When I interview people for a job, one question that I’ve used for quite a few years is: What type of music do you like? I’m not interested in genres, but in songwriters and performers. I’ve been inclined to hire people who like Springsteen, Jay-Z, Notorious B.I.G., Sinatra, Steely Dan, Billy Joel, and for my classical music, Tchaikovsky.
Why do I use this question in an interview? Because it’s a great way to get to know a person. When they’re mentioned one of the above, I know that they like music that:
- Tells a story and means it.
- Flows. Seamlessly. Both the story and the music.
- Can be moved to. After all, you want the story to make you move. Not just dancing, but also move people to get up and act.
- Is passionate. Like the people I want to have around me, working towards a goal passionately.
Think about these storytellers:
- You can just see the policeman stopping Jay-Z, when you hear him tell the story in 99 Problems
- Even if you’ve never seen the Nutcracker Suite, listening to the music gives you insight into the story and let’s you imagine it.
- Steely Dan’s My Old School gives you a picture of the former student who is now with the “working girls at the county jail.”
- Who doesn’t recognize the characters that we’re introduced to at the bar in Piano Man?
Each performer and/or songwriter puts you up close to an unfolding story in a passionate way, and actually gives you such a clear picture that you are there.
Sound familiar? At this time of year, it should. This is exactly what is asked of us at the Passover Seder: Engage people in your storytelling and in your story-singing in such a way that we all see ourselves in the story (“as if he personally came out of Egypt”).
Let’s all learn from those people whose storytelling skills we respect: musicians, songwriters, artists, and storytellers. On the Seder night ahead, let’s use the passion and our best ways of communicating to see the story, experience our presence in the story and to envision how the story continues from generation to generation.
And as we invite others into the story, may we move them and ourselves to continue the story and move to the world we want for ourselves and for generations to come.
Chag Sameach, a Happy and Joyous Pesach to one and all!
I love Pesach/Passover. Love participating in a Seder. Love leading a Seder. To me, a Seder is a magical time that brings together families and friends for food, celebration and meaningful conversation. The Hagaddah, which guides the evening, is not a stationary document. It is dynamic, having evolved over (at least) several centuries and has had more than a few revisions and variant versions over the centuries since it was (somewhat) canonized.
Over a lifetime, I’ve seen a number of attempts to make the Seder more relevant. In my files and bookcases are the old Seder readings for Soviet Jewry (yes, I’m that old), the Shalom Seder that was all about peace, a Hagaddah for those whose Mitzrayim (Egypt) was addiction, Women’s Seder, LGBTQ inclusion Seder, American Heritage Hagaddah and more. They are all pretty cool and, along with the orange on the Seder plate and Miriam’s cup, some of these innovations sometimes are frequently included in my Seder. Along with a good dose of some Bob Marley redemption music.
At the same time, I saw a red flag when some new “hagaddot” and readings showed up in my (snail) mail box and (email) inbox. My concern is that relevance might actually kill people’s Seder. How so? I look at the Seder as a road map / outline, not as the total story. Four questions should pose other questions. Seeing one’s self as though s/he had personally left Egypt should naturally lead to the discussion of what slavery one has experienced. Dayenu ought to provoke conversation about “how much is enough?” Matza, the poor person’s bread, should take us into a conversation about poverty and about refugees.
My fear is that, by creating all the “relevant” readings, Hagaddot and Sederim, their authors may actually be destroying organic discussion by spoon-feeding us relevancy.
So, this year, I am planning to forgo the relevant additional readings, trash the inboxed Hagaddot and get back to basics. I crave the old school Seder and Hagaddah. And I want to let them serve as the jumping off point for important conversations about relevant and contemporary issues that they, done properly, take us to.
Best wishes for a Chag Sameach, a wonderful and meaningful Passover.
In reflecting on our family’s Seder for the first night of Passover, I wonder about the reaction of special guests: an African-American minister friend and his family. Oh, I know the Hebrew didn’t throw them much; the minister has been studying Hebrew with me and learning Tanach at Jewish Theological Seminary. And the singing certainly wasn’t a new idea; I listen to his church choir practice next door as we study together in another room of the church.
What I was (and am) curious about is the sense of lightheartedness with which we retell the Passover story. Lightheartedness and humor are not new to the Jewish experience. I would even suggest that the entire book of Esther, for example, is a somewhat tongue-in-cheek telling of a story that entertains us even as we recognize the unlikelihood of the events having a basis in historical events. So when, in the past few decades, the very serious nature of biblical plagues came to be represented by our generation’s contributions to the Seder — wind up jumping frogs, ping pong balls as hail, toy rubber locusts, 10 plague finger puppets and such — the playfulness that was introduced was not totally foreign to our Jewish experience.
We take our Jewishness, Jewish values, Jewish aspirations, and Jewish texts seriously. And we take it with a healthy dose of play and playfulness. Play and playfulness are part of the Jewish experience of today and tomorrow. They were always part of our Jewish education, at least in early grades. We’ve now taken it up to all ages and moved them into some parts of our ritual life.
In a recent conversation with a synagogue’s leadership, I asked whether the congregation had a sense of joy and celebration in its services. We talked about how synagogue music had often been in minor keys, which, to the American ear, at least, sounds nostalgic or even mournful, rather than joyous. “What would it be like”, I asked, “if all synagogue tunes were in a major key?”, which, to our ears, sounds more celebratory. What if the tunes sounded playful, much like the tunes used to read the book of Esther on Purim or to sing Chad Gadya at the Seder?
I’ve challenged communities to reclaim Yom Kippur as a day of joy. That’s right, joy. The Talmud tells us that Yom Kippur was a solemn day (which is misinterpreted by many as a sad day). And it also teaches that it was one of the happiest days of the year, as people celebrated their sins being forgiven.
So, I’m a big fan of celebration and of lightening up the Passover story at the Seder, even if it may chop away some of the terror of the plagues. The joy and celebration of people coming together to renew a tradition that aspires to inspire a better world is far too important to not be taken seriously and expressed joyously. And I look forward to my next study session with the good reverend, where we can reflect on the experience and compare notes on how to use our faith and community traditions to fix our world joyously.