NEWTON, Mass. — Passover is a holiday of remembrance, a time to recall and retell the story of the deliverance of the Jewish people from generations of Egyptian bondage. But there is also a different kind of remembering that takes place each Passover, in which memory is personal, not scripted. We spontaneously recall, often vividly, the many different seders we have attended over the years, both as a child and as an adult.
My own memories begin in the early 1960s, when our family went to a seder held at the Chicago home of my Aunt Fella and Uncle Morris. Almost every adult in attendance was from Eastern Europe; boredom among the children was rampant. My cousins and I would inevitably end up crawling under the table for a mischievous rendezvous, a distraction from the relentless Yiddish-accented recitation of The Maxwell House Haggadah. Eventually, our impatience was rewarded by my aunt’s amazing Passover delicacies. I don’t ever recall understanding what was going on, but I still looked forward to going. It was comforting and predictable — the same relatives came each year and the same food appeared on the table.
Because the seders I attended growing up always had the same cast of characters, it was an exciting break from routine when someone unfamiliar showed up. One year my older cousin brought a boyfriend, and it noticeably changed the seder dynamic. When I went away to college, it was my turn to become the unfamiliar face when I attended my first seder with a family other than my own. It was then that I really started to appreciate what a mitzvah or good deed it was to extend invitations to strangers, especially those unable to spend the holiday with family. Since then, I’ve been a guest at many different seders. It is still a comforting ritual for me, even though the faces are new, the accents American and the dishes different. But it is never a predictable experience. While the Haggadah is always the road map, each new seder takes different side roads on which I never traveled.
It was a marvel the first time I attended a seder conducted by Jewish educators.
While the seder was lengthy, everything was discussed, explained and analyzed. I acquired many new insights and went home fervently wishing that such an innovation had been introduced to my Chicago relatives.
Another seder, early in my career as a “Seder Stranger,” caught me by surprise.
Still fully in possession of childhood naivete, I was taken aback when I encountered non-Jews at the table, friends of the host family. Their questions reminded one of the simple child of the Haggadah, and it turned out to be a lovely experience to see the ritual through their eyes.
One year, my seder experience was a disappointment. I call this one seder-lite.
It was a perfunctory matzah and wine tasting accompanied by a riffling of the Haggadah pages that figuratively stirred a cool breeze but didn’t warm my heart.
In a subsequent year, I was delighted and entertained at a seder orchestrated especially for children, with wind-up frogs and finger puppets.
Perhaps the most memorable seder I attended is the one I call, both wryly and fondly, the last supper. It was led in Manhattan by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach at his Upper West Side shul. Seventy of us from all over the country listened to stories and sang wordless chants until three in the morning. When I finally left, the seder still had a few hours to go. Reb Shlomo died the following fall. This seder turned out to be the last one he led.
Drawing from my own enriching experiences, I am now an enthusiastic advocate of inviting strangers to one’s seder.
Many families do this routinely, reaching out to welcome various categories of Jews as well as non-Jews. Naomi Osher of Newton, Mass., recalls her parents having 20 to 30 people each year at their Cincinnati home, a number of them Christians.
Remember, by opening your home to others on Passover, you fulfill the appeal of the Haggadah liturgy: “Let all who are hungry, come and eat. Let all who are in need, come and share the Passover meal.”