Why on this Night?

Passover seders can be tedious, so I am careful to attend only those conducted by like-minded folks who recite ancient words with a touch of cynicism and focus instead with the utmost orthodoxy on the more important rituals of food and drink.

Every year, for as long as I can remember, I have attended a seder at an old friend's house in Deerfield, where I raised my children. Other invitees come and go, but I have become a constant, along with a rotating assortment of my own family members. This year, our numbers were particularly small, but, as always, the gefilte fish was delicious and the pinot noir (no Manischewitz in sighti) was plentiful. And, as always, I gorged myself on my friend's butter soaked lemon chicken, picking at the leftovers in the kitchen while the others salivated over Grandma Cissy's homemade "I can't believe these are kosher-for- Passover" desserts.

Rituals keep us grounded, even when there are more than a fair share of absentees. Only one of our six children was present, with the others scattered, literally, across the globe. It was all right though; that one representative was enough to conjure up several lifetimes of shared history, to repeat the same ridiculous stories and still find them funny, to maintain sufficient irreverence and disruption to keep us from getting too wrapped up in the grave meaning of the holiday.

This year, we paused for a new ritual. The rain delay at Wrigley Field proved auspicious; between the meal and the closing prayers, we sat and watched the Cubs raise their World Series Championship flag. Fitting, really, on the night of the first seder, to celebrate the triumphant end to such a long and arduous journey. It was odd, watching these giddy young men, most of them younger than at least two of my own children, celebrate what so randomly binds them together and to us. A new ritual for so many of us to share, conjuring up collective images of ancient agony and joy, hope and despair. It was hard not to get caught up in it — unless you happened to be playing for the other team on this particular opening night.

It’s hard for me not to get caught up in Passover, no matter how irreverent I think I am. Cops directing traffic outside the local grocery store; an odd influx of Jews into the local liquor store; bumper to bumper traffic on roads that connect pockets of Jewish suburbs. My favorite lemon chicken, and an odd ritual meal that always seems to include at least a handful of Gentiles. Shared beginnings, and shared history. Even with a diminished crowd, our universe expands.