As we gather around our Seder tables this year, we carry both the weight of this moment and the enduring power of our story. Pesach reminds us that ours is a story of oppression—and also a story of liberation. At home, many feel anxious about the future; immigrants and those most vulnerable live with particular fear; and the language and posture of power echoes the ancient tyrants we read about in our texts. Beyond our borders, war, fear, and uncertainty touch countless lives: family and friends in Israel will be observing Pesach in shelters, and millions in Iran, Lebanon, and across the Middle East live with danger and instability. In such a moment, our story feels urgent. We are called not only to remember the Exodus, but to ask what it means to speak of freedom when so many are still living in its absence.
Our tradition does not ask us to choose between celebration and sorrow, but to hold them together. At the Seder, we recline as an act of embodying freedom—tasting, even briefly, what it means to let go. And yet, we diminish our wine, drop by drop, as we recite the ten plagues, because our liberation came at a cost. As the rabbis teach, even God silenced the angels: “My creatures are drowning, and you sing?” The Seder invites us into this tension, calling us to celebrate without losing sight of the humanity and suffering of others. Our rituals remind us that true freedom is not built on cruelty or vengeance, but on compassion, responsibility, and the recognition of every human being’s dignity.
Perhaps this year, Pesach calls us to something more: to refuse to let pain harden us against one another; to understand hope not as certainty, but as a choice to keep moving, to keep caring, to keep acting. And also to make space for joy—not as denial, but as a sacred, defiant act. To sing, to laugh, to gather, to tell the story again—these too are part of our resilience, part of what sustains us and connects us to generations who carried hope before us.
As we recline this year, may we allow ourselves to be fully present and to experience the joy of liberation, truly believing it is possible—for us and for all. And as we diminish our wine, may we remember all human beings who suffer in today’s world, affirming that the work of liberation calls us to humility and to act for justice, dignity, and compassion.
May our Sedarim open our hearts—to one another, to those who are hurting, and to the work of building a more just and compassionate world. May we find the courage to carry grief, joy, and possibility together, and to take even one step closer to the redemption we so deeply need.
With wishes for a meaningful, joyful, and liberating Pesach,
Rav Claudia