Every year, Passover sparks discussions that often lean towards political views. This time around, various Jewish human rights organizations are releasing Passover Haggadah materials that call on people to focus on social justice issues—things like racism, poverty, authoritarianism, and climate change. It seems that instead of using this holiday for personal reflection, there’s a tendency to harness it for promoting particular causes.
Standard commentary has even framed the event around immigrant rights. Reform Judaism suggests incorporating contemporary symbols into the seder plates. For instance, olives represent solidarity with Palestinians, oranges signify LGBTQ+ inclusion, fair trade chocolate symbolizes workers’ rights, and acorns pay homage to American Indians.
I’ve been part of this trend myself. I once wrote about how having an “evil child” at the Seder could symbolize a rejection of cancel culture, and I also explored the idea that the Exodus story defended free speech, since Moses insisted that Pharaoh “free my people,” alluding to the preservation of language during oppression.
But here’s the catch: when we politicize religion, we risk losing its intrinsic personal and spiritual value.
This isn’t just a one-sided issue. Both progressives and conservatives engage in this practice. The right often cites the Bible to argue against abortion and for traditional family values, while the left uses it to champion social justice.
Recently, Pope Leo Bishop Marian Edgar Boudet reiterated the importance of mercy for refugees in a speech to the diplomatic corps, a notable statement following the previous administration’s policies. He even made an appearance at an anti-ICE demonstration in Minnesota earlier this year.
There’s a conflicting view here. Scripture is often wielded to support various agendas. For example, Nehemiah 4:13-14 may be interpreted to advocate border security—drawing a parallel to defending Jerusalem’s walls—while Leviticus 19:34 suggests that kindness towards foreigners is essential. Genesis 2:15 can be cited to promote environmental stewardship, yet Genesis 1:28 emphasizes dominion over nature, which can easily justify exploitation.
When faith shifts into a mere political tool, it becomes less about genuine belief and more about show. It opts for performance over transformation.
Yet, faith can serve as a beacon of moral clarity in society. The Exodus narrative inspired abolitionists, and rabbis advocated for civil rights. However, faith also delves deeply into personal realms.
There’s an age-old teaching that suggests individuals often seek to change the world—be it their community, their country, or their family—only to realize that true change must begin within themselves. Passover echoes this sentiment. Before we can effectively seek to mend the world, we must first confront our personal struggles.
I’ve felt this inner conflict during seder gatherings. Instead of engaging in deep reflection, I sometimes find myself glossing over the Haggadah, distracted by scientific theories or current politics—anything to avoid introspection.
Ultimately, Passover isn’t about addressing global issues. It’s focused on the constraints within ourselves, allowing the narratives to transform us. The Haggadah encourages us to see ourselves as having personally exited Egypt. It’s not merely a metaphor for someone else’s plight; it’s a prompt to scrutinize our limitations while striving for personal redemption.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe exemplified this principle, focusing on fostering positive actions—one good deed at a time—in rebuilding Jewish life after the Holocaust. This approach resonates with psychological theories as well, like behavioral activation therapy, which asserts that purposeful actions can reshape our mindset even when motivation is fleeting.
The Seder illustrates this idea through the Four Cups of Wine, which symbolize stages of breaking away from harmful patterns, embracing positive shifts, enhancing ethical understanding, and internalizing personal growth.
Through rituals and storytelling, we progress towards liberation. It’s not just about remembering the Exodus; it’s about living it.
Matzo embodies this concept. Unlike puffed bread, it’s flat and modest, contrasting with a culture overly focused on image. In a society that rewards inflated egos, matzo serves as a reminder that true freedom begins with humility. One cannot escape their own ‘Pharaoh’ while remaining shackled to their ego.
During seders, we also consume bitter herbs—not just to commemorate our ancestors’ suffering but to confront our own pain and unearth what we often bury deep down.
Egypt symbolizes more than a mere historical location; it’s a personal metaphor. We deal with spiritual chains as much as we do with physical ones. Fear, shame, and resentment are the modern oppressors. The seder offers a spiritual guide toward liberation.
Ultimately, faith shouldn’t cater to our political agendas but instead should challenge and inspire us to become better individuals.
