Passover Seder: The Story of Us

If the point of the Passover Haggadah was merely to relate a concise national narrative—as the old joke goes, “They tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat”—the Seder would be both shorter and clearer. Rather, the Haggadah contains an endless number of narrative threads, all of which will be present when the Jewish people sit down for the holiday this week.

For some, the Haggadah recounts the story of how in every generation a Pharaoh figure arises to destroy the Jewish people: a reminder to us all of the importance of standing vigilant against the perennial threat of antisemitism. For others, the take-home message of the Seder is not vigilance, but empathy, that as Jews we must forever identify with the heart of the stranger, because after all, we too were once strangers in a strange land.

For some, the point of the story is freedom and self-determination; for others, it’s commitment and belonging. For some, Passover is the holiday of Dayenu, “It would have been enough”—a reminder to express gratitude for our portion in life. For others, it is a tale of the fights that yet lie ahead and a reminder that we are never satisfied until we reach the Promised Land, and maybe not even then. “Next year,” we conclude, “in Jerusalem!”

So it is, too, with the Passover symbols. There are as many explanations as there are people at Seder tables. Is the matzaha reminder of the haste in which we left Egypt, or is it, as we state at the beginning of the Seder, the bread of affliction, a reminder of our servitude? Is the haroset a reminder of the mortar with which we built the pyramids, or is it there to sweeten the sting of the bitter herb? Do we dip our fingers into wine with each plague to savor the vengeance exacted on our Egyptian oppressors, as a reminder of our ancestors daubing blood on the lintels of their doorposts, or to remove a drop of wine from our cups, a self-admonition against taking joy at the downfall of our foes?

Not only does the Haggadah contain multiple narrative threads, but also each thread and each ritual contain a multitude of interpretive possibilities. There is an archaeology to the Haggadah, it is a layered compendium of biblical texts, rabbinic texts, medieval texts, and modern texts interwoven and stitched together, with the seams visible to close readers, embracing a diversity of ages, sages and sensibilities.

But the Haggadah is more than that. Much more.

More of an invitation than a recitation, the Haggadah is engineered to elicit comments and debate from its readers. The Hebrew word “haggadah” doesn’t mean “story”; it means “telling,” an observation made even more interesting when one considers that the first thing one does in the maggid/telling section is not tell but ask a question: Mah nishtanah? “What makes this night different?”

Unlike every other liturgy, the Haggadah not only allows for interruption but also welcomes it. Unlike every other liturgy, the text of the Haggadah is directed not toward God but to the people sitting across from you at the table. The Haggadah reminds us that our stories are not only endlessly diverse, but also endlessly evolving, as in the case of the sages described in the Haggadah, all of whom continued to find new meanings in each word throughout their lives.

Most of all, the Haggadah is a reminder. It’s a reminder that our stories, interpretations and insights—diverse and evolving as they are—must sit side by side, literally and figuratively, with the stories, interpretations and insights of every other Seder participant. Each person, regardless of age, stature or wisdom is an equal stakeholder. Memorable as the rhetorical device of the four children may be, its point is not merely to prompt us to identify with one child or another; its point and power is to remind us that all four children figured out a way to sit at the table together. Who knows if the rabbis described in Haggadah—Eliezer, Akiva and Tarfon (among others)—actually liked each other? What we do know is that they made space for each other, debating until the break of dawn, their insights preserved in the text together with those of other rabbis.

Memorable as the rhetorical device of the four children may be, its point is not merely to prompt us to identify with one child or another; its point and power is to remind us that all four children figured out a way to sit at the table together.

The Haggadah is not just a story of one of us; it is the story of all of us. On one hand, this story is authentic to our respective lived experiences, and on the other hand it is inclusive and interconnected with the lived experiences of others. There is a lexical correspondence between the Hebrew word “haggadah” and the Hebrew root gid, meaning “sinew” or “tendon,” that which binds or connects us. That is what the Haggadah is: a story that invites other stories, that connects those stories one to another. It’s an inclusive tool of identity formation that binds each participant to a larger narrative and binds the Jewish people together through the ages.

Every year, it is important to fulfill the commandment of the Passover seder—this year more than ever. One need not look far to see the crises, schisms and ruptures facing Israel, America and the relationships between Israel and diaspora Jewry, and, for that matter, America and Israel.  Beneath all the tumult of the unfolding events is the pain-filled observation that everyone seems to have forgotten the dialogical model and message of the Passover Seder.

The Seder reminds us that though we may share a common narrative, each of us reads that narrative differently, that the truths that are self-evident to one person are the source of hurt to another, and that all reads—eilu v’eilu—reflect the will of the living God. The Seder reminds us of the importance of our stories, the importance of sharing our stories, and the importance of listening to the stories and views different from our own.

The Seder reminds us that far more important than the quick victory of a conversation-stopping zinger is the spirit of earnest and enduring inquiry. A well-placed question reveals our own uncertainties even as it challenges the counter-certainties of others. The seder reminds us not only that every person should have a seat at the table, but also that a person can sit down at a meal with one identity and get up from the meal with another and that to do so is a sign of strength not weakness.

The Seder reminds us that we are all members of an extended mishpokhe, a family, and that if we can see the world through the lens of family, we can stop thinking of winners and losers and start asking what is in the best interest of the whole. Most of all, the Seder reminds us that the success of our efforts is ultimately measured by how well we pass on our stories to the next generation and encourage our children to sit at the table together.

Most of all, the Seder reminds us that the success of our efforts is ultimately measured by how well we pass on our stories to the next generation and encourage our children to sit at the table together.

If you can, invite someone new to your Seder, not just someone who has never been to your Seder (or any Seder), but someone whose views differ from your own. If you can’t invite someone new, or if you will be a guest at someone else’s Seder, then bring a new Haggadah with new interpretations. Leave a seat empty and go around the table pointing to it, asking the question of whose voice is not being heard at your seder. Check yourself as you tell the story—your version of the story. Allow for your views to be challenged. Invite the questions, interpretations and comments of others. Make space for their views and let them sit uncomfortably alongside your own.

The Seder is a night to be our best selves, to imagine our world not as it is but as it ought to be. We may not be able to change the world from our Seder tables, but we can, at the very least, open our doors, and our hearts, wide enough for the hearts and truths of others, perhaps opening the door to a far-reaching and redemptive future.

Elliot J. Cosgrove is the Rabbi of Park Avenue Synagogue, Manhattan.