“My ancestor was a Multipath Wanderer…”
“Arami Oved Avi” (Deut 26:5-8), Passover 5783. Virginia Avniel Spatz
A big part of “Maggid,” the Passover seder’s “Telling,” begins with a few verses from Deuteronomy, a recitation for dedicating first fruits of a harvest. This section is often presented with an accusatory interpretation, turning the ancestor from actor to subject of an enemy’s action. This interpretation, dating back centuries, is so popular that many, even translators, cannot read the original words any other way. But this year: I arrive to make this declaration, bringing a complex heritage full of action, attending to the ways Passover calls me to action…
“Arami oved avi.“Multipath Wanderer was my ancestor.
I come with a heritage of loss and wandering — both in the living and in the telling: Arami is at once a line of travelers, people who crossed over or came from beyond, and an ambiguous “back home,” celebrated in the leaving (a kind of “good riddance”), yet remembered fondly in nostalgia for kin and connection. This ancestor was “oved” — “lost” or “wandering,” possibly “vanished” or “perished.” Moreover, the tale itself is confused and wandering, with parts that have vanished or become twisted.
[He/she/ze/ne/they] went down to Mitzrayim, a Narrow Place…
The recitation mentions no enemy, human or natural, prompting the move. (Other tales cite a famine.) It does not say whether Multipath Wanderer was a migrant out of restless curiosity or dire necessity. Centuries of trauma and scarcity prompted many before me to retell this part as though my ancestor — and myself, as reciter of the tale — fled a beloved home, moving “down,” with all its negative connotations, an enemy in hot pursuit. Instead, I declare: Every action is shaped by many forces, every change comes with loss, and the history that brings me to this recitation is filled with individual and collective choices, much sorrow and some hope.
…and sojourned there, a small group.
This jump from a single actor to a small group is interesting, reflecting, perhaps, the formation of a chosen family or leader-filled movement in which no one can quite say whose idea anything was in the first place. In any case, as Rabbi Yitz Greenberg taught thousands of years later (The Jewish Way: Living the Holidays. Touchstone, 1988), this small group were seekers after justice, rather than power — which has been, R’ Greenberg says, unusual in history.
It was therethat [Wanderer’s folks] grew larger, an amorphous group.The Narrow Place treated us ill, afflicted us, and oppressed us with hard labor.
Conditions caused shortness of breath (Exod 6:9) — leaving folks short of patience and vision, prone to fear and accusation and distraction. Justice remained a dream while poverty and pain and inequality flourished. Our growing size and power made us a threat to some, in- and outside the changing community: It was sometimes easier to tell a story blaming some, while portraying others as innocent victims of a system in which they had no agency themselves. Still, some form of unity developed, as “we cry out” and God notices us, our voice (singular).
At some point, we figure how to raise our gasping voices, jointly, and cry out
toYHVH, God of our ancestors, of Multipath Wanderer and folksand so many after them —and YHVH, The One Who Promises Justice Over Power, noticesour plea
and recognizes our plight, our misery, and our oppression.
And, with that recognition begins a transformation,
experienced as astrong hand and outstretched arm,great spectacle, and signs and wonders
of YHVH lifting us up from the burdens of that Narrow Place,so that we can together build a community where all can thrive.
God makes five promises at the start of the Exodus story: I will bring you out, I will rescue you, I will redeem you, I will take you as a partner, and I will bring you to a land that is your heritage (Exodus 6:6-8). The first four are linked with the four cups at the seder. The fifth is a source of contention and Elijah’s undrunk cup. Similarly, the recitation passage continues: “And brought us to this Place…flowing with milk and honey” (Deut 26:9-10). But the Passover Maggid stops short: The fifth promise has not yet been fulfilled; we are not yet at a Place of space and milk and honey enough for all. But what about the other four? Are we there yet?
I do not recite an “Arami oved avi” that names an enemy and turns my story into one of abject victimhood. This recitation isn’t about what “happened to” me and my ancestors. It’s not about mourning past disasters and celebrating past, partial, escape and rescue and redemption but a reminder to work collaboratively toward those goals for everyone. And it’s not about celebrating a special God-relationship available only to some; instead, it’s a reminder of the need for joint human struggle to manifest divine principles in a community that works for all. That fifth promise — a homecoming for all — is still a distant hope, but so is the rest of the Passover seder.
I arrive to make this declaration, bringing complex heritage, gratitude and hope, and awareness that we have Liberation work yet to accomplish. I declare that we — with divine help, however understood — are the ones with a voice to cry and a strong hand and outstretched arm with which to respond. It’s us we’re waiting for.
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Rereading Torah Towards Liberation 