Make this year’s seder meaningful when tables are smaller - opinion

Usually, we already know the answer.

This is the night when Jewish time bends. When the past is not past, but present. When families gather, across spectrums of observance and geography, around tables heavy with symbolism and memory. The religious and the less religious. The scholars and the skeptics. The young and the old.

Some Seders stretch deep into the night, animated by spirited debate over the minutiae of Halacha or the deeper currents of Jewish history and identity. Others are lighter, filled with laughter, storytelling, and the familiar rhythms of family life, catching up on everything from politics to football.

But almost all share something essential: togetherness.

This year, that togetherness feels fragile.

For many Israelis, the familiar choreography of Seder night has been disrupted. Flights in and out of the country have been dramatically reduced, leaving families divided across continents. Parents who expected children, grandparents who counted on grandchildren – many will be missing from the table this year.

And even among those fortunate enough to be together in Israel, there is a new and sobering constraint: space.

In this sense, this Seder carries echoes of a not-so-distant past. We remember the COVID Seders of 2020 and, to a lesser extent, 2021, when isolation defined the evening. When we sat in isolation, separated from loved ones, navigating a festival built on connection while physically apart.

And yet, this year feels different again.

Then, the danger was silent and invisible – a dreaded virus. Now, the danger is audible and tangible in the wail of sirens and the vibration of the booms that can interrupt even the most sacred of moments. The Seder table, like every other aspect of life, exists under the shadow of uncertainty.

So yes, this year, the question feels less rhetorical.

Why is this Seder night different?

Because it truly is.

And yet, if we widen our lens, we realize something else: it is not the first time.

The Seder has never been guaranteed comfort.

During the Holocaust, Jews held Seders in ghettos, in camps, in forests. Sometimes with a crust of bread instead of matzah, sometimes with words alone when even that was all they had. And yet, they told the story.

Across 3,300 years, the Seder has persisted not because conditions were ideal, but because they rarely were.

We are not the first generation to ask this question under difficult circumstances.

But, God willing, we will be among the last.

So how do we make this Seder meaningful, even or especially this year?

First and foremost: safety comes before everything.

There is nothing pious about ignoring danger. Jewish law is unequivocal: va’chai ba’hem – we are commanded to live by the mitzvot, not to endanger our lives because of them. The most authentic Seder this year may be the one that pauses, relocates, and resumes.

That itself becomes part of the story we tell.

Beyond that, perhaps the challenge of this year invites us to rediscover what the Seder is really about.

Not perfection, but presence.

Not performance, but participation.

If the numbers around the table are smaller, the conversations can be deeper. Let each person speak. Ask questions – real ones. What does freedom mean to you this year? What are you afraid of? What are you grateful for?

And this year, we must also consciously make space for those who are not at our tables – and never will be again.

Across Israel, there are families for whom the Seder table will carry an unfilled absence. Victims of October 7. Fallen soldiers who gave their lives in defense of this country. Their chairs will sit empty, their voices missing from the familiar rhythm of the evening.

We honor them not only in memory, but in presence. By speaking their names. By sharing a story. By acknowledging, even briefly, that our freedom and our ability to sit at the Seder table come at a cost borne by others.

At the same time, there are those who are absent not because they are gone, but because they are standing guard.

We should think of them, speak about them, perhaps even pause to offer a quiet prayer for their safety and swift return home. Their absence, too, is part of this year’s story of freedom.

If loved ones cannot be physically present, find ways to bring them in symbolically. Share a memory about those who are missing. Set aside a moment to mention their names. In doing so, you expand the table beyond its physical limits.

Lean into the power of storytelling. The Seder is not a lecture; it is a narrative. Tell your family’s story alongside the national one. Where were your grandparents? How did they celebrate? What journeys brought you here?

Children, especially, will remember not the length of the Seder, but its feeling. Give them roles. Let them lead sections. Let them act out parts of the Exodus. This is a night that belongs to them as much as to us.

And perhaps most importantly, allow space for emotion.

This has been a year of strain both in Israel and across the Jewish world. There are families carrying loss. There are soldiers still on the front lines. There are communities in the Diaspora feeling the pressure of rising hostility.

When we say, “In every generation, a person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt,” we may find that this year, the words land differently.

Freedom is not an abstract idea.

When we declare, “Now we are free people,” we may feel the dissonance. Are we? Fully? Not yet.

Next year, may Jewish families everywhere feel safe to gather openly in Jerusalem, in London, in Manchester, in Bondi, in Michigan, without anxiety, without threat.

But it is no less significant.

Because we are still here.

We are still telling the story.

And in doing so, we are not just remembering the Exodus. We are becoming part of it.

We are a link in a chain that stretches back over three millennia – a chain that has endured exile, persecution, and upheaval, yet has never been broken.

This year, our link may look different.

But it is no weaker.

So when we ask, Why is this night different? – We should answer honestly.

Because it is.

And then we should add:

And still, we gather.

And still, we tell the story.

And still, we believe in a future of freedom.