The coming of spring, and our festival of Passover, brings with it a feeling of renewal.
There is a prevalent theme in Judaism that even on your happiest occasions you remember loss—and even in those moments of loss, you look for joy and renewal. There is this constant notion that in life we can hold sadness and happiness at the same time, that one begets the other.
It is the reason you smash the glass at a wedding or leave a corner of your new home unfinished. Even on our most joyful occasions, these traditions remind us of the pain and destruction our people have faced in the past.
Similarly, when someone dies, we say “may their memory be a blessing” because there is this incredible idea that in those moments of profound loss we have to carry on living and find what gives us joy and hope.
Spring is exactly that pivotal season. We move from the cold and dark of winter to a rebirth of our earth and the real hope and excitement of new life blossoming. The days are brighter and warmer with unfurling leaves, colourful blooms, and gorgeous birdsong.
It is in this season that we sit around the Seder table and recount our Passover story. The moment when the Red Sea parts and makes way for the Israelites to cross, before the water returns and drowns the Egyptians, brings with it the thrill of redemption.
But even in this moment of celebration, when the Jews were freed from slavery, God (in the Midrash) scolds the angels for singing, because God’s creatures are dying. At the same time, God doesn’t tell the Jewish people off, as there is a recognition that even in moments of loss one still has to be glad for the things that are.
During the Seder—while we talk of freedom throughout—the food we eat is the salt water of tears, the charoset of cement, and the maror of the bitterness of slavery.
Again, even in our moments of happiness, we also remember pain and loss. The Seder is designed this way to make us think about the responsibility of what being free really means.
Judaism exists in this contrast.
You only know what loss is because you’ve loved. You only know what loneliness is because you’ve had friendships. You only know the value of life because there is death.
Our challenge is to continuously notice and appreciate the sparks of hope and the moments of joy in the everyday.
For us, as Jews, acknowledging these contrasts shouldn’t only come once a year on Passover but every week on Shabbat. This affords us the ability to take time to reflect on both our sadness and our joy.
The coming of spring, and our festival of Passover, brings with it a feeling of renewal.
There is a prevalent theme in Judaism that even on your happiest occasions you remember loss—and even in those moments of loss, you look for joy and renewal. There is this constant notion that in life we can hold sadness and happiness at the same time, that one begets the other.
It is the reason you smash the glass at a wedding or leave a corner of your new home unfinished. Even on our most joyful occasions, these traditions remind us of the pain and destruction our people have faced in the past.
Similarly, when someone dies, we say “may their memory be a blessing” because there is this incredible idea that in those moments of profound loss we have to carry on living and find what gives us joy and hope.
Spring is exactly that pivotal season. We move from the cold and dark of winter to a rebirth of our earth and the real hope and excitement of new life blossoming. The days are brighter and warmer with unfurling leaves, colourful blooms, and gorgeous birdsong.
It is in this season that we sit around the Seder table and recount our Passover story. The moment when the Red Sea parts and makes way for the Israelites to cross, before the water returns and drowns the Egyptians, brings with it the thrill of redemption.
But even in this moment of celebration, when the Jews were freed from slavery, God (in the Midrash) scolds the angels for singing, because God’s creatures are dying. At the same time, God doesn’t tell the Jewish people off, as there is a recognition that even in moments of loss one still has to be glad for the things that are.
During the Seder—while we talk of freedom throughout—the food we eat is the salt water of tears, the charoset of cement, and the maror of the bitterness of slavery.
Again, even in our moments of happiness, we also remember pain and loss. The Seder is designed this way to make us think about the responsibility of what being free really means.
Judaism exists in this contrast.
You only know what loss is because you’ve loved. You only know what loneliness is because you’ve had friendships. You only know the value of life because there is death.
Our challenge is to continuously notice and appreciate the sparks of hope and the moments of joy in the everyday.
For us, as Jews, acknowledging these contrasts shouldn’t only come once a year on Passover but every week on Shabbat. This affords us the ability to take time to reflect on both our sadness and our joy.