(Believe it or not, this is a squirrel eating a full piece of pizza in our backyard. Mel and I couldn’t believe it, and are sharing this video with all of you as proof. Looks like he wants to enjoy as much hametz as possible before next week.)

“If you care deeply about an issue, and are engaged in group activity on its behalf that is fun and inspiring and heightens your sense of solidarity with others, you are almost certainly not doing your cause any good.” — Barney Frank, the first openly gay man to serve in Congress (and a proud, open Jew).

Barney Frank was always something of a strange hero to me. I met him a few times, and he was always a bit of a grump, but I loved his tenacity, his honesty, and his ability to get things done. When I discovered his comment years later, I liked him even more. I admire people who are willing to say unsatisfying things and do the hard work required to achieve messy, imperfect victories. It makes sense that someone with my sensibilities would end up making a home in Maine.

Speaking of my Maine home: my kitchen is physically clean, my pantry is filled with Kosher-for-Passover food, and I’m getting ready to spend this coming Sunday with a lot of boiling water and tin foil. My family and I are bracing for a week of matzah—a food that none of us actually enjoy eating (unlike my Italian friends who have always loved it!) It isn’t a food that makes me feel good; I don’t like the crumbs or the constipation it causes. I’d be more than happy to just eat the small amount required at the Seder and call it a day.

It would be easy for me to be a self-satisfied matzah hater, but tradition forces us to think a little differently about our lechem oni, the bread of our affliction. In a strange turn of phrase, the word oni can mean both “poverty” and “wealth.” Most of the time, you can infer its meaning from context, but sometimes it is hard to discern: Is matzah the bread of our poverty or our privilege?

Let’s dig deeper into the Hebrew. If you write the word matzot (“matzahs”) without vowels, it has the same spelling as mitzvot (“commandments”). Many connections can be drawn between the two. This bread was not just food made in haste; it was food prepared communally to sustain us on our journey toward redemption and revelation at Mount Sinai. Just like our mitzvot, our matzot connect and sustain us. Neither matzah nor mitzvot are fun and inspiring all the time, but they fuel our journey toward freedom and connect us so that we can achieve our communal mission.

This brings me to a final meaning of matzah, which is often translated as “relief.” When we eat matzah, we are reminded of the relief of having been redeemed from Egypt. In a sense, our mitzvot provide a certain kind of relief as well. As Jews, we are given the gift of knowing what to do, even when it is difficult. In our current moment, more and more Americans are learning that being lost is not the same as being free—and that having a clear path provides both liberation and comfort.

As we approach Passover, I will do my best to remind myself that matzah can be many things. It is not just the bread of affliction and distress; it is the bread of commandments and privilege—a bread that reminds us that we are not alone and need not be lost. Through the difficult work of building disciplined movements toward redemption and revelation, we can create a better world. It might not make us feel good in the moment, but it will nourish us toward a richer destiny.

Shabbat Shalom and Pesach Sameach!