I confess. I love meaningful ritual. I look forward to Passover seder with the same core group of people every year, reading the same liturgy, eating the same food. I don't regard this as spiritually stultifying, I see it as connecting me with eons of people and families around the world who recognize these nights as special and sacred. The Passover ritual, like all rituals, grew from a story -- in this case the story of the Israelites slavery and exodus and eventual entry into the Promised Land.

Bitterness is a serious state of mind. As I get ready for Passover seder on Saturday night, I'm thinking a lot about bitterness. We eat maror, or bitter herb:

Just over 25 years ago I began attending Passover seders at my friends J and E's home. Their sons were just young teens then, and now they are both PhDs with smart and capable wives. One couple has had two children. I have moved away from NYC, but I will drive down to the city so that I can help with the preparations for seder starting Thursday and into Friday. I will be peeling veggies and laughing and basking in the immense joy of my extended family. With the exception of one 85 year old (Catholic) cousin, my entire blood family is dead. So my extended family is my family in every way.

When I was about ten years old, a Messianic Jew came to our Lutheran Church and taught us how to celebrate Pesach (Passover) by holding a Seder meal. My parents were captivated by the ritual: the lifting of the afikomen, the passing of the bitter herbs, the salt water on the tongue.