Before the miraculous events at the Red sea even took place, God instructed Moses to tell the Israelites that they were in the makings of what would become a festival. To a people yet bound in slavery, God commanded them to celebrate forever the things that were about to take place, adding, "Then your children will ask, 'What does all this mean?  What is this ceremony about?' And you will reply, 'It is the celebration of the LORD's Passover, for he passed over the homes of the Israelites in Egypt'" (Exodus 12:26-27a).  

Today the Jewish Passover continues to be a celebration of remembrance, and there is a tradition within the ritual in keeping with the inquisitive children God described.  The youngest child at the table asks aloud, "Why is this night different from all other nights?"  The question is then answered in the telling of the events of the Exodus as an explanation of the meal before them:  We eat bitter herbs to remind us how bitter our ancestors' slavery was in Egypt... We recline on pillows because we were once slaves but are now free.(1)

I was trying to imagine what it would look like if we were to borrow this tradition of inquiry for use within other approaching holidays.  For those in the United States about to celebrate the feast of Thanksgiving: why is this night different from all other nights?  Or for our Canadian neighbors who celebrate thanksgiving at the close of harvest in October:  Why is this night of thanksgiving different from all other nights?  Or for the feasts of Christmas that will soon be had all over the world: why is this Christmas different from all other Christmases?  Why are these nights different?  How are they rooted in nights long ago?  How are these symbolic meals before us explained by the God who has gone before us? 

When we gather wherever we gather, what are we remembering?  How is this night different from all other nights?  In the spirit of inquiry, we might remember again the history that reaches far beyond our own family traditions, when the first thanksgiving meal was celebrated or the first Christmas embraced among very different neighbors.  We might recall the provisions of a creator that make the very act of giving thanks or the wisdom of remembrance a natural response among creatures.  Or perhaps we might discover candidly that, save for the quantity of food, these nights are actually not that much different. 

Still for others, the question may turn us necessarily inward.  The holidays might be different this year because life is different, because someone is not at the table this year who was last year, or because we come this year facing new illness or pain.  In the midst of such events, how do we approach a festival of remembrance?  How do we mark these nights with thanksgiving when it feels as though we are standing in the dark?     

Eighteenth century poet John Donne asked of God a similar question.  "How shall they come to thee whom thou hast nailed to their bed?"  His writings during the time of the bubonic plague give us an idea of how we might find our way to thanksgiving though we walk in shadows and struggle, how we might remember God when we need God most.  In the prime of his life, Donne was struck with illness and thought he too had contracted the plague.  Though it was not the plague and he eventually recovered, Donne wrestled with all of the emotions of one looking to God through the darkest of nights.  While he was nailed to his bed along with scores of others in similar situations across London, he comprised a series of meditations that recorded his thoughts.  His words offer a manual for the one struggling to remember God, to recollect God's acts of mercy, to recall the spirit of thanksgiving and remembrance that move us even through the dark.   

I offer an excerpt of his words as a sounding board for our reflection this holiday season: 

"O most gracious God, on this sickbed I feel under your correction, and I taste of humiliation, but let me taste of consolation, too.  Once this scourge has persuaded us that we are nothing of ourselves, may it also persuade us that you are all things unto us....

When your Son cried out "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" you reached out your hand not to heal his sad soul, but to receive his holy soul.  Neither did he desire to hold it from you, but surrendered it to you.

I see your hand upon me now, O Lord, and I ask not why it comes or what it intends.  Whether you will bid my soul to stay in this body for some time, or meet you this day in paradise, I ask not.  My true healing lies in silent and absolute obedience to your will, even before I know it.  Preserve that obedience, O my God, and that will preserve me to you."(2)

Whether we are facing dark days at the table this year or looking again at the rich history of the feast days before us, might these nights be different from all others in their certain recollections of the God who leads us nearer. 

Jill Carattini is managing editor of A Slice of Infinity at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Atlanta, Georgia.

(1) The complete liturgy of the Passover service, the Haggadah, can be read at chabad.org.
(2) Selection of Donne's poems revised and excerpted by Philip Yancey in "Thanksgiving in the Midst of Fear," Christianity Today, 1997.