Who knows chametz?

The Passover tradition is to clean all chametz (leavened products) out of the kitchen, out of the house, out of the car, out of our lives. The time between Purim and Passover is spent fulfilling this commandment. Or procrastinating it. Or arguing with it. I’m mainly in the latter two clubs. Partly that’s because I didn’t grow up in a traditionally observant home, and I literally don’t know how to clean chametz. As with all things Jewish, there’s a way to do it — actually several — and they are all well-grounded in sacred texts and interpretations of sacred texts. It seems entirely possible to swim for so long in this ocean of text and argument that Shavuot comes before you’ve figured out what the hell you’re doing. Furthermore, there’s a whole raft of complicated points and counterpoints as to what exactly constitutes chametz. And if something isn’t chametz but could possibly be confused with chametz, some people clean it out so that they don’t accidentally make a mistake. (Although if you’ve cleaned out the proper chametz — according to your definition or tradition — what would there be to confuse it with?)

Why it might matter, though

The consequence of having chametz during Passover is not that G-d will exact punishment. Rather it is that the person who has chametz will be separated from the community. I interpret that to mean that the person who doesn’t clean out chametz might not be able to receive visitors, because the visitors would be uncomfortable in a chametzy house. It’s not actually an all-or-nothing, but rather that the intersection of two families’ differing practices can be a hard place to be. And worry about whether I’m kosher-enough-for-Passover can make me hesitant to invite the people I might want to invite. That, too, is a way of being separated from the community.

You are what you…have?

As I understand it, the law is about not eating chametz. The tradition is about not having chametz in one’s house. Some people symbolically sell their chametz for the duration of Passover, so that even though it might remain in their home, it is considered someone else’s property and therefore not to be touched. That’s all fine and good, but one year, my (non-Jewish) friend’s husband had surgery during Passover. I wanted to cook a meal for them, something comforting, and I settled on soup and bread. I didn’t eat the chametz but I was quite happy to prepare it for my friend, because I felt that was what would be most helpful in their situation. I chose the mitzvah of bikkur cholim over the mitzvah of keeping Pesach, and I’m glad I did.

Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav taught, “True devotion consists mainly of simplicity and sincerity. Pray much, study much Torah, do many good deeds, do not worry yourself with unnecessary restrictions. Just follow the way of our forefathers. ‘The Torah was not given to the ministering angels.'”

The conclusion, for now

It’s no secret I’m not much for housework. What I’m also realizing is that, at least for now, I’m more a spirit of the law kind of person than a letter of the law kind of person. Every time I contemplated cleaning for Pesach, I asked myself what G-d wanted in my cupboards.  The answers always came back metaphorical.  I think G-d wants me to clean out fear, self-doubt, voluntary loneliness, hardness.  I think G-d wants my cupboards filled with kindness and generosity, with the energy to do good in the world.

If there are crumbs in the car and cheerios under the radiator, and I assure you there are, perhaps G-d won’t mind, as long as I keep pointing my broom toward the meanness and fear that hold me back from reaching out to the world and being of use in it.

One of the sacrifices of this past two years that has hit me the hardest — one of the only ones that continues to hit me, in fact — is that Bill has been working on Saturdays in order to take advantage of the increased foot traffic in the store. This is particularly important since he is working on commission only; there is no salary to fall back on if he doesn’t make sales.  Shabbat is supposed to be a day of rest and reconnection with family.  In this new regime, it is neither.

Before all this went down, we went to synagogue on Saturday mornings as a family — with a babysitter — so that Bill and I could pray together .  The kids could go to the Temple library with the babysitter when they got squirmy.  We would reunite for the snack/Torah study and — again — when the kids needed to move around, the babysitter could take them out while Bill and I studied.  After lunch and a nap, we had the rest of the day to spend together as a family.

Neither the babysitter nor the family-themed day is on the menu anymore.  Instead, the usual trend is that I take the kids to synagogue alone, where they often behave appropriately and sometimes do not.  When they can do it, it’s a fair-to-middling solution.  Everyone thinks they’re cute, or pretends to.  I get to pray, sort of.  (When I’m not nursing, scrambling in the bag for crayons and paper, or racing matchbox cars.)  I get to study, sort of.  (When I’m not drawing trucks, fetching food, or reminding the boys to use their whispery voices.)  We go home for lunch and a nap, and spend the rest of the afternoon together, the three of us.  When, as today, they cannot behave well, it casts a pall on my already pallid Shabbat.

In the past, I have occasionally sent them to the Temple library alone, knowing that they are good kids and will look after each other and stick together.  The last time I did that, though, the custodian laid into me and said they were not allowed to be in the library unattended.

Today we arrived late to the service and they lasted for about ten minutes before they were so disruptive that I decided to take them home.  (The disruption occurred during silent prayer, naturally.)  The decision to go home brought forth a new round of arguments and weeping, which in turn prompted one of the more dour members of our Minyan to shush them.  It’s hard to say which hurt me more: the loss of the one opportunity this week to pray with my community, or the fact that someone from that community shushed them.  (The weeping, argument, and shushing, by the way, took place outside the chapel while I was desperately trying to get them into their jackets and herded out the door.)

In recent weeks, we have been exploring other congregations’ Saturday offerings.  One week I had a gig at a local independent Minyan, one week we got up too late for our usual but were well in time for the children’s service at a different place.  I really want us all to keep pushing and growing in our Judaism, and to be comfortable in any Jewish worship context, and I realize that the responsibility for that rests entirely on me.  The two other places we’ve gone had actual children’s programming, which my kids seemed to enjoy.  (By contrast, our regular Minyan is an adult service, at which my children are usually warmly welcomed but where there is nothing for them to do unless I provide it.)  Yet when I offered those other two options this morning, the boys both said they wanted to go to the usual.  Change is hard.

I keep thinking of that line from Fiddler on the Roof: “If I were rich I’d have the time that I lack, to sit in the synagogue and pray.  Maybe have a seat by the eastern wall?  And I’d discuss the holy books with the learned men, seven hours every day.  This would be the sweetest thing of all…”

It would.

This week’s Torah portion includes the Holiness Code, and our study session after Minyan centered on the Golden Rule: Love your neighbor as yourself.

The people that I daven and study with week in and week out give life to this adage, week in and week out.  I see it most clearly in the way they respond to my delightfully-human children.  Now sometimes my boys are positively angelic at Minyan.  But mostly they are slightly less than angelic.  They talk out loud, they lie down on the floor, they sing, they wander about.  Today, as we started with the Birchot Hashachar, Gideon announced that he wanted everyone to hush.

Yet my congregation loves these boys as if they were their own.  They smile indulgently (and sincerely) when there is an unexpected howl of dump trucks.  They giggle when the boys giggle.  They kvell when shy Akiva says, “Shabbat shalom.”  They kvell when boisterous Gideon approaches them to show whatever picture he’s made with his markers and scrap paper.  One friend has begun bringing toys for them to play with during Torah study, toys from her own children’s youth.  (Today it was stickers and markers for them to decorate the disposable tablecloths with — sheer genius!)

If everyone in the world cared about everyone else the way my congregation cares about my kids — with joy and patience and understanding — there would be peace.  I’m sure of it.