Two Truths for Entering the Sea
April 18, 2025
The familiar words of the haggadah landed differently with me this year. We speak every year of freedom from Mitzrayim – meaning not only מִצְרַיִם / مصر / literal Egypt, but also more broadly all of life’s narrow places and times of constriction. But this year I’m keenly aware of constriction and lack of liberty in ways that go beyond the metaphorical.
I think of Tufts graduate student Rümeysa Öztürk, imprisoned in Louisiana though the State Department found no evidence linking her to terrorism, just an op-ed opposing the war in Gaza and calling for divestment. Or Mohsen Madawi, a green card holder and Columbia student detained this week by ICE at a naturalization interview in apparent retaliation for his activism.
Both arrests were ostensibly to secure safety for Jews. But along with most of my colleagues, I don’t believe that imprisoning grad students makes Jews safer. I do believe that chipping away at free speech rights and due process makes all communities less safe. And calling their activism “terrorist” cheapens the word and diminishes our capacity to name actual terrorism and antisemitism.
Or take Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Salvadoran national who fled here to escape gang violence, now deported to a notorious prison in El Salvador – which the government now admits was a mistake. The Supreme Court has ruled that the administration must facilitate his return, but the administration now claims there’s nothing they can do (or, want to do) to bring him back.
As historian Heather Cox Richardson writes, “if the administration can take noncitizens off the streets, render them to prison in another country, and then claim it is helpless to correct the error… it could do the same thing to citizens.” As far-fetched as that sounds, the idea is actually under discussion. (Here’s more on that at NBC and at Reuters.)
The opening prayer in the Reform movement’s Gates of Freedom haggadah celebrates:
Freedom from hatred and freedom from fear
Freedom to think and freedom to speak
Freedom to teach and freedom to learn
Freedom from hatred and fear – when an arsonist attacked the home of a Jewish governor on Pesach, and it’s increasingly unsafe to be trans or gender-nonconforming? Freedom to think and speak – when today some claim the ability to deport people over beliefs? Freedom to teach and freedom to learn – when there’s a push to erase diversity and climate science?
The festival of freedom feels different to me this year than it ever has before, and I know from our conversations in recent weeks that many of you are feeling these things, too. How can we possibly celebrate freedom in a time like this? I think Jewish spiritual life invites us also to ask the opposite question: how can we not? We need to uplift freedom especially now.
Today, the seventh day of Passover, is the anniversary of the date when we found ourselves face to face with the Sea: the Egyptian army behind us, water ahead, with nowhere to go. Midrash teaches that when Nachshon ben Aminadav stepped into the waters and walked until the waters were up to his mouth, the sea parted and we walked through on dry land.
Here are two truths that are sustaining me right now. One:
Tradition teaches that we didn’t leave the Narrow Place alone, but rather as part of an erev rav, a mixed multitude. Pharaoh’s daughter came with us. Other people who sought liberation came with us. Torah teaches us that the path to freedom is one that we all take together. I take strength in remembering that we are not seeking liberation and justice alone.
There’s some enlightened self-interest here. In the words of the CCAR (the association of Reform rabbis), “whenever vulnerable minorities are attacked, Jews will ultimately be vulnerable because we are Jewish.” We know that Jews are safest when everyone’s civil rights and civil liberties are honored; standing up for others helps us too. It’s also the right thing to do.
And two:
I also take strength in remembering that sometimes we will feel caught between Pharaoh’s army and the sea. At those times, the only thing to do is step into the sea, whether or not we feel ready. Pesach is a celebration of taking a leap together, choosing to trust that the world can be different and better than it has been. But we may need to step into the sea without certainty. And that's ok.
The question that keeps coming up for me is: what do we owe to each other? I think our obligation as Jews and as human beings is to stand up for the civil rights and human rights of others. There’s a reason people keep quoting Niemoller’s poem that begins, “First they came for the Communists…” I think we owe it to each other to stand up for our shared human dignity.
I think we owe it to Rümeysa Öztürk and Mahmoud Khalil and Mohsen Madawi to stand up for their rights. I think we owe it to Kilmar Abrego Garcia to stand up for his rights. I think there’s a reason Torah tells us 36 times to love the stranger because we were strangers in Mitzrayim. I think this mitzvah, loving the stranger, is one of the core ways we leave Mitzrayim behind.
We’re not alone. And there has never been a better time to reach out to each other, both across the Jewish community and across all our local communities. If you are feeling afraid, know that your Jewish community is here with you. And if you’re not feeling afraid, I hope you’ll reach out to someone who might be, and let them know that you’re here and you’ve got their back.
This is how we cross the sea: one step at a time, taking a leap of faith together, as an erev rav / a multitude connected across our differences. Our nation has never yet fully lived up to the dream of liberty and justice for all, but that’s all the more reason to keep trying. May our Passover story of liberation inspire us to work toward that sacred dream, for everyone.
This is the d'var Torah I offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)