In the blink of an eye

Reflections on Pesach 5785 and this moment in America

This holiday demands something of us.

We are living in a Lo Dayenu moment. It is not enough to sit at our Seder tables and read “my father was a wandering Aramean.” Lo dayenu. Not enough to clear out the chametz and eat Ha Lachma Anya, the bread of affliction. Lo dayenu. Not even enough to read b’chol dor vador- from every generation - —even if we truly mean it. Lo dayenu.

This Passover has unfolded against a backdrop of too many stains on our collective humanity for any of those rituals to have been enough.

At our Seder here at Hevreh on Sunday night, I invited people to add to the biblical plagues and to remove a drop of wine for each of today’s modern afflictions.

Racism. Transphobia. Disinformation. Fascism. Antisemitism. The list went on. The threats facing the Jewish community are real and frightening. For those who saw the photos from the Pennsylvania Governor’s mansion following an act of domestic terrorism, the message was clear: hatred is alive, and we are not immune.But the story of Jewish liberation and Jewish safety is inextricably linked with the stories of threat that most immediately face our immigrant and migrant community members. To think otherwise is to be fooled by the claim that the detention and deportation without due process will make us safer. It won’t, not even when those under threat have criticised Israel, or spoken out against the war in Gaza. And in the clearest terms possible: It is so much worse than that.

Tonight, we have both a duty and a need to name this moment for what it is—in the hope that we might find the strength and resilience it demands. One of the voices I turn to in such times is John Pavlovitz, a writer and former pastor. This week he wrote: “If your church won’t speak out about a deported father (and thousands more like him), it may as well cancel Easter.”

So here’s our version:

We have no business marking this day as yom tov—as a good day, a holy day—if we don't talk about what’s really happening. Passover, Zman Cherutenu, the time of our freedom, demands more than recitation. It demands relevance.

This year, Pesach has felt all too real. The symbols and stories of suffering and liberation aren’t just metaphors—they’re mirrors. We don’t need to open a Haggadah to see what happens when power is used without compassion, and the vulnerable are left to suffer.

It’s happening before our eyes.

As citizens are sent to ICE detention centers.

As a president refuses a Supreme Court demand to return a man unlawfully deported to a death prison in El Salvador.

As graduate students are pulled off the streets of Boston and New York and disappeared.

Disappeared. Now, a verb— now, spoken of hundreds of people, in the past tense as though these human beings are in the past tense.

Last week, I shared a teaching by Avraham Infeld, who said: “History asks “what happened?”. Memory asks, “who am I supposed to be because of what happened?”

Passover lives in that tension. We start with history—and we end with memory. That’s why we say Yizkor tonight.

We are living through unfolding history.

One day, our children and grandchildren will ask us:

What did you do?

And so we must ask ourselves:

Who are we supposed to be, because of what is happening?

I know many of us are overwhelmed. I know that paying attention feels like it could break your heart (maybe there’s a reason that the Hebrew for “pay attention” is simu lev, literally— put your heart on it.) But we cannot afford the luxury of looking away.Thankfully, Jewish tradition was made for moments like this. The words, values, ethics, and stories of our people can help us to understand the gravity of what we are witnessing, offer us practical ways of acting, and gird us with tools for hope and resilience.

So what does it tell us?

It tells us how to pack for a hard journey.

The Torah portion for the seventh day of Passover is Beshalach—the Israelites arriving at the Sea of Reeds. Before the sea splits, before freedom is won, we are given a packing list.

First, Moses brings Joseph’s bones, honoring an ancient promise. They represent history and obligation—our reasons for walking forward.

Second, Miriam brings her timbrel. Even in chaos, she packs joy. Because joy and song are not luxuries; they are fuel.

Third, the people pack unleavened bread. Matzah. A reminder that even meager sustenance can carry us.

But the story begins even earlier—with resistance.

The Passover story doesn’t start at the sea, or even with the plagues. It begins in quiet resistance, with a quiet, but resolute refusal to comply with unjust orders made by a cruel ruler. With Shifra and Puah—the midwives who refused Pharaoh’s decree. Because of them, Moses is born. Their defiance was both spiritual and legal.

Jewish law embraces the principledina d’malchuta dina—the law of the land is binding—but only when it is just. Our tradition teaches that laws must apply equally and must not contradict the spirit of Torah. When they do, they do not hold.

Right now, the law of the land is at odds with the law of Torah, which tells us—no fewer than 36 times—not to oppress the stranger. And so, we must resist.

As Cory Booker said at the end of his 25-hour speech a few weeks ago: “The power of the people is always greater than the people in power.”

We are descendants of those who knew that resistance is a sacred obligation. We must become the kind of ancestors who answer the call of this moment.

This week, Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg shared something she calls The Good Trouble Checklist. It includes over 20 concrete ways to make a difference—but they all boil down to three essential principles:

Start with the basics. Learn. Understand. Ask: who’s already doing this work? Where can I help? Educated engagement is empowered engagement.
Build community. Invite people in. Share meals. Create spaces that are safe and sacred. Stay connected. Talk to each other.
Resist. Fight against fascism and the dismantling of democracy.

Yes, it’s a lot. But our circle of obligation extends beyond our neighbors—to those on the margins- the stranger, the widow, the orphan. And we must not look away.

Next Thursday, we’ll observe Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day). For nearly 80 years, our people have proclaimed “Never Again,” and just as the Passover story did not simply begin at the Red Sea, neither did the systematic extermination of millions of people begin with Auschwitz. It began with apathy and dehumanization. With the erosion of law and dignity.

This week, I was reminded of the words of a 14-year-old girl:

"Terrible things are happening outside… poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes. Families are torn apart… Children come home from school to find that their parents have disappeared." —Anne Frank, January 13, 1943

Disappeared.

The parallels should horrify us.

We are morally obligated to see what is happening—and not to turn away.

I know this feels heavy.

But our tradition is heavier—and it can hold us.

I want to leave you with a story from our congregant Ilana Steinhauer, Executive Director of VIM. Last night was the first bond hearing for one of the two brothers taken by ICE in Monterey. Ilana shared with me this morning:

“Resistance and resilience matter. It makes a difference—and it took many hands. Community orgs in Great Barrington do this work every day. Trusted lawyers in Boston took the case. The family received financial support. Letters were written. Rides were offered. A volunteer sat on Zoom for 6 hours to bear witness. Another stepped forward to pay the bond. Today, he comes home. His brother’s case is next. We need to do what we have the power to do, even when we don’t know the outcome. We cannot stop. We don’t have the luxury of being tired.”

There are so many good people doing sacred work in this difficult time. I’m grateful to be in community with them—with you.

And so I leave you with one final nechemta—one final note of comfort.

There’s one more piece of the Passover story worth remembering:

Redemption can come in an instant.

The Israelites didn’t know the sea would split. They didn’t know freedom was coming. And then—it did. The rabbis call it Yeshuat Adonai k’cheref ayin—God’s salvation in the blink of an eye.

That is the essence of Passover: hope.

We hold on. We fight. We believe.

Because we never know when the winds will shift, the sea will part, and freedom will come rushing in.

May it come soon.

In the blink of an eye.