It would have been sufficient

Passover is my favorite holy day of the year, by a substantial margin: the story of the Exodus, the providence of God, the analogy to Christ’s own sacrifice – contemplating a whole series of miracles like a divine Great Escape. During one portion of the Haggadah, the leader goes through a series of “If God had only … but not” statements, to which everyone replies “Dayenu” or “it would have been sufficient”.

I wish I had this graceful a response to God’s involvement in my life. More often than not, my response is “are you serious? Why this any not that?” But if there is one great takeaway from Judaism I’ve gleaned in the past years, it is that God is God. If God had only rescued the Israelites from Egypt, but not judged them – it would have been sufficient. It would have been enough.

If God had only brought me to this point, but not blessed me in numerous ways – it would have been sufficient. If God had only blessed me with friends, family, but not a great job – it would have been sufficient.

And what have I been passed over from this year? Every year, this is something I’ve considered. Some years, it was a difficult school, or frustration at my inability to communicate or socialize properly, or a lack of faith, or simply a sense of lacking direction. And these things don’t necessarily disappear, eradicated in a moment in the ritual of wine, bitterness, festivity, medication, sanctification, and companionship. But it’s as if the bitterness has been lifted from me, transformed. My cup was not as full, for each of the pains endured, but the angel of death will pass over me – the sacrifice has been made.

threshold beneath the orchard leaves,

columns of trees and barrow mounds,

white blossoms, a secret garden

of lost and found where shadows hide

and sunlight's golden threads tie errant hearts

down in this labyrinthine trap of branches -

can you smell the sandalwood, 

the cedar, the hazelnuts before the fletching

and sharpened arrowhead make a nest

in your chest and it hurts like love

or death or splinters would

Pesach

Because, of course, the combination of horseradish, wine, and dense meats that have cycled into my gut are, in some fashion, alien, I'm struggling to sleep - here I am writing. When at all possible, I avoid wine, because it tastes bitter, and I despise bitterness (beer, wine, chocolate, coffee, etc). So this holiday hits me worse than most, due to its ceaseless influx of wine into my baby belly, and the violent partaking of bitter herb which ravages my sinuses and mauls my stomach.
Anything that tastes this bad should be outlawed, right? But so should slavery, so it is the weakest of analogies, and grants some tiny, infinitesimal perspective on the horror that is slavery, and the memory of redemption, and its cost.
But I'm glad of friends, feasts, and remembrance, even of events that transpired long before my birth, long before my parent's parent's births.  There is something fascinating about legacy, and the Jewish legacy in particular, and I feel like I'm reclining with Yeshua at the table, right there beside Thomas, breaking unrisen bread while my stomach is churns with a precognizant warning of the terrors of the impending night. And I'm sitting here in my comfortable world saying, oh Lord oh Lord, please take this cup from me, and I'm not even about to be crucified. I'm actually praying about each literal cup.
And now I'm tipsy tipsy from tippling too much and being in the weight class of puppies, and sleep is evasive. I would watch the moon, but I fear being locked out; I would count sheep, but my stomach wants no mention of sheep at this juncture, thank-you-very-much, though it was delicious.
And so I just lie here, staring at the ceiling lit by the passing cars in the street beneath, wondering whether my stomach is the mortar and my diaphragm the pestle, or what sort of animal is bleating in my gut, complaining about not being passed over. But sleep is not coming.

Thank you friends, for coming. And happy passover to everyone. Remember.