The Seder and the Story
A People Bound by Memory
The Pesach Seder has always been one of the great unifying experiences of the Jewish people. Remarkably, this remains true even though how one observes the Seder varies greatly across the spectrum of Jewish practice, customs, and levels of halachic observance.
I would even venture to say that the Seder creates more of a sense of shared Jewish experience than Yom Kippur, even if it’s hard to prove that more Jews attend a Seder than go to shul on Yom Kippur.
Why does the Seder feel more universal?
Because Yom Kippur is, by its nature, deeply personal—each individual confronts their sins, their conscience, their relationship to free will and repentance. But the Seder is a national experience. It is the telling of a collective story, a meditation on Jewish history—on exile and redemption—and that story binds us together through time, whether we believe in it, question it, or simply find ourselves seated at the table.
This is why so many mitzvot are said to be “in remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt.” It was then that our national story began—an experiment in peoplehood, purpose, and memory. And it continues to this day.
The Four Children: Responses to History
Consider the contrast between the wicked son and the one who does not know how to ask.
The wicked son asks:
“What does this service mean to you?”
His use of the words “to you” implies exclusion—this isn’t for him. And by excluding himself from the Jewish community, the Haggadah says, he denies God. So the response is sharp:
“This is done on account of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt—for me, not for him. Had he been there, he would not have been redeemed.”
At first glance, this seems harsh. Is there any child for whom the best response is essentially a punch in the mouth?
Now compare it to the response to the one who does not know how to ask:
“You shall tell your son on that day: This is on account of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.” (Exodus 13:8)
It’s the same verse! But now, the words are being used gently—to open a conversation.
So how can one verse carry such opposite meanings?
The answer lies in the Haggadah’s selective quotation. When addressing the wicked son, the Haggadah omits the beginning of the verse: “You shall tell your son on that day.” This omission doesn’t just sharpen the tone—it implies that the son has removed himself from the relationship, even from the family.
Back to the Beginning: Avraham’s Question
To understand the deeper message of this dialogue, we must return to the origin of the Jewish story.
Who was the first “son” to ask a question that would evoke the Haggadah’s themes?
Avraham.
In Genesis 15, after God promises him both children and land, Avraham asks:
“O Lord God, how shall I know that I will inherit it?” (Genesis 15:8)
God’s response is cryptic and deeply symbolic. He commands Avraham to bring animals for a covenantal ritual. Avraham lays them out, and as a deep sleep falls upon him, a “fearsome, great darkness” descends.
Then God says:
“Know for sure that your descendants will be strangers in a land not theirs. They will be enslaved and afflicted for four hundred years. But in the end, I will judge the nation that enslaves them, and they will leave with great wealth.” (Genesis 15:13–14)
Here is the first telling of the Exodus—and it is told not to slaves, but to Avraham, the founder. The theme of exile and redemption is planted at the very beginning. It is not a bug in the Jewish experience—it is a feature.
But why should this be? Why must Jewish consciousness be rooted in the cycle of exile and redemption?
The Three Levels of Exile (Maharal)
If we read God’s words to Avraham carefully, we see three stages of exile:
“Your seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not theirs, and shall serve them; and they shall afflict them…” (Genesis 15:13)
Gerut – Being a stranger
Avodah – Serving another
Inui – Affliction and suffering
These levels reflect psychological as well as political exile.
1. Gerut – Being a Stranger
To be a stranger is to be defined from the outside. You are tolerated, perhaps even celebrated—but never truly at home. This is the experience of Jews throughout history, even in "friendly" lands like America, Australia, or (once) Europe.
In Egypt, Joseph’s brothers arrived as honored guests. In modern parlance, they might have each had their own talk show. But it doesn’t last. It never does. The comfort of exile lulls us into forgetting who we are—until the descent into slavery begins.
2. Avodah – Serving the System
This level is more insidious. It’s no longer about being culturally “other.” Now, our labor, our time, our very purpose is repurposed to serve the goals of others.
This is the Jew in Egypt building cities for Pharaoh.
This is the modern parent buried in debt, working two jobs to survive, unable to dream beyond their next rent payment.
In this condition, the very meaning of being Jewish is lost, because identity is flattened by survival.
3. Inui – Affliction and Oppression
This is the lowest point: the experience of being Jewish becomes dangerous. Affliction can come through force—pogroms, ghettos, boycotts—or through ideology, when the world turns against you wrapped in slogans of justice and progress.
The greatest danger is when liberalism forgets its limits—when open minds become dogmatic, and the language of human rights becomes a club with which to beat Jews.
But this is not the end. In fact, this is where redemption begins.
Redemption: From Ur to Jerusalem
The covenant with Avraham begins not in Egypt, but in Ur Kasdim—“the fire of the Chaldeans.” Avraham is thrown into a furnace for refusing to worship idols. He is saved, miraculously, and it’s that moment of salvation that leads God to say:
“I am the Lord who brought you out of Ur of the Chaldeans to give you this land to inherit.” (Genesis 15:7)
From this, Avraham learns that God is not just an idea—He is a redeemer. And now, Avraham can begin the journey to Eretz Yisrael, where life is defined not by rebellion, but by relationship.
But Why the Suffering?
If Avraham already believed in God, why did he ask:
“How shall I know that I will inherit the land?”
Avraham wasn’t doubting for himself. He was asking on behalf of his descendants: How can I be sure that future generations will stay connected to this mission?
And God’s answer is exile and redemption.
Only through the experience of being strangers, of losing ourselves, of surviving slavery—can we truly appreciate the inheritance. Only then will we choose to come home. And this, says God, is how they will know.
The Four Children Revisited
This brings us back to the Seder, and the wicked son vs. the silent son.
“What is this service to you?” asks the wicked son (Exodus 12:26)
“You shall tell your son…” says the Torah (Exodus 13:8)
Same verse. Two children. Two responses.
To the wicked son, who knows the story but rejects its meaning, we reflect his words back to him. You exclude yourself? Then you would not have been redeemed. It’s not an angry response—it’s an invitation to see what exclusion means.
To the silent son, who doesn’t know how to ask, we open the conversation. We don’t say “this is who you are”—we say: “This is who I am.” We share our story in hopes that it stirs his curiosity.
The Purpose of the Seder
The Seder does not demand faith.
It invites memory.
It does not insist on ideology.
It asks for questions.
It does not explain away suffering.
It reframes it as part of a story of purpose.
This is the only way Jewish suffering can be survivable, let alone meaningful:
If we see it not as punishment, but as part of a long road toward redemption.
If we see ourselves as part of something bigger than ourselves.
And that’s what we tell all four children—even the one who scoffs, even the one who’s silent:
“This is what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.”
And if He did it for me, He can do it for you.
If He did it then, He can do it again.
¹ Some translations adapted from the DavkaWriter© text library.
² Exodus 12:26
³ Exodus 13:8
⁴ Genesis 18:19