The Blogs: Faith in motion: The seventh day of Passover

We spend a lot of time asking what Jews believe. Much less time asking how we believe — sidestepping a question that is just as critical.

In Jewish mysticism, Passover is known as the holiday of Emunah. “Emunah,” imperfectly translated as “faith,” isn’t just about what we believe. It’s about how those beliefs live in us.

I believe there isn’t just one kind of emunah. There are many. There’s the kind that stands firm: confident, grounded, unshakable. And there’s the kind that wavers — faith that falters and rebuilds. Both are real. And both are essential expressions of a rich spiritual life.

On the seventh day of Passover — this Shabbat — we recall the splitting of the sea and encounter both kinds of emunah. This year, those two forms of faith aren’t just in the Torah; they are all around us. And they invite us to consider: what does our emunah look like? And just as importantly: What do we want it to look like?

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This Passover was different from any other. For so many Jews around the world, one of the most painful aspects of this holiday of freedom was the deep anguish over our 59 hostages still captive in Gaza — and the overwhelming gratitude for those who have come home.

During the Seder nights, I used the Haggadah of Freedom published by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum — a text that felt, all at once: magnificent, heartbreaking, and heart-strengthening. Alongside the traditional liturgy were quotes from relatives of hostages and reflections from those released.

I was awe-struck by the emunah — the faith and spiritual resilience — they revealed. Liri Albag described creating a makeshift Haggadah with Agam Berger in captivity. Omer Shem Tov wrote about praying to God in Gaza and feeling those prayers answered.

I was dumbfounded that people — both in the horror of captivity and in the fragile aftermath of release — could express such steadfast faith. It felt almost incomprehensible. The kind of thing we usually read about.

The Haggadah kept bringing me back to one image. As a helicopter carried her from Gaza to Israel, Agam Berger wrote on a whiteboard: “I chose the path of emunah and through the path of emunah, I have come home.”

These words are now part of a long lineage of expressions of Jewish faith in impossible moments.

As the seventh day of Passover approaches, I think of other models of extraordinary emunah: Nachshon ben Aminadav, who, according to the sages, jumped first into the sea before it split. Miriam the prophetess, who led the women in song and drumming once they crossed. My mother taught me to see Miriam taking a tambourine as a radical act of faith. What kind of slave packs a drum when fleeing Egypt? The kind who believes in redemption. The kind who believes there will be something to celebrate.

But if this is the only kind of emunah we admire, we might be setting ourselves, and others, up for failure. Not all of us can believe like that. Not every person who endures suffering comes out stronger. Many of us struggle with emunah.

There’s a moment in the story of the sea that speaks directly to those of us who relate to this.

When the Israelites reach the edge of the water, they panic. The sea is before them, Pharaoh’s army behind. They cry out to Moses. Moses cries out to God. And God replies with a phrase that has always moved me: “Why do you cry out to Me? Tell the Israelites to go forward.”

God does not ask them to believe. God asks them to move.

This is a different kind of faith — the kind that says: act as if. Walk forward, even when you’re scared. Sometimes, the action comes before the conviction.

Philosopher William James called this “the will to believe”: the idea that in matters of deep meaning, sometimes we must act as if something is true before we fully believe it. Sometimes, taking the next step makes it possible to believe.

And indeed, only after the sea splits — only after they walk through — does the Torah say the people had emunah in God.

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These models of faith can guide us. We need the Nachshons and Miriams, the Agams and Omers — those whose emunah anchors and inspires far and wide. But we also need the Israelites at the edge of the sea, those who moved forward not because they were certain, but because they chose to act anyway.

In their moment, what mattered wasn’t clarity. It was movement.

And that movement matters for us now. In moments when I’ve struggled with faith — when I’ve felt distant from God, or unsure of what I believe — I’ve come back to that question: What do I want to believe? And then: Can I act in that direction, even if I’m not all the way there yet?

That kind of faith — halting, fragile, chosen — is still faith. It is real. And it can carry us through water.