“Why is this night different from all other nights?” My Jewish friends taught me that this is the first of four questions intoned at the Passover Seder, generally by the youngest member of the gathering. They are an invocation of a people’s collective memory, animating the rituals of the present with stories from the past and, in turn, creating new memories borne to each successive generation.
Through the years, my conversations with people of different faiths have only deepened and enriched my own. During this April like no other, a great convergence where Jews celebrate Passover, Muslims observe Ramadan, Baha’is, the festival of Ridvan, and Christians like me, Easter—just to name a few—I am keenly aware of our common humanity and our collective disorientation. We watch our neighbors around the world suffer from a disease that is new to us and from which we have no shared immunity.
Having chosen solitude during a season of gathering in the hope of playing some small part in protecting the vulnerable from contagion and those who care for them–some of them cherished colleagues and former students–I am struck by the power of memory. Religious folks feel a sense of loss right now precisely because memories are so potent: I smell the incense and the wine, hear the chants and Gospel songs, feel the movements, joyful and reverent, in my very bones. Our memories compel us to sway, to bend, to kneel, to prostrate ourselves, to sit still, usually together, while compassion for our neighbors compels us to scatter until the time is right.
Memory is a precious gift. Refraining from business as usual creates room for memories to become all the more vivid. As our staff considered what to offer those who typically gather beneath the gracious arches of Rockefeller Chapel, now closed, we turned quickly away from fashioning inadequate semblances of the usual rites toward the treasures of the archives instead. From this storehouse, the Virtual Chapel arises, where we can hear voices again like the late Kenneth Northcott. We can delight again in the sound of carillon and choir and organ. And, as I have heard already from those who are sharing these treasures with neighbors and friends, we can resurrect long-forgotten stories of the players and the audience members, some of whom haven’t been with us for quite some time now.
This way of remembrance is especially appropriate for our community since we pride ourselves on our love of artifacts—especially good, old-fashioned books. The first question students asked at the beginning of this Spring Quarter like no other was, “When will the library reopen?” When will the virtual become real again?
My hope for you during this season like no other is that you will delight in your most cherished memories of these holidays until we meet and celebrate them again. My prayer for those of you for whom past holidays have not been so joyful is that this time of solitude releases you from bondage to the past and opens you to a brighter and more joyful future.
The day will come when these days are a memory. We will pass it down from generation to generation. May each generation find it a potent memory of sacrifice, courage, compassion, and hope. And may peace be with you this day and always.
Maurice Charles, Dean, Rockefeller Chapel