This Passover doesn’t have to be lonely

Even on one’s own, a seder can be fulfilling,

Lately, I’ve felt like the Beatles’ Father Mckenzie, “Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; no one comes near.” Our synagogues are shuttered, our schools have closed, and we are sequestered in our homes.

Truthfully, the sermons and lessons have been heard, through online outreach pre-recorded services, live video classes, and more. We have learned to reconstitute our congregation as a virtual community. For the time being, our sanctuary is not the centre of our worship; now, we connect through laptops and phones — the Temple of Zoom, as some have coined.

The holiday of Passover presents a new challenge. We’ve learned, over these past weeks, to adapt and deliver our faith offering directly to our members’ homes; what, though, can we do with the Passover seder, which relies on a dynamic now verboten: the intermingling of multigenerational families around the Passover table?

For many, Passover will be lonely. The seder — the experience that includes a series of texts, rituals and foods — is based on the verse in the Book of Exodus, “And you shall tell your child on that day.” This simple commandment has evolved into a tradition of large family gatherings, with a plethora of guests and an elaborate meal. But this year, we will sit alone, each household celebrating by itself.

Once, I was alone for the seder. It was a few hours after my newborn daughter arrived home, 14 years ago. She is our firstborn, and I could not wait to sit with my family — now we were three — and tell my daughter the story of the Jews.

Even though a one-day-old child wouldn’t understand a word, I wanted to share my own Passover memories: the taste and texture of my great-grandmother’s kneidlach, the perfumed smell of grandparents’ homes, the sound of my grandfather enthusiastically singing the songs.

I wanted to tell my newborn child how much the Jewish people have sacrificed for this holiday: the stories of secretive seders while hiding from the Roman oppressors who had decreed such gatherings illegal; of hidden matzo ovens in Poland, where bakers would prepare the ritual unleavened bread even as the German occupiers patrolled right outside; of the Union soldier who, during the American Civil War, was invited as a guest to a Confederate family’s seder; of the sacrifice and resourcefulness of those who celebrated Passover, at the risk of their lives, while imprisoned and impoverished in the concentration camps.

I couldn’t wait to share this Passover meal with my child. But do you know what oneday old children do? They sleep. And my wife, one day removed from delivery, took our child to bed. There is a classic Jewish saying: Man plans, and God laughs. I sat alone at the table. I sang the songs, read the texts and ate the food. And it was really special.

As I sat alone, I imagined my ancestors joining me — those I hadn’t seen or embraced in years suddenly found seats around my table. I imagined what my future seders might be like, and how I would tell our story to my children — and maybe, one day, grandchildren. I was alone, but certainly not lonely.

This year, there will be no robust Passover seders, the kind that created such strong memories for me. Ah, look at all the lonely people. But my experience taught me that it doesn’t have to be lonely. Even on one’s own, a seder can be filled with learning and song and food and positivity; it can lead us to better appreciate those whom we miss, and to remember those who sometimes return to us when we have a quiet moment to reflect.

Next year, we will be together again. And when future generations tell the story of Passover, perhaps they will recount that one Passover when we were isolated from each other, but managed to keep it together.

We have learned to reconstitute our congregation as a virtual community.