"Sometimes it's hard to swallow being passed over."

It always feels a bit like a scene from a Woody Allen flick, or dinner with the Seinfelds or Costanzas; the Kagan Passover gathering.

The mixed cast of characters this year: Brother Alan (not a Trappist Monk), Sister Ilene (temporarily escaped from a French Cambodian delicatessen in Connecticut), Alex (my mother's new kindofsortofhusband aka One-Eye Jack the Gambler), Jorge (Brother Alan's former-Catholic-turned-Atheist-turned Catholic-and getting-dizzy from all the turning-navigationally challenged-Colombian friend) and last but never least Mother Ida (definitely the Mother Superior of the Order of Kagans, she defies any comparison...but if you had to she'd be some blend(er) of Yiddish+Jackie Mason+Lenny Bruce+Dr. Ruth+George's mother+Yenta from Fiddler on the Roof .  Oh, I almost forgot...Bentley, of course, disguised as Groucho Marx.

Typical to each year that we gather, it comes with our own approach to performing the ritual of recounting the Passover story: Respecting our roots and bloodline linked to the Israelites. Honoring God's chosen people who suffered as slaves in Egypt for 400 years. Paying homage to our glorious Father, who keeping his holy covenant with Abraham (not Lincoln...actually, I don't think this Abe had a last name) used Moses to lead His chosen ones from slavery. Sanctifying God's grace in sparing the Jews from the lethal hand of the Angel of Death. Humbling ourselves in remembrance of the suffering from wandering in the desert for 40 years before entering the Promised Land flowing with milk and honey.

The table was set in traditional Passover chic with the stack of matzohs (one separtated for hiding later, aka the Afficoman), the sole glass of wine and empty seat for Elijah (I wonder if this has any connection to the classic biblical hit, Eli's Coming by Three Dog Night) and lastly the centerpiece with all the symbols representing this historic event. 

We opened our Passover seder handbook/guide (compliments of Maxwell House coffee), informing Jorge that Jews read books backwards, from right to left. We began the biblical saga, each of us reading bits and pieces. It was going fine till Sister Ilene suggested that one of us explain to Jorge the deep and poignant Jewish symbolism for each of the items in the centerpiece. We all moved uneasily in our seats, began flipping and fumbling (backwards) through Maxwell's House of Hebrew History. 

I chose something safe, and began to explain: "Well, you see, uh, the matzoh is bread made without yeast. Uh, you see, uh the Israelites had to get out of Egypt fast so they didn't have time to let it rise..."  I was immediately cut off by Brother Alan inserting, "Well, they actually were told by Moses that...." He got the final trump from Mother Ida, injecting, "Do you know that this matzoh actually came from Israel? I got it at Tom Thumb."  The shank bone was explained as "a sacrifice of the lamb...well, "actually it is a piece of rotisserie chicken from the Wal Mart deli." Mother Ida adds, "They are so delicious and inexpensive. And, if you don't get there early in the day, they're gone." One-Eye Jack supports this archeological discovery with, "True story." And then...it was over. Finito. The end of biblical historic order as we know it. Mother Ida, her hazel-colored eyes sparkling and coiffed hairstyle simmering crimson, sagely closed her books and gestured with open hands, "OK, that's enough. Let's eat."  

And then something clicked inside me. It was like someone had hit the remote's "mute" button. No sounds from the robust dialogue, laughter and shuttled dishes of chicken soup with plump matzoh balls, gefilte (for my gentile friends, that's pronounced geh-fill-tah) fish, and the feast of  all her Jewish delicacies. It was a moment of (     ).

I wondered why each year we rushed through the ritual of this holiday; to get to the meal. We'd pass over this amazing story of God's chosen people (arguably undeserving, considering their consistent track record of not really "getting" it...the blessings... and as a result really "getting" it...the consequences) living in, through and out His covenant of a Promised Land. 

I began to tumble amidst the letters, ink and meaning of the word: Passover.

Pass Over: to go by, past, above, around, ignore, avoid. Feels real intentional, doesn't it? 

"I'll pass. I'm over on my Weight Watcher's points." 

"I need to pass. Move over."

"Don't try to pass that by me. I'm over your promises." 

"Pass your papers to the end of row. Your time is over."

Action. Direction.

Action. Status.

Action. Outcome.

Passover didn't end for the Israelites "the day after" the Angel of Death floated by. It didn't end for us either. God calls us every year to stop and celebrate this day in history "so that we may not forget".... 

We risk passing over so much opportunity every day when we forget to stop, consider and put ourselves into action.  So that we may not forget: Family. Friends. Strangers. Need. Hurt. Courage. Hope. Faith. Gratitude. Believing.

Jesus reclined with his friends to share the Passover feast. They came together in ritual to celebrate. To remember. And to hear him tell them what was to come. Captivity. Persecution. Condemnation. Suffering. Death. So that, when worldly death would take him physically from them, they would remember. And then through resurrection they would not let the moment pass over, but it would resurrect them to move forward. "The day after." In faith. In hope. In love. In Him. Historians titled this chapter of the story "The Last Supper." I beg to differ. 

Click. 

"Brian, can I give you a little more more chicken soup?" 

"Sure, Mom. Pass some over here, please."  I was full.

For emphasis -- 

(b)