Turning Hearts

הִנֵּ֤ה אָנֹכִי֙ שֹׁלֵ֣חַ לָכֶ֔ם אֵ֖ת אֵלִיָּ֣ה הַנָּבִ֑יא לִפְנֵ֗י בּ֚וֹא י֣וֹם יְהֹוָ֔ה הַגָּד֖וֹל וְהַנּוֹרָֽא׃
וְהֵשִׁ֤יב לֵב־אָבוֹת֙ עַל־בָּנִ֔ים וְלֵ֥ב בָּנִ֖ים עַל־אֲבוֹתָ֑ם פֶּן־אָב֕וֹא וְהִכֵּיתִ֥י אֶת־הָאָ֖רֶץ חֵֽרֶם׃

“Behold: I will send to you Elijah the Prophet
before the great and tremendous day of the Eternal comes.
He shall turn the hearts of parents to their children,
and the hearts of children to their parents,
lest I will come and smite the land with destruction.”

(Malachi 3:23-24)

–

Passover has always been my favorite holiday, mostly because of the Seder. Growing up, my grandparents would host our family Seder. We would set up a huge table with assigned seating, and we would go through a Haggadah that they had pieced together over the years, cutting and pasting readings and rituals from various sources. My aunt would play guitar and we would sing late into the night. My grandmother would make matzo ball soup, my mother would make brisket. As a child, I thought there were at least 100 people at these Seders, full of everyone I had ever met. My mother recently told me it was closer to 30 people, but I maintain that it felt so full of life and energy, they should each count as at least three people. We were all so excited to be there, participating in the ritual of retelling our story, surrounded by those we love.

This year will be more challenging than most for many Jewish families. Putting aside the cruel irony of celebrating liberation and freedom while hostages remain in Gaza, that there will be families in Israel with more than just Elijah’s chair painfully empty, we know that there are also families with empty chairs, missing family members, for another reason.

I have heard some parents and grandparents express a feeling of betrayal from their adult children or grandchildren, or a sense that they failed as Jewish parents. I have heard from some of those same adult children, members of my generation or younger, that they feel unwelcome in Jewish spaces, even their own families’ Seder tables, due to their views on the ongoing conflict. 

This is not a sermon in which I intend to argue for or against either position, nor do I intend to repair the divide between them. It’s not, and I can’t. I am not Elijah, sent to bring the hearts of parents to their children and children to their parents.

Jews have engaged in the seder ritual through some horrific times in history. When I was a child, my family added a “modern plagues” section to our Seder. We would enumerate the biblical plagues that befell Egypt, removing drops of wine from our cups, being careful not to lick the excess off of our fingers. Then, we would go around the table and name the contemporary hardships faced by humanity. Despite the holiday celebrating freedom, we never had a shortage of modern plagues. Hurricanes, wars, pandemics, terrorism, discrimination, oppression… And yet, through sickness and evil, we still read the Haggadah every year, just as our ancestors did. As the Hagaddah teaches, V’hi sh’amda laavoteinu v’imoteinu v’lanu – “It has stood for our ancestors and still it stands for us.” 

This year feels different. Of course, every year and in every generation, there are disagreements and the need to put our opinions on hold for the sake of shalom bayit, keeping peace in the home, coming together in our tradition, but with some families’ generations feeling not only divided but diametrically opposed, I am wondering how we do that. How do we put aside these glaring contradictions to celebrate freedom when a fundamental part of our freedom, Israel, sits at the center of the chasm? 

In the case of Moses, his story moves forward when he physically turns. In his early adulthood, he comes upon an Egyptian taskmaster beating an Israelite slave. He turns about, sees nobody, and acts, striking down the Egyptian. He runs into exile in Midian, where he becomes a shepherd. One day, while tending to the flock, he turns to notice a bush, burning without being without being consumed. Here, he receives the call to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. 

If we are to turn toward family - children to parents and parents to children - do we in some way bring healing, bring honor, bring light into what could be a divided and painful holiday? Can we value our emphasis on l’dor vador – generation to generation – while feeling disillusioned, even betrayed, by one another? If we focus on tradition, can that bring us back together?

As we read in this week’s Haftarah, “I will send to you Elijah the Prophet before the great and tremendous day of the Eternal comes. He shall turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the hearts of children to their parents” (Malachai 3:23-24).

Those words, the pronouncement of Elijah as the harbinger of intergenerational peace and the end of days, come from the end of the book of Malachi, which we read as the special Haftarah for Shabbat Hagadol, the Shabbat immediately preceding Passover. It offers us not only hope for reconciliation but also a veritable proof text for some objectively weird Passover traditions – leaving a chair open and a glass of wine on the table, opening the door for Elijah. These traditions are not biblical or even Talmudic. They arose in the 11th century, the idea being that Passover is a time of redemption, and Elijah embodies redemption as the precursor to the Messiah, ergo, Elijah gets a seat at the table.

In the Reform Movement, however, we have long since eschewed belief or ritual surrounding a Messiah, a singular redeemer who will bring about the World to Come. Rather, we are collectively called upon to redeem the world ourselves; to practice Tikkun HaOlam, the repair of the world. And yet, we still open the door for Elijah. 

The ritual and tradition of the Passover seder has the power to bring us together, to reconcile the generations. We don’t need Elijah to come – we simply need to choose to come together to open the door.

Ultimately, we choose to turn in or pull apart. Generally, there is no regret in choosing to lean in. Making this choice does not mean we agree or condone. It means we choose family. We choose love. We choose tradition. We choose each other.

Shabbat Shalom, and Chag Sameach.