The Seder

Memoir II Place
The Seder
Karen Durand
July 15, 2008


A single event caught my eye on April 25th. It was the observance of the Jewish Passover or Seder on a cruise ship. All a ship's traveler need do to attend was sign up. I gave my name at the reception desk and thought about wearing my silk and sequined dress.
At seven that evening about twenty five people gathered in a small private room on an upper deck. Round tables were set with the ship’s customary white linen table cloths and napkins. Fresh flowers brought the scent of a garden while we sailed at sea. What made this setting different from the main dining rooms was ornate silver trays filled with ceremonial portions of parsley, sweet apples and raisins, and pungent horseradish. Crystal glasses held Kosher wine. The care that the ship took with the preparations made me think that this was, in the words of the Seder, “ a night different from all
the other nights."

I sat down at a table for eight, joining people from the States. Introductions went around and when a man learned that I once lived in Woburn, Massachusetts, he was delighted to ask, “So you know my cousin, Sammy Fleischman! He owns Bond Shoes.”
No, I didn’t know Sammy, although I had bought many pairs of shoes from his store. Perhaps I should have known him, but I wasn't being honest.

As the light conversation continued, people talked about trips to Israel and their local temples. Men wore dark suits and Yarmulkas; the women were dressed in their best and adorned with lavish gold jewlery and diamonds. While my silk dress was appropriate, it was obvious to me that I made a mistake at the introductions. I wasn’t Jewish, and for some reason, I didn’t mention it when we exchanged names. Later, the timing never seemed right. I couldn’t come out and say, “By the way, I’m Christian.” Perhaps I was afraid they would ask if I ever contributed to Jews for Jesus. (I had.) I really liked these people and had many Jewish frinds. That is why I signed up for the dinner. I wanted to be with them in community, and not as an outsider, so I stayed silent.

When a few other couples came to the Seder, I was asked to move to another table. The new tablemates were all from Israel. They spoke English to me, of course, but the conversation was a little different. Now we were talking about families living on a Kibbutz and strict rabbis. I was surprised to learn that orthodox teenagers weren't allowed to go to rock concerts in Tel Aviv because boys and girls sat together.

When it was time to for the Seder to begin, the Haggadah, or booklet of liturgy, was given to everyone. I was relieved to see that it was written in both Hebrew and English and felt semi secure knowing that one starts at the back of the book. I had been to Seders in the homes of friends, and my church had often done teaching Passover meals. This will be authentic and even familiar, I thought.

The rabbi who wore and dark suit and a yalmakawelcomed us. “Tonight everyone will share in reading the story and prayers. We’ll begin with the table on my right.” That was where I was sitting, with the Israelis. The first six people who stood up read in Hebrew. I was motified as my turn to read came closer and closer. There was nothing to do but to read in English. I did, and the ship didn’t crash into Peruvian rocks, although I thought it might. And to my great relief, the folks at the next table from the US continued reading in English as well.

Together we observed the traditions of three thousand years and remembered God’s deliverance of the Jews from bondage in Egypt and his presence through history. Wine, the fruit of the vine, represents God’s blessing of his people. At one place in the ceremony, each person dipped his finger in the glass and left a drop on his plate to remember the plagues of Egypt and the tears. Matzohs, or unleavened bread, was taken to recall the haste in which the Israelites left their homes on the night of the first Passover.

We tasted the condiments on the silver trayas well. I followed the lead of everyone at the table and felt comfortable hearing the familiar story told. After taking some horseradish from the tray and putting it on matzohs, the man next to me, who spoke little, asked if I liked it. Wanting to be a good guest and eager to please, I said, “Oh, yes! I love it.” It wasn't a favorite taste, but it's peppery sharpness didn't bring tears to my eyes

He answered indignently in his thick accent, “Ve do not like ze beeter herbs! Zese represents our pain and suffering for zo many years.” I thought of the Holocaust, persecutions, and pogroms which the Jews have known. Whatever ease I had was gone, in its place was the same anxiety I felt not knowing Jewish families in my hometown.

Following the ceremony, a traditional dinner with roasted chicken was served. The cruise ship kitchen did not disappoint. The chicken was golden brown and juicy. We all tucked in enjoying fresh vegetables and salad as well. Taking pleasure in the meal put us on common ground. They talked about their children and grandchildren in Tel Aviv; I told them about mine in Charleston along with our having the first synagogue in America. Dessert didn’t disappoint anyone. It was macaroon cookies, sweet with almond, just what would have been served at home.

After coffee everyone joined in singing. Most tunes sounded like lively folksongs. Some of the “li, li, li" choruses slipped into rousing hand clapping that went on and on. I noticed that the man at my table, who had little to say, loved to sing! I was able to join the chorus of “Dayanu”, but I had to mouth the words to the verses and all of the other songs.

When the last note had been sung and no one could eat another bite, it was announced that we would gather for a photograph. As everyone stood close to one another and smiled, the woman next to me said, “This is just like family!”
I knew what she meant. Here were people who found each other among strangers aboard ship to celebrate a tradition together. They shared the same heritage and faith, a bond that easily unites. But it wasn’t my family, and I felt a little sad.

After saying good-by to everyone, I went to the last show of the evening in the ship’s Starlight Theater. An Italian pianist was performing when I found a seat in the light show illuminating the stage. He had all the flair of Liberace. Popular tunes were pounded out with eight finger chords as his hands raced up and down the keyboard. There in the medley I heard Amazing Grace. As he improvised the old hymn, memories of the song sung from baptisms to funerals flooded back. I realized that the theology of these words is who I am in the world stew of faith. Tonight I was a visitor at the Seder, and here, four thousand miles from Mt. Pleasant, in this hymn, rests my true home.