Pesach
Q: What is Passover?
A: Pharaoh don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more
In the Book of Exodus, the Israelites, an ancient people, are living in Egypt when a new ruler comes to power who sees them as a threat. He enslaves them, forcing them into hard labor. Their lives are controlled, their bodies are used, and their dignity is stripped away. The story then turns toward resistance and hope. Moses emerges as a leader who confronts Pharaoh and demands freedom for his people. Pharaoh refuses again and again. You might have heard of the ten plagues. These are a series of disasters that strike Egypt after Pharaoh refuses to let the Israelites go. The final one, the death of the firstborn, is the most devastating. The Israelites are instructed to mark their homes so that this plague will “pass over” them, which is where the holiday gets its name. After that, Pharaoh finally relents, and the Israelites leave Egypt in a hurry, so quickly that their bread does not have time to rise.
That detail becomes one of the most visible parts of Passover today.
During the holiday, Jews avoid eating leavened foods, known as chametz. Chametz refers to products made from certain grains that have been allowed to rise, like bread, pasta, and most baked goods. Instead, we eat matzah, an unleavened flatbread made quickly so that it does not ferment or rise. It is plain, brittle, and intentionally simple. Quite frankly, it tastes like cardboard ass. But it's meant to be a reminder of both the haste of escape and the hardship of slavery. It is called the bread of affliction, carrying memory in its texture.
In my case, I am celiac, so I use gluten free matzah. That exists, thankfully, though it tastes even more like cardboard ass. And because I don't keep chametz in my home to begin with (can't have anything with wheat, barley, etc), I don't go through the full process that many Jewish households do of searching for and removing it before the holiday. For others, that process can be extensive, involving cleaning, checking for crumbs, and symbolically letting go of excess. For me, that part is already handled by necessity.
One of the interesting differences within Jewish practice during Passover comes down to how different communities interpret what counts as “off-limits.” Ashkenazi Jews, whose traditions come from Eastern and Central Europe, avoid not only chametz but also a category of foods called kitniyot, which includes things like rice, corn, beans, and lentils. Sephardic Jews, whose traditions come from Spain, North Africa, and the Middle East, generally do not have this restriction and can eat those foods during the holiday. This leads to some very practical differences. A classic example is Coca-Cola in the States, which is usually made with high fructose corn syrup, so for Passover it has to be specially produced without corn and marked Kosher for Passover, often with a yellow cap to signal that difference. Meanwhile, Sephardic Jews can simply drink the regular version since corn is not an issue for them. Personally, I jokingly “pretend to be Sephardic” for the week so I can eat rice, though because I am managing prediabetes, rice is more of an occasional thing for me anyway rather than a staple.
Once you move from the kitchen into the ritual itself, you arrive at the center of Passover: the seder.
“Seder” means “order,” and that is exactly what it is. It is a structured meal that follows a specific sequence, guided by a text called the Haggadah, which means “the telling.” At the seder table, there is a special plate that holds symbolic foods. Each one represents something from the story. There are bitter herbs, usually horseradish, to represent the bitterness of slavery. There is a sweet mixture of fruit and nuts called charoset, which represents the mortar used by the enslaved Israelites to build. There is a roasted bone, which connects to ancient sacrifices. There are greens dipped in salt water, which represent both spring and tears. Every item is meant to engage the senses, not just the intellect. The purpose of the seder is not just to eat. It is to tell the story of the Exodus in a way that engages everyone at the table.
There is a rhythm to it. You drink wine if you can have alcohol (grape juice if not), eat symbolic foods, tell parts of the story, sing songs, ask questions, and circle back again. It is interactive by design. You are not supposed to sit quietly and absorb information. You are supposed to participate.
One of the most well-known parts of the seder is the set of four questions, traditionally asked by the youngest person present. They all revolve around a central idea: why is this night different from all other nights? Why do we eat matzah instead of regular bread? Why do we eat bitter herbs? Why do we recline as if we are free people?
These questions are not just for children. They set the tone for the entire evening. Passover insists that questioning is not only allowed, it is necessary. You do not honor the story by reciting it mechanically. You honor it by engaging with it, by asking what it means and how it applies now.
Another part of the seder that often resonates deeply is the teaching about the Four Sons. This is a way of describing four different kinds of children, or more broadly, four different ways people approach the story.
There is the Wise Son, who asks thoughtful, detailed questions and wants to understand the laws and meanings behind the ritual. There is the Wicked Son, who distances himself from the community and asks, in effect, “What does this mean to you?” as if he is not part of it. There is the Simple Son, who asks a straightforward question without layers or nuance. And there is the one who does not know how to ask at all.
The Haggadah responds to each of them differently. It meets them where they are.
This part has always felt very human to me. It acknowledges that people show up with different attitudes, different levels of knowledge, and different emotional distances from the tradition. Not everyone is engaged in the same way. Not everyone even knows how to begin engaging. And yet, they are all still addressed. They are all still part of the story.
Taken together, the questions and the Four Sons create a framework that says something important. This is not a story you pass down unchanged. It is a story you wrestle with. It is a story that has room for curiosity, resistance, simplicity, and even silence.
That brings us to one of the closing lines of many seders: “Next year in Jerusalem.”
On the surface, it sounds like a hopeful statement. Traditionally, it expresses a longing for a future where Jews can live in peace and wholeness, often tied to the idea of Jerusalem as a spiritual center. For many people, it is a meaningful and comforting phrase.
For me, it is more complicated.
I identify as post-Zionist. I recognize the State of Israel and believe it has the right to exist, but I do not see its existence as the solution to Jewish safety, and I am deeply troubled by the way it was established and the way it functions today. The displacement of Palestinians, the history of violence, and the ongoing conflict, including actions under leaders like Benjamin Netanyahu, are not things I can set aside.
So when I hear “Next year in Jerusalem,” I feel a tension. I understand the spiritual longing behind it, but I cannot ignore the political reality. I do not want a future where one people’s safety comes at the expense of another’s displacement. I want something better than that, even if it is harder to imagine.
There is also the fact that Israel is often described as the safest place in the world for Jews, and yet it exists in a state of ongoing conflict. It has been attacked by its neighbors. It is not a place free from fear or violence. That complicates the idea that a nation state can guarantee safety in a meaningful way.
So for me, that closing line becomes less about geography and more about aspiration. Not a literal return, but a hope for a world where justice and safety are not in conflict with each other.
Passover, at its core, is about leaving a place of oppression and trying to build something better. It does not pretend that this is easy. In fact, the story itself shows how messy and difficult that process is.
As a Jewish convert, Passover has a particular resonance for me. I did not grow up with this story as part of my cultural background. I chose to enter into it as an adult. That means I engage with it a little differently. I do not have childhood nostalgia tied up in it. What I have instead is a conscious relationship with the themes.
One of those themes is that identity is not only about where you come from. It is also about what you commit to. The Exodus story is not just about being freed. It is about becoming a people with a shared sense of purpose. That includes laws, ethics, and a responsibility to care for the vulnerable, including the stranger, because the Israelites are told repeatedly that they were strangers in the land of Egypt.
That line matters to me a lot. It reframes the story from “we suffered, therefore we are special” to “we suffered, therefore we must not do this to others.”
Another layer of Passover for me, especially in 2026, is the experience of doing it in isolation. The nearest shul (synagogue), is about an hour away, and I do not drive. I am also introverted and neurospicy enough that online communities, like Discord servers, are not really my thing. So a holiday that is traditionally communal becomes something I navigate mostly on my own.
That can be hard. The seder is meant to be shared. It is built around conversation, around passing dishes, around laughter and debate. Doing it solo changes the energy. It becomes quieter, more introspective, sometimes lonelier.
At the same time, it also becomes very personal. Without the noise of a crowd, I find myself sitting more directly with the story and what it means to me.
My partner Andy is Pagan, specifically a Druid, and when he is finally here in the States, he wants to do a seder with me. That matters to me more than I can easily put into words. It is not about him becoming Jewish. It is about sharing a ritual in a way that respects both of our paths.
There is something deeply meaningful about that kind of interfaith connection. It reflects a world where people do not have to erase themselves to belong together. Ideally, in the future, we will be part of an in person Jewish community that welcomes interfaith LGBTQ couples, where our relationship is not something to explain or defend, but simply something that exists.
That hope ties back into the core message of Passover. Freedom is not just about leaving Egypt. It is about building a life that reflects your values. It is about creating communities that are inclusive, compassionate, and willing to grow.
So if you are a Gentile trying to understand Passover, here is what I would want you to take away.
It is a holiday about freedom, but not in a shallow, fireworks kind of way. It is about the kind of freedom that comes with responsibility. It is about remembering suffering without becoming hardened by it. It is about asking questions, even uncomfortable ones. It is about recognizing that liberation is incomplete if it only applies to you.
It is also a holiday that lives in the tension between past and present. The story is ancient, but the themes are ongoing. Slavery, oppression, displacement, and the struggle for dignity are not relics of history. They are still with us.
Passover invites us to sit at a table, tell a story, taste bitterness and sweetness, and ask ourselves where we stand in that story.
And then it quietly asks what we are going to do about it.
A: Pharaoh don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more
In the Book of Exodus, the Israelites, an ancient people, are living in Egypt when a new ruler comes to power who sees them as a threat. He enslaves them, forcing them into hard labor. Their lives are controlled, their bodies are used, and their dignity is stripped away. The story then turns toward resistance and hope. Moses emerges as a leader who confronts Pharaoh and demands freedom for his people. Pharaoh refuses again and again. You might have heard of the ten plagues. These are a series of disasters that strike Egypt after Pharaoh refuses to let the Israelites go. The final one, the death of the firstborn, is the most devastating. The Israelites are instructed to mark their homes so that this plague will “pass over” them, which is where the holiday gets its name. After that, Pharaoh finally relents, and the Israelites leave Egypt in a hurry, so quickly that their bread does not have time to rise.
That detail becomes one of the most visible parts of Passover today.
During the holiday, Jews avoid eating leavened foods, known as chametz. Chametz refers to products made from certain grains that have been allowed to rise, like bread, pasta, and most baked goods. Instead, we eat matzah, an unleavened flatbread made quickly so that it does not ferment or rise. It is plain, brittle, and intentionally simple. Quite frankly, it tastes like cardboard ass. But it's meant to be a reminder of both the haste of escape and the hardship of slavery. It is called the bread of affliction, carrying memory in its texture.
In my case, I am celiac, so I use gluten free matzah. That exists, thankfully, though it tastes even more like cardboard ass. And because I don't keep chametz in my home to begin with (can't have anything with wheat, barley, etc), I don't go through the full process that many Jewish households do of searching for and removing it before the holiday. For others, that process can be extensive, involving cleaning, checking for crumbs, and symbolically letting go of excess. For me, that part is already handled by necessity.
One of the interesting differences within Jewish practice during Passover comes down to how different communities interpret what counts as “off-limits.” Ashkenazi Jews, whose traditions come from Eastern and Central Europe, avoid not only chametz but also a category of foods called kitniyot, which includes things like rice, corn, beans, and lentils. Sephardic Jews, whose traditions come from Spain, North Africa, and the Middle East, generally do not have this restriction and can eat those foods during the holiday. This leads to some very practical differences. A classic example is Coca-Cola in the States, which is usually made with high fructose corn syrup, so for Passover it has to be specially produced without corn and marked Kosher for Passover, often with a yellow cap to signal that difference. Meanwhile, Sephardic Jews can simply drink the regular version since corn is not an issue for them. Personally, I jokingly “pretend to be Sephardic” for the week so I can eat rice, though because I am managing prediabetes, rice is more of an occasional thing for me anyway rather than a staple.
Once you move from the kitchen into the ritual itself, you arrive at the center of Passover: the seder.
“Seder” means “order,” and that is exactly what it is. It is a structured meal that follows a specific sequence, guided by a text called the Haggadah, which means “the telling.” At the seder table, there is a special plate that holds symbolic foods. Each one represents something from the story. There are bitter herbs, usually horseradish, to represent the bitterness of slavery. There is a sweet mixture of fruit and nuts called charoset, which represents the mortar used by the enslaved Israelites to build. There is a roasted bone, which connects to ancient sacrifices. There are greens dipped in salt water, which represent both spring and tears. Every item is meant to engage the senses, not just the intellect. The purpose of the seder is not just to eat. It is to tell the story of the Exodus in a way that engages everyone at the table.
There is a rhythm to it. You drink wine if you can have alcohol (grape juice if not), eat symbolic foods, tell parts of the story, sing songs, ask questions, and circle back again. It is interactive by design. You are not supposed to sit quietly and absorb information. You are supposed to participate.
One of the most well-known parts of the seder is the set of four questions, traditionally asked by the youngest person present. They all revolve around a central idea: why is this night different from all other nights? Why do we eat matzah instead of regular bread? Why do we eat bitter herbs? Why do we recline as if we are free people?
These questions are not just for children. They set the tone for the entire evening. Passover insists that questioning is not only allowed, it is necessary. You do not honor the story by reciting it mechanically. You honor it by engaging with it, by asking what it means and how it applies now.
Another part of the seder that often resonates deeply is the teaching about the Four Sons. This is a way of describing four different kinds of children, or more broadly, four different ways people approach the story.
There is the Wise Son, who asks thoughtful, detailed questions and wants to understand the laws and meanings behind the ritual. There is the Wicked Son, who distances himself from the community and asks, in effect, “What does this mean to you?” as if he is not part of it. There is the Simple Son, who asks a straightforward question without layers or nuance. And there is the one who does not know how to ask at all.
The Haggadah responds to each of them differently. It meets them where they are.
This part has always felt very human to me. It acknowledges that people show up with different attitudes, different levels of knowledge, and different emotional distances from the tradition. Not everyone is engaged in the same way. Not everyone even knows how to begin engaging. And yet, they are all still addressed. They are all still part of the story.
Taken together, the questions and the Four Sons create a framework that says something important. This is not a story you pass down unchanged. It is a story you wrestle with. It is a story that has room for curiosity, resistance, simplicity, and even silence.
That brings us to one of the closing lines of many seders: “Next year in Jerusalem.”
On the surface, it sounds like a hopeful statement. Traditionally, it expresses a longing for a future where Jews can live in peace and wholeness, often tied to the idea of Jerusalem as a spiritual center. For many people, it is a meaningful and comforting phrase.
For me, it is more complicated.
I identify as post-Zionist. I recognize the State of Israel and believe it has the right to exist, but I do not see its existence as the solution to Jewish safety, and I am deeply troubled by the way it was established and the way it functions today. The displacement of Palestinians, the history of violence, and the ongoing conflict, including actions under leaders like Benjamin Netanyahu, are not things I can set aside.
So when I hear “Next year in Jerusalem,” I feel a tension. I understand the spiritual longing behind it, but I cannot ignore the political reality. I do not want a future where one people’s safety comes at the expense of another’s displacement. I want something better than that, even if it is harder to imagine.
There is also the fact that Israel is often described as the safest place in the world for Jews, and yet it exists in a state of ongoing conflict. It has been attacked by its neighbors. It is not a place free from fear or violence. That complicates the idea that a nation state can guarantee safety in a meaningful way.
So for me, that closing line becomes less about geography and more about aspiration. Not a literal return, but a hope for a world where justice and safety are not in conflict with each other.
Passover, at its core, is about leaving a place of oppression and trying to build something better. It does not pretend that this is easy. In fact, the story itself shows how messy and difficult that process is.
As a Jewish convert, Passover has a particular resonance for me. I did not grow up with this story as part of my cultural background. I chose to enter into it as an adult. That means I engage with it a little differently. I do not have childhood nostalgia tied up in it. What I have instead is a conscious relationship with the themes.
One of those themes is that identity is not only about where you come from. It is also about what you commit to. The Exodus story is not just about being freed. It is about becoming a people with a shared sense of purpose. That includes laws, ethics, and a responsibility to care for the vulnerable, including the stranger, because the Israelites are told repeatedly that they were strangers in the land of Egypt.
That line matters to me a lot. It reframes the story from “we suffered, therefore we are special” to “we suffered, therefore we must not do this to others.”
Another layer of Passover for me, especially in 2026, is the experience of doing it in isolation. The nearest shul (synagogue), is about an hour away, and I do not drive. I am also introverted and neurospicy enough that online communities, like Discord servers, are not really my thing. So a holiday that is traditionally communal becomes something I navigate mostly on my own.
That can be hard. The seder is meant to be shared. It is built around conversation, around passing dishes, around laughter and debate. Doing it solo changes the energy. It becomes quieter, more introspective, sometimes lonelier.
At the same time, it also becomes very personal. Without the noise of a crowd, I find myself sitting more directly with the story and what it means to me.
My partner Andy is Pagan, specifically a Druid, and when he is finally here in the States, he wants to do a seder with me. That matters to me more than I can easily put into words. It is not about him becoming Jewish. It is about sharing a ritual in a way that respects both of our paths.
There is something deeply meaningful about that kind of interfaith connection. It reflects a world where people do not have to erase themselves to belong together. Ideally, in the future, we will be part of an in person Jewish community that welcomes interfaith LGBTQ couples, where our relationship is not something to explain or defend, but simply something that exists.
That hope ties back into the core message of Passover. Freedom is not just about leaving Egypt. It is about building a life that reflects your values. It is about creating communities that are inclusive, compassionate, and willing to grow.
So if you are a Gentile trying to understand Passover, here is what I would want you to take away.
It is a holiday about freedom, but not in a shallow, fireworks kind of way. It is about the kind of freedom that comes with responsibility. It is about remembering suffering without becoming hardened by it. It is about asking questions, even uncomfortable ones. It is about recognizing that liberation is incomplete if it only applies to you.
It is also a holiday that lives in the tension between past and present. The story is ancient, but the themes are ongoing. Slavery, oppression, displacement, and the struggle for dignity are not relics of history. They are still with us.
Passover invites us to sit at a table, tell a story, taste bitterness and sweetness, and ask ourselves where we stand in that story.
And then it quietly asks what we are going to do about it.
