A Passover Message from Rabbi Brad Horwitz

Each year at the seder, we recite one of the most powerful lines in Jewish tradition: “In every generation, each person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally went out from Egypt.”

This is not a suggestion. It is not a poetic flourish. It is an obligation to internalize the story. But why this demand? Why is it not enough to simply tell the story? Because Judaism understands a profound truth about the human condition: we cannot truly grasp another person’s reality until, in some way, we experience it ourselves.

History learned from a book is information. History felt in the heart becomes a transformation. None of us was a physical slave in Egypt. Yet the Haggadah asks us to close the distance between past and present by tasting the bitterness of maror, the bitter herbs, by feeling the constraint of narrow places, and by reclining as free people only after remembering what it means not to be free.

We live in a time when this teaching feels painfully immediate. This Passover, many families in Israel will likely gather around their seder tables not in open dining rooms filled with extended family, but in or near reinforced safe rooms. Children will ask the Four Questions with one ear tuned for sirens. Elijah’s cup will be poured in homes where doors may remain shut for safety rather than opened wide in welcome. The ancient story of vulnerability will not feel ancient at all.

For those of us celebrating far away, it is difficult, if not impossible, to fully comprehend that reality. We can watch the news, read updates, send donations, offer prayers. Yet unless one has lived with the constant calculation of where to run, how long to shelter, how to comfort a frightened child while masking one’s own fear, there remains a gap in understanding. And this is precisely why the Torah commands us to see ourselves as having been there.

Passover trains our moral imagination. It asks us to stretch beyond the limits of our personal experience so that we do not become numb to the suffering of others — whether in our own community, across the Jewish world, or anywhere human beings cry out for dignity and safety. The seder is empathy rehearsal. It teaches us that memory is not passive; it is a call to responsibility.

At the same time, the Exodus story is not only about suffering. It is about the stubborn refusal to believe that suffering is the final chapter. That is why we conclude at the end of the seder with the words: “Next year in Jerusalem.” Not merely as a geographic aspiration, but as a spiritual declaration. Jerusalem represents wholeness, peace, and the fulfillment of hope.

This year, when we say those words, we may hear them differently. We may say them with a deeper ache. We pray that next year, seders in Israel will be held without fear, that families will gather around tables without the shadow of sirens, and that children will ask questions only out of curiosity and not anxiety. We pray for healing for the wounded, comfort for the grieving, and safety for all

And we also pray that our own hearts will remain open and that even without firsthand experience, we will not turn away, will not grow indifferent, will not forget that the story of liberation obligates us to care.

Passover reminds us that history can change, that darkness can give way to dawn, that narrow places can open into expansiveness. The same God who heard the cries of slaves in Egypt still hears the cries of those in distress today. May this seder bring not only remembrance, but renewal. May it deepen our compassion and strengthen our resolve. And when we say, “Next year in Jerusalem,” may it be a prayer not only for place, but for peace—a hope that the coming year will be one of safety, healing, and new beginnings for Israel, for our community, and for the entire world.