.
By now, there are even what I call "Williamsville Traditions" – certain songs we always sing, a children’s book we read, and our own, photocopied Haggadah – the program for the service of the meal.
And the meal is fantastic. A potluck of holiday treats, from matzo ball soup to potato kugel to braised brisket to coconut macaroons. Traditionally, the service ends with a prayer to end the oppression of all people around the world in the coming year. Traditionally, we say, "Next year, in Jerusalem." But in my town, we say, "Next year in Williamsville."