Ma Nishtanah HaLailah Hazeh….not much, except for 2 more seats at the seder table!

It feels like just the other day when I was setting the place cards for all the invited guests who would be attending the seder at my parents house in Sudbury, Ontario.  I always looked forward to Pesach as a child – hard to believe since there were only thirty Jewish families in our community.  Being the youngest, I was always responsible for chanting the four questions.  My mother, being the way she is, always made me practice before the “main event” – the seder.  Our seders were like other families’ – full of food, festivity and ritual.  It is hard to believe that my 1970’s childhood in Northern Ontario is so far behind me. 

Preserving tradition is often what ignites a Jewish soul.  When I listen to a eulogy delivered by a grandchild about a grandparent, it is without fail that a comment is made about the fond memories at the Shabbos or Yom Tov table -- the baked apples, chicken soup, perogies or kugel prepared by Bubi, and the peculiar traditions Zaide had for hiding the afikoman or negotiating the price for finding it.  My grandfather had a tradition of hiding the afikoman under the table, year after year.  He would actually tape it to the underside of the table.  One might think of these trite nuances of little consequence to the plight of our people.  However, it is my firm belief that it is precisely these memories which keep our traditions alive, generation after generation. 

The second night of Pesach was unique to our community in Sudbury – the communal seder at our little synagogue Shaar HaShamoyim.  While some larger cities offer congregational seders, they are largely attended by non-members of the host synagogue.  There is no great sense of camaraderie or community.  In Sudbury the seder involved the entire shul.  The sisterhood prepared the meal in the shul’s kosher kitchen and the seder was led by the most knowledgeable members of the shul.  I still remember how the doctor’s wife led Dayenu year after year and how the Hebrew school kids asked the four questions.  We only had one class for all the kids aged 6-12.  My father prepared matzah sandwiches for school every day throughout the week of Pesach.  My friends always wanted a taste.  I was the only Jew in my school. 

I regularly read about the disappearing tiny Jewish communities of Northern Ontario and other such places throughout the country.  The immigrants who came to these communities built synagogues and preserved a Jewish way of life because it brought meaning and joy to their lives.  Their Jewishness could not be compromised.  I felt the impact of this level of commitment and observance as a child and I hope that I too can bring this to my new family. 

The Torah speaks of four sons mentioned in the Haggadah -- the wise, the wicked, the simple, and the one who does not know how to ask.  While the wise son is blessed with the knowledge and desire to understand the issues surrounding the story, the wicked may be equally passionate about his disagreement with the entire principles and validity of the story.  The simple son asks what it is all about and the true failure is the son who doesn’t even know what questions to ask.  The future of our people is a direct correlation to our past. 

I am frequently asked what part of the United States I come from.  Everyone always assumes that Rabbis and Cantors come from abroad.  I always respond with my usual joke:  “I am from Sudbury, Ontario – I was the last Hazzan to leave!”  I am also asked with a degree of regularity why I became a Hazzan.  While the answer to this question may be a topic for a different article, the short answer is that the traditions that shaped my childhood, as far removed as one might imagine, were very Jewish.

Bringing the Jewish holidays to life in a small mining town like Sudbury was no easy task.  Yet, the devoted members of the community made the holidays so special that many larger communities would envy their enthusiasm.  Until I became a parent myself, I never really thought about what fond memory my children will recall about their childhood.  As a parent of an impressionable little boy, I have begun thinking about this daunting task.  This year, as a new parent of three (this is not a typo – we just had twin girls), I now have an overwhelming responsibility to ensure that the traditions of our people impact my children in a meaningful way, just as my parents and grandparents did for me. 

Sometimes it takes the smallest spark to ignite the soul.  In the great city and community in which we live, it is all at our fingertips.  Make this year meaningful and special – don’t let it slip away.

Chag Kasher v’Sameach

Cantor Eric, Dr. Melissa, Samuel, Aviva & Talia Moses