This year’s seder was lovely and meaningful, as I hope yours was, though a little on the chaotic side. Somewhere around the soup the youngest family member snatched the egg off the seder plate, squished it between her chubby little fingers and smeared it all over her brand new dress and her bubbie’s lace tablecloth in the time it takes to blink. But maybe mommy’s reflexes were just hindered by the third cup of wine.

Her brother delivered the Four Questions perfectly for the second year in a row, confirming everyone’s belief that he will indeed be the family’s first rabbi, because Lord knows we don’t need any more doctors.

El Yenta Man brought a new tradition to the family: Light a match and see who can sing the last verse of “Chad Gadya” — all the way from God and the Angel of death back to the baby goat and two zuzim — without blowing out the flame. (Did it. Yet another perk of being a non-smoker.)

We were also graced with the company of several non-Jewish guests who gamely sang along to “Dayenu” and ate every single bite of gefilte fish, bless their hearts. Their presence gave us a reason to slow down the seder and explain the meaning of each symbol more articulately than if it had just been a table full of hungry Jews who’ve heard it all before. The result was a seder steeped in appreciation for the freedom we enjoy and a longing for an end to the suffering in Darfur and the rest of the world.

Not for the first time I experienced the sense that being Jewish is such an enormous idea to grasp, that telling the story of the Exodus doesn’t even scratch the surface of what happened out there in the desert, and the miracle of sitting in a posh condo in Scottsdale knowing Jews all over the world were conducting the exact same ritual (varying degrees of horseradish heat aside) 3000 years after the fact brought me to a place of deep humility and gratitude. (I was able to maintain this enlightened state for several minutes until the girlmonster squirmed out of a full Nelson, dumped out the kitchen matches and started striking them on the tile floor.)

So when I read this Washington Post article about how some Christians have decided to have their own seders, I found it pretty weird. I mean, it was enriching to have Christians at our seder, but Passover is the story of the Jews. If we invited those same guests next year and they said, “Nah, we saw what you did and we’re just gonna go ahead and do it ourselves, only with Jesus,” (hypothetically speaking, of course, since these wonderful people wouldn’t do such a thing) the whole family would be appalled.

I have to share in the offense taken by the Jews in the story; a seder is not a seder if conducted in a evangelical church. Might as well stick a pork rib on the seder plate and break a piece of white bread for the afikomen — it just ain’t kosher, yo.

But me dyeing eggs with my kids and hiding them with some candy around the yard, that’s okay, right? 😉