I am delighted to share 91żě˛Ąâ€™s 5785 Passover supplement, part of our ongoing series of holiday readers. This year, we invited contributors—including 91żě˛Ą faculty, administration, alumni, and students—to share their thoughts, concerns, and personal reflections to enrich your holiday experience. As we gather around the seder table, we retell our foundational story of redemption, finding new meaning in its timeless themes. In these pages, you’ll find poignant reflections and inspiring interpretations that invite deeper intellectual and spiritual engagement.

To help integrate these elements into your seder, we’ve suggested various ways to use this material throughout the evening. You might highlight specific excerpts to spark questions or bring discussion prompts, commentaries, and readings directly to the table to invite thought-provoking conversations.

May this guide help you find new meaning in the enduring words of the Haggadah and inspire conversations that connect past and present, tradition and renewal—and that point us to a more hopeful future.

I am immensely thankful to Shelly and Larry Gross, who have generously supported this initiative, enabling us to share this supplement with you.

Hag Sameah,

Dr. Shuly Rubin Schwartz
Chancellor

Reprinted with permission from , published by Ben Yehuda Press (2024)

The Hebrew month of Nisan had just begun when I sat down to write a first draft of this chapter. Passover was two weeks away — barely enough time for [my wife] Ace and me to start preparing for the seder… The time could not pass fast enough for me; I love this holiday.

The Haggadah itself urges seder participants to discuss the reasons for observing the holiday. Why the fanatical scrubbing of oven, fridge, and countertops, the exchange of bread and rolls for matzah, and the ritual reading of a text that we know so well we could almost recall it by heart? “You do this,” the Haggadah seems to say, “because God redeemed your ancestors from Egypt, and has redeemed you as well. You need to remember that you are now obligated to help redeem others:’ The question shifts from “Why are we here?” to “What should we be doing when we leave the seder table?” What should change in our society — and how should we change — between this Passover and next Passover because of lessons learned and commitments made in the course of the evening?…

Symbols on the table, a familiar text in hand, and a great meal just ahead, one sits down to confront difficult matters that are otherwise avoided. I gladly seize the chance to face them.

Passover is a time-tested framework of response to the human predicament and to the questions it renders inescapable. More: it points beyond both questions and answers to action that needs to be undertaken to advance the project of redemption. The Haggadah does not recount the biblical story of the Exodus in any detail. For the rabbis who designed it, the point of the seder was not to get the history right but to get our lives right, that is, to inquire into the meaning of the Exodus here and now. We come together at Passover to consider the consequences and implications that the story holds for us — and then to act on those lessons. Our responsibility to work for the redemption of humanity does not depend upon the amount of historical credence that we give to the biblical account of the Exodus or upon the meaning we find in matzah, bitter herbs, and the recital of the kiddush. Nor should it stand or fall with any particular theological stance. For the world is in turmoil. We ourselves are in turmoil much of the time. Yet there is joy and blessing in our lives. With luck and grace, there is love as well. Essential work awaits each of us. We must find our bearings and find a way forward and join the project of redemption….

The themes of the seder are foregrounded powerfully in a brief paragraph that introduces the telling of the Exodus story. That passage can serve as a fitting introduction to theological inquiry as well. “This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat. This year, [we are] here. Next year, [may we be] in the Land of lsrael. This year, [we are] slaves. Next year, [may we be] free.”

I read the passage as saying something like the following: By all means, debate what it means that matzah is the “bread of affliction” — this is important — but do not fail to feed those afflicted with hunger while you are debating. Make sure that your Judaism, and your seder, invite them in. Theology has its place, but action is required.

Ponder whether the references to Egypt and the Land of Israel should be taken literally and, if not, what they might symbolize for us. Where you are now? What does your present situation require of you? Where you would like to be — and how would you like the world to be — next year and the year after? What does it mean to be free or enslaved, literally and metaphorically in Egypt or the Land of Israel?

Think about the “we” of which you are a part, the “we” that is “enslaved” this year, but next year perhaps “free”: Enlarge that “we” beyond your seder table, your community, your neighborhood. Hope for the redemption of those included in the expanded concentric circles of your “we”: Work for it.

There is one final directive in the passage, I believe, discernible between the lines and communicated in what is not said. During the seder and afterward, think about what it means to share the world with God — a major player in the Passover story Who is not mentioned in this opening paragraph of the Haggadah. Could that omission be a call for us to speak and act in the way that Passover commands, and take on the work of redemption that God performed in Egypt? If God remains in hiding when redemption is needed, human beings must stand up and be counted.

“Stand By” and “Get Moving”

My favorite lines in the Torah’s narrative of the Exodus from Egypt do not appear in the Haggadah. They come in a passage that begins with an expression of delicious sarcasm on the part of the Children of Israel — humor born of suffering and fear. Caught between the sea looming in front of them and Pharaoh’s army approaching from behind, the people say to Moses, “Was it for lack of graves in Egypt that you took us out to the wilderness to die?”

Moses responds sternly and piously to this dark humor. Having been schooled by the ten plagues to expect help from God, he instructs the people to “stand by and witness the deliverance, which the Lord your God will work for you today.” The Lord will fight for you, he tells the Israelites. “You will be silent.” God has other ideas, however; I believe that the response God makes to Moses at this crucial juncture of Israel’s history carries major consequences for Jewish theology ever after. “What are you crying out to me for?” God demands. “Tell the Children of Israel to get moving!”

God reverts to form immediately afterward, telling Moses about all the wonders that He will perform to secure the deliverance of which the Israelites had despaired. The sea will split. The Children of Israel will cross safely to the other side on dry land. Pharaoh’s army will drown as the waters return. But God puts the people on notice that He will not do everything for them while they stand by and watch. Human initiative and courage will be required to reach the Promised Land. A well-known rabbinic midrash in that spirit claims that the sea did not begin to split until the first Israelite plunged into its waters.

Jewish theologians, like those of other religious traditions, have long debated the balance between human and divine action — “works” and “grace” — in the scheme of redemption. The question has come up in some form at almost every seder that I can remember. Isn’t the human situation so bad that it will take direct action by God to change the course of history? Will human effort ever be enough to improve matters decisively without divine assistance? Isn’t it more likely that, left to ourselves, human actors will make matters worse? On the other hand, whatever the truth about the Israelites’ escape from Egypt, it seems that God has often failed to send help when it has been most needed. Shouldn’t humanity take on the messiah’s work ourselves? Can we afford to keep waiting in vain for God?

My response to those heartfelt queries — the lesson that I take away from the Passover story — falls somewhere in between those two positions. Given the difficulty that human beings always have in discerning God’s role in nature or history, and God’s apparent lack of involvement on the stage of history, a threefold strategy seems in order.

1. We should continue to hope for God’s help, which may come — and perhaps does come — in a form that we do not recognize.
2. We are encouraged to trust that a larger force is at work in the world, perhaps in part through human beings like you and me.
3. We are commanded to act as if the world depends on us -­ on all of us, individually and together. Whatever God’s part in reducing suffering and countering evil, our role in mitigating suffering and combatting evil is indispensable.

… I think that is exactly the strategy recommended by the rabbis who compiled the biblical canon and created the blueprint for the Passover seder.

Accept full responsibility for righting as many wrongs as we can, for covenants with God and fellow human beings demand that wrongs be righted and injustice curbed. Answer God’s call for partners who exercise initiative and intelligence. Do not wait for God’s Messiah to make things right in the world, but do not give up on divine assistance or ignore the help that comes to us, indirectly and invisibly, “from some other place.’ Do not lose faith that a more sweeping redemption will come one day, most likely in a form that we cannot at present imagine. The eye of faith discerns divine activity that cannot be demonstrated empirically. The Messiah will come, ushering in future redemption that will draw upon the efforts at redemption, large or small, that we ourselves have made.

This view of the matter is beautifully articulated in the classic Jewish joke about the man who is drowning and prays fervently to God to save him. When a rowboat pulls up alongside him, he thanks the rescuers inside it but says he is waiting for God to perform a miracle on his behalf. A luxury yacht approaches and sends the man a motorized raft. Again, he declines the offer of help. When a helicopter circles overhead and lowers a ladder, our hero once more remains in the surging waves to wait for God. He soon drowns. When he reaches heaven, the man demands to know why God did not save him. “Idiot!” God replies. “I sent the rowboat, the yacht, and the helicopter. What more of a miracle do you want?”

That, to me, is Judaism’s best word about waiting versus moving: an eloquent statement of Passover’s timeless message about redemption.

The Jewish people are no strangers to brokenness. As Moses came down from Mount Sinai he was so angry that Benei Yisra’el worshiped a golden calf in his absence that he shattered the tablets he was holding containing the Ten Commandments. 

At each Jewish wedding, in the height of our communal joy, we smash a glass into pieces to remember that destruction is as much a part of our reality as wholeness and happiness. 

It makes perfect sense, then, that as we retell the story of our people’s freedom at Passover, we break the middle piece of matzah. After all, there was much brokenness in our redemption story. Our backs broke under the difficult labor of our enslavement in Egypt. Hearts broke when first-born sons died. Pharoah broke his promise, changing his mind after finally allowing Benei Yisra’el to go free. The sea itself broke so that we could cross into freedom. 

Today, our world is broken in so many ways. Hunger and poverty threaten nearly 38 million lives in America each year. War and hatred have allowed for destruction beyond measure. Israeli homes are broken, still emerging from the last years of war and uncertainty. 

We carry our brokenness with us. Moses carried the shattered tablets in the Ark alongside a new and whole set throughout our people’s travels in the desert. Many married couples choose to fill mezuzot with the shards from their broken glasses as they build a new home together. Our broken matzah becomes the afikoman, a hidden dessert that leaves a lasting taste of freedom on our tongue. 

We carry our brokenness with us to remind us that the world needs our help to put broken pieces back together. This year, as you break the middle matzah at your family’s seder table, ask yourself: What is broken in my world that needs fixing? How can I start putting the pieces back together? 

Throughout the supplement, we have included highlights from historic haggadot from the collection of The 91żě˛Ą Library. The Library is home to over 2000 haggadot, including roughly 700 rare manuscripts and books. The earliest dates to the year 1050 and was found in the Cairo Geniza. Exploring these texts offers ways to build bridges to our Jewish past, while understanding the evolving ritual of the seder.

The Second New York Haggadah, part of The 91żě˛Ą Library collection, is a gem from 1454. It’s the handiwork of Joel ben Simeon, a talented scribe and artist. Joel’s life took him from the Rhine Valley, where he was born, to Italy, where he spent much of his career. He’s one of the few Jewish artists we know who worked in such different regions, and his art reflects both German and Italian styles.

This Haggadah isn’t packed with narrative illustrations, but it’s still bursting with creativity. Joel loved decorating his work, and here he filled the pages with lively human faces and figures. The Ha Lahma Anya passage comes to life with an extraordinary illustration that reflects Joel ben Simeon’s creativity. On this page, the text declares, “This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat.” Joel fills the margins with faces that seem to represent the community gathered around the seder table. These faces are incredibly diverse—men, women, young, old, rich, poor, knights, jesters, and even some surprising figures like a veiled woman and a figure who might be a court performer.

The illustration feels like a tapestry of human experience. It invites us to reflect on the call to welcome others into our homes and hearts during Passover. The lively, red-backed panel of faces reminds us that the seder isn’t just a ritual; it’s a moment to connect with others, to share stories, and to embrace the spirit of inclusion that the Haggadah teaches.

Joel’s choice to include these faces—each unique and full of personality—suggests his own deep
curiosity about the world around him. By adding these images to the page of Ha Lahma Anya, he
turns a call to action into a visual reminder of our shared humanity and the power of welcoming
those in need.

Questions to Consider

• How do the diverse faces in the Ha Lahma Anya illustration—spanning age, class, and identity—challenge or expand our understanding of who should be included at the seder table, both historically and in our lives today?
• If we were to update the illustration, who would you include in the “tapestry of human experience” at your seder?

1. The descriptions of the four children include three intellectual characteristics (wise, simple, and unable to ask) and one moral characteristic (wicked), and thus there is a glaring inconsistency (a wise person can, after all, be wicked, and a wicked person can be simple, etc.)
2. The first and second children both phrase their questions in the second person (“tell me about the laws that our God has commanded you” and “tell me what the meaning of this service of yours is”). Why, then, is the first child answered in a civil way (and called “wise”), while the second child is berated (and called “wicked”)?
3. The Haggadah correctly notes that the four children are present in the Torah (the fourth child, of course, is silent, but is alluded to when the Torah advises the parent to “tell your child on that day….”). But only the third and the fourth receive the answers that the Torah prescribes.

The “wise” and “wicked” questions – objectively viewed – are equivalent to each other. They both begin with “Mah”, which can mean “what”, but can also mean “why is it…”. The child asks the parent “mah ha-edot….”. Seeing the various Passover rites, practices that are hardly universal, the child wants to know why the parent is doing these rituals. But the parent prefers to answer the easier question of “what”— “Here’s a catalogue of all you need to know about living a Jewish life, right down to the last Mishnah”. (The subtext of this encounter: “Am I not a good parent/teacher, and aren’t you a wise child?”)

But the child hadn’t asked a “what” question. The child asked the crucial “why” question – perhaps the most important question anyone, of any age, can ask. The essential message of Passover is that the service of God is unlike the service of Pharaoh, even though the same Hebrew word, avodah, is used for both. Pharaoh does not brook “why” questions. No tyrant does. No slave may ask why. But the essence of being free is the ability to ask such questions. And one is entitled to good faith attempts at answers.

So let us go back to the child. Having gotten the catalogue of rules, the child clarifies the original question asking, “tell me the meaning of this service of yours.”  Profound embarrassment ensues when the parent cannot answer. Why? Because like so many of us, the parent hasn’t thought very deeply about why we should be doing what we do as Jews, and why we want our children to continue those practices. The natural reaction to a question that exposes ignorance is to declare the question illegitimate and offensive, and lash out at the questioner. This is exactly what happens with the “second child,” who is just the same child paraphrasing the original question. But the child is called “wicked” for asking such an impertinent question. Note, that the question still has not been answered.

The child is now perplexed. The question about the Passover rites is put aside, and another question comes to the fore. It is: “mah zot”? In all simplicity (the meaning of “Tam”), the child wants to know why this abusive treatment is coming from their parent instead of patient teaching. What is this? Why is this happening? The parent uses the Torah’s prescribed answer for this question (see Exodus 13:14), with the meaning shifted in this dialogue. “God took us out of Egypt with a strong arm.” It is God’s “strong arm” that resulted in our being in God’s service. In other words, the parent, unable and unwilling to engage the essential question, now invalidates the entire point of the Passover message. Service of God becomes just like service to Pharaoh – we must simply respect the “strong arm”, the power, and not make trouble with “why” questions.

The outcome of all of this is sadly predictable. The child has now been taught, perversely, not to ask questions. [Perhaps we should read the Haggadah’s eino yode’a lishol as yode’a lo lishol – the child now knows not to ask!] And in this radio silence, the Haggadah offers the only possible advice: at p’tah lo – “you had better reopen the conversation with this child all over again.” And this time, offer the teaching of Exodus 13:8 without the caustic sarcasm. Open a serious dialogue with the child (or with the student, or the friend, or the spouse, or whoever asks) about the essential “why” questions: Ba’avur zeh asah hashem li b’tzeiti mimitzrayim… because it is for this very reason that our ancestors were freed, and why people everywhere yearn to be free: to end our constriction to the “what”, and to be able to ask what is, after all, the signature human question: “Why?”

We fill our cups and recite the seder over them, the wine rippling with the stories of our ancestors. Throughout the night, we drink four cups that overflow with our joy, our blessings, our exodus. But, at the seder, we also spill ten drops, one for each plague. A drop of red from a fingertip onto the plate, in commemoration of the suffering of the Egyptians. By diminishing our metaphoric joy, we make the statement that our joy can never be complete while others suffer, even if those who suffer hurt us deeply.

Over the past year, going between my Barnard and 91żě˛Ą classes, my cup often felt low. I longed for the understanding and empathy from those outside the Jewish community. I longed for another willing to spill a drop for me, my friends, my family, and so many others who have experienced antisemitism this year.

This year, as soon as the wine has been blessed, I will spill out three drops, one for the hostages, one for their families, and one for every Jewish person who has experienced antisemitism this year. In this holiday of joy and freedom, I will first recognize this pain. Then, when it is time, I will spill for each plague. Even if my cup is low, I will spend the drops on empathy. These feelings of fear and hopelessness do not change who I am, who we strive to be as a community. Next year in Jerusalem, with our cups in hand.

I think about this each year when I chant the Dayyenu song at the Passover Seder. The Dayyenu recap of events is filled with holes and is by no means a historical recounting. Rather, it is a biased one, which keeps us focused on the miracles in our people’s history. As we reach the end of each line, we chant the familiar Dayyenu, focusing on wondrous events and eschewing the fear, distress, and anger that the Israelites felt in their time.

This tunnel-vision view of Jewish history can feel somewhat inauthentic. Even as we sing, we think to ourselves: “But each miracle would not in fact have been sufficient!” If God had parted the sea but not brought the Israelites to dry land, they would undoubtedly have drowned. If God had brought the Israelites to Mt. Sinai but not given us the Torah, the Jewish people would not exist. And how can the author of this song express the Israelite’s appreciation for the manna? Didn’t the Israelites complain bitterly about it, going so far as to beg for a return to Egypt where they would again have access to a
wider range of food? Even during the very same seder, we recount the suffering of the enslaved Israelites and remove drops of wine during the recitation of the 10 plagues to remember that Egyptians died in
the process of liberating the Israelites. The story—of deliverance from Egypt or of Jewish history writ large—was not an untainted joyous, miracle-filled journey.

And yet we chant Dayyenu with gusto. This enduringly popular, jaunty song comprises a central part of the Pesah seder. Why do we do so? I’d argue that it is precisely because it is not meant to be a history quiz. Rather the rose-colored Dayyenu is an easy-tor-remember-and-recite gratitude practice, and as current research has shown, gratitude can improve overall well-being and deepen social connections and personal bonds. The cheery, repetitive tune implores us to enumerate, celebrate, and highlight these
moments—and to express gratitude for them even in the face of the obvious challenges. And then we say Hallel, praising God and again expressing gratitude for God’s grace.

The text of Dayyenu first appears in the siddur of the 9th century Babylonian leader Rav Amram Gaon but its origins may date back much earlier. Some scholars have argued that Dayyenu was written to counter early Christian assertions that Jews were an ungrateful people. Rabbi Louis Finkelstein, one of my predecessors as 91żě˛Ą chancellor, claimed that the text of Dayyenu must have been written even earlier, before the destruction of the Second Temple. Dayyenu concludes with the building of that Temple and as Finkelstein wrote, “It is certain that only a person living at the time of the sanctuary would think of its establishment as the climax of Jewish history.”

No matter when it was composed, Dayyenu, with its focus on personal and communal gratitude, has remained a staple of our Seder night for many centuries perhaps because of the positive effects that this gratitude practice has had on us. Not only does regular engagement with gratitude improve well-being but psychologists have found that this intentional focus on gratitude increases our desire to engage with others in compassionate and helpful ways. Much of the Haggadah helps us recall our experiences of suffering, ostracism, and slavery; Dayyenu reminds us of the ways we’ve been taken care of by God. Having recalled the challenges, we harness our gratitude for the positives to pay it forward to
others with kindness and support.

The sentiments expressed by the song then, however pollyannish they may sound, can inspire us to manifest a world where more of us can truly say Dayyenu for the blessings in our lives. It can encourage us to care for those around us, working toward a future where more of us are able to express gratitude for the sentiments that that the song alludes to: sustenance and security; justice and peace; and strengthened connections to the Jewish people, the Land of Israel, and all that is holy. May we all be so inspired this year.

I wish you a hag sameah, a joyous and meaningful holiday of connection and gratitude—this year at our seder tables, and and next year at everyone’s.