magic

… or why make yet another one?

This is the draft afterword to the alternative haggadah I am working on putting together. It’s also a very roundabout start at saying more about social magic and its role in politics.

The short answer is because we needed one. But haggadahs are no place for short answers. So … do you know the old joke about the Jew who went to sea? They were caught in a shipwreck and marooned all alone on an island. Finally, many years later, a mighty ship with an unfurled sail showed up to rescue them and bring them forth from the island. Before leaving, the old Jew offers to give the captain and crew a tour of the island and show how they had been living all this time. They show off the hut they built, their favorite fishing spot, the best tree for taking nap under, the clever tools they had fashioned, and so on. “And these,” proudly gesturing to a cluster of modest but sturdy structures, “are the three synagogues I built.” The captain and crew are a bit confused. Why three? “Are you very religious?” they ask. “Not at all,” the old Jew replies, “I usually only attend services during the high holidays.” So why three? “This first one, this one here, is the synagogue I go to when I do attend. That one over there, well, I used to go there but I got into an argument,” they continue as a flash of true anger passes over their face, “and I won’t be going back there again.” And the third? Did you quarrel with them as well? “Oh no!” they exclaim with just a hint of smug self righteous satisfaction, “That’s the synagogue that I would never ever go to!”

So when I say we put this together because we needed one, it’s not because we didn’t have any haggadahs on our bookshelves. We have traditional haggadahs and alternative ones; very old and very new; texts full of dense commentary and simplified ones for children; beautifully printed and bound editions and lovingly mimeographed and stapled exemplars; at least four languages and in general just plenty of options. But, like the Jew on the island, we still needed to build our own.

Partially, of course, we wanted texts and references that resonated for our own time and place. Ursula K. LeGuin and Walter Benjamin are touchstones for us. You probably have your own. There is nothing universal about this haggadah. That’s also why we followed the long standing tradition of naming haggadahs after a place (e.g. Sarajevo, Amsterdam, Washington), to emphasis that it’s is a product of context. We created this when we lived in Southern California and, even though we all live elsewhere now, this haggadah is still of then and there. Plus, I also like how easy it is to accidentally refer to it as the “so called” haggadah.

But this is not just an exercise in localization. Even the most traditional seder, one that follows the text to the letter, has plenty of room to for additions as the participants contribute ex tempore commentary that forges connections to their present. After all, connecting past to present is at the core of the seder. And it’s also not that we went beyond addition and into subtraction. I mean, we did. We took out most of the bits with god and all of the bits with odious ethno-nationalism, which together are quite a lot of the bits to be honest. But the point wasn’t to just end up with a haggadah “light”, one that is striped of all the religiosity we happen to not like, keeps the rest, and then leaves the whole evening nothing more than a thin morality play that confirms what we already want to be true. Because it’s precisely the evening as a whole that is important.

Focusing on the written text of the haggadah, looking at it primarily as a story, misses something very important. It treats the haggadah as a narrative that is read when it’s actually a magic spell that is enacted. It is a magic spell in that it is a manual for the performance of a ritual, the ritual of the seder as a whole. And we really do mean magical ritual in the most literal sense. Everyone knows what it takes to cast a spell. You draw your sacred circle. You put in your magical items. You follow the steps and say the magic words of the spell. Sitting around the table together is our circle. The seder plate and everything on it are the magical items. The order of the seder are the steps, and the words of the haggadah are the spells and incantations.

We realize that this runs somewhat counter to how haggadahs—including this one!—often present themselves. Alternative haggadahs in particular like to frame themselves as telling the story of liberation. Telling the story is supposed to serve as a reminder, bear witness, and be a celebration of the past. They hope to raise awareness and morale. To do this, to emphasize their new exegesis, they go about their work like a musician playing a variation on a theme. But we, to tap into the power of the traditional haggadah while creating our own magic, looked for a contrapuntal line to the original. And, to be clear, that power does not come from any inherent truth or true tradition but entirely from the thick accretion of years, community, and reenactment. What this meant in practice was that we had to move according the rules of magic-logic. That’s why we were careful to follow the structure of the haggadah closely. We grappled with the purpose of each step of the ritual, what its role and function was in the proceedings. We meditated on what the spells invoked and manifested. And we tried to carefully craft not just the text of the haggadah but the experience of the participants who would perform it.

And it was important to get it right because this magic is powerful. For us, the seder is a ritual that prepares us for revolution. It’s an act of communal magic that, if successful, fundamentally transfigures us. Through the creation and manipulation of a symbolic structure we hope to change our collective consciousness. But, the truth is, like many great conjurings, we’re not actually entirely sure ahead of time what form the result will take. The future revolution is behind a veil that only a leap of magic can pierce.

Magic is dangerous like that.