Bitter Herbs
I have this thing about symbolism. I love it when something that is super accessible and tangible represents a deep idea. Could be the teacher in me. Or maybe it's the years and years of studying literature... and liking it.
Oh yes, I like it. :)
The Passover Seder fascinates me. Everything... Everything!... symbolizes something.
Reading about it in Exodus and then comparing it with Jesus' final days... I am pretty sure it's like a heaping buffet table and a hungry stomach for a literature lover. It is reeking with symbolism: layers upon layers of God-designed, intricately woven traditions to match the profound spiritual truths and made accessible to simple people like me. Oh my goodness, I love it!
Yesterday, I typed some thoughts about "chametz."
Today, I want to look at just one element from the Seder table: the bitter herbs.
The bitter herbs are called "Maror," which is traditionally horseradish, and the "Chazeret," which is traditionally romaine leaf or some other bitter green. They represent the bitter life of slavery. Since horseradish is powerful enough to cause some tears to roll, it goes so far as to represent the tears that were cried and the painful life the Israelites lived while in Egypt.
The Israelites' redemption from the bonds of slavery can be compared to a being set free from sin and the law of sin and death. So as a Christian, those bitter herbs are a reminder of my former slavery. God actually wants me to look back on occasion and remember the bitter taste of the life I lived prior to my salvation... not to live in shame and condemnation, but to remember how great my freedom is.
My Bitter Herbs:
I have this silly little memory of being around 6 and having an adorable, chipmunked-cheeked, bright-eyed little brother who played a game with my mom: "I love you more. No, I love you more"... They played all the way up to infinity times one thousand. It was their special bedtime routine, and I was jealous. I also remember my brother constantly got in trouble for lying. So, one day overcome by some unknown but super carnal need to get my brother in trouble, I took a vase and smashed it on the floor. I told my mom that my brother did it. He swore he didn't do it till he was in tears. But my mom believed me. I felt good, but rotten and terrible and wondering why I would do such a thing and what my mom would think if she knew the truth.
I remember being ten and having my mom pull the homework assignments out of the trashcan that I had wadded tightly and hid at the bottom. They were not done. I didn't feel like doing them. I remember the shame of being lazy, rebellious even. I remember the horrifying feeling of being caught; of having the sin you tried so hard to hide being pulled out of the dark pile of trash, examined, being deemed guilty, and then punished.
I remember the striving to be right, to be good, to impress, to be somebody and the constant disappointment at not measuring up, always getting it wrong, always feeling overlooked, and never quite enough...
I remember being the quiet, shy girl who at 12 was sat down in front of my teacher, was told how disappointed she was, and how she was even considering suspending me. My very first boyfriend had been taken from me by the largest girl in the class, the one who constantly fished for compliments in the girl's bathroom, "I am fat, aren't I?" to which everyone always assured her she wasn't. I let the hurt eat away my quiet, 12-year-old heart until I blurted out one day, "You're right. You're just a fat cow!" The hurt. The shame. The knowing I had never done anything worth being noticed except this one horrifyingly mean act. The knowing that even though I had cried, "Fat!," someone could have yelled at me, "Wiry, skinny, boob-less nobody!"
I remember the seeking out approval from young men, the flirtatiousness, the pleasure at attention... and the bitter taste of a broken heart, the lack of fulfillment because one person's attention was never enough...
the emptiness... the constant wondering if I was enough... trying so hard to not be a nobody, to be noticed, but always that sinking feeling in the back of my mind no matter how much attention I could receive that I was, in fact, a nobody.
I remember the fear... of life, of failure, of never again feeling okay...
I remember the sewing needle, the box cutter, the kitchen knife against my skin... the infliction of pain to somehow release the pain I felt inside... the thoughts of taking my own life... even planning it...
Oh those bitter herbs. The maror producing salty tears on my face.
But I am glad. Thankful. Deeply grateful. I have been set free. And though I am like the complaining Israelites, when life gets hard I sometimes want to go back, pick up my old ways and thoughts... but when I remember the bitter taste... I can't. I know how great a salvation I have been given.
The Seder doesn't end with bitter herbs. There is the spotless lamb on that table. The bread without leaven that is broken. The wine that is poured out into 4 glasses each representing a promise of God: "I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will rid you from their slavery, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm, and with great judgments. And I will take you to me for a people"
Christ, the spotless lamb whose sinless body was broken and blood poured out so that I could be set free and be called a Child of God.
I am free. I am not the same. I am forgiven. In Him, I am enough. I have joy. I have peace. I can love, and I am loved. I am a Child of God.
The bitter herbs washed down with Communion.
Wishing you and yours a wonderful Easter.
xo
Oh and by the way, I fact checked and found some additional information about the Seder for this post by reading Exodus 13 and looking here.
Oh yes, I like it. :)
The Passover Seder fascinates me. Everything... Everything!... symbolizes something.
Reading about it in Exodus and then comparing it with Jesus' final days... I am pretty sure it's like a heaping buffet table and a hungry stomach for a literature lover. It is reeking with symbolism: layers upon layers of God-designed, intricately woven traditions to match the profound spiritual truths and made accessible to simple people like me. Oh my goodness, I love it!
Yesterday, I typed some thoughts about "chametz."
Today, I want to look at just one element from the Seder table: the bitter herbs.
The bitter herbs are called "Maror," which is traditionally horseradish, and the "Chazeret," which is traditionally romaine leaf or some other bitter green. They represent the bitter life of slavery. Since horseradish is powerful enough to cause some tears to roll, it goes so far as to represent the tears that were cried and the painful life the Israelites lived while in Egypt.
The Israelites' redemption from the bonds of slavery can be compared to a being set free from sin and the law of sin and death. So as a Christian, those bitter herbs are a reminder of my former slavery. God actually wants me to look back on occasion and remember the bitter taste of the life I lived prior to my salvation... not to live in shame and condemnation, but to remember how great my freedom is.
My Bitter Herbs:
I have this silly little memory of being around 6 and having an adorable, chipmunked-cheeked, bright-eyed little brother who played a game with my mom: "I love you more. No, I love you more"... They played all the way up to infinity times one thousand. It was their special bedtime routine, and I was jealous. I also remember my brother constantly got in trouble for lying. So, one day overcome by some unknown but super carnal need to get my brother in trouble, I took a vase and smashed it on the floor. I told my mom that my brother did it. He swore he didn't do it till he was in tears. But my mom believed me. I felt good, but rotten and terrible and wondering why I would do such a thing and what my mom would think if she knew the truth.
I remember being ten and having my mom pull the homework assignments out of the trashcan that I had wadded tightly and hid at the bottom. They were not done. I didn't feel like doing them. I remember the shame of being lazy, rebellious even. I remember the horrifying feeling of being caught; of having the sin you tried so hard to hide being pulled out of the dark pile of trash, examined, being deemed guilty, and then punished.
I remember the striving to be right, to be good, to impress, to be somebody and the constant disappointment at not measuring up, always getting it wrong, always feeling overlooked, and never quite enough...
I remember being the quiet, shy girl who at 12 was sat down in front of my teacher, was told how disappointed she was, and how she was even considering suspending me. My very first boyfriend had been taken from me by the largest girl in the class, the one who constantly fished for compliments in the girl's bathroom, "I am fat, aren't I?" to which everyone always assured her she wasn't. I let the hurt eat away my quiet, 12-year-old heart until I blurted out one day, "You're right. You're just a fat cow!" The hurt. The shame. The knowing I had never done anything worth being noticed except this one horrifyingly mean act. The knowing that even though I had cried, "Fat!," someone could have yelled at me, "Wiry, skinny, boob-less nobody!"
I remember the seeking out approval from young men, the flirtatiousness, the pleasure at attention... and the bitter taste of a broken heart, the lack of fulfillment because one person's attention was never enough...
the emptiness... the constant wondering if I was enough... trying so hard to not be a nobody, to be noticed, but always that sinking feeling in the back of my mind no matter how much attention I could receive that I was, in fact, a nobody.
I remember the fear... of life, of failure, of never again feeling okay...
I remember the sewing needle, the box cutter, the kitchen knife against my skin... the infliction of pain to somehow release the pain I felt inside... the thoughts of taking my own life... even planning it...
Oh those bitter herbs. The maror producing salty tears on my face.
But I am glad. Thankful. Deeply grateful. I have been set free. And though I am like the complaining Israelites, when life gets hard I sometimes want to go back, pick up my old ways and thoughts... but when I remember the bitter taste... I can't. I know how great a salvation I have been given.
The Seder doesn't end with bitter herbs. There is the spotless lamb on that table. The bread without leaven that is broken. The wine that is poured out into 4 glasses each representing a promise of God: "I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will rid you from their slavery, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm, and with great judgments. And I will take you to me for a people"
Christ, the spotless lamb whose sinless body was broken and blood poured out so that I could be set free and be called a Child of God.
I am free. I am not the same. I am forgiven. In Him, I am enough. I have joy. I have peace. I can love, and I am loved. I am a Child of God.
The bitter herbs washed down with Communion.
Wishing you and yours a wonderful Easter.
xo
Oh and by the way, I fact checked and found some additional information about the Seder for this post by reading Exodus 13 and looking here.