Right on Time
And the Eternal said to Moses, “I will bring but one more plague upon Pharaoh and upon Mitzrayim; after that he shall let you go from here; indeed, when he lets you go, he will drive you out of here one and all.”
From there, God details the horrible calamity that will befall the Egyptian people, giving clear instructions to the Israelites in order to spare them from the last plague. Also spelled out are the precise directives regarding the Passover sacrifice.
Chapters Eleven through Fourteen of the book of Exodus convey a certain urgency. As if to say, the time has come. It is time to leave. Now.
Imagine, if you will, the following reaction:
Now? I mean, does it have to be now? Now’s not so convenient, Eh’yeh Asher Eh’yeh. If that’s really Your Name. How about this weekend? This weekend would be better. Traffic’s not as much of a problem. And all the kids will be here. Does this weekend work for you?
Sounds meshugganer, no? And yet…
This is exactly what one is doing when having a seder on some other night in lieu of the night commanded by God. Which night is that? According to the Torah (Exodus 12:18), “in the first month [i.e. the month of Nisan], on the fourteenth day of the month at evening….”
Certainly there are many compelling reasons why a family might have trouble gathering everyone for the first night…or even the second night…and therefore select another night to join together. In such cases, the individuals should still hold or seek out a seder in order to fulfill the commandment.
For the record, I hold the same position for every other festival mandated by God. They are to be observed in their correct times.
After all, God’s expecting us…
The Red Dress Club: An Island in Time

Was it my idea? Or did that honour belong to one of my sibs?
Or…was it my brilliant idea that I blamed on one of my sibs?
No matter.
It really seemed like a good idea at the time…
The sun was shining. We were home from school in observance of the first day of Pesach. Which made a lot of sense in those days. Seder night was always a late night. Once we had our fill of matzah (and soup and chicken and brisket and…and…and…), all four cups of wine had been consumed, Elijah had (not) come and (not) gone, and the seder liturgy was complete, we sang. We sang and we sang and we sang.
I think that was MamaBear’s favourite part, listening to her children and grandchildren sing. Ally Ally Oxen Free, Go Tell It on the Mountain (Peter, Paul ,and Mary version!), Go Down Moses, There is a Man Come into Egypt.
[Really it was a Jewish seder and neither a Baptist revival nor a sit-in.]
Echad Mi Yodaya?
Adir Hu
Chad Gadya
Then — The Big Clean-Up. Tables moved out, folding chairs folded and put back on the wall in the garage, couches moved back in. China hand-washed and carefully dried. And the many leftovers put into the fridge.
Out came the card tables for Bridge. And we would sit around and sing with Uncle Vermonster. House at Pooh’s Corner, Leaving Mother Russia, Let it Be.
Some hours later, we’d pile into the car (the Merc and, later, the gas-guzzling, diesel only please, Caprice Classic) and, having changed into pajamas long ago, fall into bed as soon as we made the long journey home.
[OK — so it wasn’t a long journey. More like a twenty minute, straight shot down the 405. But with imaginations fueled by Laura Ingalls Wilder, we pretended to be tucked into the back of the wagon, snuggled deep into fur throws.]
And sleep. Lazy, uninterrupted sleep. Matzah Meal Latkes for brunch. And a relaxing day before us.
What do you want to do today, Ferb?
Let’s pretend that we’ve been stranded on a tropical island
And every tropical island has a waterfall.
So we snaked the garden hose through the branches of one of the trees in the backyard. And turned the spigot. Instant waterfall.
Some time later, our parents discovered what we had been doing all afternoon. They failed to be impressed with our creativity.
If you don’t get cleaned up immediately, you will not be allowed to attend tonight’s seder.
I wonder. Was it the flooded backyard that elicited that response? Or the sight of three remorseless, mud-covered children?
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Remembe(RED) is a memoir meme. This week’s prompt was a photo of a hose, meant to take the writer back in time. In 700 or fewer words, the writer must show where memory takes her (or him). As I learned, the wonderful thing about a photo prompt is there really is no telling where an image might lead. Or, perhaps I just have matzah on the brain…
As always, constructive criticism is welcomed.
Mirror, Mirror
I don’t like Jack-in-the-Box toys.
In fact, every element about the darn thing makes me a bit unhinged. I don’t like clowns. The song gives me the creeps. And I don’t much care for being startled out of my wits.
But the number one reason that I don’t like that toy is because it reminds me of Romper Room.
Yes, Romper Room. The precursor of Sesame Street, The Electric Company, and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.
The same Romper Room with that bee. “Mr. Do-Bee.” Meant to teach proper behavior through the unlikely, and misspelled, use of the tzivui. As in “Do Bee good boys and girls.”
But what thoroughly and completely freaked me out was the magic mirror that Miss Mary Ann would peer through at the end of each show.
Romper, bomper, stomper, boo.
Tell me, tell me, tell me do.
Magic mirror, tell me today.
Did all my friends have fun at play?
And then, Miss Mary Ann would start naming the kids that she saw through the Magic Mirror. The kids who were watching at home.
I can see Brent and Jenny and Susie and Robby and Sally and Chad and Karen
Good-night! That was all I needed to hear. “You mean she can see us through that damn mirror and straight into the television?”
Nope. Not for me.
Jump ahead a few decades. Sitting at a recent funeral, it all makes sense.
And now that you have departed this wretched place, we rejoice in your homegoing. Where you will see your beloved mother and father. Your brother, Timmy. And Neighbor Sue. You’ll see Principal Brown, Ole’ Man Richards, and your best buddy, Lou.
{Yes, that was my stifled giggle of discomfort you heard.}
That is some Magic Mirror, Miss Mary Ann.
What WILL They Think of Next?
Each year you fill Elijah’s cup, invite him to join your seder and drink some wine and then you wait. So far, though he may have quietly entered, he’s never once had a sip of the wine.
Until this year.
With your new ElijahDrinks Cup, Elijah will drink and everyone will see the wine disappear.
And if Elijah drinks this year, who knows, maybe next year we will be in Jerusalem.
Yes, for $29.95 (+ shipping & handling), you too can have this party trick your very own seder.
Slight problem, though. Elijah isn’t really meant to drink from the cup.
[Sorry to break the news this way.]
So if Elijah isn’t meant to drink from the cup, you ask, why is it called the “Cup of Elijah?”
The tradition of drinking several cups of wine draws its inspiration from the following passage in the book of Sh’mot (Exodus 6:6-7):
לָכֵן אֱמֹר לִבְנֵי-יִשְׂרָאֵל, אֲנִי יְהוָה, וְהוֹצֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם מִתַּחַת סִבְלֹת מִצְרַיִם, וְהִצַּלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם מֵעֲבֹדָתָם; וְגָאַלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם בִּזְרוֹעַ נְטוּיָה, וּבִשְׁפָטִים גְּדֹלִים
Wherefore say unto the children of Israel: I am the Eternal, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will deliver you from their bondage, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm, and with great judgments;
וְלָקַחְתִּי אֶתְכֶם לִי לְעָם, וְהָיִיתִי לָכֶם לֵאלֹהִים; וִידַעְתֶּם, כִּי אֲנִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם, הַמּוֹצִיא אֶתְכֶם, מִתַּחַת סִבְלוֹת מִצְרָיִם
And I will take you to Me for a people, and I will be to you a God; and you shall know that I am the Eternal your God, who brought you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians.
One cup of wine for each promise.
- I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians
- I will deliver you from their bondage
- I will redeem you with an outstretched arm
- I will take you to Me for a people
What about the fifth promise? The one in the next verse?
וְהֵבֵאתִי אֶתְכֶם, אֶל-הָאָרֶץ, אֲשֶׁר נָשָׂאתִי אֶת-יָדִי, לָתֵת אֹתָהּ לְאַבְרָהָם לְיִצְחָק וּלְיַעֲקֹב; וְנָתַתִּי אֹתָהּ לָכֶם מוֹרָשָׁה, אֲנִי יְהוָה
And I will bring you in unto the land, concerning which I lifted up My hand to give it to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob; and I will give it you for a heritage: I am the Eternal.’
Ah, that fifth promise.
Our Sages were uncertain as to whether that fifth promise of redemption ought to have a cup of win associated with it as it was a promise unfulfilled for the Exodus generation.
So how does Elijah fit into this interesting picture?
Teiku. [Say what?]
Teiku. An acronym of Tishbi Yitaretz Kushiyot U‘abayot that stands for “[Elijah] the Tishbite will answer all difficulties and questions” In other words, when Elijah, who is meant to portend the arrival of the Messiah, arrives, he will answer all questions. In this case, when Elijah comes, he will let us know if we are meant to drink a fifth cup of wine.
Which is the main problem with the Elijah Drinks cup. It turns out that Elijah isn’t meant to do the drinking. AND…there’s the whole matter of the Messiah. If Elijah seems to be present, it would be natural to assume that the Messianic Age isn’t far behind.
And what a HUGE letdown that would be.
[Sidenote: Teiku is also handy when the kids seem absolutely unable to arrive at a consensus.]
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Don’t forget to checkout this week’s edition of Haveil Havalim over at Esser Agaroth. Be sure to tell him that Frume Sarah sent you.
The Red Dress Club: Stolen

courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
I would like to offer a belated “thank you” for not allowing me to visit New Orleans in 1988 with my high school choir. Though it’s been over two decades since I was deprived of that experience, I don’t think that I could have appreciated what seemed to be an unfair decision without the advantage of time and experience.
When you informed me that I was not going to be permitted to join with my classmates in our annual choir tour, I was sorely disappointed. Or, in teen-speak, I was “devastated.”. That the tour would occur during Chol HaMoed Pesach was of little concern as our tours typically occurred during the intermediate days of Passover. And, when faced with observing Pesach away from home while in college, I appreciated that I had learned how to handle the eating restrictions while away from home at such an early age.
So if not Pesach, what, then, was the motivation for your seemingly-unfair decision? You cited the difficulties of managing to keep kosher in a city renown for its obsession for treif. And not just a little treif. Really, REALLY high treif. Pork, shellfish of every kind, alligator, and other forbidden items that to this very day remain unrecognizable to me. It isn’t just that treif is featured on menus. That I was accustomed to avoiding. No. You knew that in NOLA, one must go to great lengths to find any possible item that is not in violation of one, or more, of our dietary restrictions.
And that is what seemed so unfair; by robbing me of my own decision-making, you had stolen the autonomy granted to me by our Tradition. At age thirteen, I stood before the Ark and accepted my place as an adult in the Jewish community. In that one moment, the obligation of fulfilling the Commandments transferred from you to me. Decisions about ritual observance were mine to make and for which I was now accountable. And there we were, just a few years later, and you were usurping my power.
As with so many things, it is both time and experience that give us new perspective. Now a mother (the mother of your three oldest grandchildren), I better understand the motivation behind your decision. It wasn’t that you lacked trust in my ability to maneuver through a city with scant food options. Rather, you were relieving me of the difficulty to make those food choices as a lone voice and without the support of the four other Jews in choir. You were, as my parents, trying to protect me. To ease what some might see as a burden.
So a long-overdue thank you. For shielding me. For restoring my authority. And, ultimately, for preparing me for a lifetime of making hard choices and standing firm against the tide.
Red Writing Hood is a writing meme. This week’s prompt was to write about something of tremendous value that was stolen from me and whether or not I was able to reclaim it. Constructive criticism is encouraged.
Ashamed
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
And you, Rabbi, have a beanie in every colour
A couple of uncomfortable chuckles. Then the conversation moved to the next topic. Hawaiian shirts, I think. Maybe. I don’t really know because I was still stuck on the beanie comment.
I wasn’t the only Jew in the room. There were a couple of others. Through down-case eyes, we exchanged uncomfortable glances. And we said nothing.
We said nothing because no one wanted to make anyone else feel uncomfortable. We said nothing because no one wanted to make a big deal out of a throw-away comment. We said nothing because at the end of the day…it is sometimes just easier to say nothing. Because to say something might uncover an undercurrent that continues to run through polite society.
{an*ti*Sem*i*tism}
The undercurrent. That’s what it is. Anti-Semitism.
Aw, Rabbi, lighten up. He didn’t mean anything by it.
Maybe not.
Then again…
Anti-Semitism doesn’t have to be violent. Or physical. It doesn’t necessarily have to be intentional. By definition, anti-Semitism is simply the hostility toward or prejudice against Jews. In its worst form, it becomes policy. In its more subtle, though no less destructive, form, it is attitude. A one-time comment may be, in fact, just a one-time comment. Today’s comment was one of several pointed Jewish remarks, comments, etc in a space of twenty-five minutes.
Not a one-time, throw-away comment.
I am ashamed that I did not speak up. Or speak out. Or…. or what, I don’t know. But I feel know that doing nothing was wrong.
I am ashamed of my fear. Of my hesitation.
I am ashamed of failing the title bestowed upon me at my Sinai moment, as a leader and teacher of our community.
I am…
am…
I…
…
Outsourcing
text by Du Mu (803 – 852)
It’s raining hard at the time of the Ching Ming Festival,
The mourner’s heart is overwhelmed on the road upland.
May I ask where there’s a tavern to drown my sorrows?
The shepherd boy points to Xinghua Village in the distance.
The Shanghai Stock Exchange was closed today for a Chinese yontif; Qingming Festival, or Tomb-Sweeping Day. Celebrated just two weeks into the Spring season, this day is set aside to tend the graves of loved ones as well as make offerings on their behalf.
It was a holiday of which I knew nothing until I heard a story about it earlier today. Rather, the story focused on the trend among the younger generation to outsource this most solemn obligation. For, as I recently noted, there seems to be nothing so sacred these days that it cannot be outsourced.
Some, as the story noted, find this trend to be distasteful, objecting to the idea that this duty is being handed off to a complete stranger for the convenience of living relative. Others are capitalizing on it. One gentleman, for example, tidies up the gravesite, brings flowers and whatever offerings the family requests, and videotapes the entire event for the American equivalent of $100.
Which, as it turns out, is a steal. If you want someone to say kaddish for your dearly departed, it can cost you anywhere from $350-$800. At least, according to this site. Kaddish by proxy. Which is permitted — under very specific circumstances. It certainly is not the first choice. Nor ought it be done in order to shirk one’s responsibility. For saying Kaddish for one’s parent, child (God-forbid), sibling, or spouse is an obligation. Rabbi Maurice Lamm, author of The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning, expresses his objections to this practice and encourage individuals to take this obligation seriously.
Over the years, I have been surprised to discover that our folks, Reform Jews, will pay to have Kaddish said in memory of their loved one by an Orthodox rabbi. Folks who have no trouble driving to shul on Shabbos, counting women in a minyan, and so forth. As Rabbi Lamm points out, it is as if they are “covering their bases.”
Not all that different from the Chinese, as it turns out. Perhaps we have more in common than the food…
One Year Later
[On this first yahrtzeit of the Upper Big Branch mine disaster, we revisit a sermon given by BossGiraffe in the wake of the disaster.]
**guest post by BossGiraffe
My family moved to Pacoima in January of 1955. By September, they had affiliated with the local congregation, Temple Beth Torah, and it became the hub of our lives. Fellow congregants became my parents’ friends. Between Religious School on Sundays, Hebrew classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays (or Mondays and Wednesdays—depending upon the year), youth group events, Friday night services, and junior congregation, I was in shul nearly every day of the week.
Friday night was temple night. My parents and I were there every week. More than anything else, attending services made me comfortable with my Judaism. I find the same to be true with the youngsters in our own Religious School today. Those who come with regularity on Friday nights feel at home here.
I believe that the words of the prayers, so often repeated, not only were a vehicle for connection with God, they helped to shape my life-long values. One of the reasons the words touched me so deeply was the manner in which my rabbi, Samson H. Levey (a”h), read them. He caressed those words, and made them come to life.
In those days, we used the old Union Prayer Book. It had five different Sabbath Eve services—one for each Friday of the month (even when a month contained a fifth Friday…like tonight!) One particular prayer in Service III was always a favorite of mine. The language was inspiring to a young mind, and the ideals it proclaimed had a lasting effect on how I have approached life. Let me read it to you now:

O Lord, through we are prone to seek favors for ourselves alone, yet when we come into Thy presence, we are lifted above petty thoughts of self. We become ashamed of our littleness and are made to feel that we can worship Thee in holiness only as we serve our brothers in love.
How much we owe to the labors of our brothers! Day by day they dig far away from the sun that we may be warm, enlist in outposts of peril that we may be secure and brave the terrors of the unknown for truths that shed light on our way. Numberless gifts and blessing have been laid in our cradles as our birthright.
Let us then, O Lord, be just and great-hearted in our dealings with fellowmen, sharing with them the fruit of our common labor, acknowledging before Thee that we are but stewards of whatever we possess. Help us to be among those who are willing to sacrifice that others may not hunger, who dare be bearers of light in the dark loneliness of stricken lives, who struggle and even bleed for the triumph of righteousness among men. So may we be co-workers with Thee in the building of Thy kingdom which has been our vision and goal through the ages. (Union Prayer Book I, page 45)
By the time I was in rabbinical school, the Union Prayer Book was found lacking by many in our Reform Movement. The language was archaic and the readings did not seem relevant. The passage I just cited that had been so meaningful to me was now derided as “the Coal Miner’s Prayer.” We often supplemented the prayers in that siddur with more contemporary writings. When Gates of Prayer was published in 1975, most people enthusiastically endorsed it, and the Union Prayer Book was happily consigned, figuratively, to the ash-heap of history.
I hadn’t thought of that prayer from the Union Prayer Book for years…until the sad news broke on April 5 of the worst mining disaster in four decades. All of sudden, the words that we thought were outdated came to life: “How much we owe to the labors of our brothers! Day by day they dig far away from the sun that we may be warm,…”
While it is true that most of our houses here in Southern California are heated by gas or electricity, coal does remain a crucial product in our nation’s economy. The history of the coal mining industry is not one of which our country can be proud.
Over the years, I have introduced important religious ideas to the members of our Confirmation Class by having them answer a series of true-or-false questions. Here is one– True-or-false: Religion has no right to tell people how they should run their businesses. If your initial inclination is to say true, it is clear to me that you have never studied the words of the Prophets in our Bible. They often decried the unjust treatment of the poor by those in power.
The loss of 29 lives in the Upper Big Branch coal mine, owned by the Massey Energy Company, was only the most recent in a long line of mining disasters caused by coal operators ignoring government safety regulations, considering them an intrusion on their right to maximize their profits. Widespread safety violations at Massey mines have been reported. In one internal memo, the man who runs Massey warned his mine managers that they were to ignore any directive “to do anything other than run coal….” He went on to state, “This memo is necessary only because we seem not to understand that the coal pays the bills.”
Over the past many decades, the Central Conference of American Rabbis and the Union for Reform Judaism have passed numerous resolutions on the issues of workers’ rights and worker safety. They are rooted in the principles of our prophetic tradition and the teachings of Jewish Law.
In his eulogy this week for the miners whose lives were taken in the disaster, President Obama declared, “We cannot bring back the 29 men we lost. Our task, here on Earth, is to save lives from being lost in another tragedy. To do what must be done, individually and collectively, to assure safe conditions underground. To treat our miners the way they treat each other—like family.”
On this Shabbat, may we be reminded that we can worship God in holiness only as we serve our brothers and sisters in love. We, indeed, owe so much to the labors of others. Acknowledging this, may we enthusiastically take up the struggle to assure that safety is protected and justice procured for all those who willingly give of themselves for our wellbeing.
KAYN Y’HI RATZON! (May this be God’s Will.)
The Red Dress Club: Lady in Red
I think of him whenever I hear it. Doesn’t even need to be the entire song. Just a few bars will bring back that one night in April, nearly twenty-five years ago.
The details are of interest to no one, but me. Especially because they are not particularly interesting or steamy. It was a quick stop on the itinerary of my transition from girlhood to womanhood.
1987 Choir Tour — Washington, D.C.
Prior to curfew, we wandered down to the bank of vending machines. There was another high school group hanging out there. Southerners. It was a welcome experience to meet kids from somewhere so different from SoCal. And with my finely-tuned JewDar, not even a full two minutes had passed before I had zeroed in on the single Jewish student in their group. Which, as it turned out, was a near-miracle as these kids were from a Southern Baptist private school.
As Wayne explained (that was his name), the public schools in Natchez, MS were lacking and the Southern Baptist school had a good academic program. The Jewish kids were excused from chapel and “all that kind of stuff.”
I had never met a Jewish kid who went to parochial school. Then again, I had never met a Jewish kid from the South before that night. For all I knew, all Jewish kids in the South attended parochial school.
We must have talked for a good two hours. His family had been in Natchez for several generations and had been founding members of their synagogue. A synagogue whose membership was already dwindling back in the late 80s and numbers less than fifteen today. He was fully engaged in the conversation and it was the first time that I was aware of someone’s attraction directed towards me. And to say that I was not looking my best would be an understatement. Either shorts or sweats, topped by my red CIMI sweatshirt. The only positive comment I can make about that sweatshirt is that it brought out the red highlights in my blonde hair. And at some point, The Lady in Red came over the radio.
Brilliant neither in its composition or lyrics, its power, like many sounds, rests entirely with the circumstances that accompany it. In this case, it is the instant recall of an exhilaration that came from a chance encounter as I teetered between child-and adulthood.
For those who like stories with the perfect happy ending, try this one on for size: I never saw Wayne again. Apparently the kids from the parochial school were up to some shenanigans (e.g. green-coloured vodka in their Scope bottles and the like) and were locked into their rooms at an earlier curfew. I learned a great deal about the Jewish community of Natchez. I initiated and sustained a conversation with someone of the opposite gender. And, most importantly, the seeds of self-perception were cultivated that evening. The perception of my own emerging self as attractive, interesting, and desirable.
Maybe what that song brings back is not the memory of any particular individual but of a defining moment. A necessary step along a very, very long journey.
Remembe(red) is a memoir meme. This week’s prompt: think of a sound or a smell the reminds you of something from your past and write a post about that memory. Don’t forget to incorporate the sound/smell of your choosing! Constructive comments/suggestions encouraged.
Starting Young
So it is no surprise, mein kinder, that the both of you take your role of bringing justice to the world very seriously. Your participation in the annual Walk to End Genocide, while encouraged by our family, is motivated entirely by your own desire to help put an end to genocide. Your decision to pass out information cards to friends and teachers at school exemplified that you have taken to heart the values taught by our Tradition.
May you continue to work towards AND see a future that is devoid of the systematic annihilation that has haunted so many.
















