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The 2018 Plague of Darkness #522

01/22/2018 11:11:01 PM

Jan22

The 2018 Plague of Darkness

      Hello darkness, my old friend;

                  I've come to talk with you again.

                                             Paul Simon, 'Sounds of Silence'

There are many traditions at the Passover table for marking the Ten Plagues that befell the Egyptians during the times of Jewish slavery.

What is your tradition? Are you a pinky dipper? Are you a spiller? Do you tap with a knife?

The debate over how to mark these ten miracles dates back more than eight hundred years. It was my maternal grandfather, Zaidie Nissan, who taught me a unique method, and it's one which inspires me to this day.

At our home Seder, about fifty-five years ago, I clearly remember watching Zaidie as he used a fork.

"Zaidie," I asked, "why are you using a fork? I think that might be wrong."

"Grandson," said Zaidie, turning to me, "using a fork is the right way for me. When I dip my fork into the wine, and then tap it on my plate, it creates four drops. Those are the tears of suffering. And whenever there is suffering, I suffer too."

And from that Pesach on, in Zaidie's honor, we mark the plagues with a downturned fork. And I remember. Whenever there is suffering, we suffer too.

Zaidie was, in many ways, a social activist. And he never stopped praying for those who suffered - even those who caused him pain.

These days, in our quest to make Passover more interesting, and perhaps more entertaining, we look for new ways to mark the Ten Plagues. 

At our synagogue's communal Seder, we cover the tables with plastic frogs or little red stickers that look like boils, or we throw a handful of packing peanuts into the air to mark the plague of hail. 

For the most part, noting these plagues in 2018 is historic and symbolic. After all, plagues involving frogs, lice, and cattle disease rarely affect our fellow Americans.

But there is one plague which has not been resolved and it will continue to darken our souls until we as a society learn again to embrace its antidote.

This week in our Torah reading, we read the passage where Pharaoh and the Egyptians experience the final three plagues: those of locusts, darkness, and the death of the firstborn.

Ten plagues is a lot. At the Passover table, we recite them all, in chorus, sometimes struggling to keep up with the leader of the Seder, all the while passing drops of wine from our glasses to our plates.

By the time we get to the last three plagues, our plates are covered in sticky drops, and we're reciting, but we're not really paying attention anymore.

I think we can agree that western society has largely resolved the issue of locusts. The colossus of meaning behind the death of firstborn children requires more time than we have here.

But what about darkness?

The great Rabbi Yitzchak Meir of Ger (1799-1866) offered a different take on what the plague of darkness actually meant. He understood the verse "No man could see his brother" (Exodus 10:23) to be a description of humanity's obsession with their own needs, losing their sensitivity to the feelings and wellbeing of their fellow human beings.

Has much changed?

Nine hundred years ago, Judaism's most famous commentator, Rashi, argued that what made the plague of darkness so horrifying was that human beings lost the ability to recognize one another. This led to isolation, depression - ultimately, it deepened the darkness.

As I reviewed this week's Torah portion, I couldn't help but fast-forward to the issues of darkness, depression, and isolation plaguing us today.

We are more able to communicate with one another, and in more ways, than in any point in human history. As Evelyn Waugh put it, 'Science annihilates distance.' So why do so many of us feel more alone than ever? And why has the pursuit of justice - even the definition of justice - so divided us?

This is such a troubling time in our history. 

Isn't it interesting that in Psalm 105, the psalm which recounts the Ten Plagues, darkness is actually ranked first?

It recognizes that lack of empathy for another human being - the insistence that our point of view is correct, and another's is wrong, the inability to listen to the heartfelt concerns of others - was perhaps the most devastating plague.

Above all, our inability these days to listen, really listen, to another's point of view counters one of the Talmud's most important expressions. "Eilu v'Eilu Divrei Elohim Chayim: These and these are the words of the Living God."

It is fitting perhaps that this past Monday, the nation remembered Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and his fight to abolish a type of darkness which prevented so many from "recognizing each other."

In April 1963, as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. endured solitary confinement in a Birmingham jail, he noted that he never let darkness enter his soul. However misguided they were, he always chose to see the light in others.

As allies arrived to take up his cause, he wrote, "I don't know whether the sun was shining at that moment. But I do know that once again I could see the light."

Scholars tell us that the entire story of the Ten Plagues represents an assault on each of the ten major Egyptian gods. If that be so, let us cease to feed Apep, the Egyptian God of Darkness.

Rather than obsess over national events, or be drawn into the political plot of the day, let us covenant to spend more time with family. Let us do something constructive with our time. Let us perform mitzvoth. Let us do more good.

Perhaps this is the Shabbat that we turn off the television and give more time to those we love, and even those we disagree with. For each of us carries within a spark of God. Each of us is sacred.

The question is one for us to pose each day as we decide what to do with the remote control.  "Will we embrace light or will we feed darkness."

What is the best use of our limited time on earth? Is it rehashing hour after hour the events of the day, or is it about doing our part to heal a broken world?

Therein lies the light: the antidote to darkness.

As my Zaidie taught me, we cannot put our fork down until human suffering is overcome.

And I know deep in my heart, that Zaidie was right.

Shabbat Shalom, v'kol tuv.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman

Tue, November 26 2024 25 Cheshvan 5785