We are living the Haggadah: The war gives new meaning to the story of freedom

We are a nation of memory. We hold tightly to our past, marking the great turning points of our history. That past is not a relic of culture. It lives within us.

This year, that demand feels immediate. The Seder becomes a lens through which we can better understand the history that is unfolding before us.

Here are six moments within the Seder that carry deep resonance and shape the flow of the night. This year, they invite a more immediate reading, grounded in the struggle we currently face.

The list of four sons reminds us that there are many ways to enter this story. Not every child, not every Jew, relates to identity in the same way, and the Seder must hold space for different voices and different questions. The four sons reflect the scene at our Seder table, families of varied temperaments and perspectives gathered around a shared memory.

This year, there is also a fifth son. The one who is not here to ask at all.

Across Israel, there will be empty chairs. Some belong to those who fell and will not return to the Seder table. Others belong to husbands, sons, and fathers still serving, still defending our people, absent from their families on this night of gathering.

As we speak about the four sons, we should also think about the fifth, the one whose chair is empty, whose voice we miss, but who remains part of our Seder.

This is an obvious moment to connect to our condition, as we face enemies who have once again risen to annihilate us. On this night of faith, we are certain that these criminals will meet the fate of those who rose against us in the past. Many already have, and others will follow.

We recall the first who rose in hatred, Laban, the father-in-law of Jacob. His assault may not have been the most violent, but it revealed something enduring about antisemitism. Hatred is always corrosive, but antisemitism defies logic. It is psychopathic, and it drives people toward self-destructive behavior. Laban was prepared to destroy Jacob and his entire family, including his own daughters and grandchildren. He was not thinking; his hatred consumed him and led him toward the unthinkable.

History has seen this pattern before. Even as Germany faltered in war, trains carried Jews to their deaths instead of soldiers to the front. Hatred of Jews overrode national survival.

We see it again today. Our enemies invest in tunnels and terror while abandoning their own people and their own future. Their hatred distorts judgment and ultimately turns inward. These cultures of hate will all self-implode.

Laban also introduced another pattern – false accusation. Despite Jacob’s integrity, Laban projected his own corruption onto him. That pattern endures. Modern antisemitism uses updated language and categories, but the accusations themselves are familiar. Once again, our enemies project their own moral failures and insecurities onto the Jews.

When we receive repeated divine kindness, we often take it for granted. We feel gratitude, but it becomes general and unfocused. “Dayeinu” forces us to pause and name each kindness, allowing gratitude to deepen and faith to increase.

As we recite the 15 stanzas of “Dayeinu,” tracing the miracles of the Exodus, we might also think of the dayeinu we would offer for the past two and a half years. Without softening the pain or ignoring the strain, we can still give thanks for God’s care and protection.

Gratitude is not reserved for easier moments. It must be found even when deliverance arrives alongside hardship.

King Hezekiah did not fully give thanks after the Assyrian siege of Jerusalem was miraculously lifted. The moment was too heavy. The Northern Kingdom had already fallen, and deliverance came mixed with loss.

We are still struggling. But “Dayeinu” teaches us to mark each stage. Redemption unfolds step by step, and each stage calls for recognition.

Matzah carries a double meaning. It is lehem oni, “the bread of poverty,” which we break in half to place ourselves back into the cramped, dirty conditions of Egypt, squalid spaces without dignity or freedom. We have lived through similar conditions more than once in our history.

Matzah is also the bread that did not have time to rise, a reminder of how quickly we were taken out of Egypt.

When we eat matzah, we hold both meanings together. Jewish history asks us to carry different emotions at once, to remember hardship while also recognizing redemption.

This is a night to feel the bitterness – of Egypt, of our long history, and of these past two and a half years. But that bitterness does not cancel the other side. Alongside it stands the reality of redemption, the endurance of our people, and the strength of the State of Israel.

As you eat the matzah, make room for both emotions in your heart and on your tongue.

The final and ultimate matzah, the afikoman, is deferred until the end of the meal. That moment is called Tzafun, “hidden.” Hiding the afikoman reminds us that as much as we try to decipher history, it remains partly concealed.

We have a general awareness that history has shifted. These past two years have not been local geopolitical conflicts but events with broader historical weight. Yet the arc of history remains tzafun, hidden. We may sense general direction, but the details are still hidden.

We know we are moving somewhere, but the timing and the unfolding remain beyond us.

Late in the night, as the Seder draws to a close, we gather to sing the story of a small goat purchased by a father. That goat is struck, and each act of violence gives way to another. The song traces the arc of Jewish history, cycles of harm followed by more violence, until the end, when the Heavenly Father brings that chain to a halt, dismantling each force, even the Angel of Death.

We are living through the final stanza of the song. Our Father has returned. We are no longer a small defenseless goat. We stand with the strength of a roaring lion, able to protect and respond. Our Father in Heaven stands behind that strength and guides it.