On one particularly sleepy Passover morning, a few years back, one of my kids turned to me and said, “Abba, where is everybody?” Looking out at the empty pews, I said, “Not in Manhattan.”
In my Orthodox congregation on the Upper West Side, the overwhelming majority of our members typically observe Passover somewhere other than New York City. Ours has become a world divided between those who “make Pesach” and those who make Pesach into a vacation.
Most years, as a congregational rabbi, I spend Passover at my synagogue. This year, as I serve as a rabbi in residence at a Passover retreat in Arizona — with not a few of my congregants — I’ve been thinking about what Jews and Jewish communities are gaining and losing with the rise of Passover programs.
For many, the allure of Passover retreats is not just about foregoing the labor-intensive preparation the holiday demands. Families too large to gather in a single home can enjoy the holiday together. And for individuals or couples who face the prospect of spending the holiday alone, Passover retreats can flatten an otherwise bumpy social landscape and provide an elegant way to be part of a community.
To those who protest that Passover away from home is somehow inauthentic, travelers are quick to point out that they rely on ample historical precedent. Passover is one of the Torah’s three pilgrimage holidays; in Temple times, Jews would flock to Jerusalem.
Bnei Brak appears to have been a popular Passover destination for the sages who figure so prominently in the Haggadah. And Rabbi Joseph Karo codified the Talmudic protocols for travelers in his 16th-century Shulchan Aruch with explicit instructions for “one who sets off on a voyage by sea or by land within 30 days of Passover and leaves no one at home.” Long before Cancun or Barcelona became popular hubs for Passover hotels, the Talmud had already created a category for those spending the holiday on the road.
'Passover retreats mean tradeoffs'
But for all the convenience they provide, Passover retreats mean tradeoffs. The lavish buffet comes at the expense of an intimate family gathering. Sacrificed on the altar of catering schedules are the prospects of Seder serendipity — those unscripted conversations that offer us the chance to think anew about some of Judaism’s most enduring questions.
On a night when we are meant to be animated by the ethos of “let all who are hungry come and eat,” Passover retreats produce Seders sans guests. And just where, pray tell, are the kids meant to hide the afikoman in Summit Room D? “I wonder,” one congregant said to me recently, “if in 50 years anyone will know how to kasher their kitchen.”
There are costs not just for those who leave; but also for those who remain. Congregations that are bustling on other holidays have suddenly to contend with thinning ranks. In suburbia, some of the vacant seats might fill up with visitors. But in urban settings, almost all of the traffic is outbound.
Who has the space in their Manhattan apartments to play host to large families? Unable to produce a minyan, some smaller synagogues in my area hang proverbial shingles that read, “Closed for the holidays.”
Even the pandemic — the great reminder of that Passover-at-home feeling — did little to dampen the enthusiasm of those searching for their next great Passover destination. Recognizing that the pendulum isn’t likely to swing away from Passover travel anytime soon, how can communities adapt?
Perhaps the Passover exodus can still guide us — if not to the Promised Land — at least to a land of spiritual aspiration. Consider the following three observations.
In early modern Europe, Jewish communities often enforced sumptuary laws. The hosts of a wedding, for instance, would — depending on the number of invited guests — foot the bill for a proportionate number of indigent community members to enjoy the wedding meal. This model doesn’t work in the 21st century.
But what if we took a cue from one of my congregants who always sends a contribution to our charity fund before the holiday with a little note that reads: “Since we’ll be away and unable to host guests for the seder, please use these funds so that others can enjoy the kind of Pesach we’ll be enjoying.”
If communal leaders normalized the notion that Passover travelers ought to make a compensatory charitable donation to support a cause such as Jewish education, the larger Jewish community would reap the benefits.
'Taking advantage of these phone-free social gatherings'
Next, why not take advantage of these vanishingly rare phone-free social gatherings where Passover guests have the opportunity to meet new people? Leisure Time Tours and Kosherica, the organizers of the program in Phoenix I’m attending, had the good sense to enlist the services of a professional matchmaker.
But what if everyone took a moment to become a matchmaker? They could return home with fresh ideas for individuals who might like to meet one another.
Finally, Passover programs have been a boon for Torah study. At Passover retreats — where guests have entrusted their hosts to handle their meals and arrange for babysitting — Torah classes are booming. The same lecture that may attract a dozen or two participants in a synagogue setting suddenly draws hundreds of people.
What if synagogues made a conscious effort to capture this momentum when members return? By structuring Shabbat programming around communal meals with concurrent programming for the kids, they might see an uptick in attendance.
On a holiday governed by the obligation to transmit our heritage to the next generation, there is something ironic about replacing Bubby’s gefilte fish with Chef Eddie’s quinoa sushi boat. Yet before us is a chance to transform a phenomenon born of practical necessity into a spiritual opportunity, and besides … exercising our Passover travel muscles will make us that much more ready to spend next year in Jerusalem.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of JTA or its parent company, 70 Faces Media.