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March 25, 2023
Author(s): Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger,
Parashat Vayikra
March 25, 2023 — 3 Nissan 5783
Once Upon a Cruise Ship
Temple Emanuel, Newton, MA
How can you make sure to have the most meaningful and impactful Passover? Is it about preparation? The extent to which you clean out every cabinet and kasher your kitchen? Is it about the Seder itself—the Haggadah you choose and the activities you plan for the Seder?
In the spring of 2014, I was in my second year of rabbinical school and got a gig as a cruise-ship rabbi. Given that this was my first real gig as a rabbi, I was determined to create the most meaningful Passover experience ever. I researched for months leading up to Pesach and put together a folder of midrashim and teachings for every part of the Seder.
Little did I know what the cruise had in store for me.
I got to the boat on the afternoon of the first night of Passover and was instructed to check in at the Entertainment Office. I remember knocking on the door and introducing myself as the rabbi for the cruise. The staff stared at me incredulously. “Don’t you need a….” every one of them began miming a beard, unsure of how to discuss the shock of seeing a woman when they expected to see an orthodox man.
An hour before the Seder was set to begin, I was led upstairs to the Seder function room. Unlike the Seder space of my dreams, this one was wedged in between the Casino, the bar, and the outdoor pool. As waiters hurried to set up Seder Plates and cutlery, a steady stream of guests in bikinis paraded through the dining hall to reach the bar, dripping pool water on the floor, kids had tantrums being dragged away from the water, and everything was punctuated by the electronic doors of the Casino which emitted obnoxious electronic music from the machines and poofs of cigarette smoke. No, there was no alternate space for the Seder. The crew assured me that this is where they always host the Seder and that they would close the bar when we started.
Noticing the traditional Seder Plates, I asked the staff to bring oranges for every plate in honor of feminism and as a stand against homophobia. I couldn’t wait to introduce everyone on board to these traditions.
Then, as the guests began arriving for the Seder, the boat took off from the dock. At first, there was barely any perceptible movement, but as the Seder got going, there was a distinct and unmistakable rocking. I discovered to my dismay that I was getting seasick. I clung to the wall at the back of the room, trying to hold it together and to lead the kind of Seder I had prepared for.
But I was not at all prepared for what happened next. As we read through the first paragraphs, oranges started to roll. There wasn’t a cut-out space for them on the seder plate and with the rocking ship, they were sliding side to side on the tables, knocking down glassware and dumping wine everywhere. Angry passengers yelled out, “who put oranges on the Seder plate?! They don’t belong there!” As I witnessed the destruction, it didn’t seem like a good time to share that oranges are a symbol of feminism and a stand against homophobia. I just clung to the wall.
Then they brought out the soup course. I remember that there were guests from all over the world, and everyone seemed to seat themselves according to countries of origin. There was a table of Australians, a table of Americans and Canadians, a table of Germans and another table of Poles, and the table closest to me was filled with English Jews.
Once the soup course was served, an English woman in front of me took a delicate spoonful and exclaimed, “oh, this is just not right! Oh no, this is just not right!” It turns out the largely Indonesian and Filipino crew members had made what they thought was a super authentic matzah ball soup, but instead of matzah balls, they had put in balls of gefilte fish.
Somehow, the Seder went downhill from there.
After the mortification I experienced during the Passover Seder, I wanted to hide away in my cabin. But Passover had only just begun, and I began to learn the lesson that would transform my Passover experience from there on out.
Onboard were 200 Germans travelling together. The first day of Passover, a woman from the trip was brought over to my breakfast table by cruise staff. They explained that she wanted to talk to the rabbi onboard. She didn’t speak English well and began to cry almost as soon as she saw me. Then, with the help of someone from her group, in very broken English, she shared how sorry she was for what her people did to my people. For the rest of the trip, Germans found me almost every day to ask questions about Judaism and my life, and to apologize over and over for what their ancestors had done.
I spoke with a man from Ireland, who talked about growing up amidst intense violence and stepping over bodies to get to school. He talked about how religion had ruined the lives of everyone around him and about how he created a meaningful spirituality of his own as an adult, free from the pains of his childhood.
And there was a dad who used to find me every morning at breakfast to ask questions. He wasn’t Jewish, but during his struggle with alcoholism, he had discovered kabbalah—you know, the Madonna red-ribbon kind, and it had helped him through his recovery. He shared about his journey and on the last day of the cruise asked me what I thought about him getting a tattoo that would say “I am” in Hebrew. I tried not to laugh as I explained why that might be problematic. (In Hebrew, you can say I, or you can say I am tired, or I am sleepy, or I am going, but there’s no way to say simply “I am”)
The more time I spent on the boat, the more I realized that Passover is much more than the experience at the Seder table. Every year, we are instructed to see ourselves as if we ourselves walked out of Egypt and through the parted waters to freedom. בכל דור ודור חייו אדם לראות את עצמו כאלו הוא יצא ממצרים. But the truth is, it’s not enough to see ourselves as if we were included in that ancient story of liberation at the Seder table. The real work of Passover is to uncover the small moments of liberation that happen for us in our daily lives and to share those with others on a regular basis.
Young people who are struggling in school need to hear stories about your struggles in middle school with bullies or with difficult assignments. Young people need to hear moments that you failed, moments that you worked hard, and the moment when despite it all you found yourself and found your career.
Singles who yearn for their life partners need to hear stories of bad dates and loneliness that eventually led to connection and to love.
Those who are struggling with fertility challenges need to hear stories of those who have struggled before them, they need to know that liberation is possible and there are many ways to get to the miracle of a family.
The list goes on.
When you are sick, you want to know stories of people who’ve recovered from what ails you.
When you are depressed, you want to know the stories of people who’ve emerged fro depressions and found new joy.
When you are mourning, you want to hear the story of grief and how it might one day loosen its hold.
Our stories of liberation are too important to wait for Passover. That’s why our daily liturgy demands that we recite the Song of the Sea before we begin our mornings. That’s why Exodus is included in our daily prayers—because it’s not enough to celebrate liberation on Passover, we must celebrate our liberation and share our stories of liberation every single day.
Which brings me back to that fateful Passover Seder on the boat.
In the midst of electronic music and parades of wet bathing suits and screaming children, after the oranges broke glassware and the gefilte fish was served in soup, we somehow made our way through the Seder. After the last song, I turned to the Indonesian and Filipino crew members who had supported us through the Seder and was surprised to see tears in their eyes. I asked them why they were crying. This big, 6-foot-tall motorcycle-riding Indonesian man said to me, “it’s just so beautiful. Hearing your story of how your people made it through, and how you celebrate now, that just gives me hope.”
This year, before you get to your Seder, ask everyone to share a moment of liberation. Make your maggid a story of what happened then, of what’s happening now, and a reminder that the future has more potential than we could ever imagine.